A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Let’s head downstream.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “If it doesn’t take us anywhere, at least it’ll be easier than hiking over these hills.”

She looked at him carefully, as if measuring his ability against his words. Then she smiled. “Let’s go.”

Once more, he shouldered the backpack and took Waxman’s head while she took his feet. As they walked, he kept an eye out for a branch they could sling through the webbing to carry it on their shoulders, but there were no sturdy eight-foot-long pieces of wood conveniently left about. Instead, there was a thick bank of ferns, and the occasional root or stone to avoid. The constant whack—although it was never regular enough to anticipate—of the aluminum spars hitting him in the calves slowed him down.

The heat squeezed him like a hand wringing a sponge. His shirt didn’t dry out, but warmed, until it seemed a solidified part of the humid air. Except for the gurgle of the stream and the swish, swish as they strode through the ferns, the woods were quiet. Even the usual insect droning was muted. He could feel the tension tightening inside him, the creeping fear that he was exposed, open to fire. He knew it was dumb, that there were no snipers lurking in the Adirondacks, that what he and Clare had to fear was a turned ankle or heat stroke, not a sudden shattering report through the leaves. That green and heat and wet didn’t automatically add up to death.

Then as they rounded a bend in the stream that twisted behind a bluff of earth and pines, he saw three armed men in fatigues.

He dropped Waxman to the ground and drew his gun in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Clare dived over Waxman as he crouched deep into a firing stance. “Drop your weapons,” he roared.

The three men paused from where they had been toiling uphill and stared at him. They didn’t toss down their weapons, just stood in a ragged line, curious, relaxed. One of them had his arms akimbo and another one wiped his forehead.

“Hey,” the man with his hands on his hips said. “We’re not—”

“Police!” Russ yelled. “Put your weapons down now!” He tightened his finger slightly and a round fell into the firing chamber with an audible snick.

“Holy crap,” one of the men said. “That’s a real gun.” All three threw their weapons into the ferns. They glanced at one another and raised their hands. The man who had spoken before said, “If we’re trespassing, we’re sorry.”

“We had the landowner’s permission to be on the property,” a man behind him said.

Russ lowered his gun and relaxed his stance. “Who the hell are you?”

They glanced at one another. “Um. We’re from BancNorth,” their apparent leader said. “We’re part of a paintball team.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Clare clamber off Waxman’s half-hidden form.

“Our base camp called us maybe twenty minutes ago. Someone had reported a small aircraft going down, near our position. We decided to check it out.”

“They know where we are,” the man behind him said. “They’re sending in search and rescue teams and rangers right now.” The rest remained unspoken: So if you kill us, you won’t get away with it.

Russ was suddenly aware that he must look like an extra in Deliverance. He holstered his gun and stepped forward. “Please, put your hands down. Sorry I scared you. I’m Chief Van Alstyne, of the Millers Kill Police Department.” He thumbed back toward Clare. “This is, um, the pilot of the aircraft you’re looking for. We were transporting a badly injured man when our helicopter went down. We could use some help.”

The three bankers looked at one another. He could see the excitement crackle between them as they realized they were on the scene of a real live emergency. “Sure,” their leader said.

As they drew near, Russ could see their fatigues were streaked with dried paint. One of them had on an outfit so new, there were fold lines faintly visible on his shirt. They had the thickening waists and excellent teeth of successful forty-year-old businessmen. That he had mistaken them for soldiers was clear evidence that his in- country reflexes were running amok.

“Do you guys have a topo map I can use to figure out where we are?” he said.

“Yeah, but you may as well do it the easy way,” said one, a pale man whose cheeks were blotchy red from the heat. He fished out something the size of a glasses case and handed it to Russ. “GPS. Hooks us up to the satellite system and tells us the exact coordinates of where we are. You can zoom in and out on the map here.” He pointed to buttons along the edge of the device.

“You know,” said their leader as Russ switched it on, “that’s cheating.”

“I’m not using it during the exercise,” the pale man said. “It’s just in case we get lost.”

Russ looked at the blinking spot on the map and handed the thing to Clare. She glanced up at him. “This is the Five Mile Road,” she said. “We’re no more than a couple of miles away from the Stuyvesant Inn.” She started to laugh. The paintball team looked at her.

“Can we use those walkie-talkies to get your base camp to relay a message for us?” Russ asked.

“You could, I guess,” the leader said. “But it’d be a lot quicker using a phone.” All three fished into their commodious pants pockets and held out cell phones.

Clare laughed even harder.

Russ made a few phone calls while she calmed down enough to cobble together a better way of carrying Waxman. He watched the guys from the paintball team search for sturdy branches long enough to serve as crossbars as he confirmed the Millers Kill Emergency Department would send an ambulance to the Stuyvesant Inn. As the men worked the poles through the webbing, Russ briefed Noble Entwhistle, who was holding down the fort at the station house, on the situation. By the time he had called the volunteer fire department and warned them about the fuel explosion, the three bankers and Clare had shouldered the crossbars like native bearers in an old movie, with Waxman swinging in the middle like a bagged tiger.