Dead Sand

by Brendan DuBois

  Neil shrugged, handing me a menu. “He called ahead. Reservation.”

  The other guy pointed to a hand-printed sign underneath the cash register that read: NO RESERVATIONS ACCEPTED. “That sign says you don’t take no reservations.”

  Neil made a point of looking around at the sign and looking surprised. “That old thing is still up? I’ll be damned. I’ll have to do something about that. You guys will just have to wait a bit longer.”

  I know I shouldn’t have smiled, but I couldn’t help myself. Some time ago I had written an article about some of the famed seafood places up and down the New Hampshire seacoast, and I had mentioned this place in passing. Well, one would have thought that I was a Michelin Guide reviewer and had given them three stars, for that brief mention was framed and up on the far wall, and I never had to wait long for an order, ever.

  Sure enough, it took only a few minutes before my fried shrimp and onion rings arrived, and some time later, when I was done and had left money for the check, Neil came back, wiping his hands on a towel. “Everything okay?”

  “It was fine, Neil, as always,” I said. Around me the place was now nearly deserted, except for two glum-looking guys with hoodies who were sitting in a booth on the other side of the restaurant. “You getting much business from the protesters?”

  He sat down across from me. “You kidding? Most of those kids are packing lunches and granola. Nope, we don’t get any of their business … but still, I do wish them success.” I think Neil saw the look on my face, because he said, “Did I startle you or something?”

  “A little,” I said. “I mean, most of the polling I’ve read says the bulk of the business community in this region supports the power plant because of the reliability and relatively competitive power costs.”

  He shook his head. “Those pollsters, they’ve never called me.”

  I gathered up my jacket. “Never thought of you as an antinuker, Neil.”

  “I’m not,” he said simply.

  I kept my hand still. “Sorry, you’ve lost me there.”

  “No, I’m not antinuke. I’m antistupid. Look, nuclear power is fine, it serves a purpose, it serves a need. But you know what? When it got developed, it got an evacuation plan attached to it like a goddamn ball and chain. Up the coast in Lewington, there are coal-fired and oil-fired plants, probably just as safe as Falconer and owned by the same utilities, but there ain’t no evacuation plans for them, are there?”

  “Not sure I’m seeing your point, Neil.”

  He said, “Look out there, down the road.”

  I swiveled in my booth, looked out the nearest window. There was a two-space parking area, a Dumpster, and then the rock and dirt berm that made up this part of the coast, bordering Atlantic Avenue. A couple of hundred feet away was a single utility pole, and on top of that pole was a large, boxy object.

  I turned back to Neil. “Evacuation siren.”

  “Yeah, you got that. One of fifty-six around the power plant, and if that puppy sounded off right now, in October, no big deal, right? All the tourists are gone. In the summertime, though, when you got one single two-lane road running up and down the coast, with just a handful of roads leading out of the coastline and nearly a hundred thousand people jammed here on a hot August weekend, well, it wouldn’t be a pretty sight if the sirens started wailing.”

  “The evacuation plans get tested every year, don’t they? And some sirens get tested once a month.”

  Neil smiled. “Lewis, you’re a well-read man, and I know you’ve got education and have traveled some. So having said that, you’re home one Sunday July afternoon having a beer on your rear deck, and you hear the nearest siren to your beachfront house kick in. What are you supposed to do next?”

  My jacket was still in my hand. “I guess I’d get in my Ford and drive north, up to Maine if I had to.”

  Neil’s smile got wider. “You’d be wrong.”

  “Would I?”

  “Yep,” he said. He motioned to the kitchen. “Hanging up there is a calendar issued each year by the New Hampshire Office of Emergency Management. Everybody within a ten-mile radius gets the same calendar, year after year. That includes you, Lewis. You know what it says if you hear a siren kick off? Mmm? You’re not supposed to do a damn thing except turn on the radio to one of the designated emergency broadcast stations, and on those stations would be official information about what to do. The radio might tell you to sit still and do nothing. Or it might tell you to drive out, and give you directions. Or any one of several different scenarios. So that’s what’s supposed to happen.”

  He gestured down to the south. “So if it’s a hot summer weekend, and the beaches are crowded, and those sirens start to wail … how many of those tourists are going to sit there and say, ‘Gee, I guess we should find a radio somewhere’? No, they’re going to panic, they’re going to bundle up their families, get into their cars, and try to get the hell out. It’ll make Hurricane Katrina look like the Rose Bowl Parade in comparison.”

  I stood up. “So what do we do? Shut her down?”

  Neil grabbed the check and my money. “Sorry, Lewis. That’s above my pay grade—but that still means I don’t like the place.”

  * * *

  In my drive to the Falconer nuclear power plant, I made a detour about a mile and a half before the plant gates, at the Seaside Campground. Unlike a couple of days ago, the way toward the main campsite was fairly open, with only a few vehicles off to the side, and the little cottage that served as an office was still closed. I pulled up near the wooden stage and felt cold. I looked at the plain wood, engine running, and then switched off the engine and got outside.

  In front of the stage a few young men and women stood just staring at it, as if they were some old Christian sect from the early centuries looking down at the Coliseum. Flowers had been placed on the wood, and from where I stood, I was sure that I saw stains. In addition to the flowers there were stubs of burned-out candles.

  There were also signs, bumper stickers, and such, all proclaiming the same thing: the end of the Falconer nuclear power plant and the start of something else safer and cleaner.

  I was ignored, which was fine.

  I turned around and was going to go back to my Ford when I spotted a couple of vehicles parked on the other side of the open grove. Two state police cruisers, a Falconer police cruiser, and a large dark green vehicle that announced with bright gold letters on the side that it was a Major Crime Unit response van for the state police. From inside my jacket I pulled out my state-issued press pass, hung it around my neck, and went into the woods. About fifty yards in, following a bit of a trail, I came to the usual yellow crime scene tape and a state police trooper and a Falconer police officer. I showed them my press pass and we had a brief and not very productive conversation in which I was advised that all public statements would be coming through the agency that runs the state police, the Department of Safety, and all inquiries should be directed to their Concord office.

  And by the way, have a nice day.

  I persisted nevertheless, and after a while, the Falconer cop gave up and walked into the woods. A little while later, he returned, followed by a thickset man with light olive skin and wearing a dark blue jumpsuit and black boots and a seriously irritated expression. His black hair was cut short in a buzz cut, and he said, “You the reporter from Tyler bugging us?”

  “I guess I am,” I said. “Just looking to ask a few questions and—”

  “Tyler,” he said. “You know Diane Woods?”

  “I do,” I said. “She’s a good friend of mine.”

  That seemed to get his attention, and he lifted up the yellow crime scene tape and said, “Come into my temporary office, such as it is.”

  I followed him a few yards, and he turned, yawned, and leaned against an oak tree. “The name’s Renzi, Pete Renzi. Detective with the state police Major Crime Unit, and you can ask a couple of questions—but if I find out that Diane Woods doesn’t know you, then you better
make sure you don’t speed on state roads. Got it?”

  “All of it,” I said. “Thanks for the time.”

  “So don’t waste it,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “What can you tell me?”

  He yawned again. “Not much. One Mr. Bronson Toles, shot and killed by a single round to his head. That round hasn’t been found yet, though we’re looking out beyond that stage with metal detectors.”

  “Any sign where the shooter had been hiding?”

  He gestured to the surrounding woods. “Pick a tree. Lots of trees around here have a good view of the stage. Trick is to find the right tree, and we haven’t had the luck. Though we’re still looking.”

  “Any suspects?”

  He frowned. “A friend of Diane Woods and you ask such a stupid question?”

  I felt warm and moved on. “A motive, then. Why he was shot.”

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t random, that’s for sure. So someone took the time and trouble to set up a spot to shoot at Bronson Toles, arrange an escape route, and know when he was going to talk.”

  “A professional hit?”

  “No comment,” he said, “and sorry, Mr. Cole, that’s all the time I have for you today.” He pointed to the yellow crime scene tape. “I trust you know your way out?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  * * *

  When I got to my Explorer, I saw a familiar face: Haleigh Miller, talking to some of her fellow activists. She spotted me and waved, and I waved back. She came up to me and said, “Lewis, so good to see you. How are you doing?”

  “Out working. You?”

  She smiled though she still looked tired. “We’re getting ready for the special event this afternoon.”

  “The one at five o’clock, with Bronson Toles’s wife?”

  Haleigh nodded. “Yes. Make sure you don’t miss it. It’s going to be … it’s going to be something different.”

  “All right, I won’t.”

  Some of her friends hung back, as if they didn’t want to be despoiled by being so close to a member of the oppressor class, one who worked for the Man. Or the Woman, as was my case. “You doing all right back here?”

  Haleigh said, “Oh, I’m doing fine. Sleeping outdoors and eating cold food—not as nice as it was back at your place, but I’m doing it for a greater cause, so I don’t mind. Much.” She laughed and said, “I really want to thank you again for helping me out the other day. I needed … I needed a break, and you provided it. I owe you one.”

  I was ashamed to admit it, but a thought came to me, one I instantly brought up. “Look, can I ask you for a favor?”

  “Sure,” she said, sounding innocent, not like the jaded older man talking to her.

  “If you can’t do it, I understand, but I’m looking to talk to someone in the movement.”

  “Someone in particular?”

  I looked around, made sure no one else was within earshot. “Curt Chesak. The guy heading the Nuclear Freedom Front.”

  She folded her arms and rubbed at her elbows for a moment. “Curt? Why do you want to talk to Curt?”

  “Because I’m a magazine writer,” I said, not quite allowing myself to call what I do journalism. “I want to know what’s going on, what’s driving people, and maybe why things are happening. Curt is sort of a bogeyman to the law enforcement folks out there. He’s under suspicion for a lot of criminal activities but hasn’t been caught yet.”

  “Yet,” she said, “and that’s because he’s a very secretive man, Lewis. He has to be, for what he does. He runs the NFF, and he has the regular antinuclear folks against him, not to mention the cops, the utilities and the unions. That’s why he always wears a mask when he speaks in public. Hell, some of us don’t even think Curt Chesak is his real name.”

  “But could you help me? At least get word to somebody that might know somebody?”

  Her happy face at seeing me earlier had been replaced by something a bit more troubled. “I … I guess I could try.”

  “That’d be great.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out my Shoreline business card. Before passing it over I had to dig out my cell phone and look up my own number—what can I say, I know cell phones are a necessary evil, but I still don’t like them that much—and scribble it down.

  “My home number and cell phone number are there,” I said, handing her the card. “Have somebody call me at any time. I don’t mind.”

  She looked at the card for a moment before slipping it into her coat pocket. “Okay, I guess.”

  Then I thought it through one more time and said, “No, it’s not okay. Give me the card back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not being fair to you,” I said. “I’m using your thanks for the other night in hoping that you’ll pass this card on to somebody, and that’s not fair. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this on my own. So give me the card back.”

  Haleigh put her hand back into the coat pocket, paused for a second, and shook her head. “No.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Please.”

  She shook her head again. “No. I don’t mind doing it. I know some people … and I know you, Lewis. I know I can trust you. You’re not a cop, you won’t reveal anything, and you’ll do what you say you’ll do, right? You want to interview him, nothing more.”

  I looked at that innocent young college-aged face, decided I could go along with that, and said, “That’s right. I want to interview him. Ask him some questions. Nothing more than that.”

  Haleigh smiled and said, “I’ll do what I can do—but no promises, okay?”

  “I understand, no promises.”

  She made to go back to her companions, then said, “Oh. I should have asked you earlier. How’s your friend doing, the reporter who was standing next to Bronson when he got shot?”

  What to say? So I decided to make it quick. “She’s out of the hospital.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said. “You know, Lewis, it’s a cliché but it’s true. Violence never solved anything.”

  I didn’t know what to say about that, either, for as a cliché, it was a stupid one. Violence might not have solved anything, but in wars and conflicts and battles all across history, and continuing into the future—unless some dramatic changes occurred—violence often settled things. Permanently.

  So instead of discussing philosophy with the young lady, I waved at her and got back into my Ford.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It sounds funny that at a time when there were thousands of protesters trying to break into the Falconer nuclear power plant, I had no problems gaining access, but that’s where a bit of ingenuity and modern technology came into play. Off Route 1 there were two main entrances to the power plant, and these entrances were named—in a bit of utility imagination—the North Gate and the South Gate. Both gates were closed to visitors and most everyone else, but still, the protesters and media types milled about, talking to one another and passing the time.

  There were also a handful of smaller service entrances, though, like the one Paula and I had used the other day, and all I had to do was call the plant spokesman, Ron Shelton, and explain that I wanted to come into the plant site, and he’d give me a time. Which is what I did, and I drove down Stony Creek Road as before and got to the gate, where two security officers from the power plant allowed me in. By the fence were six or seven protesters, and when they saw the gate open up, they started chanting, “No nukes, no nukes.” After a minute or two of driving, I didn’t hear them anymore.

  I followed the security pickup truck back to the plant site proper, and when we stopped at an intersection, one of the officers came back to me. I lowered the window, and he said, “Sorry, sir, but Mr. Shelton contacted us. He’d like to meet you at his office, if that’s all right with you.”

  “That’d be fine,” I said, and I kept on following the pickup truck. We drove down the main access road within the plant—past a huge billboard on one c
orner that read: SAFETY PAYS OFF, EVERY DAY. After about a quarter mile of driving, we made a left at a wooden sign that read: FALCONER VISITORS’ CENTER. We went down a pleasant little paved lane, which opened up to a large parking lot that was filled with police cruisers from a variety of departments in the area and a half dozen or so National Guard Humvees.

  I parked in an open spot as the security pickup truck drove away, then went up a sidewalk flanked by hedge work that led to an odd triangular-shaped wooden building that announced it was the plant’s visitors’ center. Inside there was a curved counter packed with phones, and also packed with New Hampshire State Police officers and other cops in a variety of uniforms using the phones, talking, and eating from a buffet-style table set up on the other side of the lobby.

  A tired-looking Ron Shelton came from around the counter, shook my hand, and said, “Lewis Cole, from Shoreline, right? Thanks for coming over.”

  I followed him past the counter, down a hallway, to an office at the end. There was a desk and bookcases and comfortable chairs, and a large window that overlooked the rear of the visitors’ center and something called the Nature Trail. Ron had on Top-Siders khaki slacks, a button-down blue shirt, and a red necktie, and though he was smiling, his eyes were red-rimmed and there were worry lines up there.

  “I know you’re friends with Paula Quinn, from the Chronicle,” he said, leaning back a bit in his chair. “I just wanted to know how she’s doing.”

  “She got out of the hospital yesterday, I know that,” I said, “and I know that being next to Bronson Toles when he got shot … that was one hell of a shock.”

  “Were you there, too?”

  “I was.”

  “Holy crap,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Paula and I have butted heads a few times over news coverage, but in the end she’s always been fair. I hope she gets better. If you see her, let her know I was asking about her, okay?”