“Great day for a race, huh, Chief? Gosh, I love the Fourth of July.”
Russ looked over at Kevin Flynn, who was standing with his hands on his hips beside their cruiser, eyeing the crowd of runners and spectators filling the park. Then he looked up, where heavy-bellied clouds dragged over the mountains and sailed low under a silvery gray sky. He reached through the window to retrieve his windbreaker. “At least we won’t have to worry about sunstroke,” he said.
A cluster of woman runners walked by him, evidently not worried about the day’s unseasonably cool temperatures. They were wearing what looked like neon-colored body paint and shoes that must have cost more than his first car. “Whatever happened to running in baggy shorts and T-shirts?” he asked Kevin.
The juniormost officer was grinning at a trio of giggling girls. Russ pegged them as coeds who had been hiking on the Appalachian Trail, from their chunky boots and serious backpacks. “Huh?” he said without turning away from the girls.
“Never mind. Just wondering when Lycra became the national fabric.” On the other hand, he thought, his attention riveted by one woman bending way over to retie her laces, there was something to be said for Lycra. He hadn’t seen that much of Linda until after they were married.
The radio crackled inside the cruiser. “Fifteen fifty-seven, this is Dispatch.” Harlene, their most experienced dispatcher, had volunteered to work this holiday, even though she would have had it off, due to rotation and seniority. He was grateful. No matter how crazy it got, nothing could flap Harlene.
Tearing his eyes away from the scenery, he leaned in and unhooked the mike. “Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven.”
“I wanted to let you know Noble’s in position for traffic control by the bridge and Paul is at the intersection of Main and Canal. Kevin’s going to stay with you in Riverside Park, right?”
“That’s right. It looks like they’ll be starting in about fifteen minutes. They’re trying to get the runners in position.”
“How’s it looking?”
Another woman runner paused, frowning, and reached inside her sports bra to redistribute the load. It must have been one of those high-performance sports bras, because it had a lot to contain.
“Everything looks real good here,” he said truthfully. “Hey, you heard the latest weather yet?”
“It’s supposed to hold off raining until tonight,” Harlene said. “I heard from the fire department. They’re assuming the fireworks will go on as planned, nine o’clock or so. Whoops! Lyle’s on the line; I gotta go. Dispatch out.” The radio crackled off.
He replaced the mike. A gust of wind reminded him to shrug on the windbreaker he had been holding. The wind made the banner stretched across the entrance to the park billow like a spinnaker sail. MILLERS KILL THIRD ANNUAL INDEPENDENCE DAY 10K, it read; BWI Development logos were prominently displayed on each side. To call it “annual” was something of an exaggeration, since the first one had taken place five years ago. The event’s organizers—a hard-core group of runners who also got up a trip to the New York Marathon every year—had had difficulties finding sponsors over the years. The last race, two years back, had been sponsored by an Adirondack dot-com company that went belly-up six months later. This year, they had latched onto BWI, which was splashing out a lot on the event: big booths piled with free oranges, bananas, and energy bars, fancy bottled water, T-shirts for volunteers and competitors.
Riverside Park was a broad swath of green undulating along a twisty stretch of the river between two now-abandoned mills. When serious construction had begun in the early nineteenth century, some entrepreneur had snatched up the land in the hopes of developing it at a great profit. Unfortunately for him, he had failed to account for the fact that the water-powered mills of the time needed long, straight riverbanks. The land escheated to the town for failure to pay taxes and had been a park ever since. Russ suspected the mill workers who had once picnicked here would have laughed themselves sick at the sight of their descendants crowding together for a chance to run six miles in a circle to get a T-shirt.
BWI had sent some of their construction workers to build a platform stand near the riverbank. The mayor, a few members of the running club, and a well-polished man in a pressed polo shirt and khakis, whom Russ pegged as Ingraham, were taking up the space now. Later on, it would be a stage for local bands to play on until the nine o’clock fireworks—if the rain held off. Russ looked up at the sky again. The wind pushing the storm clouds forward seemed to bring the mountains themselves closer, their color an intense green-blue, the texture of spreading leaf and spiky pine picked out in a way you never saw when the day was hot and sunny.
Kevin Flynn’s voice broke into Russ’s musing. “Hi, Reverend Fergusson. You running today?”
He looked over the roof of the cruiser. Clare, kitted out in baggy shorts and a ratty gray army T-shirt, was smiling bemusedly at Flynn. “Yes, I am, Officer Flynn. You have a sharp eye.” She grinned at Russ. “You ought to get the chief to make you a detective.”
“Nah,” the oblivious Flynn said. “You have to have more than one year’s experience.”
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Russ said. “It being a Sunday and all.”
“I don’t think my congregation—all thirty of them who turned up for this morning’s Eucharist—will mind. I like to compete once in awhile, especially in the summer. It keeps me from slacking off on those mornings when it feels too hot to run.” She shivered as another cool breeze gusted past them. “Not that that’s a problem today.”
Flynn hitched his belt up, setting his rig jingling. “Say, Reverend, did I see you driving a Shelby Cobra the other day? That’s a way cool car.”
Clare’s face lighted up. “It is, isn’t it? I bought it from a man who collects early muscle cars. It’s a ’sixty-six, in great condition. Just needed a new carburetor and a little work on the electrical system.” Her voice had taken on a faint southern drawl. “I always wanted me a Shelby.”
Russ crossed his arms and leaned against the roof of the cruiser. “You should have gotten something heavy, with four-wheel drive. Something that can maneuver in the snow.”
Clare and Flynn looked at him. “I’d rather have something I can maneuver on the road,” Clare said.
“Yeah,” Flynn said. “After all, you can always load some weight in the trunk and put on chains come winter-time. What are the specs?”
“Four hundred fifty-two liters and a V-eight. Let me tell you, that little honey can eat up the road.”
“Oh, man, I bet. I’ve heard they can run at eighty without even opening up the throttle full. That I’d like to see.”
“You’re not suggesting Reverend Fergusson break the state speed limit, are you, Officer Flynn?”
Kevin looked abashed. “Um,” he said.
“Don’t pick on the boy, Russ. He has the right idea.” She gave Kevin a gleaming smile. “Just because the only thing you think of is—”
“Safety.”
She waved a hand in the air, dissipating his word like so much blown smoke. “I am a very safe driver. And you’ve never had me drive you anywhere, so you can’t say otherwise. Can you?”
“I’ve let you drive me crazy,” he said. The second it was out of his mouth, he felt the tips of his ears go red. God! What an asinine thing to say!
Clare’s cheeks pinked. Her throat moved as she swallowed, but she didn’t say anything. His mind raced feverishly for something, anything, to throw out to break the silence, since he was pretty sure the earth wouldn’t conveniently open up and swallow him whole.
“Have you heard from Paul Foubert?” he blurted.
She blinked. “No,” she said. Then her face brightened. “No!” she repeated, relief plain in her voice. “Nope, nope, haven’t heard from him. How ’bout you?”