LCole 07 - Deadly Cove

by DuBois, Brendan

  “Quiet,” I said. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

  Now, with them standing side by side, it was easier to cover them. Baseball bat man, without the bat, looked slumped and smaller, and he said, “Pal, look, we were just—”

  “Shhh,” I said. “Please don’t insult me. You’ve just threatened me, but insulting me … just making it worse. So do be quiet—and I’m not your pal. Got it?”

  The one on the left nodded, but the one on the right stood there, legs quivering a bit.

  I kept the pistol aimed at the gatekeeper. “Joe sent you after me?”

  “Christ, no,” he said.

  “Who was the Public Works guy out there, directing me down here?”

  “Donnie, my cousin. He owes me one, for something I did for him last year … Christ, leave him out of it, okay? Don’t want him to lose his job. ’Bout the only member of my family’s got a reasonable job this year.”

  In the sharpness of what was going on, with the Italian-made pistol in my hand and with the two men in front of me, I suppose I should have been frightened, or stoked up, or angry. Instead, I almost felt sorry for them. “One more question,” I said. “You tell me the truth, then we can all go home and forget this ever happened.”

  The guy on the right looked relieved, but then looked suspicious. “Suppose you don’t think we’re tellin’ the truth?”

  “Then you both better do a good job convincing me,” I said.

  “Go on,” the first one said. “What do you want to know?”

  “You heard what Joe said, back at the diner, about the shooting of Bronson Toles. Was that straight up?”

  “What do you mean?” the second one asked.

  The first one interrupted and said, “Yeah, that was straight up. Nobody knows nothing about that guy’s shooting.”

  That was a double negative, but I wasn’t going to press him. “Tell me more.”

  With hands still up in the air, he said, “When news got out about that shooting, Joe and his buddies on the council, they went ape shit. Said if it came out a union guy was involved, could croak the Falconer Unit Two deal for good. Said if a union guy did do it, best we give ’em up ourselves before the cops found out, try to salvage something. But nobody knew anything. Christ, let me tell you, somebody made a shot like that and got away with it … no way he could keep it quiet. He’d have to brag about it. Human nature. So yeah, Joe was straight up. Mister, I don’t know who plugged that creep, but he wasn’t a union guy.”

  I thought about that for a moment, then stepped over and kicked at the tire iron, so it fell into a nearby drainage ditch. “You,” I said, pointing to the chatty one. “Do the same to the baseball bat. Give it a swift kick.”

  His booted foot lashed out, and the bat spun around and went into the same ditch. I said, “This is how it’s going to be. The two of you are going to walk around, in a wide berth, and climb into that Impala and drive off. You drive down that road until I can’t see your taillights. Got it? Minute I don’t see your taillights, then I’m out of here.”

  The second man started to move, and I said, “Wait, I’m not quite through yet. If I still see taillights, or if you try something funny like making a U-turn or anything else, then I’m going to shoot out the four tires in this pickup truck, and then for good measure, I’ll put a round into the front and rear windshield and empty the rest of the clip into your engine. Think your insurance company will cover all of that?”

  The first man shook his head. “No, they won’t.”

  “Good. Now get moving, and as an extra bonus, I don’t expect to see or hear from you ever again, unless you want me to tell Joe what fine fellows he has working for him and threatening people for a hobby.”

  They kept their mouths shut, and they walked out a bit in the road before getting into the Impala. The engine started up after three tries, and then the car slowly accelerated down the road. I waited, and then it went around a soft bend, and the taillights disappeared.

  I took a deep breath, gently lowered the hammer on my Beretta, and got back into my Ford. I suppose I should have done the muy macho thing and demanded payment for the broken headlight, but I didn’t want to push things with these guys on the edge, frantic about their futures, frantic about their jobs, and lashing out at the nearest target they had.

  So I would consider the smashed headlight payment for the information I had just gotten.

  Some payment. That broken headlight was going to end up costing me a lot more, and in a very short span of time.

  * * *

  I made a U-turn on the country road and went back up to Route 1, where the way was clear, and I made a right, heading back to New Hampshire. About two minutes’ worth of driving later, I crossed over the border and was back in my home state, and in my mind, I was composing a story that I could send Denise’s way about Joe Manzi and his point of view on the construction of Falconer Unit 2. It wouldn’t be as sexy or as compelling as the previous demonstration story, but it would at least be something, and hopefully would keep her editorial demands satisfied.

  This part of Route 1 was crowded with pawnshops, fried food outlets, gas stations, and convenience stores, plus the usual big box stores selling lumber or appliances. About ninety seconds back into my home state, it all went wrong, very quickly.

  * * *

  In my rearview mirror, flashing blue lights quickly filled my vision, and I pulled over, slowing down and putting my Ford into park, right next to a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet. As I fumbled in my glove box for my registration, I knew instantly what had happened: An alert Falconer cop had seen me drive by with a busted headlight.

  Damn. It meant that the bill for that broken headlight was going to be larger than I’d thought.

  With registration in hand, I dug out my wallet, pulled out my license, and then placed both pieces of paper on the dashboard, and then put my hands on the steering wheel, at the ten o’clock and two o’clock positions, so they were both visible. In past talks with Diane Woods over a good meal or even better glass of wine, she had always told me that cops hate traffic stops more than anything else for the potential of bad things happening very quickly.

  So I waited.

  And waited.

  Flashing blue lights still behind me, the headlights of the cruiser blinking off and on. So what the heck was going on back there? Traffic going up and down Route 1 slowed as it passed by me, and I was sure the passing drivers were wondering what crime I had committed.

  The crime of being concerned, I thought, and then going down some odd paths to comfort someone I cared about.

  I jumped in my seat as I heard a loud burst of static, and then a P.A. system in the parked police cruiser behind me kicked into action.

  “Driver!” a metallic voice called out. “This is the police! Open your driver’s side window at once! Do it now!”

  I turned and looked back, wondering if this was some sort of joke. In Tyler … maybe, since I knew a number of the cops through my friendship with Diane. But Falconer? I knew a few of the cops and the police chief by sight, but none of them were my friends.

  “Driver!” the voice came back. “Open your window, now!”

  I didn’t like it, but I did just that, powering down the window.

  “Driver! Put both hands out of the window! Show me your hands!”

  I was tasting something bitter and foul as I put my hands out of the window. The cop or cops back there were upset about me or something I had done, but I didn’t know what. The two union boys back there? Very unlikely. They were no doubt angry with me, but not angry enough to call the Falconer cops on me.

  “Driver! Slowly and carefully, open your door! Do it now!”

  I reached down with one hand, opened the door, and swung it wide. Another burst of static, and the unseen Falconer police officer called out, “Driver! Slowly leave the vehicle, hands up in the air, and stand with your back to me!”

  My back started to itch as I got out, knowing that at least one cop back
there had a weapon trained on me, so I was conscious of following their instructions. I was sure this was a mistake, but I wasn’t going to give anyone a chance to escalate things, with a nervous finger twitching on a 10 mm Glock or something equally dangerous.

  I stood still.

  Waited.

  Traffic was really slowing down as curious drivers watched this little drama unfolding before them.

  “Driver! With your hands up in the air, slowly walk backward to the sound of my voice. Do not stop until I tell you!”

  I walked backward, seeing the headlights pass me by, noting the shadows bouncing around me as the headlights and strobe lights flashed, and how everything had an odd bluish cast to it. I’d gone back about three yards when the voice interrupted me one more time.

  “Driver! Kneel down, cross your ankles, and put your hands behind your head! Do it now!”

  I knelt down on the pavement, wincing as a few shards of rock rubbed up against my knees, and I crossed my ankles and put my hands behind my head. I then heard someone approaching me, and I said, “Officer, I’m carrying a pistol, under my left arm, in a shoulder holster. I have a current concealed carry permit in my wallet.”

  The sound of the footsteps stopped, and I heard voices—so there were two cops back there—and one said, “All right. I’m going to reach in and take your weapon. You make a threatening move, hell, any move at all, and you’re in serious shit trouble. Got it?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A hand came down, moved around, and I was relieved of my 9 mm Beretta. I kept still, the rocks digging into my knees.

  “All right, stay there, you’re going to be cuffed.”

  No point in arguing, no point in saying it was all a mistake; it had gone too far for that. So my hands were seized and brought down to my waist, and handcuffs were attached, and in another sixty seconds, I was placed in the rear of a Falconer police cruiser.

  A car came by, some folks laughing and honking their horn, and then the two cops—a young man and woman—got in and drove me to the Falconer police station.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I was processed thoroughly and efficiently, after being driven to the rear of the white concrete building that was the Falconer police station. Like its neighbor up in Tyler, it was situated on the coast, since that’s where most of the arrests take place, especially in the summer.

  I was led into the booking room, where my treatment was brusque and to the point, and where I didn’t bother asking any questions. The arresting officers and the booking officer were—and not in an unkind way—just following orders. Something was going on that marked a departure from a normal traffic stop, for a disabled headlight usually means either a warning or a ticket. Not a response more appropriate to a Charlestown armored car robber escaping north into New Hampshire.

  Fingerprints and photos were taken, forms were filled out, and after being relieved of my cell phone, shoulder holster, belt, and shoes—along with my wallet and other personal items—I was deposited into a holding cell that had a stainless steel toilet and a concrete bunk with a dull green mattress that was just a shade softer than the supporting concrete. No blanket, no sheet, nothing else save for a drain in the center of the floor and light coming in from the corridor. I sat on the bed, folded my arms, and waited.

  * * *

  A heavyset woman came into view, wearing the uniform of the Falconer police department and dangling a heavy brass key in her manicured hands. She had short black hair and sharp black eyes, and she said, “Someone’s here to see you, sweetie. My question to you is, will you be a gentleman and come out and see him with no fuss? Or do I need to put the cuffs on you?”

  I remained seated. “I promise to be polite and quiet.”

  She jangled the key again. “You haven’t been drinking or taking any drugs, now, have you?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Now, good-lookin’, you stay there on your bunk. I’m gonna open up the cell door here, and then step aside. You’re gonna come out nice and slow and walk out into the corridor, and then take a left. Just so there’s no misunderstanding, sweetie, you do anything else at all, and I do mean anything, why, I’ll break your balls so hard you’ll be singing soprano even when Christmas rolls around. Savvy?”

  “Every word,” I said.

  “Fantastic.” There was a sharp clank as the lock was undone, and then she opened up the cell door, stepping back, keeping the metal bars and frame between her and me. I slowly got off of the bunk, the concrete cold against my stockinged feet, and I walked out and left. She slammed the cell door, staying behind me, and said, “Up there, last door on your left. You step in there and do what the man says.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “And thank you.”

  “For what? Being a gentleman?”

  She laughed. “No. For calling me ma’am. Can’t remember the last time anybody said that to me. There you go.”

  The last door on the left opened up, and I entered an interrogation room, seemingly ordered from some cop supply warehouse somewhere. It had a desk fastened to the floor, four chairs, a round eyebolt secured in the center of the table for those prisoners who weren’t as gentlemanly as me, and the standard one-way mirror on one side of the room. I resisted the temptation to wave at whoever was behind the mirror. Instead, I took the chair just as the door behind me snapped shut and was locked.

  So the wait continued.

  I sat motionless in the chair, thinking about what I would do when I got home—a hot shower was first, second, and third on my list—and before long the door behind me was unlocked and a slim man walked in. He had the form of a long-distance runner, and had on black trousers, black shoes, a light blue shirt and red necktie, and fastened to the side of his belt was the gold shield of a Falconer police detective. His brown hair was short, and he had a prominent nose, and in his hands he carried a thick manila legal-sized envelope. He sat down across from me and didn’t offer me his hand, and I wasn’t offended.

  “Mike Thornton, Falconer police,” he said, taking a sheet of paper from inside the manila envelope. “Mr. Lewis Cole, you are in one world of hurt.”

  I looked around the small room, which smelled of fear, defeat, and tobacco. I knew that either from behind the one-way glass or someplace else, this entire conversation was being recorded. “Looks like the Falconer police station to me.”

  “Hah,” he said. “Very funny. Let me know if you find any of this funny.”

  From the envelope, he pulled out a color photograph of a young man with curly black hair and merry eyes, wearing a Colby sweatshirt. My feet felt even colder. I now knew why I had been pulled over, why I was being treated like this. The broken headlight was just a good excuse.

  “Recognize him?” he asked.

  I knew who he was, but no, I didn’t recognize him. “No.”

  “That’s John Todd Thomas. A student from Colby College. A member of the Nuclear Freedom Front. Just a kid, in his twenties. Should be worrying about his grades, about his parents, about getting laid. But no. He’s beyond worrying. And this is why.”

  I steeled myself for what was coming next. Another color photograph was slid across the dirty, scarred table. This one was of a body sprawled out faceup in a muddy ditch. He had on blue jeans, a dark sweater, and no shoes. The body was swollen, making the jeans bulge as if they were two sizes too small. The flesh on the hands and face was a ghastly ghost white, and the face didn’t look quite human, since it had been in water for a while.

  The face was disfigured and bulging as well, and another photo, in awful color, showed why. The head was rolled to one side, and a gloved hand was holding a ruler near where a good section of the rear of the head had been blown apart. There was bone, blood, brain and matted hair, all looking too real in the color photograph. I swallowed, looked up at Detective Thornton.

  “Sad to see,” I said.

  “Yeah, and even sadder to have to make that phone call to a k
id’s parents, down there in Virginia. They think their boy’s safe and sound, either up here in Maine or New Hampshire, where nothing ever happens, and I have to wake them up at three in the morning to tell them that somebody shot their sweet boy, their dream son, in the back of the head and dumped him in a swamp. You ever have to do something like that?”

  “No, I haven’t.” I said.

  “Lucky you.”

  “I guess.”

  “So here’s the deal, Cole,” he said. “One of the last times anyone ever saw John Todd Thomas alive was a couple of nights ago, when he was walking up Lafayette Road to meet up with a journalist. No names, but the journalist he was going to meet was driving a dark blue Ford Explorer and he was seen getting in the rear of the Ford.

  “I do,” I said, and I had the solid sense that my Ford was now being examined, inch by inch, for whatever forensic evidence in there could be used against me. No surprise there, but the fine detective before me had one more surprise for me. It wasn’t up his sleeve but in that bulging manila envelope before him.

  He slid out a plastic-wrapped package with red EVIDENCE stickers on the side, and he undid the plastic and displayed what was inside: a soaked wet reporter’s notebook.

  “Familiar?”

  “Could be,” I said.

  With a pen, he moved the notebook around so I could see the stained cardboard cover, where my name, “Shoreline magazine,” and my home telephone number were written.

  “Looks like it belongs to you,” he said.

  “Well, it certainly looks like it has my name on it.”

  Thornton poked at the notebook again with his pen. “You’re one careful person, Cole, I’ll give you that—but sometimes even the most careful person can fuck up. Like leaving evidence behind. Evidence that can connect that most careful person to a homicide. So. Care to explain how your reporter’s notebook was found not more than fifty yards away from the body of John Todd Thomas?”