Primary Storm

by Brendan DuBois

  I stood, waiting to see if he would say anything, but that didn't seem possible.

  For he was dead.

  Chapter Seven

  I gingerly walked around, checking to make sure he was as dead as he looked. He was on the snow-covered ground next to the doorsteps, leaning up against the stone foundation. His legs were out in front of him, his hands were folded primly in his lap. His eyes were closed. Thank God for small favors. I looked to the side of his head and saw a mass of blood and torn flesh and splintered bone just behind his right ear. He seemed to be wearing the same coat and necktie and slacks combination from his first visit to my home.

  I stepped back, taking a breath. I didn't like him, and didn't like what he had done to me, but still ... I didn't like seeing him dead on my doorstep.

  Another breath.

  There were things to do, procedures to be followed, phone calls to be made.

  I unlocked the door and went inside.

  I left the dead form of Spenser Harris behind me.

  I dropped the newspapers and went upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Into my office, up to a small closet. Opened the closet, went through some boxes of papers and files until I saw a small, multicolored box stuck in the rear. I ripped the box open, tearing a bit of finger skin in the process, and sat on the floor, going through about twenty pages of instructions in English, Spanish, French, and German, and then tossed the paperwork aside.

  Before me was a prepaid cell phone, about the size of two credit cards together. I had gotten it as a Christmas gift the previous year from Detective Sergeant Woods, when she had told me that in this new age of ours, it was customary to be accessible through instant communications. I replied that I rather liked being inaccessible. And she had smiled and said next time I was driving in East Overshoe, New Hampshire, tracking down a story, it would be nice to have a cell phone in case my car died or I ran into a moose.

  I had agreed, and had promptly put the phone in my closet. Until now.

  It had no charge in its little battery so I managed to plug it into a free receptacle in my office. I fumbled through a few more minutes of trying to figure out what in hell to do with this marvelous instrument, when I started punching in the numerals.

  By now, I guess shock was coursing its way through my system, for my hands were shaking.

  But I still managed to dial the number. I waited as it rang.

  And waited.

  Conscious that a body was cooling itself outside my front door. The phone was answered.

  "Yeah."

  "Hi, it's me."

  "Oh. What's up."

  "Got a situation," I said.

  "A situation?"

  "Quite the situation."

  "Go ahead."

  I said, "Remember that joke you told me a couple of months ago, about the difference between a friend and a true friend?"

  "Yeah."

  "I need a true friend. Right now."

  "Where are you?"

  "Home."

  "You injured?"

  "Nope."

  The voice was as brisk and as professional as it had been from the first greeting. "Be there in under a half. hour. Don't touch a damn thing."

  "I won't."

  "Good."

  I hung up the cell phone. The joys of being accessible.

  And somewhat untraceable. I wasn't sure just how untraceable this phone call would be, but there was no doubt that using the old landline telephone in my home would have been as visible as elephant tracks in the snow. Maybe this call would be harder to trace.

  Maybe. I sure hoped so.

  Then again, maybe I was just fooling myself.

  However, after seeing what had been out there in the snow, I was probably in the mood for being fooled.

  I tossed the cell phone across the room, and went back downstairs.

  I stood out there in the cold, hands in my coat, trying to ignore the body nearby. Hell of a thing. But I couldn't do it. I looked over at Spenser Harris. Still dead. Lots of questions and no answers were rattling inside my head. I toed a piece of ice-encrusted snow.

  Just stood there. My breath was visible in the cold air. The sound of the waves just a few feet away were always there, and always ignored, until one listened. I was listening. The waves were constant, were a part of the background.

  Toed another piece of ice. Waited. Another noise.

  I looked up. A dark green Honda Pilot was maneuvering its way down the driveway, its four-wheel drive making the sloppy trip look easy. Something tight in my chest started to ease. I took my hands out of my pockets.

  The Pilot stopped. Felix Tinios got out, looked at me and my uninvited guest. From his dark wool coat, he pulled out two sets of rubber gloves, tossed one set to me, which I caught with one hand. Damn, wasn't I good?

  Felix said, "All right. Time for talking is later. Time for action is now. Got it?"

  "Gotten."

  He put on his gloves, and I followed as well. Instantly my hands felt warm and clammy. Felix went to the rear of the Pilot, opened up the hatchback. With the middle row of seats folded down, there was plenty of room back there. Felix reached in and pulled out a black rubberized body bag, and my stomach did a slow flip-flop, realizing once again what kind of man Felix was: the kind of guy who had ready access to body bags.

  But I sure as hell wasn't complaining.

  Felix made his way to the body of Spenser Harris, flipped the bag out on the ground. There was a heavy-duty zipper that started at the top, went down the side and then to the bottom, like a garment bag designed for undertakers. Felix zipped the bag open, the noise sounding obscene in my tiny front yard, and opened up the flap. He looked up at me, his face serious.

  "Can you give me a hand? You going to be all right with this?"

  "Yeah,"

  "All right, let's move him. You get the legs."

  Felix went to the rear of the body, reached under his arms, lifted him off the steps, and I grabbed the legs. The phrase "dead weight" rang through my mind as we moved the body over to the open bag. I slipped some in the snow and dropped Spenser's legs, but Felix had it under control, and got most of the upper body over the bag. I maneuvered the legs in and then Felix flipped the cover back over, zipped the damn thing shut. Suddenly it just felt better. There was no longer a body in my front yard. There was just a lumpy thing inside a bag, something without a face.

  "Okay. Handles on both sides. Let's get him in."

  As he always is, Felix was correct. Heavy black web handles were on each side of the bag, and we both grabbed on and got him off the ground. A handful of steps later, we had him in the rear of the open Pilot. Felix went forward to the passenger's side door and dragged the body bag in. When he had moved the bag far enough, I slammed the hatchback door shut. By now Felix was in the driver's seat and the engine was running. I joined him and he said, "You don't need to be here. I can handle it."

  "You may think I don't need to be here, but I do. Let's get going."

  "Sure."

  Felix maneuvered the Pilot about in my yard, and then we were heading back up the driveway, to the parking lot of the Lafayette House, and in a minute or so, we were heading south, away from my home, away from Tyler Beach. We both pulled off our rubber gloves. My hands felt moist and soft. I was feeling just a little bit better. But only a bit.

  We didn't go far, only to Salisbury, the first town over the Massachusetts border. We took Route l-A --- Atlantic Avenue -- all the way south. I was conscious of how tight my chest was as I sat next to Felix.

  He said, "All right. Good job back there."

  "Thanks. Coming from you that's a hell of a compliment."

  "Do you know who he is? Or was?"

  "Yeah. The fake Secret Service agent who scammed me a few days back. Spenser Harris."

  "No shit."

  "True. No shit."

  Felix made a show of looking back at the shape in the rear, and turned back. "Strange world, isn't it. Last time we were together, I said
I'd do a little digging, see what I could find out about this guy, and now he ends up dead on your doorstep. Sorry I wasn't quicker finding him."

  "You're forgiven."

  "Gee, thanks. Well, I'll keep on digging, but having your Spenser Harris show up dead puts a damper on things."

  "I guess so. And when did he become my Spenser Harris?" Felix shrugged. "He was in your front yard. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, it seemed to be a logical assumption."

  I told him what he could do with his logic, and that made him smile.

  Traffic was light as we went by the deserted buildings of Tyler Beach, approaching the drawbridge that led into Falconer, the southernmost town in New Hampshire. Stuck in almost every snowbank was a campaign sign. HALE FOR AMERICA'S TOMORROWS. WIN WITH WALLACE. POMEROY/PRESIDENT. GRAYSON FOR PRESIDENT. Lots of signs, all with the same color pattern. Red, white, and blue. True imagination at work. It was good to look at the signs. It didn't require me to think of the body riding back there in the rear.

  "His body hadn't gone into rigor yet," Felix said. "Figure he's been dead only an hour or so. That sound right?"

  "Yes, it does. I was out at the Lafayette House, getting my morning newspapers. I was out maybe fifteen, twenty minutes at the most."

  "Any idea who did it?"

  "Not a one."

  We went over the drawbridge spanning the small harbor of Tyler Beach. Off to the right were the concrete buildings of the Falconer nuclear power plant, quietly producing power, with nary a protester in sight. We were in Falconer for about a minute or two, and then we were in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, in its northernmost community of Salisbury. For some reason I turned again and looked back at the body bag.

  Felix said, "Any idea why this guy was killed on your front lawn?"

  I turned back. The body bag hadn't moved a bit.

  I said, "Have an idea or two. Main idea is ... well, I think whoever did it wanted me to take the fall for trying to kill Senator Hale. When that didn't stick, they wanted another try by dumping Spenser Harris's body in my front yard."

  In Salisbury, Felix maneuvered the Pilot through its nearly empty streets. "For what reason? If they wanted you to get arrested for Harris's death, why not keep an eye on the place and make a phone call when you arrive?"

  I folded my arms. "They were probably counting on my civic duty. A phone call to the cops, the arrival of the cops and the state police Major Crimes Unit, followed by another media circus, all just before the New Hampshire primary."

  "Then why didn't you do your civic duty, Lewis?"

  "What?"

  Felix said, "You're one of the more civic guys I know. Any other guy found a body in his yard, the call would go to the cops. Especially since you have such a fine relationship with the local constabulary's lead detective. So why no call?"

  I said, "You can probably figure it out."

  Felix grinned. "Women. Aren't they something? If this dump was from opponents of Senator Hale, wanting to give him another bucketful of bad publicity just before the primary, then you didn't want to give them that publicity, did you? All for your girl Annie."

  I sighed. "That's as good a guess as any."

  "Works for me."

  I turned to him. "I suppose if the Pomeroy campaign was up to something nefarious like this, you'd let me know."

  Felix laughed. "From what I know of the Pomeroy campaign, Lewis, they couldn't spell 'nefarious,' never mind knowing what it means."

  Now we were in an industrial part of Salisbury, near 1-95, and the buildings were one-story concrete and brick structures --- printing plants, small businesses --- and, there, just ahead, a barbwire enclosure, a self-storage business called, aptly enough, the Space Station.

  The gate was open and Felix drove in and went down one of the open lanes to the right, flanked on both sides by one-story buildings with roll-up steel doors. At the end of the building on the right, the doors were big enough to let a vehicle pass through, Felix stopped the Pilot at the stall at the end of the lane. He got out, undid the combination lock at the side of the door, and rolled it up. He flicked on the interior lights for the now open storage unit and got back inside.

  "Where did you get the Pilot?"

  "A business associate. Let's leave it at that."

  "Some business associate."

  Felix slowly backed the Honda into the storage room. "Didn't think I could use my Mercedes. And I didn't want to use your Ford. And when we're done with the Pilot, it's going to get steam-cleaned and detailed. Just to be on the safe side, which is a side I love being on. Come on, we've still got work to do."

  We both got out on the concrete floor of the storage room, and Felix went to the entrance and lowered the steel door. It was now quiet and it felt good to be inside with the door closed, away from any curious neighbors. I followed Felix as he went forward. There were storage lockers on both sides and, at the end, a large top-opening refrigerator. He propped open the cover to the refrigerator and said, "He'll fit."

  "How come I get the feeling you've done this before?"

  While there was humor in his voice, there was no humor in his expression. "Don't make me answer dangerous questions, Lewis. Deniability is a wonderful gift."

  Back to the Pilot we went, and up went the rear hatch. Felix reached in said, "I want to open up the bag for a moment and examine our guest."

  "I'm not going to stop you, so go right ahead."

  The interior was roomy enough so that Felix knelt down and opened the bag up, the zipper sounding better here than at my house. He worked for a while, his hands busy inside the bag and the clothing of the dead man, and he looked at me, his face impassive. "Dead people are hard to work with. Frozen, not moving, resisting."

  "Yeah, well, we've all got problems."

  "At least we're doing better than your friend here."

  "Not my friend."

  "If you say so."

  He worked for a couple of minutes more and said, "Lewis, he's been cleaned up. No driver's license, no money, not even a scrap of paper. Very professional."

  I thought about a promise I had made the day before to the very real Secret Service agent Glen Reynolds. I had promised to let him know if I found out the man's true identity. So far, I hadn't, so at least that was a promise I could keep.

  "Thanks for looking," I said. "Can we get this wrapped up?"

  "Sure."

  The zipper went shut and Felix came back out and started pulling at the body bag, and I followed suit. A few steps later, the body of Spenser Harris went into the refrigerator, and the lid shut down.

  Felix looked at me. "You okay?"

  "Sure am. Could use a drink, though."

  He smiled. "Damn it, man, it's not even ten in the morning."

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  He shrugged. "Not a damn thing. Let's go get those drinks."

  We had a late breakfast at the Lafayette House, in the main dining room, with coffee and Belgian waffles and eggs Benedict and mimosas in tall, cold glasses and bacon and sausage. With each passing minute in the luxurious comfort of the hotel, I felt the tension slide away, like a solid block of ice exposed to the warm April sun. We were in a part of the dining room that had a fine view of Tyler Beach, the parking lot, and if you looked real hard, the top of the roof of my house. Another reason I felt good is that the parking lot had the standard collection of vehicles belonging to hotel guests and visitors. There were no police cruisers or television vans out there, looking to record Lewis Cole's next misadventure with the criminal justice system. Nothing at all. Quiet is a wonderful thing.

  Felix said, "What now?"

  "I find out who the hell's drawn a big bull's-eye on my back, that's what."

  "Going to be hard to do, with your only link to them now resting comfortably in Salisbury."

  "I'll think of something, I'm sure."

  "And then what?"

  Felix asked. "Make them stop?" "Sure. I'll appeal to their better nature. Or somet
hing." "Or something."

  I took a swallow of my mimosa, enjoying the mixed sensation of orange juice and champagne in my mouth. "Ask you a question?"

  "Ask away."

  "Why store him in the refrigerator? Why not the ocean? Or the proverbial shallow grave?"

  Felix thought for a moment and said, "You dump a body, you can never get it back. Keep it in a safe place, you need it for something down the road, no matter how nutty or off the wall, you can get it."

  "What in hell do you think we might need that body for?"

  "You never know."

  I took one last swallow of the mimosa. "So. If this goes south on us, what kind of troubles are we looking at?"

  ''The usual and customary. Concealing evidence. Obstruction of justice. Illegal transport of a dead body. Hell, maybe even suspicion of income tax evasion when it's all said and done."

  I toasted him with an empty glass before putting it down on the tablecloth. "At least we have the best in legal representation."

  Felix said, "You know, the night I saved Raymond Drake from a one-way trip out to Boston Harbor was the second-best investment I've ever made."

  "And what was the first-best investment you've ever made?"

  Felix picked up the check, a nice surprise. "Some secrets should stay secrets, my friend. Let's go. I've got a Honda to clean up."

  We walked outside to the main parking lot, and Felix said, “What's up for the rest of the day?"

  I had to smile. "It's been a full day already. I think I'm going to take it a bit easy, but first I'm going back to the Lafayette House for a moment."

  "What for?"

  "Just to follow up on a hunch, that's all."

  He held out his hand, and I gave it a firm shake. "Thanks. And thanks for the joke. It paid off."

  "Sure," Felix said. "So. As a reminder: What's the difference between a friend and a true friend?"

  And like clockwork, I answered, "A friend will help you move. A true friend will help you move bodies."

  Felix laughed, slapped me on the shoulder. "Good job. Let's see if we can't keep this joke to ourselves for a while. You take care."

  "You, too."

  I stood in the parking lot and watched Felix drive out in his borrowed vehicle. No police vehicles followed him in pursuit. No helicopters descended with SWAT teams at the ready to intercept. Felix drove off, unimpeded.