The slick drifted lazily in the current while government officials stared at it, with an air of deep puzzlement. Despite a variety of efforts at containment, the slick continued to spread, oozing casually past any number of obstacles put in its way, and no one had been able to identify the source. It was as though the river itself was exuding the ribbons of bright orange goo, a biologist pointed out, and this was not, in fact, that far from the truth. The chemical composition of the slick also eluded explanation, since it had an obnoxious habit of quietly burning through most plastics and metals, and it would silently leach through glass without so much as a by-your-leave.

While it would be anthropomorphizing to say that a sludge of toxic pollutants had feelings or emotions, the slick actually felt somewhat remorseful about escaping its containment drums and bubbling quietly out into the world, where it obviously wasn’t wanted. The slick was the silent, unwanted guest at the otherwise perfectly pleasant party, and some of the party guests were afraid that the slick might start to talk, and then things would get really awkward.

One of those concerned about the slick’s noxious presence was not Brad Whittaker, although it probably would have been, if Brad had known about the slick. Instead, his employers at the mill were growing increasingly concerned about the seeming coincidence of his disappearance and the sudden rise of a whole mess of extremely incriminating documents at the Post. Some reporter had been pestering the office for days, asking for interviews, and a very suspicious-looking photographer had been skulking in the streets of the town earlier, as everyone prepared for a town hall meeting to discuss the slick, and what was going to be done about it.

The brass at the mill had containment on their minds, and not necessarily containment of the slick, which they didn’t particularly care about, except as an inconvenience. They needed containment of information, and it was very evident that something in their plans had gone very, very wrong.

Brad Whittaker was no longer behind the sewage treatment plant, but it wasn’t likely that anyone would find him in his new location, which was even more obscure. He had been moved in the dead of night by his captors, and in silence, despite his attempts at communication. He may even have resorted to bribery, and perhaps petty threats of violence, but his captors would have appeared to be unmoved, and no one was there to witness it if he did try to plead with them. He was cold, and dirty, and distinctly uncomfortable, although if he had known how sentiments were turning against him at the mill, he might have preferred to stay hidden.

As the slick wound its way calmly down the river, it left behind a formidable wake of death, which radiated out from the bank to swallow up reeds, grasses, shrubs, and trees, nibbling at the side of the town almost daintily. Within a few days, the slick would actually start to tease at the edges of the water table, slipping silkily into the wells of those who had them, although, as yet, no one was aware of this.

James Farrier, with the Post, had been stonewalled at every turn when he arrived at the town looking for lodgings and mentioning that he was planning to write a story about the mill. To his surprise, the citizens of the town closed ranks against him silently and without discussion, excluding him not, as his waitress explained on his first night, because they wanted to support the mill, but because he was an outsider, and the mill was their affair, not his. His suggestion that a well balanced, carefully written story about the mill would attract attention for the town was also greeted coldly, because, really, who wants to attract attention?

Working from digital copies of the documents, James Farrier was starting to assemble a story in his hotel room, which mysteriously stank of fish, and as he pulled the threads of the narrative together, he made copious notes about whom he wanted to talk to, and when, and what he wanted to talk to them about. His secret hope was that the town hall meeting would provide him with an opening, or at least a chance to see some of the people he was reading about.

In the police station, Officer Carlisle was discussing the problem with the name of the horse to the Police Chief, who seemed to be having trouble grasping the issue.

“Well, you see,” Officer Carlisle said, “I can’t say that ‘Intifada’ is the best name for a police horse, you know? I’m not sure it sends the right sort of message.”

“What’s wrong with In-tee-fah-duh,” the Police Chief wanted to know.

“Ah, well, some people would argue that intifada is in fact sometimes very necessary,” Officer Carlisle said, while the Police Chief looked blankly back. “But still, I’m not sure it’s the best choice. Why don’t we call him ‘Indy’ and leave it at that?”

“Fine, yes,” the Police Chief said, glancing at the shipping papers so that he could look up “Intifada” on Wikipedia later and wondering what to do about the town hall meeting, the slick, Amy Tilly, and Brad Whittaker. “In the meanwhile,” he said, deciding to dispense with one of his problems, “why don’t you supervise the safety at the town hall meeting?”

Officer Carlisle agreed to do just that, and then went next door to feed Intifada the Police Horse a carrot. He was getting rather fond of the horse, actually, despite his habit of taking a deep breath when he was saddled so that his unwary rider would be tipped off after he mounted up.