Dead Sand

by Brendan DuBois

  I said, “You sound very well informed, Detective Sergeant.”

  She grimaced. “I have my sources of information.”

  Remembering something from a lunch conversation we had last month, as the protests started being planned, I said, “Tell me, is your Kara out there?”

  She looked around, to see if anyone could overhear us; seemingly reassured that we were isolated, she said quietly, “Oh yeah, she’s out there. In an affinity group associated with the peaceful demonstrators, thank God. I didn’t want her to go out there, but no matter what I said, I lost the argument.”

  “I find that unusual.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked. “You find it unusual that I’d lose an argument?”

  “No,” I said. “I find it unusual that your Kara, your computer whiz-girl Kara, who can make a laptop sit up and beg, who’s comfortable with all sorts of technology, who’s been in a number of successful software start-ups, I’m just surprised she’s out there.”

  “That so?”

  “Sure,” I said. “The power plant that exploded in Kursk—there’s nothing like it in the United States. Or France. Or Japan. That kind of accident can’t happen here.”

  “Very observant,” she said. “You’re repeating the same arguments I was trying to use, and they didn’t work. In her head, Kara knows that technologically speaking, Kursk and Falconer don’t compare, but her heart is ruling now, Lewis. She’s seen the television footage of scared mothers standing in long lines in Poland and Ukraine, desperately getting liquid iodine treatments for their children—and pictures of scared mothers and crying children will always outweigh cool debates about risks and containment buildings.”

  From both lines of demonstrators, the chanting and the beating of the drums increased, and Diane said, “I suppose I should get back to work, such as it is. What’s on the schedule for the Fourth Estate?”

  “In general, I have no idea,” I said. “In particular, I’m going to attend two rallies this afternoon.”

  “Lucky you,” she said. “What kind of rallies?”

  “First one is a union rally, down at the co-op fishing building. Sort of an anti-antinuke rally, led by the head of the local union council, trying to drum up support for Falconer Unit Two. A guy named Joe Manzi.”

  Diane nodded. “Sure. Joe Manzi. Union organizer from Massachusetts who likes the high life. What’s the other rally?”

  “That one takes place a couple of hours later, at a campground in Falconer being used for the antinukers as a staging area, featuring Bronson Toles.”

  Diane laughed. “Bronson. Yeah. I’m sure he’ll be walking across the marshlands at high tide. All right, my friend, take care of yourself.”

  “You, too,” I said.

  * * *

  Back with Paula, she checked her watch. “We should get going soon if we plan to see both rallies up close.”

  “Will our minder let us leave?”

  “Let’s check.”

  Standing apart from the crowd of cops and National Guardsmen, a slim man with eyeglasses, wearing khaki slacks, a dark blue windbreaker, and a light blue hard hat emblazoned with the Falconer power plant logo was being interviewed by two camera crews. Paula and I walked up to him. He was talking calmly about the thousands of protesters nearby.

  “We have full faith that local law enforcement will protect the plant and property,” the man said, smiling at both camera crews. He was Ron Shelton, spokesman for the power plant, and our escort while on plant property. There was another question tossed his way, which I didn’t make out, and he answered, “No, the operation of the power plant continues. We continue to produce enough power for one million New England homes, and we hope that the majority of the demonstrators honor their pledge to protest peacefully.”

  After a couple more questions, he was able to move away gracefully and approach Paula. She said, “Ron, any chance my friend and I can slip out?”

  “If security says you can, I don’t see why not. Come on, let’s find out.”

  I followed Paula as she fell in with Ron, and I kept to one side as she peppered him with questions about upcoming events. We came up off the rough terrain onto a large paved area. Among the blocky buildings of concrete—including the hundred-foot-tall egg-shaped reactor containment building—other workers moved along, all sporting hard hats and wearing identification badges on their coats. On the pavement were yellow lines outlining paths to walk, and Paula and I stayed with Ron as we came out into a parking area, where there was a pair of light blue pickup trucks with spotlights mounted on the side doors. Men in dark gray jumpsuits and black boots and with semiautomatic weapons over their shoulders stood by a yellow concrete post that had a gray telephone communications box mounted on it.

  Ron went up to the security officers and talked to them for a moment. One of them came back with him. “Where’s your vehicle parked?” he asked me.

  “Over there,” I said, pointing. “The dark blue Ford Explorer.”

  The officer said, “Sir, just get into your vehicle and follow me. We’ll slip you out of the Stony Creek Road gate.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and Paula said to Ron, “Any chance for one last interview tonight, before deadline?”

  The plant spokesman looked friendly but tired. “Sure. You know how we operate, Paula. Twenty-four/seven. Just call me, or have security page me. We’ll get back to you.”

  We walked over to my Ford and got in. I started her up and followed the security pickup truck, which left the main parking area near the security building, a concrete cube surrounded by razor wire. Instead of going out one of the two main access roads that led to Route 1, the truck went down a bumpy dirt road that went underneath some of the huge transmission lines overhead that fed the plant’s electricity to the regional power grid.

  As we drove, I switched on the heat, and Paula said, “Thanks for being my taxi driver today.”

  “Not a problem,” I said, the steering wheel vibrating in my hands as we made our way down the dirt road. “Let me know tomorrow if you need another ride, if your car is still in the shop.”

  “Deal, friend, deal.”

  Up ahead the security truck made a left turn, and we followed. We went down a narrow dirt lane that came to a tall chain-link fence with a gate in the center. The truck pulled to the side, and one security officer jumped out, went to the gate, and, after unlocking it, waved us through.

  I sped up the Explorer, and there was a bump as we went onto paved road, and in the rearview mirror I caught the officers swinging the gate shut and locking it. Up ahead were a couple of cottages and small Cape Cod houses, and the road widened a bit as we approached Route 1, the main two-lane road running north and south from Massachusetts to Maine, also known as Lafayette Road.

  Paula said, “Looks like the circus is pretty widespread.”

  “Sure is,” I said.

  Where the road met Route 1, lines of people were walking by, some of them carrying the same kinds of signs and banners as their brethren at the salt marshes. I pulled up and waited for a break in the foot traffic, as well as the vehicle traffic. Cars and trucks moved by slowly, accompanied by a couple of National Guard Humvees.

  A noise on my side window startled me. I looked over and saw a young woman standing there, smiling, gently tapping on the glass. I lowered the window. She was in her twenties, with long brown hair parted in the middle and wearing a gray sweatshirt, a long red peasant skirt, and sneakers. She handed over a leaflet to me.

  “There’s a rally tonight, at the Seaside Campground,” she said. “My name is Haleigh. Will I see you there?”

  I smiled. “Sure. We’ll be there.”

  I raised the window, and Paula said, “That wasn’t nice.”

  “What wasn’t nice?” I asked, and, finally finding a break in the traffic, I eased out onto Route 1 and started heading north.

  “You told her that we’d be at the rally tonight,” she said. “I bet she thought that meant you’d be there as a suppor
ter, and not a reporter.”

  “Not my fault if she thought that,” I said.

  “You getting crusty in your old age?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but I don’t feel old.”

  That earned me a laugh as we went up Route 1, the traffic finally thinning out, the sun shining brightly, and the foliage on the trees on both sides of the road burning a bright red and orange. It looked nice, it looked quiet, and this would prove to be the last peaceful day in Falconer for some time to come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It took about twenty minutes of driving to get where we wanted to go, as we took Route 51 down to Tyler Beach and then looped our way back to Falconer, traveling on Route 1-A, also known as Atlantic Avenue. Here there were cottages and lots of motels and shops, most them closed down for the cold fall and winter that was coming our way, and off to our left, the endless moving gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean. We crossed over the Felch Memorial Drawbridge that spanned the channel leading from the Falconer and Tyler harbors to the ocean, and to the right, lobster boats and stern draggers were moored as a sharp wind made whitecaps dance on the waters.

  “Tell me again about your new boss,” Paula said.

  “Do I have to?”

  She laughed. “A real mouthful, isn’t she. Denise Pichette-Volk, right?”

  “Good memory,” I said.

  Paula added, “Also known as ‘Denise the Dastardly.’ Known for coming into newspapers and magazines that are struggling, cutting costs, squeezing more personnel, getting, quote, more efficiencies, unquote, from staffers. You getting squeezed there, Lewis?”

  Up ahead I saw lines of people marching along both sides of the road. There were chain-link fences on the right, and beyond that, a flat parking lot and a large white building with a peaked black shingle roof that was the fishing cooperative for most of the fishermen working out of Falconer and Tyler harbors.

  “Usually I like being squeezed by women,” I said. “Not this time.”

  “Any juicy details?”

  I thought for a moment, slowing the Explorer some as I reached the open gate of the cooperative. “Not a one.”

  She smiled, but there was a hint of frustration in her face. “Some days your secretive past and lack of conversation can be charming, but not today. I feel sorry for your lady friend, if this is the kind of face you show her, day after day.”

  She turned and pretended to be interested in the line of marchers clustered around the gate to the parking lot. As Paula looked out the window, I did, too, and remembered.

  * * *

  About a month ago I had been summoned to appear at the offices of Shoreline magazine, located in a renovated mill building in South Boston. The monthly magazine covers the history and happenings of the New England coastline from the upper reaches of Maine to the lower depths of Connecticut, and I have a monthly column called “Granite Shores,” which covers the New Hampshire seacoast. I became a magazine columnist after an unfortunate series of events when I was a Department of Defense employee that led to the death of some friends and co-workers, including a dear woman who might have become Mrs. Lewis Cole one day—but that wasn’t meant to be, like JFK’s second term.

  Being told to appear in South Boston had been a shock, and was going to be one of many that day. In the brick-lined and comfortable offices of the magazine, the biggest shock was seeing someone different sitting behind the desk of the magazine’s editor, retired U.S. Navy Admiral Seamus Anthony Holbrook. His office had mementos of his navy past and a great view of Boston Harbor, but the woman sitting at his desk was out of place. She was much younger than me, had long black hair, and wore a stunning black and red dress. All in all, she looked like one of those women devoted to fashion magazines that have an ad-to-copy ratio of about ninety to ten.

  She stood up, gave me a brief shake of the hand, and got right to it. “My name is Denise Pichette-Volk. I’m now in charge here at Shoreline.”

  I sat down, nearly missing the chair. “What happened to the admiral?”

  She shrugged. “Off on medical leave. For something.”

  “Where? For what?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked down at some papers. “What I do know is that the publishers have taken me aboard to make some changes, and your name is on the top of the list.”

  “Just what kind of list is that?”

  She turned a sheet of paper. “The list of those who get paid extraordinarily well for doing extraordinarily little. Mr. Cole, your sole responsibility to Shoreline is producing one column per month, for which you get paid at a higher rate than more than ninety-five percent of the staff. Doesn’t sound particularly efficient, now, does it.”

  I cleared my throat. “My arrangements here with Shoreline were made with the full knowledge and cooperation of Admiral Holbrook, and—”

  Denise held up a manicured hand. “I know all about the arrangements. I know some about your service with the Department of Defense. I know that your job here was initially a gift to you, for your faithful service to our country, blah-blah-blah.”

  Something cold tickled at the backs of my hands. “I’m sorry, what do you mean, ‘initially’?”

  She looked at me with her cold brown eyes. “Initially the Department of Defense paid for your salary and benefits through a rather … unusual accounting arrangement, but that arrangement ended a few years ago. Cost-cutting, you realize, on the behalf of the federal government. Ever since then, Shoreline has been paying your full freight. Through the intercession of Admiral Holbrook.”

  My hands and the back of my neck were now quite chilled. “I never knew that.”

  “From what I understand, that was the admiral’s decision. He has some old-fashioned concept about promises made and loyalty to subordinates. Now that decision has been overruled.”

  “I see.”

  “Um, no, I don’t think you see. The decision of the admiral to keep you on and pay you was based on your performance as a columnist, but you’re going to do more for the magazine now, Mr. Cole. An additional article in each issue, from a story idea that will be assigned to you by the editorial staff here. Copy editing from home on some of our less-talented freelancers’ contributions. Perhaps even some sales work, going to businesses along the New Hampshire seacoast, convincing them to advertise with the magazine.”

  I shook my head. “Not going to happen. Look, you should know that my agreement with the government meant that—”

  She dropped her fountain pen, smiled, and leaned back in the admiral’s chair. “Yes, your agreement with the government. I don’t know the details of your agreement, but I do know that in exchange for keeping your mouth shut about some past embarrassing incident, you got this comfy job. Fine. Take it up with the government if you have a problem with the way you’re being treated. Although, trust me, that won’t get you far. Considering all the dirty laundry that’s been aired this past decade about what our government has been up to, do you really think you can convince them to return to your original agreement if you threaten to go public? Over some past embarrassment?”

  My hands were clenched. Past embarrassment, I thought. A long time ago, I worked as a research analyst for an obscure section of the Department of Defense, and on a training mission in the high Nevada desert, we were all killed—save for me—after being exposed to a nasty biowarfare agent that didn’t officially exist. All those co-workers, my dear Cissy Manning, all dead and gone and forgotten … except they were now considered an embarrassment.

  I said, “You seemed to have thought this through.”

  Her face had a triumphant little smile. “I certainly have. That’s why I’m here. So what’s it going to be, Mr. Cole? Your new arrangement, or unemployment, in this economy and at your age?”

  “I’d like to take some time to think about it.”

  She leaned forward in the admiral’s chair. “Take all the time you want. Just make sure it’s in the next thirty seconds. I’m a very busy woman.”

  I took a brea
th, and then another one. “Then I suppose my answer is yes.”

  The triumphant smile on her face widened. “I never had any doubt.”

  * * *

  I drove up to the open gate to the fishing co-op, then stopped and touched Paula on her shoulder. Surprised, she turned to me, and I said, “Many years ago, I worked at the Pentagon. One day I was part of something that got a lot of friends of mine killed. I was the sole survivor. I got paid off, and to keep my mouth shut, I was given the job at Shoreline. I’ve kept my mouth shut ever since then.”

  Paula looked shocked. “But … you’ve just opened your mouth.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Why?”

  Behind me horns blared. I didn’t move. “Because I kept up my end of the bargain, while other people didn’t.”

  She looked at me, and her smile this time was genuine, no frustration mixed in. “Well, you certainly are full of surprises, even at this late date—but, Lewis?”

  “Yes?”

  “Get your butt in gear. We’re going to be late for speechifying.”

  * * *

  Through some intercession of the parking gods we found an empty space, though we had to walk across what seemed to be a couple of acres of parking lot to get to the co-op building. There were a lot of pickup trucks and SUVs, and not a single hybrid in sight. The wind was sharper off the harbor, and Paula stayed close to me as we walked. The co-op was built like a large white barn, with doors set in the front, and there was a knot of people by the doors.

  Paula said, “Still not sure why the union people are meeting here.”

  “Biggest hall in the area,” I said, “and guys and gals who work with their hands—they tend to look out for each other.”

  We got closer to the knot of people, some with windbreakers and jeans, others fellow members of the news media. There was a gatekeeper up forward, standing there, burly-looking, arms crossed, wearing a gray sweatshirt with a hood and soiled jeans, face red and belligerent. As I moved up I heard him say, “… and that’s it, nobody else gets to go in.”