Their sacrifice.
A debt to be paid.
Closer to me was another green trash container with white lettering on its side: SPONSORED BY THE TYLER BEACH AREA CHAMBER OF COMMERCE/PLEASE HELP KEEP OUR BEACH CLEAN.
I shifted some in my seat. I thought of turning on the radio and listening to music or maybe a talk station, but I didn’t want to be disturbed by either commerce or opinion.
So I sat, the sun coming in the side and rear of the Pilot, and feeling tired and achy, I fell asleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I woke up when a car going by blared its horn. It took me a second or two to figure out where the heck I was, and it all came back. I got out and stretched and checked the time. The sun was low on the horizon, above the long stretch of the marshes. Its pinkish-reddish light gently caressed the carved stone of the Maid of the Seas, making her seem otherworldly. I looked at the pink light on the worked surface, until the light faded some more and it was time for me to leave.
About thirty minutes later I was back at the Wentworth County Courthouse, and I parked on the far end, keeping an eye on Hollis Spinelli’s Audi. It was just past 4:30 P.M. on a Friday afternoon, and folks were beginning to leave from the wide front doors. Some of the people seemed to be arguing with their attorneys, and I guess their days in the halls of justice hadn’t gone well. Other attorneys moved quickly as well, and I felt warm at seeing Paula Quinn speed her way out, and then walk across the parking lot.
I waited.
Cars started maneuvering out, and I tapped the edge of my steering wheel, keeping my eyes focused on the courthouse doors. I had a quick and old memory of my previous life, when I was sent into part of the five-sided Puzzle Palace to get some information about some highly classified surveillance system that was just coming into use. I had half expected some type of James Bond evil criminal lair, with lots of flashing lights and humming computer banks, but I was stuck in a cubicle with a rail-thin guy drinking Mountain Dew out of a two-liter bottle. Before him was a computer monitor, and on the day of my visit, he was watching a gray-black feed from someplace nasty in the world that was boasting a static overhead shot of a house in the middle of a jungle clearing. At that particular time, since the system wasn’t quite bug-free, the recording feature wasn’t working. So it was eyes front.
That’s what he had been told. Don’t take your eyes away, for a second.
I had been there for an hour. He took a swig of his Mountain Dew, choked on something, spat it out in a wastebasket, coughed, choked, and then from another cubicle, a woman’s voice had shot out: “Murphy! We got SIGINT he’s on the move! Did you see anything? Anything?”
Murphy had been miserable in his reply: “No. I wasn’t watching.” His supervisor raced in, and in the crowded space, tore him apart, put him back together, and then tore him apart once more. Then she had looked to me and said, “Did you see anything?”
“No,” I had said.
“Why not?” she had demanded.
And I had replied: “No one asked me to.”
She had grunted. “Cole, you’ll go far here.”
Now my eyes were still focused on the courthouse, and the Moore women came out, walking slow, none of them talking. What could they talk about, coming out like this, just after seeing the state conclude its case against the man they believed murdered their dad and husband? Who was taking care of dinner? What were the plans for the weekend? No, not at all.
So they remained silent.
They got into a light blue Mercury and drove off.
I waited.
The stream of people coming out thinned and then stopped for a few minutes.
Hollis’s Audi was still there.
So where was he?
I rubbed at my chin.
Maybe I had been too clever. Maybe he had gotten out earlier, maybe the Moore women and Paula Quinn had stuck around afterward for something else, and a fellow lawyer had gone up to Hollis and said, hey, Hollis, let’s go for a ride. Got a nice party for some new clients, there’ll be lots of laughs and drinks.
Laughs and drinks.
I started to turn back and think, what in the hell did that just mean, when Hollis Spinelli finally came out, went to his Audi, and then departed the parking lot of this particular corner of the world of justice in this part of New Hampshire.
With a pickup truck between us, we traveled south on Route 125, then bore left at Route 107, which got us through some rural areas of Wentworth County before depositing us at an intersection linking it to the commuting concrete and asphalt behemoth that’s Interstate 95. We joined the other racing lines of commuters, and it struck me that I was viewing some large-scale voluntary prisoner exchange. At this time of the day, traffic raced south from those who worked in my home state and lived in Massachusetts, and also raced north to do the exact opposite.
It made me glad that when I was working, my commute usually took me from my living room to my upstairs office.
Great analogy, Cole, I thought, but let’s steer away from thoughts of employment, because that will bring us to thoughts of income and lack thereof, and overdue credit card bills and other delightful distractions.
Stay focused.
I-95 eventually met up nearly twenty minutes later with Route 128, and I followed him as we went east, heading up into the jagged arm of Cape Ann, the poor distant relation of Cape Cod. At the end of Cape Ann is the famed fishing port of Gloucester, but about halfway there, we both got off the exit to Manchester-by-the-Sea.
It’s an interesting town of about five thousand people with a mouthful of a name, and gorgeous homes and scenery that have been the backdrop for about a half dozen Hollywood films. For years it had simply been called Manchester, and then in the late 1980s, there was a push by some residents to call it by its present name. Those in favor of changing the name said it was an original designation from when the B&M Railroad used to make stops, and the town should honor its historic past. Those opposed to the name change said it would be expensive to change town signs and paperwork, and besides, it was an elitist and snooty move to make sure the town wasn’t confused with that nasty big mill city up in New Hampshire.
Those in favor obviously won, but it was still a sore subject for some. Maybe when I had the chance, I would ask Hollis his opinion.
He went out into a nice rural area with very nice rural homes, and pulled in to the left, up a short driveway. I slowed and parked across the street. His house was a new version of the old-fashioned colonial, with some nicely sculpted shrubbery and a statue in the center of the lawn that burbled water into a small pool. There was a two-car garage but he didn’t use either of the two ports. Instead he got out and walked up to the front door, and a woman opened the door, nicely dressed and wearing high-heeled shoes. She gave Hollis an enthusiastic kiss—no accounting for taste, I suppose—and she took his leather briefcase and went inside, closing the door behind them both.
“Hollis,” I said to myself, “if she’s in there with a small pitcher of martinis and dinner ready to get on the table, then we’ve both slipped through time.”
I stood watch there for a few minutes, and then after a few cars drove by—Lexus, Volvo, Mercedes-Benz, no Chevrolets need apply—and I got curious looks from the occupants, I drove out, not wanting to get rousted for having too little money to be allowed into this neighborhood.
After a while of driving around the back roads of Essex, Hamilton, and Gloucester, and admiring the wide salt marshes and the stately beaches, I went back to Manchester-by-the-Sea and the home of Hollis and his wife. I parked on the street. By now it was just past dusk and I walked across the road and onto the driveway. Recessed and soft lighting illuminated the perfect yard. Moving slowly and as quietly as I could, I walked around Hollis’s home, feeling a flash of envy. I bet he didn’t have to worry if he could scrape enough quarters together to buy some rice and beans or corned beef hash.
On a rear concrete platform, I tripped over something and nearly fell into
a drained swimming pool with a black tarpaulin draped over it.
Fool, I thought.
If you can’t pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, then at least stick envy in there and let it be.
I found myself back on the driveway and before his Audi. Flatten the tires? Scrape something naughty on the paint? Rub dirt on the windshield?
Childish temptations.
I had adult temptations to address.
Up the flagstone path I went and I rang the doorbell. From inside the house I could hear a deep bong-bong, and I pushed the doorbell again.
The door flew open. Hollis stood there, in disbelief.
“Cole, you—”
His wife came up behind him in a short passageway, decorative artwork on the walls, his wife pretty, looking concerned but holding a pre-dinner cocktail in her hand.
“I seem to be lost. I’m looking for the Gloucester fisherman, you know, that statue of the fisherman in foul-weather gear, grasping a ship’s wheel.”
Hollis stammered but I looked at his wife. She laughed, drink in hand. “That? Oh dear, you are so lost.”
She laughed.
With drink in hand.
I turned to Hollis. “I should say I’m sorry I bothered you, but that would be a lie. Later, Counselor.”
I stepped away and I think Hollis was going to chase after and talk dirty to me, but his very helpful wife intervened on my behalf, as I quickly went across the street and to my Pilot.
Nice woman. I’d have to send her a thank-you card when this was all wrapped up.
With time to kill and still not wanting to head back home, I drove back west on Route 128, and in Beverly, I pulled over to the famed Northshore Mall. I had a quick dinner at a Chinese restaurant in the food court, which met my budget and filled me up, a pleasing combination, and then I just wandered among the bright lights and stores and people, admiring everyone’s looks and smiles and laughter. Maybe malls like this are monuments to excess consumerism, and sometimes I agree, but after the few days I’d been having, I found this one a monument to safety. Unlike in most times of humanity, whatever was yours was yours, and you wouldn’t be knifed or clubbed or stabbed while going home with your belongings.
Short thinking. I sat on a mall bench and watched the parade of humanity stroll by. That’s what got people in trouble. Short thinking, not looking far back enough, far enough for history and lessons learned.
Eventually I got tired of watching the parade, visited the men’s room for a clean-up and such, and went outside. I got into the front seat, patted the steering wheel, and said, “My friend, it’s time to go retro.”
I drove around the mall until I found an empty spot, at one end of the large parking lot where there were some trees and some construction trailers. Tomorrow was Saturday and I was hoping that no workers would come along to disturb me. I backed into a space between the trailers, locked all the doors, switched off the engine and lights, and crawled back to the rear seat. No blankets, no sleeping bag, no pillow. Great planning. I took my jacket off, folded it into a square, and wedged myself into the rear seats. I stayed like that for a couple of minutes, with seatbelt fasteners digging into me, and after a brief flurry of moving things around, I then got back into position, slowed my breath, and fell asleep quicker than I would have thought.
A rapping on the side window of the Pilot woke me up. I had no idea what time it was, only that it appeared to be in the middle of the night. Lights flared inside and a male voice said, “Can you step outside of the vehicle, please?”
“Absolutely,” I said, and slowly and carefully—making sure my hands were exposed and I wasn’t making any sudden movements—I stepped out. Near the construction trailers was a parked Peabody Police Department cruiser.
“Can I have some identification, please?”
“Absolutely.”
I passed over my driver’s license, and for good measure, my state-issued press identification, which was still current since I had never bothered to turn it in once I had gotten fired from Shoreline.
He examined them both and handed them back. He seemed to be in his late twenties, and because of the glare from his flashlight, I couldn’t make out his face.
“Mr. Cole, have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Are you on any type of medication or drug?”
“No.”
“Are you in any sort of medical distress at all?”
“No.”
“Then why are you sleeping in your car?”
I said, “I got tired and wasn’t sure I could make it back home. So I found what I thought would be a quiet, out-of-the-way place to snooze.”
He lowered his flashlight. “There are plenty of motels around. Why not spend a night there?”
“My financial situation. I can’t afford one.”
“No friends in the area?”
“Not a one.”
I waited. I was hoping he wasn’t going to ask to search the Pilot. Because I’m such a law-and-order type of fellow, I would graciously allow this Peabody police officer to do so. He wouldn’t find much, but I was sure he wouldn’t miss my Beretta under the front seat. I do have a carry permit in New Hampshire and Massachusetts, but his finding it would lead to complications. I had enough complications already.
He lowered the flashlight even more, sighed. “Look. If I let you go back and spend the rest of the night here, there won’t be any problems, right? In the morning you’ll get up and be on your way?”
“Absolutely, Officer.”
“All right,” he said. “But remember this, if we get word of any vandalism or anything else hinkey going on around here tomorrow, I’ve got your name, plate number, and home address. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He slowly lifted the flashlight up again. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? Your face looks red.”
“I guess it’s all the excitement,” I said.
“Maybe,” he said, obviously not believing me. “All right. Be safe, don’t do anything dumb, and be out tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Officer.”
He departed and I went back into the Pilot, and again I was surprised at how well I slept.
In the morning, however, I was stiff, achy, and warm. I drove until I found a McDonald’s, and spent a few dollars on a breakfast that served its purpose, i.e., providing me fuel for the rest of the day. In the restroom I did the best I could in washing up, and then I got back into the Pilot and decided to retrace my steps back to Manchester-by-the-Sea. This time, I drove into Hollis’s driveway, left the engine running, and went over and knocked loudly on his door.
He opened it up within an instant, giving me the feeling he had seen me pull up. “Cole, what the hell are you doing here?”
I said, “I was in the mood for another cup of coffee. I was hoping you and the missus might have a spare cup of joe for a poor magazine writer.”
He swore and slammed the door shut.
I took that as a no.
I went south this time, staying on highways all the way down, and I made a quick stop at a Home Depot in Danvers. It was huge, of course, and I was certain that the bigger the store, the fewer the employees in the aisles who could help would-be customers or do-it-yourselfers who were ready to knock down a wall this Saturday morning, get into desperate arguments with their spouses on Sunday evening, and sheepishly call a home contractor on Monday.
But I was fortunate that I knew what I was looking for, in the lighting aisle, and when I did the self-checkout, I hesitated, checking the MasterCard and Visa cards in my wallet. I felt like I was in Las Vegas, trying to see how far I could push the house before being pulled away from the blackjack table, roughed up, and dumped in a trash-strewn alley.
I tried the MasterCard, waited, waited, and when it was approved, I grabbed my receipt and purchase and made a speedy exit back to the parking lot.
Back to Manchester-by-the-Sea. By now the Pilot knew the way, just like the horse in that Christ
mas tune. Hollis was outside on this bright and sunny March morning, raking his front yard of some winter debris and old leaves, and this time, I just slowed down, honked the horn, and waved at him.
He waved back, using just one finger.
I hoped his day was going well. Mine was going slow, but that was to be anticipated.
I drove up to the very end of Cape Anne, to Rockport, one of the most charming little towns in New England, where the old buildings are clustered around the rocky point, filled with art galleries, little restaurants and shops, and historical sights. Even though my stomach was grumbling with hunger, I had a peaceful and quiet afternoon strolling the very narrow streets. It was a funny place, with not much to offer except its small harbor and rocky coastline, but the residents here made do with what they had.
I wandered off to Bradley Wharf, which proudly displayed Motif Number 1, probably the most photographed and painted structure in North America. It’s a simple fishing building, painted red, with lobster traps dangling off the side. Lots of painters and other artists had slid through this town in their lives and careers, and most of them went on with some sort of remembrance of the barn.
I just stood there, looked at the place. Nice location for a casino, if anyone was loopy enough to think about building one here. But who knew. Stranger things could happen.
As I stood there, a number of tourists came and went, most oohing and aahing over the building, taking photos, and I listened to some loudmouths say that the building was almost two hundred years old, and think of the history there.
I walked away. Oh yes, there was lots of history there, but the building wasn’t part of it. The original Motif Number 1 was built in 1840 and was destroyed by the Great Blizzard of 1978. What everyone has seen since then was a reproduction.
I didn’t bother telling the tourists around me the truth.
Why shatter their illusions?
My daylong adventure brought me back once again to Manchester-by-the Sea, and by now I was tiring of meeting up with Hollis Spinelli. I just went up to his driveway again, leaned on the horn, flashed the high beams off and on, until Hollis opened the door and barreled his way out toward me. I quickly backed up, running over his perfect lawn and leaving a divot or two, and then got back on the road.
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