“Yeah.”
Not very forthcoming, but I wasn’t expecting much. So I changed the subject. “Carl Lessard.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
He seemed shocked, like the soil underneath him had suddenly wavered, shifting his center of gravity.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Sweet God . . . what happened to him?”
Off in the distance, three black horses slowly moved around in a fenced-in field, occasionally stopping to graze. I wished I could have stayed here in this spot and done nothing but watch them for hours.
“Murdered,” I said. “No doubt by the Stonecold Falcons.”
“How?”
“Does it matter, Counselor?” I took my hands out of my coat pockets, breathed into them. “Before he was murdered, I met up with him, and he told me that you were safe. He didn’t say he’d talked to you, he didn’t say where you were, but he did say you were safe.”
Mark turned away, wiped at his eyes. I said, “What was it? A phone code? A call made at a special time each day?”
“Yeah. Once at eight A.M., and again at six P.M. Two rings, and then I would hang up. If he didn’t hear from me for two calls in a row, then he’d go to the cops and tell them about me and the Falcons.”
“Nice setup,” I said. “So Carl knew about your background, and about the Stonecold Falcons, and you set up a way to protect yourself in case somebody came knocking. Unfortunately for him, you didn’t figure out a way to protect him.”
He wiped at his eyes again. “What, you think I’m happy?”
“I don’t know. Are you? What I do know is that the Stonecold Falcons didn’t just waltz in and ask him politely, and then shoot him when he couldn’t give you up. Because he didn’t have anything to give up. But the Falcons were persistent. They tied him up on his bed spread-eagle, and tortured him, and tortured him, and when they were bored, or exhausted, or decided he really didn’t have anything to say, they shot him.”
“I don’t want to hear any more.” He took a couple of steps away from me.
“Ah, but you have no choice, Mark,” I said, following him. “Carl told me the exact minute and day that he was going to retire from the law and live out his life in leisure down in Florida. Instead of that, he ended his life on his own bed, terrorized, being worked over by a mad biker from Wyoming.”
He whipped around in my direction. “What the hell do you want me to do? Hunh? Okay, it’s my fault! I’m sorry! I’m responsible for his death. That make you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
I said, “Doesn’t make me happy or unhappy. And it’s not what I wanted to hear.”
“Then tell me what you want, damn it!”
I took three steps up to him, so there was no doubt I was in his face. “I want you to think hard. Really hard. Like you were taking the bar exam hard. Is this worth it? Getting your co-worker killed, upsetting Paula and putting her in danger, is it worth it all to make peace with a father who practically abandoned you years ago?”
“You don’t know if he abandoned me!”
“True enough; but I’m looking at the evidence, Mark. If he’s in WITSEC, he sure as hell didn’t seem to be spending a lot of time looking for you.”
A nasty comment for sure, and I wished I could say it bothered me.
But it didn’t.
“So think that through. And one more news flash, Mark, is that your offices had a fire in them yesterday. Some coincidence, eh?”
“What about Hannah? And Kenneth?”
“From what I know, they’re all right . . . for now. But I repeat myself. Is it worth it? Or does it make sense to wrap this up, go back to Tyler and the police and let it all out about what happened, and let the cops worry about it?”
He stood silent, arms crossed, one foot moving back and forth, back and forth, brushing against bright yellow and red leaves. “I have to do it.”
My turn to keep my mouth shut.
Mark’s voice was quiet. “My adoptive parents . . . they did their best, I guess. But they were always distant, not really . . . not really seeming like they had bonded to me. Lots of kids, their adoptive parents are a miracle, better than any biological parent. I understand that. I respect that. Maybe my circumstances were the outlier, the one percent. For me . . . they were cool and proper. Not warm and loving.”
“Did you know you were adopted?”
“No . . . not until after they were killed in a car accident. Can you imagine that, Lewis, living your entire life as a lie? Not knowing, until after the man and woman you thought were your mom and dad were in the ground, that they were fakes?”
“They weren’t fakes. They were your real parents.”
“To me . . . they were fakes . . . and I couldn’t find anything about how I had ended up in Vermont, or who my real parents were, until I got Jack Baker as a client. Do you understand? For years I thought I was alone, an orphan, a cast-off. Now . . . I’m this close”—and he made a gesture with two fingers—“to finding my real dad. In getting a second chance . . . not to be an orphan anymore. I can talk to him, learn about him and my mom, find out what he’s been doing all these years. I mean, it’s pretty nutso, don’t you think, that all these years we’ve been apart, we’ve been in practically the same neighborhood?”
“You can still go to the cops.”
“Please . . . how many hours or days would be wasted in telling them the story, convincing them what’s going on? And with those hours and days, what’s the chances that the Stonecold Falcons would get there before me, or the cops?”
He shook his head. “So, to finally answer your question. Yes . . . it’s worth it. As cold and shallow as it sounds, it’s worth it.”
We stood quietly, and then he said, “But I’ll tell you this. Once we meet up with my dad and get him someplace safe, then I’ll go to the cops. And make it right with Paula. I promise.”
I took a deep breath of cold air. We had listened to the news on the way over here. We were two days away from Thanksgiving, which coincidentally was about the same timeframe for when Hurricane Toni was going to hit New England. Time, time, time, and I didn’t have much of it left.
Other thoughts battled for attention. The memories of quiet and intimate moments with Paula. Darker thoughts of being at a graveyard in rainy Indiana, two caskets, side by side, a voice echoing in my head, you’re alone, you’re alone, you’re alone. Those quiet moments at my house, before it was crippled, sitting by myself on my rear deck and just yearning for more out there than casual friends or lovers.
Lots of thoughts.
“Very well, Counselor,” I said. “Let’s go meet your mole and find your dad.”
But then a surprising delay came my way. My cell phone rang, and in flipping open the cover, I didn’t recognize the caller. Any other time, I would have ignored the call, but this wasn’t any other time.
“Hello?”
“Mister Lewis Cole?” came a gravelly voice.
“The same.”
A soft chuckle. “So we finally meet, bro.”
I’ll be damned.
“At least over the phone,” I said. “So how’s your day going, Mister Langley?”
Another laugh, like he had all the time in the world to find things to amuse himself. “Jus’ fine, jus’ fine,” said the head of the Stonecold Falcons. “Got a moment to spare?”
Mark looked at me wide-eyed, whispering questions to me, and I held up my hand to him. I leaned against the Mazda’s right front fender. It was warm. “Absolutely, and I have to say, I’m impressed that you found out my phone number. I was led to believe by my carrier that it was unlisted.”
“Then maybe you should ask for a refund,” Reeve said. “Truth is, a lot of smart fellas like to ride, even tech types, and they like to do favors for other guys who ride.”
“Good for you.”
“Now, speakin’ of favors, how about you do me one and let me know where and how I
can meet up with Mark Spencer? What’s between him and me is personal, and there’s no reason for you to get caught in the middle, all innocent like.”
“Mmm,” I said, crossing my legs. “He’s not the most personable man I’ve ever met. After spending some time with him, that’s a very attractive offer.”
In a panic, Mark came closer to me, and I brushed him off again with my free hand.
“Sure is, and let me sweeten the deal,” Reeve went on. “You’ve pissed me off twice, by shooting out my tires in Tyler, and by squirreling the little bastard away right underneath my nose, with a friend of yours shooting it out with me and my buds. In my world, that calls for me to take drastic action. But I’m in a good mood, despite all this shit, so I’ll leave everything alone, let bygones be bygones, the moment you turn him over to me.”
“That’s a good sweetener,” I said. “But the other day you were in the process of kidnapping a friend of mine. I take that very seriously.”
“Hell, I wasn’t gonna hurt her,” he said, voice shocked, like I was accusing him of undertipping a waitress. “I was jus’ gonna try to talk some sense into her, find out where Mark Spencer was hiding out. That’s all. She was a fine piece . . . I wasn’t gonna do a thing to her. Whaddya say, do we have a deal?”
“Not sure, Reeve,” I said. “I’m afraid you’re pretty low in the trustworthy tank. I can’t get the thought of Carl Lessard being butchered, and those law offices being torched, out of my mind.”
His voice changed so quickly it was like another man was talking to me, for the voice was darker, more urgent. “Cole . . . I’ve been forthright, and I’ve been patient. But by God, you’re gonna do what I tell you, and give up Mark. I hear you’re an educated fella, know books and magazines and shit, but believe me this, you don’t know shit. In your deepest, darkest, scariest nightmares, you can’t even come close to what I will do to you if you don’t give up that shithead lawyer. Other guys might talk about knives and razors and fire, but that’s nothing compared to what I will do to you. You understand me now? Do you?”
“Reeve, I certainly do,” I said. “Thanks for enlightening me.”
I could hear him take a satisfied breath on the other end of the phone. “Good.”
“I think I’m going to change my mind.”
The soft chuckle from before had returned. “Good again.”
“All right, here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll meet someplace public, grab a cup of coffee, and then you tell me, man to man, face to face, how we’ll settle this so I’m not in danger, nor Mark’s fiancée. All right? I’m going to need some sort of guarantee before telling you where to pick up Mark.”
“Sounds righteous,” Reeve said.
“Glad you like it,” I said. “Now, do you know where I am?”
“No.”
“Good,” I said, and I hung up on him. Mark was motionless, not saying a word, as I turned my phone over, removed the battery and then the SIM card. I broke the SIM card in half and then tossed everything in the pond.
“Now you owe me a new phone,” I said, walking back to the Mazda.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We drove on for another five minutes or so, until we stopped at an unmarked dirt road that led off to the right. Old stone walls were on either side. There was no mailbox at the end of the dirt lane.
“He’s down this road?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Mark said, still looking pretty shook up after hearing my end of the conversation with Reeve Langley. “At the end of the road, a few hundred yards from here.”
I kept the Mazda parked, engine running. I looked around. This road was very narrow, barely enough space for one car to pass another, and the woods were deep and dark.
I didn’t like it.
“Hold on for a sec,” I said, and I got out. I took out my Beretta, made sure there was a round in the chamber and the safety was off, and I also checked the two spare magazines I carried with my holster. From inside the Mazda, Mark had leaned over the driver’s seat to see what I was doing.
I got back into the car. Mark said, “Seems like a bit over the top, don’t you think? Jack Baker’s about the quietest guy I know.”
“You know him, but I don’t,” I said. “So don’t be upset if I don’t take your word for it. And Reeve Langley and associates knew what part of Lake Pettis you were hiding out at. What, you think they were doing a late-foliage tour and stumbled over us by mistake?”
“I guess not.”
“Plus they had gotten my unlisted phone number. Which means they’re skilled in hunting. So I’m not assuming we’re driving into anyplace safe.” I shifted the Mazda into DRIVE, turned, and went down the dirt road. “And neither should you.”
I drove for a short distance, the backs of my hands and neck warm and tingling, and I was pleased to see a spot at the side of the road where somebody had dumped a load of dirt—maybe in prep for tearing out some trees and making a foundation—but the place was big enough for what I wanted. I stopped, put the Mazda in REVERSE, and parked it there, shutting off the engine.
“Time for a walk,” I said, stepping out. “Want to see your pal Jack nice and quiet. No need to announce we’re coming.”
Mark got out and said “Hey, you’re leaving the keys in.”
“You bet.”
“Suppose somebody comes by and steals it?”
I gave him a look. “Please. Where’s the bustling crowd of would-be car thieves out there, Mark? And suppose you and I are at Jack’s house, something goes wrong, and we’re hauling ass back to the car. You want to waste an extra thirty or so seconds, grabbing car keys, putting them in the ignition?”
Mark gave me a look in return. “Paula’s right. You’ve had an interesting life.”
I started walking. “You have no idea.”
It was a perfect fall afternoon for a walk, but I made note of the time and where the sun was setting. Years ago I had been up in the White Mountains with Paula Quinn for what we expected to be a brief hike, but I had misjudged the length of the trail and how long it would take us to get back to the trailhead. If we had gone up in July, we would have gotten back with no problem. But hiking in October, like we had, meant a half hour of some tough trail walking with the aid of a tiny, flickering flashlight, with no overnight gear to keep us warm when the temperatures fell.
Lesson learned.
The road ended in a wide spot, a mix of dirt and thin grass. It took me a few moments to take in the home of Mark’s information mole, Jack Baker. It looked like the fevered dreams of an architectural student, realizing he was one class project away from failing. There was a mobile home—or a pre-fabricated housing unit, depending on your point of view—next to a wooden yurt that looked like it had been airdropped in from Outer Mongolia. Two other small buildings, about the size of my garage before it had become rubble, were attached to the side of the yurt. A metal chimney came up through the roof, from which a tendril of gray smoke eddied up into the November air.
A mud-splattered black Jeep Wrangler was parked to the side. It had two bumper stickers: one said MY OTHER VEHICLE GOES AT WARP SPEED, and the other said I BRAKE FOR BYTES.
I tugged my jacket open, just touched the handle of my Beretta. “Does this place look okay? That his Wrangler?”
“Yeah, that’s his Jeep.”
I scanned the yard and surrounding woods. Some time ago, the woods had been thinned out, and it looked almost pastoral, like this tumble-down group of buildings had been placed next to a Disney nature preserve. I didn’t spot any other vehicles, didn’t sense anybody out there lurking to do us harm.
“This guy is supposed to be high-tech, all the tools of the trade to go romping around the Internet?”
“That’s right.”
“Where are the power lines?” I looked up the road and back to the yard. “I don’t see any solar panels, or a fission reactor anyplace near. So where does he get his power?”
“Jack’s a smart one,” Mark said. “He paid to have the
power lines to his house placed underground, narrow the chances of losing power in a snow storm or ice storm.”
“That’s pretty pricey.”
“He’s got the money.”
“Yeah, I see him splurging on his real estate. Come on, I’ll let you make the introductions.”
By climbing a creaking set of splintered stairs, we went up to the nearest door, which was on the side of the not-so-mobile home. Mark knocked on the door, yelled out “Hey, Jack! It’s Mark. You in there?”
It was crowded where we were, so I went back to one of the lower steps, leaving Mark between me and the door. Maybe I was just making room, or maybe I was using Mark as a shield in case someone large and mean showed up in the door.
Who knew?
As we waited, I started imagining who this Jack Baker was. I was thinking of a large, bulky guy, beard down to his waist, wearing patched jeans and a Star Trek T-shirt, with all the grooming and hygiene skills one would expect from living as a hermit in these deep woods.
The door opened up. A slim young man opened the door. He had on pressed khakis, brown penny loafers, a hand-knit blue and white turtleneck sweater, carrying a cup of tea with the tea bag still in it. He was about ten years or so younger than me, with short brown hair and bright cheery eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like an accountant who was happy that his daily danger quotient only extended to the odd paper cut.
“Hey, Mark, come on in,” he said, opening the door. “Who’s your friend?”
I stepped inside the trailer, found a warm, comfortably laid-out interior, with ivory carpeting, contemporary couches and chairs, and not a single velvet painting of Elvis hanging off the wall. The Beretta at my side, beneath my coat, felt awkward, heavy, and out of place.
It was turning out to be a day of stupid assumptions on my part, and surprises on other people’s parts.
Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) Page 16