“The Nuclear Freedom Front, right?”
Another pile of papers was set to rights. “You are correct, sir. The Front says it’s their turn, either tomorrow or the day after—and that they don’t intend to stop.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “Hold on, I want to drop something off on Rollie’s desk.”
Paula got up and walked away, and I looked at my muddy boots. As she came back from the front of the newsroom she said, “Christ, Lewis, what happened to your back?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, turning my head.
She reached out and touched the rear of my jacket. “It’s all torn up back here … and … Lewis, there’s blood. What happened?”
What to say? The truth, I guess. “Somebody among the demonstrators took offense at your humble correspondent and took a swing at me.”
Her fingers were still playing with the rear of my coat. “With what?”
“A length of wood. With a spike at the end.”
Paula’s hands were on the collar of my coat. “Off. Right now.”
“Paula—”
“I see blood back there, bud, and you’re not leaving here until I take a look. Now. Up and off.”
I stood up and shrugged off my coat, wincing some, and then undid my Bianchi shoulder holster with my Beretta automatic pistol, and Paula’s eyes widened at seeing my weapon, but she didn’t say a word. I took off a pullover sweater and a long-sleeve sport shirt, and Paula said, “All right. Walk this way.”
She went off to the side of the room, where there was a unisex bathroom, and she said, “Come on. Let me give you a bit of a wash.”
“What’s it look like back there?”
“Heavy scratch,” she said. “Could be worse.”
I stood still and looked at myself in the mirror, saw the tired eyes, the damp short hair, and I winced again as Paula wet a paper towel with some warm water. She gently washed at my back and did it again and again. “There,” she said softly. “Looks better. Let me put some antibacterial cream on it.”
Underneath the mirror was a plastic first aid kit, and she opened it up and took out a tube and then spread the cool cream on my back. “All right,” she said. “One big Band-Aid later and you’re all set.”
“Thanks, Paula. You’ve got great hands.”
She laughed. “So I’ve been told.”
Paula closed up the first aid kit and replaced it on the wall. Then, in the small confines of the brightly lit room, I looked at her and she looked at me. We stared at each other, and there I was, standing shirtless before a woman I had once been intimate with, a woman who had now performed first aid on me.
She stepped closer, put a hand on my shoulder. “Good to see you.”
“Always good to see you.”
Paula came closer and I let her, and then the phone rang. And rang. And rang. She smiled, lowered her eyes, and brushed past me back out to the main office. I followed her and got dressed, looking at the rear of my jacket, knowing it was going in the trash when I got home.
On the phone, Paula said, “Okay. Okay. When was it found? Really? Okay … thanks, you’re doing a good job. What else can you tell me? Unh-hunh, unh-hunh, okay … I’ll meet you at the police station as soon as I can. Depending on what’s left of the demonstrators. Thanks.”
She hung up the phone and gathered her purse, reporter’s notebook, and coat. I said, “What’s up?”
“As if we don’t have enough going on—there’s been a murder in Falconer. Lucky for me, my stringer was at the police station when the news broke.”
“What happened?”
She put on her coat, got her keys. “Body found floating in one of the streams in the salt marsh. Bullet wound to the back of the head. A couple of antinukers got lost trying to get out of the salt marsh and found the body. Looks like it’s been out there for a couple of days.”
“Male or female?”
“Male, guy in his early twenties—and he was wearing some pins for the NFF.”
Even though I was dressed, I now felt colder than I had in a long time. I recalled my time the other night in the marsh, when I had escaped from the shooter, the man called Henry. After he tried to nail me, and after I escaped, I’d heard one more gunshot, at a distance.
Yeah. Made sense. The man called Henry had shot the man called Todd, to eliminate a witness and—
“Lewis?”
“Yes?”
“I really need to go—and … will you walk me to my car?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
* * *
Outside I walked Paula to her red Toyota Camry and watched as she got in and started the engine. As she backed out, she blew me a kiss, which I cheerfully returned. I kept watching as she merged into Route 1 traffic, and then I got in my own vehicle and headed home.
* * *
At home, it was time for a clothes dump and a shower and turning up the thermostat for the furnace, and I heated up a can of corned beef hash in a big black iron skillet, sprinkled some grated cheese and some ketchup on the top, and ate the hot and greasy food and enjoyed every bit of it. Then I made a call to Annie Wynn and got her voice mail, and then called somebody else and left a message on his voice mail, and then I went upstairs to my office and wrote my daily contribution to Shoreline magazine.
With this all squared away, I went downstairs and switched on the television and surfed through the news channels, looking at the coverage of the protests, and I had a little shock of recognition when I saw myself standing with the demonstrators. How about that. I had a quirky moment of humor, too, thinking that if Denise Pichette-Volk had been watching this particular newscast, she would have seen me at work.
Then I watched a bit more, and saw the coverage from the station over in Manchester, which had a breaking news segment from Falconer about the discovery of the murdered young man in the marshland. Not much to report—Paula had more information than they did back in her office—and I lay still on the couch, thinking. I had a good idea that the man who had shot Bronson Toles was either the same man who had tried to do me harm or someone connected to him. Either way, there was a dead young man that I was connected to.
So I was thinking, Contact the Falconer cops or not?
I got cold, drew the comforter around me, and remembered my talk with Annie. Too much going on with her and her senator for me to stir things up.
So no, no police contact. Not now.
Snug in the comforter, the low drone of the oil furnace heating up my cold beachfront house, I fell asleep.
* * *
During the night the sharp ring of the phone woke me up, and I stumbled around in the dark until I retrieved the receiver. A male voice was on the other end, the same that had called when Annie was visiting. He started up with a threat, and I wearily said, “I’ve been threatened by better, jerk,” and hung up the phone, unplugged it, and then went upstairs and to bed.
Next to me, underneath a pillow that still had the scent of Annie, I placed my loaded pistol.
* * *
In the morning I went to Blythe’s Breakfast Nook, up on Atlantic Avenue in the town of North Tyler. It was situated on an outcropping of granite that had good views of the Isles of Shoals out on the ocean and the nearby waves coming into a part of North Tyler that didn’t have any beaches at all, though on some warm days, fortunate viewers could see harbor seals sunning themselves on the rocks. This day, however, most of what we saw was the gray Atlantic Ocean rolling into some wet boulders, the sky and the distance obscured by low clouds.
I sat with a window view across from my breakfast guest for the morning, Felix Tinios, resident of said North Tyler, security consultant, former inhabitant of Boston’s North End, and current employee of Joe Manzi, head of the New England Trade Union Council.
Felix had on pressed jeans, black shoes, and a black turtleneck sweater, and as usual, he looked well showered and coiffed. He looked at me oddly as he sat down and said, “Carr
ying, aren’t you.”
I had on a Harris tweed jacket over a blue oxford shirt and khaki slacks, and I said, “Yes, I am. Guess I need a new tailor.”
He laughed and picked up a menu. “No, you need a new attitude, Lewis.”
“What do you mean?”
Felix opened the menu and said, “You have a look about you, of being uncomfortable. Like you’re at some high-society dinner, sitting next to the hostess, a beautiful Brazilian model with stunning cleavage, trying desperately not to loudly pass gas.”
“Thanks for the image.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Still, I wouldn’t worry too much. You only have to worry about cops with sharp eyes and others with … a professional background.”
“Lucky me.”
We ordered, and it took only a few minutes for our meals to come out: eggs Benedict for Felix, pancakes with sausage links for me. When we finished eating he dabbed at his lips with a cloth napkin and said, “What’s up?”
“Number of things.”
“I’ve got some time, so go on.”
I folded my hands on the white linen tablecloth. “The shooting the other day of Bronson Toles. In Falconer. You hear anything that’s not been made public?”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Lewis … the type of way these things were settled in my circles—back in the day—was either a one-way trip out to Boston Harbor or two taps to the back of the head. A sniper shot like that … sorry, out of my area.”
I said, “Sure. Your circles. What about the circles you’re currently traveling in?”
He picked up a tall glass of orange juice and champagne, took a healthy sip. “The union boys? Please. That’s a bit too direct, even for them.”
“Like the other day, at the rally at the fishing co-op, when some of those fine union brothers beat the crap out of some college students?”
He shrugged. “You’re a student of history. You know how unions and union members respond when they feel their livelihoods are threatened. Not condoning it, not explaining it, just telling you as a fact.”
“Sure,” I said. “Here’s another fact. The local economy is rotten, and will remain rotten for the foreseeable future. Then a winning lottery ticket arrives in the form of the federal government and the owners of Falconer Station. Thousands of good-paying union jobs, ready to start, except for some antinukers raising a fuss. Those antinukers are led by a local charismatic leader. They’re pretty much united, pretty much know what they want to do. Then the leader gets his head blown off.”
Felix said, “That’s the problem with being a leader. You stand apart. You become conspicuous. You become an easy target.”
“Sure,” I said. “So if you’re a union fellow who’s not too tightly wrapped, and you think one guy is standing between you and good jobs for you and your brother and sister union members … quite a temptation.”
“I’m sure the state police have looked into that, Lewis.”
“There’s always more that can be done.”
“What do you want me to do? Hmm? Tick off my employers by asking such … insensitive questions?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll ask the insensitive questions. All I want you to do is to get me a meeting with Joe Manzi. The sooner, the better.”
“For what purpose? To ask him his opinion of local prevailing-wage laws?”
“Not hardly,” I said. “I want to poke, prod, ask questions about him and his followers. See if I can shake things up.”
“Shake things up so…”
“I think you know my techniques, Felix,” I said.
He frowned slightly. “Yeah. I do. You want to stir things up so that the shooter makes his presence known.”
On my back the bandage itched. “Either he or his friend has already made their presence known. What I want now is a name and an address.”
“Hence you’re carrying a weapon.”
“Hence, yes,” I said.
“Risky work.”
“But necessary,” I said.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
He cocked his head. “Look, did that tear gas out there screw up your head? You’re asking me to set you up so you can, quote, stir things up, unquote. So I want to know why … why is this important for you? Simple question. Don’t you think?”
In the warm and comfortable confines of Blythe’s Breakfast Nook, it seemed odd, and I knew it, but I cleared my throat and said, “Paula. Paula Quinn.”
That got his attention. “The reporter from the Chronicle? The one I saw you with at the rally in Falconer a few days back? That Paula Quinn?”
“Yes.”
“Thought you were still out and about with Annie Wynn.”
“I am.”
“Sounds complicated.”
I said, “She was on the stage with Bronson Toles when he got shot. She’s … been different ever since then. Traumatized. Shaky. She feels like the shooter is out there and may come after her, take care of business. She feels like a target … and I don’t like her feeling that way.”
“So you want to make it right?”
“I do.”
Felix grinned. “Hell of a hobby you got there, Lewis.”
“One of several.”
A young waitress in a short black skirt and a tight white blouse came over, dropped off the check, and offered a wide grin for Felix, nothing for me, and then walked out. Felix eyed her for a moment and then backed out of his chair.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He walked out of the dining room, cell phone in hand, and I looked at the check and put my American Express card down on the slip. I watched the waves rolling in, and the waitress came by, picked up the bill and my credit card. In a couple of minutes, Felix came back, joined by the waitress, who put the check down in front of me.
Felix said, “To my surprise, it’s set. Five o’clock this afternoon, at Uncle Paul’s Diner in Salisbury. All right with you?”
“Perfect,” I said. “How did it work out?”
A slight shrug. “He’s pleased with my service so far. So I guess I caught him in a good mood. Oh, and one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t tell him your real reason for seeing him. So do what you have to do.”
“Not a problem,” I said.
I signed the check and found a little surprise: Slipped in between the paper and the credit card receipt was a business card for the restaurant, and on the back was scrawled the name of our waitress—Amanda—and a Tyler phone number. I slid the business card across to Felix and said innocently, “I believe this is for you.”
He picked up the card, smiled. “I believe you’re right.”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Now it’s your turn to be dense,” I said. “You know what I mean.”
The smile remained on his face as he made the card disappear. “Must be my rugged good looks.”
“What am I,” I asked, “the proverbial chopped liver?”
Felix got up from the table. “No, not rugged enough.”
“So says you,” I said, getting up as well.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I spent a while later that day running errands, picking up my mail at the Tyler post office, and doing some grocery shopping, and once again my day was interrupted by the chiming of my cell phone. Surprised who was at the other end, I agreed to a quick meeting near my house, in the parking lot of the Lafayette House.
When I got to the parking lot, it was about half full, and there was a slim man with eyeglasses standing in front of a dark blue Saab sedan. I pulled into an empty spot and said, “Mr. Shelton.”
Ron Shelton, spokesman for the Falconer nuclear power plant, seemed to blush. He had on dress shoes, gray slacks, and a thin tan down windbreaker. “Hey, Lewis. You can leave the Mr. Shelton aside.”
“Oh,” I said. “Does that mean all is forgiven with your evil corporate m
asters?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “Although they’re not really evil. Just misguided.” It seemed like he was trying to make a joke, but he wasn’t smiling.
“Good for them,” I said. “Why the offense over what I reported?”
“Ugh,” Ron said. “Please don’t remind me. I almost got suspended over that little comment of yours.”
“Hate to disagree, Ron, but the little comment wasn’t mine. It was yours. I merely reported it.”
“Yeah, all right, I’ll give you that one. Thing is, I really didn’t think you’d report it.”
“You thought wrong,” I said. “It was a newsworthy comment.”
“Too newsworthy,” Ron said. “My boss didn’t mind that much, but his boss, and her boss, raised holy hell, and since you were at the plant site the day before that F-bomb was printed and attributed to a utility official, and I was the only person to meet with you—my boss stepped in for me, said you were left alone in the visitors’ center for a while, could have talked to almost anyone.”
“Nice history lesson,” I said, “but why this meet? Could have told me this over the phone.”
Ron rubbed one hand over the thin brown hair on the top of his head. “I could have … a few years ago, but now…”
The whole sense of him changed, seemed more cautious. “What’s up?”
“Hunh?”
“What do you mean, a few years ago?” I recalled something I had read back then and said, “The utility takeover. Four years ago.”
Ron nodded. “That’s right. When we were locally owned, we had ties to the towns and the state capitals. Even the top guys and gals came from around here. When that Florida consortium took over, everything changed. Including the live-and-let-live attitude. There’s a real cutthroat attitude among some of the higher-ups about keeping track of and destroying one’s enemies—and that’s why I’m here.”
“Because?”
“Because you raised a stink and some folks are interested in you, and from second- and third-hand accounts, I’ve learned that they find you interesting because … you used to work for the Department of Defense, didn’t you?”
“Some years ago,” I said.
“That’s what got their interest. That you were at the Pentagon, and that they couldn’t learn any more than that. So consider this my apology for getting you banned from the plant site. Some folks with lots of money and sharp elbows are looking at you.”
LCole 07 - Deadly Cove Page 18