“All right.”
“But they were sent to California. It appears that one of the attending physicians checked off the wrong box on the pathology request, and the samples were sent to our facility in San Diego.”
“In California? The Golden State? The one on the West Coast? The Pacific Ocean?”
“Uh …”
I tried to take a moment to calm down. I failed. “Let me get this straight. My tumor samples, the ones that are going to tell me if I have cancer or not, they could have been hand-delivered to your testing lab a few streets down—and now they’re in California?”
“Er, not really.”
“What do you mean, not really? Isn’t that what you just told me?”
“Not exactly, Mr. Cole. They were sent to California. The tracking number indicates that they haven’t yet arrived. It looks like … they were misplaced.”
I hung up the phone.
I was still on the couch when Felix came into my house, one arm in a sling, his good arm carrying a large grocery bag with twine handles. He caught my eye and said, “I’ll remind you that I’m the one that’s supposed to be blue, the one with a bullet wound in his arm.”
“And I’ll remind you that I’ve also been shot.”
He snorted in disdain, put the shopping bag on the counter. “Yeah. In the lower leg, by a professor from UNH using a .22 pistol. When it comes to shooting and other complex tasks, most UNH professors couldn’t pour the proverbial piss out of a boot with the instructions printed on the heel. I got hit by a pro.”
“How’s your arm?”
He pulled it free from the sling. “Doing great, and thanks for bandaging me up. I was able to locate my freelance physician late that night. Got everything cleaned up and stitched.”
He started pulling packages from the bag. “Barbecue sound okay?”
I looked outside. “Might start raining.”
“It’s all right.”
“Could you get the sliding glass door opened? I tried … well, the stick I use to block the runners was stuck.”
“Sure,” Felix said. He walked around the kitchen counter, bent down, and flipped it out with one motion.
Using his wounded arm.
He spotted my look and said, “I’m sure you loosened it.”
“Yeah.”
I got off the couch, limped my way to the sliding glass door, unlocked it, then slid it and the screen door open. I stepped out on the deck, breathed in the cold salt air. It felt good. There were wooden chairs and a square wooden table out on the deck, as well as my gas barbecue grill. Felix went to the grill and took the cover off, lifted up the lid, and lit it off.
There was sand all across the deck. Any other day I would take a push broom and clean the sand off, but yeah, this wasn’t any other day. To the south was the bulk of Weymouth’s Point, and the houses scattered on top, as well as the seawall leading up to it. Not much traffic on Atlantic Avenue. Out on the waters the sharp forms of the Isles of Shoals were as clear as ever, and up to the north, the woods and grassy mounds of the Samson State Wildlife Preserve. Decades before it had been a Coast Artillery Station, and this little house of mine had been converted from a lifeboat station to officers’ quarters, and now, according to an amateur historian and genealogist from New York, it had been something else for a year or two, during the Korean War.
Felix came to me and said, “You look cold.”
“I’ll be all right.” I leaned over the far railing, noted the large rocks and boulders, the dark waves rolling in and splashing up and roaring, moving to and fro, the waters out there sliding to Hampton Shoals, the Gulf of Maine, and the Atlantic … all those constant waves, all the endless motion, year after year.
“This will be a good place,” I said.
Felix stood next to me. “What kind of place?”
“When the time comes, to spread my ashes. Be part of the ocean. Forever.”
“Pretty grim talk,” Felix said.
“Sometimes it’s necessary. Have you thought about what’s going to happen to your remains?”
“Sure,” he said. “I have it all figured out. I’m going to die in bed at a hundred and ten years old, after a fine meal and sponge bath by two sweet nurses, and then I’ll be buried in a large lot with a headstone so years afterwards, sobbing women will throw themselves down upon the ground and mourn me.”
“Mine sounds simpler.”
“Mine sounds more fun, more fulfilling,” Felix said. He looked up to the darkening and thickening clouds. “Going to rain soon.”
“Yeah.”
“You get the pathology report back on your tumors yet?”
“Nope.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“One of my attending physicians checked off the wrong box on a form. Instead of going a few blocks down in Boston to be tested, my tumor samples are in San Diego.”
Felix went over to check the grill’s temperature, came back. “In California?”
“No, Vermont,” I said. “And even with the tracking number, they’ve lost them. Still some waiting ahead.”
“So there’s a part of you getting a free trip to California.”
“Some guys get all the luck.”
He stood quietly and said, “You should go back in. It’s cold.”
“My first time out on the deck in a while. I’ll stay.”
Felix said nothing, went into the house, and came back with one of my winter coats. He draped it over my shoulders, gave my good shoulder a squeeze, and went to work.
The rain started coming down.
I didn’t move.
CHAPTER TEN
Dinner was barbecue steak tips, some sort of potato logs—fresh-made, not frozen—and asparagus spears. I’m usually not fond of green items at dinner, except for a salad, but Felix had expertly grilled them and sauced them so that even I would eat most of what he served me.
We ate at the kitchen counter, just as the heavy rains rolled in and started their drumming on my roof and deck. Remembering what I had experienced that morning, I said, “You get lots of dreams?”
“All the time.”
“Weird ones? Scary ones?”
“Yes, yes, and more than that.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged his strong shoulders. “You know the kind. Little snippets of memory, running like video clips.”
“Yeah. Those disturb you?
“Well … I’ve done things in the past I’m not proud of. You try to move on, try to forget, try to atone if necessary. And I do hate those little night reminders. Especially if they involve gunfire or blood. Funny how those types of dreams don’t bring back happier times.”
We ate some more and he asked, “What brought that up? You have an odd dream?”
“Pretty damn odd. I … somebody from my past was there, in my bedroom, talking to me.”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s been dead—for a while.”
“Oh. Chrissy, the one you were with, back at the Pentagon.”
“Cissy,” I said, saying her name aloud, so she would not be forgotten. “Cissy Manning.”
“You dream of her often?”
“No, which is odd. She came to me and told me—”
“What?” Felix asked, eyes steady on me.
I went back to eating. “Never mind.”
When we were through and the dishes were done, I made some coffee and we retired to the living room. “What’s up with the arm?” I said.
He twisted it to and fro. “A little weak, but I’m working on it. The stitches should come out in a few days. In the meantime, I’m on the hunt for Pepe and his gang of merry men.”
“They scatter?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “And I think once they found out I was still mobile, still looking for them, they scattered even further, like the proverbial herd of cockroaches scattering when the light hits them.”
�
�You still believe their story? About going to Maggie’s place to do a quick robbery, and that they found her there dead?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “What I’m looking for now is the whereabouts of my great-granddad’s silver, and making an … arrangement concerning the young man who shot me.”
“That should be interesting for all involved, but it’ll be a crowded hunt. The Tyler police and the state police know about Pepe and his friends being there.”
There was the slightest tightening around Felix’s eyes. “Go on. Do you know how this amazing bit of information got to them?”
“Maybe I gave you up.”
The eyes tightened more and then his face broke out in a wide grin, showing me once again why he does so fine with the ladies.
“Yeah. Right. What was the real deal then?”
“The forensics folks found a glassine envelope with heroin in it, marked with a bluebird, which signified it came from an outfit in Lowell and Lawrence.”
“Okay.”
“So how did it get there? Dropped during the panic?”
“Maybe.”
“Because I don’t see Maggie Branch dealing.”
“Maybe she was a customer,” Felix said quietly.
“Felix,” and then I shut up. I had read the news stories, seen the news reports. The heroin epidemic was cutting a wide swath through my home state, and it wasn’t picky about age or condition.
“Maybe she was,” I said.
“I’m sure the police will be looking into it,” he said.
“Have you gone to them about your granddad’s silver?”
“Have you taken leave of your senses? Never talk to cops unless otherwise necessary, and always have a couple of alibis and stories ready to come out when needed. Besides, they’re busy with Maggie and other crimes, right?”
“Not sure about other crimes, but—”
Hold on, I thought. Just hold on.
“Felix.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not keeping track of such things, but how’s the market for silver nowadays?”
“Up,” he said. “Like all precious metals. Gold, silver, platinum. Usually goes up when news is bad.”
“You collect?”
“Nope,” he said. “I collect other valuables. Freeze-dried food, water, ammunition. I figure if and when the collapse comes, the essentials will come first. What are you driving at?”
“You mentioned other crimes,” I said. “There was a break-in at the Tyler Chronicle the night before last.”
“What did they take? Old lead letters?”
“Close. Darkroom sludge. From chemicals that have been used in developing film at the Chronicle for decades. Supposedly sludge like that can contain a fair amount of silver, especially when market demand is up.”
Felix nodded slowly. “Interesting. Great-granddad’s silver goes missing, and silver sludge is stolen from the Chronicle. Could be a coincidence, but you know me. There’s no such thing.” He glanced at his watch. “In the meantime, I need to go hunting.”
“Wish I could go along with you.”
Felix stood up. “Are you nuts? Long hours driving around, asking questions, visiting grungy places, meeting people out in the shadows. Doesn’t sound much like fun.”
“I didn’t say it would be fun,” I said. I took a long view around my living room. “I’m going a bit stir crazy. I need to get out and about.”
Felix smiled, gave my good shoulder a squeeze. “What are you complaining about? Part of you is already in California.”
That night I watched three more episodes of Band of Brothers. Once again I envied the clarity of what was going on back then, though I’m sure if I had been a paratrooper in the famed Easy Company of the 506th, I’d be more concerned with food, sleep, my buddies, and not getting my ass shot off instead of the great moral issues of that war.
It was getting late and I was wondering if I would be able to fall asleep—the caffeine consumption and the news was keeping me awake. Heroin found at Maggie’s place. A gang from Lowell and Lawrence claiming they came across her when she was already dead. Felix’s silver missing. Silver stolen from the Chronicle. And my own condition, and my own home misadventures. I couldn’t get that dream of Cissy out of my head. It had been so real, so alive, so … true.
But it couldn’t have happened.
So what had occurred? A leftover from my first and last experience with a heavy-duty painkiller? Or something else that might be connected to my surgery, when my body was so violently opened up and closed by the skilled surgeons?
And another thought came to me, about my invisible and late-night visitor.
Maybe that needed to be filed along with my Cissy Manning sighting.
Maybe.
Then the lights went out.
All right. I had no fire going in the fireplace, which meant the living room was plunged into darkness. Eventually my eyes would adjust and the ambient light from outside would at least outline where the furniture was, so I could walk around without tripping over anything.
Flashlights. Since I’m right next to the ocean and my house is on the end of the power circuit for this part of the beach, I’ve been a madman about keeping flashlights in every room of the house, but that had been pre-fire. Now? Well, the only place where I was certain there was a flashlight was upstairs in my bedroom.
I got up. Couldn’t locate my borrowed cane.
All right, we’ll just go upstairs without it.
I started shuffling my feet, and stifled a chuckle, knowing that the way I was slowly shuffling with arms held out was akin to what poor Mr. Karloff had to endure in filming some of his classic horror movies. I got through the living room without tripping, and then I made it to the stairway without encountering an angry, torch-bearing mob, so that was good.
With hand on a banister, I got upstairs in a fair amount of time, and feeling pretty cocky, made a right and—
Promptly ran into the open door. Edgewise.
Crap, that hurt.
I moved around, arms still waving some, and then I got into my bedroom.
Fantastic.
My eyes must have adjusted somewhat and the bedroom looked pretty well lit-up. I could even make out the tumbled pile of blankets and sheets.
I stopped just as I got to the bed.
Something was wrong.
Something wasn’t right.
Okay.
I looked around and with the ambient light coming in—
Wait a sec.
I made my way to the near window, which overlooked my tiny yard and a pile of large boulders and stones that rose up to Atlantic Avenue, and right above that was the steady glow of lights coming from the Lafayette House and the streetlights. I moved around, peered south.
More lights.
Only my home was suffering a blackout.
I moved around and got to the nightstand, picked up the phone.
No dial tone.
All right. No power, no phone.
I went to the door leading out to the small deck facing south. Through the glass I saw all the lights of Tyler Beach at nighttime.
And I saw something else.
What looked to be a bobbing light, up by the edge of the Lafayette House parking lot. Someone holding a flashlight.
I watched for another minute. The bobbing light kept bobbing.
But now it was coming down my dirt driveway.
Back to the nightstand, I picked up my own flashlight, and reaching between the mattress and box spring, retrieved my Beretta. I wasted some important seconds, wondering how I would carry the pistol with no holster. In my saggy pajama bottoms, I couldn’t shove it between my waist and waistband.
To hell with it.
I switched on the flashlight, cupped my hand around the beam so it wouldn’t light up the nearby world, and got out of the bedroom without smashing my nose and face again.
Down the stairs, and then I switched off the light, and waited.
Wait
ed.
Lots of dark thoughts dancing around back there, thinking about locked doors, windows, setting up a line of defense, and then a line of retreat.
But I didn’t feel like retreating tonight. I unlocked the door and stepped out.
Outside, the cool spring air was refreshing, especially since I was sweating like the proverbial swine. A quick look to the left, up to my driveway, showed not one but two bobbing lights coming toward me.
I moved to the right, across my tiny, scraggly lawn, where there was a line of boulders and rocks. I banged my shins twice—one for each leg, of course—and settled down.
Outside was better than being inside. Offense is better than a good defense. Patton said something about any fortification built by man can be surpassed by man. Or something like that.
The two lights paused where my driveway flattened out and approached my new one-car garage. A dark stream quickly plowed though my mind: if I saw anyone light a match, flare, or Molotov cocktail, I was going to start shooting without asking any questions at all.
The two lights were close now, as though their handlers were conferring.
About the best way to approach my house? To break in? To do what?
Over the sound of the waves, I could make out the soft murmur of voices. The lights split up and started to the front door. The lead light went up to the front door, knocked hard, three times.
Another quick confer.
Two more hard knocks.
No response from inside the house.
What a surprise.
The two lights backed off, and then it looked like there was another chitchat session. I was cold and worried and uncomfortable, and there was a heaviness at my back and shoulder that told me it was way beyond time to empty the bladders, but still, I was enjoying myself.
Why?
Because I was in control, I was in charge, and I was no longer going to be a victim.
The conference seemed to have ended; the lights started going up the driveway, then stopped, and there were some harsh voices. One light came back, the other one following, and back to the door.
More harsh whispers.
Then a shape bent over, and the other light backed away, illuminating my doorknob.
Enough.
I stood up, keeping the rocks in front of me as a barrier, and switched on my own flashlight. “Freeze right there!” I yelled.
Hard Aground Page 9