A Fountain Filled With Blood

She suddenly thought of a verse from Matthew: “Lay down all you have and follow me.” She smiled one-sidedly. God certainly shouldn’t have any complaints in that department. She had given up all this, every lovely leaping moment, to follow Him to Millers Kill, and for what? A congregation that was largely nonexistent in the summer and a man she shouldn’t try to be friends with. She let her head drop back until it almost touched the edge of the passenger seat behind her. A man whose feelings she had unexpectedly lacerated with her big mouth and her insistence that she had a monopoly on truth. The only truth was that a man was dead. And two men had been beaten. And she had no business with any of it.

Make whole that which is broken. Her head came up again. She wrapped her hands around the steering yoke. What was that? Was that a verse from Scripture? Along with the words came a memory of Paul Foubert’s face in the flashing emergency lights. Todd MacPherson’s brother in the waiting room, holding back tears. Russ’s expression when she blindsided him in his patrol car. Make whole that which is broken. “Is that it?” she said. “Is that for me? Does this come from You, or am I just remembering something? Are You there, or am I talking to myself?”

Of course, there wasn’t any answer. Just the rising heat in the cockpit and the familiar comfort of the pilot’s chair. But it wasn’t familiar. This was someone else’s ship, and she didn’t belong here. She suddenly felt stifled by the small enclosure. She kicked open the door and jumped out, nearly landing on Ray Yardhaas.

His big, broad face was crinkled with worry. “I don’t think you should have done that, Reverend.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, Ray.” She turned, shut the door, and twisted the handle, sealing it tight. “Let’s head back, shall we?”

Waxman was looking at her with a peculiar expression. Remember, wherever you go, you’re an ambassador for the United States, her grandmother used to tell her. As an ambassador for the Episcopal church, she was evidently working without a portfolio. “I like to bless flying vehicles,” she said in an attempt to reassure him that she really was a priest and not an incipient thief. “Want me to do your Jeep?”

His face twitched with the strain of not showing what he thought of that offer. He shook his head. “Um, I’m headed back now, if you want a ride.”

She didn’t, particularly, but Ray was already opening the door for her. She stifled a resigned sigh and climbed back into the battered vehicle. “So why does BWI keep a fully equipped heliport out here? That costs a lot to maintain.”

Ray grunted as he took his seat. “The way I heard it, they install one of these at every one of their project sites. Most of their resorts are in pretty hard-to-reach places. That’s Opperman’s strategy: buy up good land before the roads get put in and everyone and his brother catch on to it. I guess it’s not worth their time to drive to a local airport.”

Waxman shifted, reversed, and they shot forward onto the rutted road. “Plus, there are a lot of advantages to having a helicopter when you’re in the planning stages of a major project. Mapping, surveying, bringing in the first crews fast…”

They went over a rock and everyone levitated for a moment. “Ooof!” Clare clutched at her seat. “Do they have a full-time pilot?”

“John Opperman flies it,” Waxman shouted over the grinding noise of the Jeep’s clutch. “He’s the one who needs the flexibility, because he’s traveling between here and Baltimore so frequently as well as to other developments.”

“He’s the bagman,” Ray yelled, grinning.

They lurched into a rut that almost overturned the Jeep and then they were out again on the dirt track at the upper edge of the main site. Waxman roared down the earthen ramps and came to a neat halt beside the collection of pickups and old cars that constituted the crew’s parking lot.

“I have to get to the lab with this stuff,” Waxman said as Ray clambered out and tipped the seat for Clare. “Nice to meet you, Reverend. Ray, I’ll see you around.” He barely waited for Clare’s sneaker to clear the door before throwing the Jeep into gear and disappearing down the forest road.

“That’s a man in a hurry,” Clare said, waving some of the Jeep’s dust cloud away from her face.

“Yeah, well…From what I’ve seen, when Mr. Opperman says, ‘Hop,’ Leo Waxman asks, ‘How high?’ Remember how he was talking about all those good-paying jobs with private companies? I think he’s hoping BWI will take him on permanently.”

Clare handed Ray her hard hat and brushed dust off her shirtfront. “I may be naamp2;¨ve about how these things work, but doesn’t that create a conflict of interest?”