A Fountain Filled With Blood (Reverend Clare Fergusson, Book by Julia Spencer-Fleming

By Julia Spencer-Fleming

In In the awful Midwinter, Julia Spencer-Fleming’s Malice Domestic-winning first secret, Reverend Clare Fergusson was once quick brought to a extra eventful lifestyles than she had anticipated after relocating to the small city of Millers Kill in upstate ny. however the Episcopal priest and previous military Air strength chopper pilot proved to her flock—and to police leader Russ Van Alstyne—that she might take care of the unforeseen, even if it used to be as dire as homicide. during this new event for the 2 ill-matched associates (who are gamely resisting whatever past friendship), facts indicates small city can carry simply as a lot evil because the depraved urban.

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Additional resources for A Fountain Filled With Blood (Reverend Clare Fergusson, Book 2)

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She threw me a withering look, like she was just disgusted I was being so thick. “Your college application is intended for a different audience altogether. As for this other issue, all you have to say is that you’re not . . not one of those people. That is . ” Her eyes bounced from me to the wall and then the floor. “Unless . . well, unless there’s something you need to . . ah . . ” My cheeks heated. ” She was using her reasonable-mom voice, the one she pulled out whenever she’d thought of one more new project guaranteed to get me into the dream school of her 46 choice.

I was helping the marine put away pamphlets when he peered at my name tag and then grinned. “I was wondering if you’d be around,” he said. I was puzzled. ” He stuck out his hand, one of the largest I’d ever seen, like a garden spade. But then again, he was also very tall, easily six-five: a giant with a buzz cut in a navy blue pullover sweater and khaki shirt. You wouldn’t think the military would want such tall guys. They’d be easy targets, know what I’m saying? “Staff Sergeant Bruce Pfeiffer.

Lange’s forearm. ” At his touch, a tremor shuddered through Mr. Lange. He jerked around, and for a second I thought he might hit the pastor. But then his shoulders slumped and he was making these raw, grunting sounds that I recognized, belatedly, as sobs. “Come on, Harlan,” said the pastor. “That’s enough now. You’ve corrected the boy. ” 35 “There’s nothing to sort out,” Mr. Lange said, his voice so ragged and raw it sounded like it must be cutting his throat. Sweat and tears glistened on his cheeks.

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