LCole 07 - Deadly Cove

by DuBois, Brendan

  “Nobody, I guess,” I said. “Most of them don’t exist anymore.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I torched them, that’s why.”

  She looked at me, gauging, I think, whether I was joking, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, crap, Lewis, that is so funny … that is so very precious … really? You burned them all?”

  “Most of them,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Extenuating circumstances. I was trying to save my butt.”

  She smiled. “Such a cute butt it is.”

  “It holds up my legs,” I said.

  Then she stopped talking, and her face flushed, and she reached over and took my hand in both of hers and said, “Thank you. Thank you so very much … I … I really depended on you, Lewis, and you came through. Thank you.”

  “I was glad to do it.”

  Her hands didn’t leave mine. “Lewis…”

  “Yes?”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  It was like having my head thunked for the second time that day, for she looked right at me with her bright eyes and teary smile and said, “Lewis, I love you. I’ve always loved you … and this … this has just made it that much clearer to me.”

  * * *

  What to say to something like that? I looked at those eyes and felt the flash of muscle memory, of the times a few years back when we had been lovers and something very sweet and special, and when I opened my mouth to say something, there was a heavy knock at my door.

  I squeezed her hands and got up, and leaned down and kissed her briefly on the top of her head, and walked to the door. When I opened it up, the surprises kept on coming: It was Mark Spencer, town counsel, state senate candidate, and Paula’s supposed boyfriend. He was wearing a dark gray wool coat that fell to his knees and was probably worth more than all of my coats put together.

  “Is Paula here?” he asked briskly. He looked pressed for time. “I got her call just a couple of minutes ago.”

  I opened the door wider. “Come on in. I think she’s been waiting for you.”

  He brushed past me and went into my living room, where Paula was standing up, a tentative smile on her face. They hugged, and he said words of concern and comfort, which I did my best to ignore, and in a manner of seconds, the two of them were leaving. Paula caught my eye and said, “Later?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Later.”

  Mark led Paula out into the darkness, where his SUV sat, engine grumbling, lights on.

  * * *

  Much later I was in bed and trying to get to sleep after everything that had gone on during this day, and before I started dozing off, I remembered something: those unanswered calls to my cell phone made to me when I was stuck in the basement of the Stone Chapel. I stumbled out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen counter, where my cell phone was patiently charging up.

  I switched on a kitchen light and, with bare feet on the cold floor, dialed up my voice mail account. There were three messages waiting for me: The first two were from Paula; both were tearful, both were asking where was I and could I please come home as soon as possible. After listening to them both, I deleted them.

  The third message was from Annie Wynn. “Lewis, old man, sorry I’ve been playing phone tag with you … okay, you’ve been playing phone tag, and I’ve been playing campaign bitch on wheels. Look … I’m getting on a plane here in fifteen minutes and I’m going to … Christ, where am I going? Let me look at my boarding pass … Detroit. I’m off to Detroit … and I’ll try to call you when I land.… Hope you’re doing well … and friend … maybe it’s the campaign or that time of the month, but I need to know something important from you … about where we’re going after the first Tuesday in November … and I’m not looking for a commitment … but I’m looking for a commitment that this is going to be settled.… Damn, my flight’s being called.… Later, sweetie…”

  I paused, thinking about what I had just heard. My mind felt like it was surrounded by fog. I pressed the numeral on the keypad that saved the message and went back upstairs to bed, and it took a long time for sleep to come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The day was cold and overcast, with rain predicted for later, and I couldn’t stop yawning. I was back at the Falconer nuclear power plant site, and I had been cleared to return with a phone call to Ron Shelton that had been accepted with quick professionalism. With me on the same knoll of land as before was Detective Sergeant Diane Woods in black fatigues and wearing a riot helmet with the plastic visor up.

  She said, “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks for the vote of support,” I said. “How are you doing?”

  “Waiting for this last day of nonsense to end, that’s how I’m doing,” she said. Out on the salt marsh, beyond the fence line, protesters were gathering in ragged bunches. These weren’t the larger groups from the past few days; these people were from the hardcore Nuclear Freedom Front, and it didn’t look like there was much hardcore left in anyone.

  Even the cops seemed more relaxed, and the National Guard troops were missing as well. I said something about that, and Diane said, “The governor and the legislature don’t want to spend a nickel more on this circus than they have to, and so it’s up to us cops. Doesn’t look like it’s going to be much of a problem.”

  “Looks like you’re right,” I said.

  “Speaking of problems—kudos on what you did on the Toles case. How’s your head?”

  “Doing fine.”

  “Hell of a bruise there. What did you do, run into a door?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hah. I guess we all have our reasons. I suppose Paula Quinn is doing better.”

  “Yep.”

  She looked at me, and I looked at her, and my oldest friend laughed. “Go on. You know you can’t keep secrets from your Auntie Diane. What’s going on with your Paula Quinn?”

  “Not sure if she’s my Paula Quinn … but she’s something. You see, after Vic Toles shot at her, she had a number of choices where to go.”

  “So she ended up at your house.”

  “Yeah. When I got there later, she was on my couch. We were having a nice little chat and then, just about one minute before her boyfriend showed up, the honorable town counsel from Tyler, she looked up at me and told me that she loved me.”

  “Loves you like one loves chocolate, or something more meaningful?”

  “The second.”

  “Oh, my poor boy. What did you say to her?”

  “With her supposed boyfriend rolling through my front door, not much. Just said we’d talk later. To make things even more interesting, I got a phone message from Annie Wynn, saying it was time for me to man up or something. She wants a commitment for us to discuss what happens next.”

  “She talking marriage?”

  From the salt marsh I could make out some halfhearted chants and jeers. “Not necessarily. It looks like she’s going to be in D.C. when the election is over, win or lose, and she wants to know whether I’m going to D.C. or not.”

  “Your old stomping grounds.”

  “Didn’t particularly like it at the time, and I think I’d like it less if I went back. Even with Annie there, keeping the home fires burning. Or something.”

  Diane smiled and gently tapped me on the shoulder. “Sweet old Lewis. Women problems, up and down the line. What’s a guy to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I was planning to ask you.”

  “Advice? Advice on women? My dear boy, that’s a mystery I’ll never be able to solve. Even if I do pee sitting down along with billions of my sisters.”

  Her attitude was bright and cheerful, and something came to me. “All right, now it’s time to talk to Uncle Lewis. What’s going on with you and Kara?”

  The smile was so bright it was almost blinding. Then she raised her left hand and wiggled the fingers at me. Light flickered on a diamond ring I had never seen
before.

  “True?”

  “Oh, very true, Lewis.”

  “You two set a wedding date yet?”

  “First day of summer, next year. Which is the anniversary of our first date. Can you believe it?”

  I hoped my smile matched hers. “Diane, that’s great, great news.”

  “So you better be there that June day, my friend, or it’s going to be dangerous driving in Tyler for the rest of your life.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “Glad to hear that, because you’re going to be part of the ceremony—and no excuses. I want you to stand with me when I get married.”

  “Diane, I’d be honored.”

  She was still smiling, even as her eyes moistened. “Thanks it’s been a long, long haul—and who can believe that this quirky little state will give Kara and me marriage rites. Oh, such a long haul…”

  “Are you finally coming out of the closet?”

  “I’ve been half in and half out for the past few years, Lewis, but I’m going to be so hard and fast out of the closet its door is going to be orbiting Jupiter.”

  I remembered something and said, “You know, during the last day of the regular demonstrations, I saw Kara in the crowds. And when the demo was over for the day, I saw her arguing with a couple of her fellow marchers. Any connection?”

  “Very perceptive, Mr. Cole. She told me all about it later that night. Three members of her affinity group were giving her a hard time about the police response. Calling me a jackbooted thug, fascist, member of the corporate party state. That sort of thing. Kara didn’t like it very much, they got into a shouting match, and that was that.”

  “She out of the antinuclear movement?”

  Diane looked over at the rest of the cops. “She’s still against nuclear power, but she’s finally decided that she’s for me a bit more. What a life, eh?”

  “I guess. How about your end-of-the-season sail run on the Miranda?”

  “Still on for this Saturday, weather permitting,” she said, looking up at the clouds. “Tell you what, you want to come along?”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. You, me, and Kara.” She looked around, lowered her voice. “But if you’re expecting a threesome, buddy, forget it.”

  That drew a fresh smile from me. “Maybe the two of you can figure things out for me instead.”

  “Lewis, you’re a smart fellow, I’m sure you can figure it out on your own.”

  I kept quiet. Her expression changed from Diane my best friend to Diane the police detective sergeant. “Lewis … what’s going on?”

  I looked at that serious face. “What’s going on is that I think Paula Quinn was acting entirely out of emotion. Ever since the shooting, her life has been in turmoil. She knows I’ve been working the matter. And when that shot came through her window, she went to the nearest place that offered sanctuary. My home.”

  Diane nodded. “And?”

  “And when I got there and told her that she was safe, that the shooter was under arrest, I think her emotions got ahold of her. She blurted out things that might have made sense at the time, but maybe not down the road.”

  “Nice analysis there, pal. So, your Annie Wynn?”

  “She’s being serious, she’s being forward-looking. She’s working in an environment that’s daily chaos, everything depending on polls, pundits, and the voters. She’s looking for something solid to hold on to, and she’s wondering if that’s going to be me.”

  “You’re two for two, Lewis. So what, then?”

  “Am I the solid one for her? Still thinking it through.”

  Now Diane the detective sergeant was back to Diane my oldest friend. “Don’t think it through too long. The ones who offer themselves, who offer their love and devotion … they are hard to find. Don’t let this one slip through your fingers.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Only good advice if you take it.”

  From the line of cops someone blew a whistle, and Diane frowned. “Time to get back to the playground. You take care … and thanks for everything—and I mean everything.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  Standing there, with her riot helmet, her black jumpsuit and heavy boots, her equipment belt with nightstick, gas mask, and handcuffs, my friend suddenly looked very vulnerable. “No, my dear. You’re being you. Loyal, trustworthy, all that Boy Scout stuff. Plus being a pain in the ass and sometimes on the outer limits of the law.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “Later, Lewis.”

  “Later.”

  Before she rejoined her fellow police officers, she did something I will always remember.

  She reached over and touched my cheek with her gloved hand.

  Diane touched me.

  Then she was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The protesters approached in a ragged line, carrying wooden staves and plywood shields with the Nuclear Freedom Front logo spray-painted on the front. They wore bandannas or balaclavas over their faces, and some wore hockey helmets. Unlike the other group of demonstrators, they had no happy balloons, papier-mâché puppets, or banners. Just the lines of NFF members approaching, banging their staves on the shields. I was standing with a few reporters, including television crews from the Boston channels and Manchester. Usually television crews and reporters are a cynical and wisecracking lot, able to make jokes at bloody traffic accidents and beach drownings, but they watched in silence as the protesters came up to the fence. There was no joy, no singing, no chanting from those approaching the power plant. Just the marchers and the rhythmic pounding of the staves on the plywood shields.

  “Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?” came a male voice. Next to me was Ron Shelton, the power plant’s spokesman. He was dressed sharp from his hard hat to new work boots, but his arms were folded and his face was drawn from exhaustion.

  “Some would say they’re just exercising their constitutional rights,” I said.

  “No doubt—but you know what else they’re doing out there? They’re damaging the same environment they claim they love so much. For the past several days, there’s been thousands of people out there trampling on the salt marsh, tearing up and tromping on rare vegetation, digging fire pits, shitting and pissing in the woods—have you seen a single chemical toilet out there?—and leaving mounds of trash behind. Us? This whole complex is built on granite bedrock. We had to put up barriers to protect the salt marsh from any runoff, and we had to file thousands of pages of environmental impact statements. Those clowns? Not a fucking thing.”

  His face was sharp, and I said, “For what it’s worth, everything you’ve just said has been off the record.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But one quick question.”

  “That’s my job. Go ahead.”

  “Your sister, is she still singing?”

  He looked surprised. “Yeah. She is. Why do you ask?”

  “She sounds like a talent. I’d like to hear her sometime.”

  “If you don’t mind going to temple, sure, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Ron looked at the ragged group approaching, shook his head, and walked off.

  A light drizzle started falling.

  * * *

  My cell phone rang, and I looked at the incoming call. Boston—but not Annie.

  I flipped it open and said, “Go ahead, Denise.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Tahiti. You?”

  “In Boston, still looking for that elusive sense of humor I’m supposed to have. Look, is that demonstration under way yet?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “The cops are on one side of the fence, the antinuclear folks are on the other side of the fence. Whether the twain shall meet we’ll see.”

  “Fine,” Denise said. “Give me another thousand words at the end of the day—and make it good. We’re on the verge of getting some venture capita
l investing to take Shoreline digital and high-tech, and your pieces over the past several days are one of the reasons we’re getting there.”

  “That sounds nice,” I said. “Does it mean I get a raise?”

  “It means you keep your job,” she snapped back, and then she hung up.

  * * *

  With the other journalists, I tagged along behind the police officers, marching up to the fence, moving in a straight line the best they could over the rough terrain. From where I stood, the line looked pretty thin, and I wondered if the governor’s decision to pull away the National Guard had been the right one.

  The drizzle was coming down harder.

  “Lewis? Lewis Cole?”

  A young woman reporter moved over to me, wearing a light blue knit cap over short blond hair. She had on a black wool coat and blue jeans, and she looked like she could be Paula Quinn’s younger sister.

  “That’s right,” I said, “and you must be Melanie, the stringer for the Chronicle.”

  “The former stringer for the Chronicle,” she said, smiling. “Thanks to Paula, I’m now a full-time reporter.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “I hope it works out.”

  “I hope so, too. I have a message for you, from Paula. She’s taking a few days off—understandable, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “What’s the message?”

  “A simple one,” Melanie said. “Just ‘thanks.’”

  “Just ‘thanks,’” I repeated. “Appreciate you passing it along.”

  “No problem,” she said. She looked over at the fence and the two opposing lines, and she said, “What’s going to happen?”

  “The protesters are going to try to occupy the plant site. The police are going to try to keep them away. Good chance it’s going to get nasty, and quite soon.”

  “So much for peaceful protests.”

  “The NFF makes no bones about what they plan to do, and if it takes violence, so be it.”

  She looked again. “I wonder where their leader is—that Chesak fellow.”

  I took off my small knapsack and retrieved a set of binoculars. I brought them up to my face and scanned the approaching crowds. I looked twice more and handed the binoculars over to Melanie. “Doesn’t look like he’s there. Quite the surprise.”