LCole 07 - Deadly Cove

by DuBois, Brendan

  With that, the hood came off my head, and I took a deep breath and then opened my eyes, took out a handkerchief, and wiped at my sweaty face. I was in a small clearing in a pine forest. Out beyond some of the trees there were small campfires. Before me sat a man on a camp stool. He had on work boots, blue jeans, and a gray sweatshirt. His hands were folded in his lap, and he was wearing a black watch cap and a red bandanna across his lower face. He had large ears, prominent, and it seemed his eyes were brown. Between us was a small campfire. I looked behind me, saw a camp chair, and sat down. There were other activists there as well, in the shadows and firelight, and most wore ski masks or some kind of face mask.

  “Mr. Cole,” he said.

  “Mr. Chesak,” I replied. “Is the bandanna really necessary?”

  “I’m wanted by a number of people and a number of police agencies. I don’t want to take chances.”

  “Is Curt Chesak your real name?”

  I could sense his smile behind the bandanna. “A question that’s not going to be answered tonight. So try something else.”

  “Your fellow protesters over there,” I said. “Are they wearing masks for my benefit, or because they don’t trust one another?”

  “Everyone you see is here because they are trustworthy,” Chesak said. “Some feel comfortable keeping their faces covered, on the off chance we’re under some sort of surveillance, or if there’s a police raid.”

  I took out my notebook and pen. There was enough light for me to take notes, if I wrote large enough. “Thanks for the interview.”

  “You’re welcome. You should also thank the young lady who pled your case—otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. Larger and wealthier media organizations have tried to be in your position, and none have succeeded.”

  “Maybe they didn’t like the thought of being shuttled around half the county with a grocery bag over their head.”

  A slight shrug of his wide shoulders. “The price that must be paid to keep me where I belong.”

  “Where is that exactly?”

  “Leading the members of the NFF, the Nuclear Freedom Front.”

  I scribbled something in my notebook. “I see. How did you come to lead the Nuclear Freedom Front?”

  “By direct action, how else. I started with local actions, and when the NFF came together, I was chosen.”

  “Why the NFF?” I asked. “Out there are thousands of protesters with the Coalition for a Livable Future, and maybe a few hundred of you folks, the NFF. So why the NFF?”

  He said, “Have you spent any time with the Coalition?”

  “Not that much.”

  “You know what they’re good at doing?”

  “Protesting.”

  “Sure,” he said, as the campfire between us crackled and burned. “Protesting. Discussing. Talking. Oh Lord, can they ever talk. That’s what they’re very good at. Talking. And that’s why we have the NFF. We’re more interested in direct action, Mr. Cole. That’s our strength. Maybe not our numbers, but our dedication.”

  “I’ve seen your dedication,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I saw the dedication of a couple of your followers, too, the other day, when Bronson Toles made his last speech. Two of your NFF members were up on the stage, disrupting Bronson’s speech.”

  “They were making a point,” Chesak said, “that it was no longer a time for talking but a time for taking. Look, Bronson Toles was good at raising money, getting publicity—but doing what has to be done, that was lacking in his department.”

  “What’s your department, then?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  I flipped a page in my notebook. “The coalition is having their big demonstration the day after tomorrow. Let’s say you were in charge, and you had … oh, some magic power that allowed you to succeed, do exactly what you hope to do. So what would that be?”

  My question seemed to catch him off guard for a moment, and then he said, “Wow. That’s some question. That’s some dream. All right, bottom line, we plan to go over those fences, go past the cops and National Guardsmen, and occupy the site.”

  “What about the nuclear reactor?”

  “We plant to shut her down.”

  “How?”

  Again I had the sense he was smiling at me behind his red bandanna. “It may be hard to believe, Mr. Cole, but among our ranks are disillusioned members of the nuclear power industry, as well as veterans of the nuclear navy. We know that power plant’s vulnerabilities, its weaknesses. Even without getting past the heavy security to the plant’s control room, we can shut her down. Once that happens, Mr. Cole, that death plant is not going to reopen ever again. That place is not only a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at any second, but its mere presence here is polluting the environment and the people living in its shadow.”

  It was a challenge, keeping up with his fast talking, but I did my best. “All right. The plant is shut down. That means New England loses about eleven hundred megawatts of power. What does the region do without that power supply?”

  “It makes adjustments,” he said. “Alternative power. Conservation. Better refrigerators, better lightbulbs, better appliances. Hell, this region did fine without air conditioners for a couple of hundred years. Giving those up sounds like a small price to pay for safe energy.”

  “That kind of adjustment can take a while,” I said.

  “That’s what we hear, all the time. Be patient. It’ll take a while. Things can’t happen overnight. Well, when we occupy and shut down Falconer, that’ll be a shock to the system, something sudden and unexpected. Change will have to occur. There will be no other choice.”

  Another flip of my notebook. “Some might ask, who or what gives you the right to do something so drastic?”

  “It’s called self-defense, Mr. Cole. In the New Hampshire state constitution, it even says that the citizens have the right to act on their behalf if there’s a greater danger involved. That danger is just over there, less than a mile away—and we citizens are doing to do what it takes, and we’re going to shock the system, to make it take notice.”

  Well, I thought, time to go really nuclear and see what happens. “What about the murder of Bronson Toles?”

  “What about it?”

  “Was that a shock to the system, something that had to be done?” I asked.

  He stared at me for a bit, the light from the campfire casting dark shadows over the part of his face that was visible. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at, Mr. Cole.”

  I said, “It’s no secret that the coalition and the NFF don’t get along that well. Or that you and Bronson Toles didn’t have the best of relationships, either professionally or personally. Or that—”

  Chesak interrupted me and said, “If you’re saying that either me or a member of the NFF were responsible for Bronson Toles’s murder, you can stop right there.”

  “How can you be sure?” I pressed him. “Wouldn’t it be to your advantage to have Bronson Toles removed from the scene, leaving just one visible leader for the antinuclear movement? Maybe even get some coalition members to join you?”

  “I wouldn’t want most of them,” he said sharply.

  “Why? Aren’t they dedicated enough to the cause?”

  “You know what they’re dedicated to? I’ll tell you what they’re dedicated to—they’re dedicated to talking, talking, and reaching a consensus. That coalition … they’re made up of scores of groups, some of them primarily anti nuclear, others pro women, pro Native American rights, anti corporation … hell, there are a couple of groups over there that are pro hemp, for reforming the marijuana laws. Each group is called an affinity group, where decisions are made collectively. Can you believe that, trying to get twenty or thirty people to agree on anything? Hell, a group that big couldn’t decide on what to have for breakfast!”

  “Yet these groups—”

  Chesak was on a roll and wouldn’t let me talk, and he said, “Each affinity group has a facilitat
or. Not a leader, no, a leader is too fascist a term. So each group has a facilitator, and each facilitator meets with the others in a grand council, where they hammer out how they’re going to protest, which part of the fence line they’ll march to, and even what time they march—but that’s not the end of it. Each facilitator has to go back and convince his or her affinity group that they’ve made the correct decision. And if not, well, the affinity group hammers out their position, like, no, we don’t want to march at 9:00 A.M., we’d rather march at 10:00 A.M., and then the whole grand circus starts up again…”

  When he took a breath, I said, “Sounds like the NFF is better organized.”

  “You got that right, and you have to be better organized. The stakes are too high to allow all this time wasted on talking and consensus. Which is why I’m certain no NFF member had anything to do with the murder of Bronson Toles.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t see the correlation.”

  He leaned forward a bit. “Because I know the NFF, I know how they operate, how they think—and I know no one would do anything even remotely like that shooting without my knowledge or say-so.”

  “So you knew about the plans for those NFF members to disrupt Bronson Toles’s speech.”

  “Eh?”

  I made a point of going back over my notes. “You just said that you know how the NFF membership operates, thinks, acts, and that they wouldn’t act without your knowledge or say-so. Therefore, you had to know about that disruption.”

  Chesak’s eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to say about that. I will say, as the leader of the NFF, I know the members. I know we had nothing to do with Bronson’s murder. I also know that most of the stories about Bronson and his saintly life are so much bullshit. Nobody has the balls to report on what kind of guy Bronson really was.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You ever go to the Stone Chapel for a performance?” he asked.

  “No, I never have.”

  Chesak said, “Well, if you had, then this won’t come as a big fucking surprise to you. About ninety-nine percent of his employees—servers, dishwashers, ticket takers—were all young women. Young good-looking women, and you can bet he was getting a lot on the side. Part of being a business owner, eh?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Let me guess, what I just said isn’t going to make it into print, is it.”

  I didn’t like where this was going and said, “Not sure of that.”

  “Yeah. Right. That’s the kind of response I was expecting. With that, Mr. Cole, this interview is done.”

  With each passing minute with Curt Chesak, I found I was liking him less and less. I said, “Just one more follow-up, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Make it quick.”

  Another flip through my notebook. “A couple of days ago, out there on the marshland, you called yourself the coordinator of the NFF. Now you’ve been telling me that you’re its leader. Which is it, then?”

  Again his eyes narrowed. “I run the NFF because the members know me, trust me, and have confidence in my decisions. I’m sure you’ve heard of that kind of leadership, Mr. Cole.”

  “I have, but it’s been a while.” I closed my notebook. “About seventy or so years ago. Political guy in Germany who gave great speeches and would allow no dissent from his decisions. I think the term used was something called Führerprinzip. Leadership principle. I’m sure you’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”

  He stood up. “This interview is really over.” He walked into the darkness, and I heard one more word: “Asshole.”

  So be it. I tucked the notebook away in my back pocket. I had been called worse.

  * * *

  The man I knew as Todd called out to me. “Turn around, Mr. Cole.”

  I followed his instructions, and he came up to me, and the same shopping bag was placed over my head. He said, “It looks like that interview didn’t go so well.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Curt had some choice words to say about you when he went into camp. Said it was a waste of time. Said if he could, he’d give that UNH bitch a slap upside the head for getting you in here.”

  I said, “Can I give you a message to give back to Curt?”

  “Sure,” he said, taking my elbow. “What is it?”

  “If he has an urge to slap somebody upside the head, he’s got my business card, with my cell phone number. Anyplace, anytime, and leave college-aged girls out of it.”

  Todd sighed. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  We moved along the path, and I was processing in my mind what I had learned, what I had done—which wasn’t particularly much—but I felt good that I was out and about, doing things, and the worst that could happen was that in the end, I’d have another story to file that Denise Pichette-Volk would be pleased to see, since it was a scoop.

  Yeah, the worst that could happen.

  I guess my imagination had failed me right about then.

  * * *

  About ten minutes into our walk, a muffled voice called out, “Todd! Curt wants you back at the camp.”

  We stopped. “What for?”

  “How the hell should I know? He just sent me along, told me to finish this job and to send you back.”

  “But Henry…”

  “Hey, no names! Jesus, do I have to remind you of everything? I’ll take this clown back to the car, get him on his way.”

  Todd moved back down the trail, and the man called Henry grasped my arm. “Let’s get moving,” he said, his voice still muffled, as if he were wearing a bandanna as well. “I want to get back ’fore dinner is served.”

  Unlike Todd, Henry didn’t seem to care very much about the speed at which we were moving. I stumbled twice and said, “Hey, would you mind slowing it down?”

  He laughed. “Sorry. Like I said, I want to get back soon.”

  We kept moving, and then I stumbled again, and one right after another, a series of branches started whipping at my face. I stopped and said, “This isn’t the way back.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “No kidding—and the masks and the games are over.”

  I moved my hands to take the cloth bag off my head, but my escort was faster.

  He grabbed my wrists, pushing them together, and I felt something hard and plastic wrap around them, snug. A tie-wrap, similar to what cops use when they need to secure someone fast and quick.

  “No, buddy,” he said, lowering his voice. “The games are just ready to begin.”

  * * *

  Henry got behind me, twisted my arms, and then propelled me through the woods, pushing me, going faster, as more branches struck my face and shoulders.

  “What the hell—” I started, and he twisted my arms again, and he said, “You know, in movies, this is where the bad guy, and I admit, that’s me, explains everything to the victim, and that’s you, why what’s about to happen is going to happen, and you know what?”

  He jerked me to a halt, the bag still on my head, my hands fastened before me, and he added, “That’s never made sense to me, so why start now?”

  He shoved me, hard, in the small of the back, and I stepped out into nothing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I fell and heard a gunshot, and then there was a sharp, cold splash of water, and I raised my legs, hoping to get some depth into the saltwater, and there was another gunshot, and then another. With my bound hands in front of me, I got the grocery bag off my head, saw darkness and shapes, and I willed myself to keep still, to keep my arms and legs from flailing, from making a noise, making a sign of my presence.

  I floated up, cold, shivering, and my head broke through the water. A nearly full moon was rising, illuminating the surroundings in a cold white light. I had been tossed into one of the wide tidal streams cutting through the salt marsh, and I could make out my assailant up on the grassy bank, looking down at me, pistol in hand. Every fiber and ounce of my bei
ng was convinced to move away, to dive in the water away from this man, and with a great struggle, I did exactly the opposite.

  I slogged toward him, as fast as I could, and he raised his arm, and then I couldn’t see him anymore. The embankment where he was standing four or five feet above me had been cut away by generations of incoming and outgoing tides, scooping out some of the soil, leaving the place he was standing on as an overhang.

  I caught my breath, waited. I could hear cursing up there.

  Waited some more. I gingerly moved away, making sure I was under the muddy and grassy overhang. Now I could make out the stench of the mud that came from the saltwater tides bringing in and out fish, trash, and seaweed. I was in sloppy mud that rose to midshins, and I kept still, knowing moving around would cause slurping and gurgling noises that would draw my shooter to me like an insect to an open flame.

  Waited.

  No sound from above.

  I started shivering, closed my arms around myself. Waited some more. I could make out the sound of feet rustling in the marsh grass as my shooter stood a few feet above my head.

  Waited some more.

  Kept on shivering.

  * * *

  At some point I knew I’d have to figure out what the hell had just happened, who the shooter was, and why I was targeted, but that point was a long way off. Right now I had to stay still, stay warm, and then get the hell out of this marshland before I got hypothermia, got shot, or got caught in an outgoing tide trying to swim with bound hands.

  Waited some more.

  I couldn’t tell if my assailant—the man called Henry—had moved, but I also knew I couldn’t stay here much longer. It was getting colder, and the water seemed deeper around my legs. I had to move. Just had to, and I had a yearning to be home, where there were strong locks and several weapons, any one of which I wished I had with me.

  Waited. A cold breeze came through, making me shiver, and I decided it was time to move, now was better than doing nothing, and—

  I flinched at the sound of another gunshot.

  Realized this one was a distance away.

  Chances of two shooters operating at this time of night in these salt marshes?