A Fountain Filled With Blood

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The yahoos came by just after the dinner party broke up. A few young punks—three or four, picked out as streaks of white in the cab and bed of an unremarkable-looking pickup. Emil Dvorak was tucking a bottle of wine under his arm and reaching to shake his hosts’ hands when he heard the horn haloowing down the Five Mile Road like a redneck hunting cry, and the truck flashed into view of the inn’s floodlights.

“Faggots!” several voices screamed. “Burn in hell!” More obscene slurs were swallowed up in the night as the truck continued past. From their run in the back, the inn’s dogs began barking in response, high-pitched and excited.

“Goddamn it,” Ron Handler said.

“Did you see the license plate this time?” Stephen Obrowski asked.

His partner shook his head. “Too fast. Too dark.”

“Has this happened before?” Emil shifted the bottle under his other arm. The inn’s outdoor spotlight left him feeling suddenly exposed, his car brilliantly illuminated, his hosts’ faces clearly visible, as his must have been. His hand, he noticed, was damp. “Have you reported it?”

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