Black Tide

by Brendan DuBois

  Once they had the Winslow Homers, well, I'd see what I do.

  Outside it was still quite warm.

  Later in the day we had lunch at the Weathervane Restaurant on Route 1 in Kittery, which is directly across the street from the Kittery Trading Post, a large sporting goods and outdoor store that likes to pretend there's no such place as L. L. Bean. For lunch I had a lobster roll and Felix had fried squid, and he offered me a couple of chunks, which I politely refused. I make it a rule never to eat any type of seafood that I don't feel comfortable in picking up when it's alive. Felix had a beer and I joined him, since he was driving and I was feeling fairly good about myself, about taking part in something, about getting out of the house. Felix was looking somewhat pensive as he held his beer bottle in one hand. Around us were full tables of tourists, coming to this part of Maine for the two miles' worth of outlet shops along Route 1. It was loud and I'm sure no one could hear what we were saying.

  I said, "What's the point, Felix?"

  He turned. "Hunh? What did you say?"

  "I said, what's the point? You're skimming along the edge of something quite dangerous here. You know that. Do you really believe that these people are going to happily give you large sums of money for the safe house's location, and then leave you alone? That's a hell of a risk, even for you."

  Felix looked around and leaned over the polished wood of the table. "What makes you think I have a choice?"

  "You don't?"

  He shook his head and said, "Look at what I do for a living, Lewis, what brings in my income. A lot of that is based on fear and respect. I roll over and play wedding-night virgin for these guys, give up the safe house without a fuss, and the word gets around, how long do you think I can still keep on working?"

  "I get the point," I said. I scraped at the bottle's label with my thumb. "Do you think these nameless wonders are connected with your past? Are they from Boston?"

  A waitress with short blond hair and a decade or so older than me walked by, carrying a full tray of fried food and three lobsters, and I heard her murmur, "Just another hour, Lord, let my feet go for another hour."

  Felix stared at his own bottle. "There's some sort of connection with my past, I'm sure. But again, it's not something I can poke around and ask questions about. Don't want to make waves, Lewis. I don't want any future employers to think I'm one to welcome trouble. They like things quiet and discreet. Dealing with famous stolen art doesn't exactly meet that requirement."

  "So. Job security. That's what's driving you."

  He smiled a bit, and I saw that his five o'clock shadow was an hour early. ''And other security, too."

  "Oh?" I said, and then it came to me. "Sorry. Dumb move on my part. I suppose in your line of work there's not much of a pension plan."

  "Or a health plan. Or much of anything else, Lewis. One of these days I might get unlucky. Well, that's part of what I do. But there's a variety of unlucky out there. One is the type that ends you up in a lonely grave somewhere, with no visitors on your birthday. Another is the one that concerns me the most --- maybe ending up in a wheelchair, or trying to get by on a couple of shattered kneecaps, and with a bank account that's shrinking every month and Social Security thirty or so years away. So I'm investing in my future. No one else will."

  At that moment I felt as though I knew more about Felix Tinios than at any other time. Usually he's all finely tailored clothes and correct wines in his kitchen at home and gruff seriousness about what he does for work, but sitting here in this seafood restaurant with paper plates and plastic forks and crumpled napkins before him, I thought I had caught a glimpse of what little voices were whispering inside of him.

  I guess we had kept silent for too long and he was concerned about what I was thinking, for he put his empty beer bottle down and said, "Let's get back to Porter, so you can get your butt home. And I'll let you know the moment I hear anything from my nameless wonders."

  "I'll be there," I said, and followed him outside into the afternoon.

  Later that night I was on the back deck of my house, having safely made it home, but also feeling sour. Earlier in the afternoon I had spent a couple of hours in front of my Apple Macintosh Plus, trying to write my monthly column for Shoreline. Tomorrow was Friday and my deadline for the issue which was currently being put together --- February ---- and all I had to show for my two hours of work was an empty file folder in my computer marked FEBCOLUMN. I had snuck into the PETROSTAR file folder a couple of times but had gotten depressed over the scanty information that was being stored there. There was probably a real column or even a magazine-length piece in that file, but not for some time. I had to find the man's name, the man who gave the orders. Yet that wasn't troubling me as much as it should. Something else was.

  Tomorrow, for the first time ever, I was going to miss a deadline for my magazine. I suppose in the grand scheme of things it didn't mean that much, especially since I had an extremely generous work arrangement with the editor of Shoreline, one Seamus Anthony Holbrook, a retired admiral in the U.S. Navy. A couple of years ago, feeling light on my feet and with another scar healing on my side, I had visited him at his office in Boston, in an old brick building near the soiled waters of Boston Harbor. I had just terminated my employment with the Department of Defense, and they were fulfilling the terms of our agreement by getting me a job as a columnist for Shoreline. Holbrook --- who had leathery skin and not much white hair and looked as if he had spent his Navy years aboard a clipper --- got to the point: "You supply a column each month, subject of your choosing. If it's crap, we either don't run it or we rewrite it and run it under your name."

  This time, I couldn't even supply them with crap. Holbrook probably wouldn't care that much that I missed my deadline. He was just following orders in allowing me to work for Shoreline, and I would never be fired. But I didn't like the idea of a column appearing with my name and someone else's words.

  Yet short of having a lightning bolt of inspiration poke me in the nether regions and spending the night writing, there wasn't much I could do about it. I picked up the glass of ice water and took a long swallow, hoping it would do something good to counteract all of the fat I had been eating that day. It was low tide and the waves were far off, and I looked over at the grassy mounds and trees of what was once the Samson Point Coast Artillery Station. I was lucky to be here, for hardly anyone ever came to this house to bother me. The south end of the artillery station ---- which was part of a state wildlife preserve ---- had been closed off to tourists and walkers since the discovery of toxic waste in some of the old bunkers. New Hampshire's financial condition being what it always is --- about five minutes away from bankruptcy --- I was sure that toxic dump wouldn't be cleaned up in the near future. So my privacy was protected through someone else's pollution. What a deal.

  I left the deck and went upstairs to my bedroom. There's another deck that leads off to the south wall of the house and which is smaller than the first-floor deck. I undid the window and screen and walked outside, thinking maybe that I would take out my telescope, but there were clouds rolling in, and it didn't look good.

  Instead I looked to the south, to Weymouth's Point and the beach where that mutilated diver had washed ashore only a few days ago. I still remembered the surprise on Diane Woods's face when I told her I had no interest in doing a column --- which would never appear --- about the type of people who could kill and mutilate a man like that poor diver. A job I had worked on at the beginning of the summer had led me down some dark paths and had come quite close to causing me serious harm, and I wasn't in the mood to go walking alone again anytime soon. There was the matter with Felix, but that was different. I wasn't by myself.

  The diver, though. I should give Diane a call, to see if anything new had been learned, and to find out at least if the diver was now resting in a grave somewhere, a quiet place where he belonged.

  Poor Diane. She was probably still fending off the advances of Roger Krohn, and was probably also w
ondering how she could work for him if he did become the new police chief of Tyler.

  I turned and was going back into my bedroom when I caught a quick movement, one that made me think someone was there, and I was going to whisper "Paula?" until I saw that I had been fooled by the gathering dusk and my own reflection in the wall mirror. I leaned my back against the railing of the deck and thought of that evening, back in June, when Paula Quinn had been here and had spent the night.

  It seemed so long ago. From the time I had met her Paula had given me messages in a variety of languages, telling me that she was interested, and I had given her my own: not now, I'm still working things through. But then there was June and there had been some blood spilled and I was feeling a terrible urge to prove something, and Paula had come here willingly and for a few brief and sweaty hours it had been wonderful indeed. Until that moment early in the morning, when she was sleeping in my bed and I had stepped out onto this very deck and had discovered that damnable lump on my side. I had been angry and upset and some sharp words were given back and forth to Paula, when I wouldn't --- or couldn't --- tell her what was going on. And now I was here and she was in her apartment in Tyler. I wondered if she was thinking about me.

  I stood there on the deck for a while, just looking into my empty bedroom, and then I decided on two things: one, brooding wasn't going to solve anything, so I was going downstairs and read two or three back issues of Smithsonian. And second, I wasn't going to wait around, breathlessly anticipating Felix's phone call. I was going to do a little work on my own tomorrow. I stepped back into the room, closed the screen door, and made my way through the evening twilight with no problem, heading for the lights downstairs.

  Chapter Ten

  As I was sleeping Thursday night and into Friday morning, the clouds had thickened, for it was raining heavily by the time I got up. It was still fairly warm and so I enjoyed standing front of my sliding-glass doors on the first floor, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, looking out at the rain falling, against the gray waves, a cup of tea in my hand. It made me feel comfortable, secure and also a bit slow. Something about rainy days dials down my energy level, and I hadn't done much since getting up an hour earlier. I had called Felix and had left a message on his machine, telling him I would be gone for the day, and, I had also received a call from Diane Woods, who was looking for a quick lunch date. Felix wasn't home, and hadn't been home for quite a while, and I guessed that in addition to renting a car, he was also renting a room or apartment as he was working his way through the maze of dealing with his "nameless wonders."

  Diane seemed glad to talk to me, and I sensed that something was bothering her. Not that she was scared or anything, but just that she wanted to talk and couldn't do it over the phone from a police station. So the date was made, and in the space of a few minutes I had completed two phone calls. It had been a slightly productive morning, even though in a few hours, Seamus Anthony Holbrook would realize that I hadn't completed my monthly column and he might have some nasty questions about how I defined "productivity." I had sent him E-mail through my computer and modem, asking for the first time ever for a deadline extension.

  There was even still time to make another call, to see how Paula Quinn was doing.

  I thought about that as I stood there, watching the pattern of the rain on the glass of the sliding doors, hearing the muted rush of the Atlantic Ocean coming my way.

  Lunch with Diane was quick. It was at the Whale's Song, a restaurant in the Tyler Beach Palace complex, which was within quick walking distance from the Tyler police station. The rain was still coming down, and as we walked up D Street, heading for the Whale's Song, I noticed a lot of older men and women standing in the doors of the shops and restaurants, looking up at the clouds. Owners, I thought, business owners who were probably cursing the weather gods for making it rain on a Friday before a busy weekend. The profit margin for most businesses at the beach was always thin, and the Petro Star disaster had taken a razor blade to even that slim margin. Another rainy day or two could mean bankruptcy filings in the fall, or if the bitter taste of desperation was even stronger, perhaps a fire of "suspicious origin."

  We sat in a rear booth that offered some privacy, and after a bowl of chowder and tall glasses of iced tea for both of us, Diane leaned back in the booth and said, "It's been one of those weeks." Today she had on a light blue rain jacket over a white polo shirt that said "Tyler Police Softball" in red script over her left breast. Obviously she wasn't on undercover duty this week. The hood was thrown back and some of the strands of her brown hair were wet and clinging together.

  "Who's on your hit list for getting you down?" I asked.

  ''Aah,'' she said, "the usual. The diver case is going nowhere. Almost a week after he washed up, you'd think someone would have reported him missing. Or a rental shop would have noticed if their gear had never come back. Or even the news coverage could have triggered someone's memory, somebody's thoughts. It's been too quiet, Lewis."

  "Makes you wonder how this guy fell through the cracks," I said.

  "Oh, I've been wondering about that, too, along with the State Police and the Attorney General's office. You look at the fact that this guy has been missing at least a week, and when he shows up, missing the parts of his body that can help identify him, that tells you the type of people involved. So it also makes me think that this guy's hands were dirty."

  "I'm sure there's a dreadful joke there about a guy's hands being both missing and dirty, but I'm not going to touch it."

  She wrinkled her nose at me. "Thanks for small favors. You know, I'm of a mind to do one of two things. One is to really press hard on this case, maybe use some of Roger Krohn's contacts in Mass. State Police. Or even talk to your pal Felix Tinios, for whatever amusement that may bring."

  A teenage waitress with jangling bracelets and a look that said she couldn't care how much of a tip we left came by and dropped off the check. My hand was quicker than Diane's and to forestall her frown I said, "Expense account, Diane. Don't worry. Pressing hard is one of your options. What's the other?"

  Her blue raincoat was big around the shoulders and she seemed to shrink into it a bit as she said, "It's been a long summer, and it certainly started off with a bang with that mess you were involved with in June."

  "Don't remind me."

  ''As if you could forget. Or me. You know, in a few weeks it's going be Labor Day weekend and this summer is going to be over, and I'm taking a week off to go to Massachusetts. In those seven long, wonderful days, Lewis, I'm going forget I'm a cop, I'm going to forget what's on my desk, and I'm going to try to remember what it's like to share a bed with someone, both day and night."

  ''And while you're tussling with your companion and the sheets, you don't want to think about a diver with no head and hands."

  "Exactly." She picked up her chowder spoon and tapped it a few times against the empty bowl. "That's even the feeling I'm getting from the state boys. It's obvious this guy was hit for a reason, and the fact that we're not getting any civilian calls tells us that he was connected. So we're not going to shed many tears for him."

  “Wrapped up, then, in a week or two?"

  Diane shrugged. "Unless something breaks. Which I doubt. "

  I left ten dollars on the bill and looked for our waitress. She was in the far corner, talking to a busboy whose long hair was up in a hairnet and who had an earring in his left ear. I motioned to him and he smiled and went back to talking with the young lady. I gave up and said, "What else is out there, Diane? Personal problems?"

  She smiled and said, "Hardly. Here, look. Got some pictures back from our last break together. Actually got a weekend off, toward the end of June. And if I'm lucky, I might get another mid-week break in a few more days."

  Diane slid the photo envelope over and before opening it up I looked around. The nearest table was empty and the waitress was still chatting with the busboy that had novel grooming. I slid out a few photographs. There were scenic
shots of beaches and a lighthouse, and there were a few of Diane and a couple more of another young woman about Diane's age, strolling along a sidewalk near some shops. Both had summer dress on --- bathing-suit tops and shorts --- and in one print, they were sitting at an outdoor restaurant's round table, holding up drinks and laughing. Both had sunglasses on, and Diane's companion --- Kara Miles --- had an arm around her. In another print, they were still holding the hands were kissing. Kara had short blond hair, with the sides almost razored down, and she wore a multitude of earrings in her ears.

  "Kara's looking fine," I said. "You two were in Provincetown?"

  Diane nodded. "The same. And that's where we'll be going once Labor Day comes and goes and these tourists return to their lives."

  I put the photos back into the envelope and slid them over to her, and they disappeared into her raincoat. "It must be nice to have a place like that to go to."

  She shook her head. "Tell me about it. It's almost like a refuge, a place where you can feel normal. You feel real light, knowing that you don't have to carry around this pretense, this goddamn heavy mask."

  "Not concerned about running into someone from your hometown?"

  Diane said, "Oh, just a bit, but what's the risk that someone from a beach resort would travel three hours or so to go to another beach resort?" She looked around and leaned forward some said, "But I do have a problem, Lewis, on that same subject. Personal matters. And I need your help."

  "My help? On a personal matter?"

  Her face seemed to flush and I couldn't remember the last time I had seen Diane embarrassed. She cleared her throat and said, "It's Roger Krohn. You know, the Mass. State Police detective?"