A Fountain Filled With Blood by Julia Spencer-Fleming Page A

“Damn Commies,” one beefy man in front of her said to another. “They think government control of property is so great, I say let’s ship ’em off to North Korea.”
    Officer Entwhistle was trying to remove the protestors, or the people harassing them. It was impossible to tell. Despite her soggy clothes and her clammy skin, and despite her grandmother’s voice warning her,
This isn’t any of your business, miss,
Clare couldn’t keep herself from trying to get closer. She edged sideways between individuals, couples, clumps of people, buffeted by excited voices.
    “Folks? Folks? I’m Bill Ingraham, and I
am
BWI Development.” Someone had rescued the microphone stand from beneath the fallen banner and set it up in front of Ingraham. “I said this at Wednesday night’s town meeting and I’ll say it again: If you folks don’t want our resort in your community, we’re outta here.” He didn’t look like the genial, controlled businessman he had been at the meeting. He looked like a construction boss who had just found out his crew was threatening to unionize. “Personally, and professionally, I think connecting your PCB problem with our development site is bad science and worse business.”
    “PCBs were stored on that site twenty-five years ago!” someone yelled from the crowd.
    “Yeah, and then the storage canisters were removed by the government and the site was cleaned up. Look, folks, the feds and the state have both given the place the thumbs-up. Either you trust the government or you don’t. But if you don’t, why the hell would you want to call them in again?”
    “He’s right! Listen to the man!” another person yelled.
    “I take pride in my resorts. I build ’em right and I try to be as environmentally sensitive as possible.” The protestors jeered. “If you don’t want us here, call in the DEP and we’re gone. But don’t send a bunch of scientifically illiterate witches after me!” He thrust the microphone into the stand with enough force to set it rocking, stalked to the rear of the platform, and leaped down, disappearing from view.
    The babble of the crowd was deafening. Mayor Jim Cameron visibly wavered between snatching the microphone or running after Ingraham. The urge to apologize to the developer must have won out, because he let himself down over the rear of the platform and also vanished.
    Russ, who must have unloaded his mother on Officer Flynn, strode back to the front of the platform. He didn’t bother with a microphone, simply cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You people are demonstrating without a permit. You must disperse now. Anyone who fails to disperse peaceably will be arrested.” The central knot of protestors promptly sat down and started singing, “We Shall Overcome.” Clare could see Russ’s lips moving, but it didn’t look like he was saying anything fit for public consumption.
    She heard the siren of another police car. Time to get out of here. She had to keep her head down and use her elbows aggressively to wedge her way between bodies. Very few people seemed inclined to leave before the show was over.
    “Certainly the most interesting thing to happen on the Fourth of July since that streaker in ’79, don’t you—”
    “No proof that any of the stuff is coming from the development site.”
    “—with husbands supporting them and too much time on their—”
    “Thank God somebody has enough guts to stand up to the Board of—”
    “You said the same thing when they did the Million Mom March, and you were wrong then, too.”
    “He’s not gonna be a problem after tonight, is he?”
    Those words, accompanied by a little laugh, raised the hairs on the back of Clare’s neck. She stopped dead, turning to see who had spoken. A pair of parents bore down on her, arms full of squirming children, and she was pushed out of the way. By the time they passed, the crowd had shifted around her again. She had no idea whose gravelly, gloating voice