A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  He crawled in behind the wheel and leaned back against the headrest. “We’ve got an APB out on her, but it’s not going to do us a damn bit of good if we don’t know what the hell car she’s in. ’Scuse my French.”

  “Could she have rented a car?”

  “That was my first thought. The nearest car-rental place is at the Fort Henry Ford dealership. I sent Duane and Kevin off to check it out.”

  Officer Entwhistle’s car came to life. He pulled away from the side of the road and headed toward town, waving through the window at Russ.

  “We need to get someone to secure that Volvo,” Russ said, sounding weary. “We’re so damned overextended at this point that I’m going to have to call the staties in. God, I hate that.” He reached for his keys and started the truck. “We’d better get back to the house and start calling names in Peggy’s Rolodex. Maybe we’ll find a girlfriend who just happened to have plans to drive out of town today.”

  Clare’s mind returned to the party the night before. Sitting in the window seat of the Landry house while the guests swirled around her. The expression of disbelief on Hugh Parteger’s face. The smell of black currants and Thai chicken. Peggy saying, “John Opperman’s flying to Baltimore tomorrow afternoon, and he won’t be back until Tuesday.”

  “I know where she is.”

  He looked at her.

  “No, really. I know where she is. John Opperman’s supposed to fly out of town this afternoon. I bet she called him and asked to come along. I bet he’d pick her up, no questions asked.”

  He shoved his hand into his hair, spiking his sweat-stiff locks in every direction. “He would, wouldn’t he? A little freebie business trip.” He slammed the heel of his hand into his steering wheel. “Damn, that woman thinks fast on her feet. We’re not going to find her with an APB because she’s not going to be on the road. Or buying a ticket anywhere.” He threw the truck into gear and pulled onto the road. “Do you know when Opperman’s supposed to leave?”

  “She just said he was leaving this afternoon. And that he was headed for Baltimore.”

  He heeled the truck hard to the left and stomped on the gas pedal. “If I take the back roads, I can be at the Glens Falls Airport in twenty minutes.” He glanced at her for a split second. “I don’t suppose you have your cell phone with you?”

  “In my car. Sorry.”

  “Never mind. If they’re still there, we can stop them before he takes off. And if they’ve left, they would have had to tell the airport-control people where they’re going, right?”

  “He would have to have filed a flight plan, yeah. And if he’s flying on instruments, he’ll be passed from one flight-control center to another. You’ll be able to call ahead and have someone waiting for her at their destination.” She grabbed the door handle as he took another hard turn onto an unmarked road. They jounced in and out of potholes as they flew through thickets of sumac and ancient overgrown apple orchards. “You know, I like to speed, but isn’t this—”

  “Hang on.” He turned onto a one-lane bridge. Steel plates ca-chunk-ca-chunk-ca-chunked beneath the tires.

  “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

  He grinned at her. “Do you trust me?”

  She groaned.

  At one point, she was sure they’d passed under the Northway, but other than that, she had no bearing on where they were until they emerged from a tree-shaded road and saw the airport in front of them, its four runways stretched like a top-heavy X past a handful of hangars and a tiny tower. They drove through a gate marked EMPIRE EAST AVIATION.

  “Where do you think he’d be?” Russ asked.

  She glanced around as he slowed the truck to a crawl. There were twenty or twenty-five small planes at tie-downs and another two on the tarmac. As she watched, a Beech King took off from runway 12.

  “Could that have been it?”

  “No,” she said, still scanning the area. “That’s a single-engine. If he’s actually using it for long-range transport, he’s got to have a double-prop, maybe a jet, and I don’t see any around here. Head for—whoa! There! Pull over, pull over.”

  She was scrambling out of her door before he turned the engine off. In front of the next hangar, past the tie-down area and ready to roll onto runway 1, was a Piper Cheyenne II, twin turboprop, six seats—the biggest plane she had seen so far. A skinny young man in greasy overalls was rolling back a fuel hose. Whoever was in the plane was in a big hurry—finishing the refueling only minutes before getting the go-ahead. She could hear Russ behind her, yelling, “Millers Kill PD. Stop that plane!”

  Clare skidded to a halt in front of the fuel attendant’s tubing spool. “Who owns this?” she said. He gawped at them. “Who owns this turboprop?” she demanded.

  “Uh…uh…”

  She snatched an order pad from the front pocket of his overalls.

  “Hey!”

  “Is this the order?” she asked, pointing to the top sheet.

  “Yeah, but—”

  She had already read the owner’s name beneath the grimy fingerprints. She waved the pad at Russ. “It says BWI!”

  She heard the engine turn over, the plane purr to life. Russ flashed his badge at the fuel attendant. “Police! There’s a murder suspect on board that plane! Go tell whoever’s in charge to shut it down!”

  The kid’s eyes bulged out of his bony face. He turned and fled toward the tower.

  Russ sprinted the rest of the way to the plane and banged on the tail. “Stop! Stop!”

  She caught at Russ’s arm and dragged him away. “You idiot! If that plane turns, those props will slice you into julienned fries! Don’t ever, ever get next to a plane with its props running!”

  “There’s no way the tower can stop him if he wants to take off, can it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I have to do it.” He ran wide around the Cheyenne’s wing, drawing his gun. The plane slowly pivoted toward the runway. She saw the flaps moving as the pilot adjusted them before running up his engines.

  Russ skidded to a halt a dozen feet from the Cheyenne’s nose. He leveled his gun toward the cockpit. The self-sacrificing stupidity of it took her breath away. She didn’t think one bullet, or even a full clip, would ground that plane, unless he could hit the pilot. And she knew he would never shoot Opperman just to stop Peggy Landry from escaping.

  The plane’s twin engines whined and it began to roll forward. Evidently, whoever was inside had realized the same thing Clare had. The plane changed its angle slightly, so that instead of the nose facing Russ, it was the right wing prop. Russ jogged sideways until he was dead-on the nose again, but this was a duel he couldn’t win.

  Stop the plane, stop the plane—Possibilities flipped through her mind as the Cheyenne rolled forward and Russ backed away ahead of it. He was shouting something about being under arrest, but she couldn’t pay attention to his words as she cast about for something, anything to—Then she spotted the wheel chocks. Long wooden and rubber triangles, each hanging from a length of rope, flight equipment unchanged since Orville and Wilbur Wright flew at Kitty Hawk. There were two pairs resting next to an empty tie-down cleat on the tarmac.

  She grabbed three by their rope handles and sprinted toward the back of the plane. She ducked low and scurried under the right wing. The plane was moving at a brisk pace now, and the trick was going to be to get the chock in front of the wheel without walking straight into the propeller, which was whirring five feet in front of her. She twirled the handle and tossed one, wishing fervently that she had spent more time playing horseshoes with her brothers. The chock hit the tarmac, bounced, and came to rest at a slant.

  The right wheel hit it. The whole plane trembled. There was a pause; then the engines revved louder. The pilot was going to push it. And with only one wheel blocked, and that at an angle, he would be able to roll over the chock within a minute.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Russ yelled.

  The Cheyenne was pivoting again, this
time against the obstruction. She had maybe ten seconds left before it was free—nine—she threw herself on the tarmac and rolled under the tail—eight—staggered to her feet and ducked under the left wing—seven—took the second wheel chock and jammed it under the left wheel.

  The plane seemed to hiccup. Its engines screamed in complaint as the pilot revved them higher. She could see the chock in front of the right wheel skid as the plane’s tire ground it out of the way. Her eyes went to the nose wheel—small, unpowered, there to hold up the plane on an even triangle of support. She stooped under the belly and ran, crouching so low, her knees were hitting her nose. The props roared, each less than two feet from her head. If the wheel got over the chock, the plane would turn and Russ would have to ship her home to her parents in Baggies. She flung herself on her belly and thrust the last chock beneath the nose wheel. Then she scrambled to her hands and knees, crawled forward a couple of yards, and lurched to her feet, well away from the spinning propellers.

  For a moment, she could hear the voice of her survival school instructor. You like to live on the edge, don’t you, Fergusson?

  Sir, yes, sir.

  Russ grabbed her arm and hauled her behind him. “Now, who’s the idiot?” he hissed.

  “It worked,” she said. She stepped away from him so she could see the cockpit windows. The height and tilt of them made it impossible to make out any details about who was sitting there, but she knew he—or they—could see her. She gestured, using the universal language of flight crews: Three. Wheels. Stop.

  Nothing. She and Russ stood there in front of the immobilized plane while the engines roared fruitlessly on. She had just enough time to wonder if the cockpit’s side windows were sealed, or if they could open, and if so, whether someone would stick a gun out and start firing at them.

  “Maybe we should—”

  “Let’s move to—”

  The cabin door opened. It was Opperman, his face a mask.

  “Turn off those engines and get down from there,” Russ shouted. “I’m here to arrest Peggy Landry for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “I’d love to oblige you, Chief,” Opperman said. His eyes shifted toward something inside the plane. “Unfortunately, Peggy has taken possession of my gun and is quite determined to have me fly her out of here.”

  “Christ,” Russ said under his breath. “This is why guns in the cockpit are such a bad idea.” He raised his voice. “Peggy, what do you want?”

  Opperman held one edge of the door frame and moved to one side. And there was Peggy, pressing a handgun into his side. She wasn’t the cool, acerbic hostess Clare remembered from her party, nor the nearly hysterical victim from earlier today. This was a woman stripped to the bone. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary, but not with remorse or self-pity. With rage. Peggy Landry looked ready to jump over the edge, not caring whom she took with her.

  “Ms. Landry,” Russ said, raising his voice to be heard over the thrum of the propellers, “put down the weapon and come with me. There’s not any way you’re going to get out of this.”

  “I might have said the same thing about you and the helicopter,” she said. “I understood it wouldn’t fly if the gas supply was compromised. But here you are.” Her voice was firm, but the gun in her hand trembled.

  “The helicopter went down. It was Clare’s piloting that kept us alive.”

  Clare thought it was more likely dumb luck. However, she wasn’t going to try to put her two cents in.

  “Waxman?”

  “He’s still hanging on. You pushed him into that ravine, didn’t you? Why?”

  Opperman looked at Peggy, his expression pained. Clare couldn’t tell if it was from the news of his helicopter’s fate or Waxman’s. From what she had seen of the man, she suspected the former.

  “He thought he knew things he didn’t. He was trying to blackmail me, the little weasel. He had discovered PCBs in the groundwater around the quarry pond on my land. He…was promised a job if he kept his mouth shut about it.” Her eyes flicked down, as if to make sure the gun was still firmly against Opperman’s waist. “He knew if the DEP found out, it would be the end of the project. He was threatening me! He threatened me!”

  Opperman was shaking his head. “There’s no PCB contamination.” He spoke loudly enough for them all to hear. “Leo found contaminated water when he first came to the site, but the levels have been going down every time he tested. I was suspicious—I thought maybe he was setting us up. I hired a diver to check things out this past week. He found an empty chem-hazard container at the bottom of the quarry pond.” He looked directly at Russ. “My guess is that Leo seeded the pond with sludge from the Allen Mill cleanup site, or those antidevelopment environmental extremists did.”

  “What?”

  Clare’s amazement was so strong, she could almost believe her thought rang out loud. But it was Peggy who spoke, clutching at the door frame and the gun with equal fervor.

  “What the fuck do you mean, ‘There’s no PCB contamination’? I saw Waxman’s test results. I know—if he—”

  “I just found out myself,” Opperman said. “I hadn’t had the chance to tell you. I was going to talk to some people I know at the EPA on Monday and report the sabotage.” He looked at Russ again. “Of course, I thought—we all thought—that if there was residual contamination from when the quarry was used for storage, we’d have to shut down the project.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this when I interviewed you Monday?” Russ’s voice cracked with frustration.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Peggy added, jabbing Opperman in the ribs for emphasis.

  He stiffened against the gun’s prodding. “I told you—I just found out myself!” He looked at Russ. “And when you spoke to me, I thought Bill had been killed as a result of a sexual encounter gone wrong. How was I supposed to guess there was some connection to a confidential business situation?” Clare was amazed that, even held hostage, Opperman managed to play the autocrat. “Besides, I already suspected tampering from that tree-hugger group. And we certainly know where your sympathies lie, don’t we?”

  Clare could feel the tension radiating from Russ, but he ignored Opperman’s jab. “Ms. Landry,” he said, “did you order Bill Ingraham killed?”

  “The son of a bitch was going to pull the plug on the project,” Peggy protested. “He was going to fold up and go home because of the goddamned PCBs….” For a moment, she looked lost. “I would have been left with nothing. With nothing!” She practically howled her words.

  “Russ,” Clare said in his ear.

  “I know.”

  She had seen suicidal people before, people driven to the brink of utter hopelessness. That mad despair was in Peggy’s eyes.

  Evidently, Opperman saw it, too. “Peg,” he said, almost too softly to be heard over the engines’ roar. “Let’s sit down and talk about this. I can help you. I know some of the best lawyers—”

  “You!”

  Now the madness turned outward.

  “You! Always being so damn helpful! Always telling me everything’s going to turn out all right! Well, it hasn’t, has it? My life is ruined! And I swear to God yours will be, too!”

  Opperman lunged at her, knocking her off her feet. They both disappeared into the plane’s shadowed interior.

  “Oh, Christ!” Russ launched himself at the lip of the door. A shot resounded. Clare flung her arms over her head and ducked, a useless, instinctual move. Just as Russ was heaving himself over the edge, Opperman crawled into view.

  For an endless second, Clare waited for Peggy to follow, imagining her looming over the injured man in the doorway. Russ would never be able to get his weapon up in time. Peggy would gun them all down and eat the last bullet herself. And the only thing Clare could think of was the Act of Contrition from her eighth-grade confirmation class—“Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest of all my sins”—and it wasn’t even an Episcopal prayer.
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  Then Opperman clambered to his feet and reached down to help Russ into the plane. Russ disappeared for a moment and then returned. He looked at her, his face more grim than she had ever seen. And she realized Peggy Landry was never going to appear in that doorway, or any other, again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When the farmhouse door opened, Clare thrust her flowers into Paul’s hands. “Welcome home,” she said.

  He wrapped one meaty arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. “I’m glad to be here, believe me.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Hello! I’m Paul Foubert.”

  “You said I should bring a date,” Clare said, stepping aside to let the two men shake hands. “Paul, this is Hugh Parteger.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Hugh said, handing Paul a bottle of wine.

  “Whoa. You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “You can tell,” Hugh said, his face falling. “No matter how I work on the accent, people can always tell I’m Swedish.” Paul laughed.

  “Hugh is based in New York City, but he has ambitions to be a summer person in Saratoga,” Clare explained. “He was up this weekend, so when he called me, I asked him along.”

  “Wonderful!” Paul said. “Stephen and Ron’s inn was full up tonight, so they couldn’t get away. Now it’ll just be us and the Van Alstynes.”

  Clare kept her smile firmly in place. “I’m looking forward to meeting Mrs. Van Alstyne.”

  Paul looked at her oddly. “From the way she’s been talking about you since she got here, I assumed you two had already met.”

  “Linda Van Alstyne was talking about me?” Her stomach lurched. Which was ridiculous. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.

  Paul’s face relaxed. “No, Margy Van Alstyne was talking about you.” He turned to Hugh. “Chief Van Alstyne’s mother. Dynamite woman. She took care of our dogs for us while I was with Emil in Albany.” He gave them as much of a confidential glance as his broad, open face was capable of. “We invited her first, before the chief and his wife. I get the impression that the daughter-in-law doesn’t show up at social events where the mother-in-law will be present.”