Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series)

by DuBois, Brendan

  “How long have they been waiting?”

  “Three years. But we’re still friends. So I brought Paula in, told them that it would be a considerable favor to me if she was a guest for a couple of days.” Felix paused. “It will only be a couple of days, right?”

  “It had better be.”

  “Good. I’ve avoided a lot of things over the years, and I don’t want to add attempted kidnapping to the mix. So there she is. She put up one hell of a fight, even when I was trying to tell her to calm down and make her realize this was all being done for her own safety. Lucky for me, they have a number of puppies and horses here, which managed to distract her. Paula’s cooled down some, but I wouldn’t push it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s on your agenda? What’s the quest you’re on?”

  “Seems like Mark Spencer is a man with a mysterious past.”

  “Lewis, all men have mysterious pasts. That’s why women put up with us.”

  “It seems his Vermont parents were his adoptive parents. His birth mom is dead, and his birth dad is alive and up here in Maine, under the Witness Protection Program. The old guy is dying, and Mark wants to see him before that happens.”

  “The old man from Wyoming?”

  “Yes.”

  “The old man once a member of the Stonecold Falcons Motorcycle Club?”

  “The vice president. Before he flipped and sent a number of them to prison.”

  “Oh, my,” Felix said. “Which explains why the club’s president is hot on Mark’s trail. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but when you do something like that, go against the club and put men that consider you their brother in jail . . . there’s no time limit on that. Revenge will be a dish served freeze-dried, if you know what I mean.”

  “Unfortunately, I do. So the agenda is for the two of us to go up the coast of Maine, do a meet and greet, maybe some sobs and reconciliation, and then get the hell out and go to the police, tell them what happened back in Tyler and who’s behind it.”

  “Sounds like a busy agenda.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got any room on your agenda for day after tomorrow?”

  “Felix. . . .”

  “Don’t argue. Doesn’t Thanksgiving with Aunt Teresa, her current boyfriend, and lady caregivers sound like fun?”

  “You really expect to fly south in this weather?”

  “No, I don’t, which is why they’re up here, in a nice hotel in western Massachusetts. Might get some rain, but that’s it. Private suite, dinner with all the trimmings. . . .”

  “Felix, I can’t leave until I’m done . . . and even when I’m done, there’s my house.”

  “Oh. Your house. Anything new?”

  “No, but I think there’ll be a lot new after the storm comes through. A nice cellar hole where it used to be.”

  Felix stayed quiet, like he was embarrassed to bring up the matter, and I said: “About those doomsday preppers. Do they have a space for you when the markets collapse, or when the long-promised zombie apocalypse hits?”

  “Nope.”

  “And why not? It sounds like something you’d want to be prepared for.”

  Finally a laugh from Felix. “When and if doomsday comes, it’s going to be scared of me. Not the other way around. Talk to you later.”

  It took a while for sleep to come. I turned on the light in the bathroom and closed the door mostly shut, so there was some illumination coming into the room. It was noisy with a nearby road, horns from boats in the harbor, and some drunken shouts and yells from a bar just a ways down the street. I slept on top of the bed in my clothes, tossed and turned, and thought about what would happen in the morning. I’d sleep in as much as possible, get up and wash up, and then grab Mark and head northeast up the coast of Maine. Once we got to North Point Harbor, track down Mark’s dad, do a quick reunion, and suggest—even with his illness—that dad go somewhere else on the off chance the Stonecold Falcons made it up there.

  That was the plan I made during the night.

  And it fell apart about ten minutes after I woke up.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was just after seven A.M. when I rolled out of bed, and I spent a handful of minutes washing up and brushing my teeth, and changing out some of my clothes from my recent Walgreen’s purchase. Putting on my holstered pistol and jacket, and with my hands pretty much empty, I stepped outside, where a light rain was falling, the first gentle and deadly kisses from Hurricane Toni.

  I went down one unit and banged on the door. “Mark! It’s Lewis! Let’s get going.”

  No answer. I shivered. My coat wasn’t really heavy enough for the colder weather and approaching rain. A tractor-trailer rumbled by, and seagulls were trotting along the cracked pavement of the sidewalk, picking up whatever scraps that appeared to be food.

  I hammered again.

  “Mark!”

  Then I turned and looked at the parking lot again.

  His Mazda was gone.

  The little bell on the office door chimed when I came in, and the same woman from last night, Kathi Hawkins, came out of the rear office. This morning her Portland Sea Dogs sweatshirt had been replaced by one from the New England Patriots.

  “Hi,” I said. “Sorry to bother you . . . but my friend: did you see him drive off in a Mazda, one with New Hampshire license plates?”

  “Yep, about fifteen minutes ago. He rolled right in here, dropped off his key, said ‘are we fine?’ and I said ‘yep, we’re fine,’ and off he went.”

  “Did he say he was coming back? I mean, did he say he was just going out for coffee or anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” Like I needed to ask. But I was covering all the bases, as disappointing as they were.

  Kathi shook her head. “Sorry, mister, nothing like that. Just dropped the key and left . . . but I can tell you this. He took a right when he got out of the parking lot. That’ll lead him right back to an off-ramp. Could be heading down to Boston, up to Augusta, or up the coast. Plenty of places to go to.”

  I nodded, put my own key on the counter, and walked back outside.

  I huddled underneath an overhang from the motel’s office. The rain was coming down heavier, and puddles were forming in the parking lot. A few seagulls were still wandering about, two of them tussling over the soggy remains of a cruller. The wind was starting to come off the water, and I stamped my feet some.

  What to do?

  In normal times, I could catch a cab to the airport, rent a car, and start hot on Mark’s trail. I knew exactly where he was going, up to North Point Harbor. Mark had a lead on me but not a wide one, though time would certainly be lost by going to the airport and renting a car.

  I checked my wallet. Six dollars. Some change in my pocket. Not enough for a cab ride.

  I didn’t bother with my credit cards. They were already maxed out, and I had used cash to pay for last night’s unforgettable stay. If I tried to rent a car, the best that could happen would be a refusal, the worst could be a refusal plus having my cards destroyed right in front of me.

  What to do?

  I took out my cell phone. I could just give it all up. A phone call to Felix and he’d come pick me up, and I could go someplace where I’d have a real meal, a clean shower and clean clothes, and I could call Paula and hear the anger in her voice, but tell her what had happened. That her Mark was alive but was driving up to Maine to meet his long-lost biker convict Dad, and that she would be smart and safe to stay in Milan until he contacted her.

  Then I would share turkey day with Felix and his aunt and the assorted friends, and laugh and eat and laugh some more, and try to forget Paula and her slug of a fiancé, and also try not to dwell on a hurricane that was about to sweep what was left of my house out to the unforgiving and unforgetting Atlantic.

  What to do?

  I stared more at my cell phone. Back when I’d been at the Department of Defense, working in an obscure intelligence
-analysis section, I’d often met with men and women who were active duty, going into places that I only knew from news reports and highly classified briefings. There were times when they were asked to do something impossible, or highly dangerous, or highly boring and routine, and when arguments ensued, they sometimes ended with one telling the other, “Embrace the suck.”

  Embrace the suck.

  Wind came up harder, driving rain into my face.

  I put my cell phone away, turned, and walked back into the office.

  Back into the motel office, and Kathi was still there, behind the counter. “Ma’am, if I may, my name is Lewis Cole.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lewis,” she said, tidying up a pile of receipts.

  I took out my business card and my New Hampshire press pass, slid them over the counter. She looked down at them and, a bit concerned, asked: “You’re a magazine writer? Really? Are you doing a story?”

  “Kathi, I’m a writer,” I said, leaving both the business card and my press pass on the counter. “But I’m not working on a story. In fact, I don’t even work at that magazine anymore. My boss fired me a couple of weeks ago. Right now I’m trying to help a friend of mine.”

  “The man who left you behind?”

  “No, his girlfriend.”

  “Oh. She your sister, then? Or daughter?”

  “No, just a friend. And she asked me to watch out for him. He’s . . . he’s in serious trouble. I promised her that I would be at his side, all the time, and now he’s gone.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Good question. How to answer? What could I say?

  “He’s driving up the coast, looking to meet up with his dad. He hasn’t seen his dad in years. The dad’s dying . . . but he’s also done some time in prison. And he helped put some nasty men in prison . . . and those men, they’re after him and his dad.”

  Eyes wide, Kathi said: “Shouldn’t you call the police?”

  “I should. In fact, I should have done that days ago. But we don’t have much time. Those nasty men are out there, and we’re not too sure how much longer his dad has. I’m afraid if I called the cops, it would take too long to explain everything, without having to answer all their questions.”

  A pudgy finger nudged my press pass. “You don’t have to tell me about cops. Christ, all depends on who’s working what shift when it comes to how much help I can get when the shit hits the fan. Sometimes I get a smart cop, other times I get one who doesn’t want to be bothered. I get a guy whaling on his girlfriend in one of my rooms, it might take some time before they show up, and they don’t want to make an arrest or make a report. Just sweep it under the rug.”

  I took my wallet out, removed my fortune, placed it next to my business card and press pass.

  “I’m embarrassed to say this, but this is all I have. I’m concerned he’s going to get hurt without me being around. If you know of someone that I could rent a vehicle from, I’ll leave my driver’s license behind, I’ll sign a promissory note, I’ll do whatever I can, for fair compensation.”

  She eyed me and the pathetic display on her counter. “That man must mean a lot to you.”

  I shook my head. “Truth is, I could never see him again and that’d make me very happy.”

  “Then why put yourself out? Oh. For her. Your friend who’s with him.”

  “That’s right.”

  Kathi pushed my cash back, reached under the counter, took out a twenty-dollar bill, slipped that across as well. She said: “Out back, by the Dumpster, there’s a black Toyota pickup truck. Can’t miss it. You can borrow it, but by God, you bring it back tomorrow or I’ll call the cops. With your business card here, wouldn’t be that hard to track you down, now, would it.”

  “No. And I’ll pay you back.”

  “Of course you will,” Kathi said. “And where are you going again?”

  “North Point Harbor. Way up on the coast.”

  A knowing nod. “Stick to Route 1, the coast road. Usually I-295 is quicker, but they’re trying to wrap up so much construction before winter sets in, it’ll slow you down.”

  “But your truck . . . aren’t you going to need it?”

  “Nope. It belongs to my son. You can borrow it.”

  “Won’t your son miss it?”

  “I wish he would, but he’s not here. He’s in the 10th Mountain Division, outside of Kabul.” Her eyes welled up. “He’s doing fine, will be home safe in a few weeks, but I think he’d let you borrow it, just like me.”

  From underneath the counter again, she took out a set of keys, and I took them from her warm hand. “You bring that truck back now, all right?”

  “Guaranteed.”

  “Now get going. You’re wasting time.”

  I turned; but before I got to the door, Kathi said, “Hey, mind answering a question?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “This woman,” she said. “Why is she with him and not you?”

  “A very good question,” I replied, and went outside into the driving rain.

  I slopped my way around the side of the motel, found the Dumpster and the Toyota pickup truck in question. It had a couple of Army decals on the rear window and the bumper. It was smelly outside and there was wet trash on the ground, but I unlocked the front door and got in. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke but was reasonably clean. It started up on the first turn of the ignition key, and the gas gauge read FULL.

  Kathi Hawkins had taken good care of her son’s truck, and I was going to do my best to return the favor.

  From the motel I took I-295 north, away from Portland, and the rain was a steady downpour from Hurricane Toni, still grinding her way up the Atlantic Coast. As I drove, I switched music station to music station, with an emphasis on whatever passed as oldies nowadays, since I didn’t want to hear any news updates about what Toni was doing.

  I called Felix and left him a message, and then focused on my driving. The little pickup truck did okay but vibrated some if I went above sixty, and I forced myself to avoid doing just that. I wasn’t that far behind Mark, and if some luck came my way—him being slow and cautious, or getting lost, or stopping somewhere for lunch—I just might catch up with him. Especially if he had taken the normal route of I-295.

  Might.

  And then what?

  Have him do his business with his father, and then drag his sorry carcass back to New Hampshire and let him have whatever kind of reunion Paula was planning for him.

  I hoped it was going to involve a lot of sharp tongue and cold shoulder.

  From I-295—and before the construction work appeared—I got onto Route 1, Maine’s coastal route, doing my best to avoid the center of capitalism and commerce that’s Freeport, and in a while I passed through Brunswick, which had once hosted a Naval Air Station, which was now closed. After Brunswick, there came Bath, famed for its Bath Iron Works, maker of fine naval warships, and which is always in danger of being closed. And following Bath, I drove through Wiscasset, which had once hosted a nuclear power plant, which was now closed.

  Lots of powerful things were being closed or being threatened. It must have been nice to live in a time when powerful things were being built and opened.

  Eventually the driving settled down to the two lanes of Route 1, which dipped and curved as it traveled along the coast of Maine, which was a) rugged, b) rural, c) charming, or d) poverty-stricken, or make up your own mind. Some time ago, the legislators up in Augusta were considering putting a lobster on the state license plates, as a symbol of Maine. Considering that a lot more goes on in Maine besides lobsters, I was surprised when it actually happened, although some Maine critics said that if they really wanted to describe the current state of Maine and its poverty rate, a more appropriate symbol would be a box of Kraft instant macaroni and cheese.

  Outside Newcastle, the rain slowed and finally stopped, and I was able to switch off the windshield wipers.

  But the sky was gray and just looked odd and out of place, like some une
xpected vision of what type of chaos was waiting ahead.

  Outside Bar Harbor, centuries-old playground of the rich and famous, I stopped at a McDonald’s. There was a line at the drive-up, so I parked my borrowed truck and ducked in, quickly emerging with two plain quarter-pounders with cheese (or a Royale with cheese, depending on your point of view) and a large Coke. Meat, bread, cheese, and caffeine. I was depending on these four major food groups to see me through.

  When I was finished eating while driving, I tried Felix once more.

  No service.

  No joy.

  When I got to North Point Harbor, I slowed down and took my time. The town was off Route 1, and I took a minor state road to get there. It was a lobster port, built around a high and rocky cove, and the buildings were mostly white with black shutters and looked old and worn from having been near the harsh saltwaters of the ocean. Most homes had pickup trucks, and a fair amount had large stacks of lobster traps piled up in their yards, storing them for the winter, along with a number of lobster boats that had been hauled out and wrapped tight with white plastic.

  I drove up to a general store that had two gas pumps up front, and pulled in and just rested for a moment. A long drive, almost there, and I suppose I should be thinking grand thoughts of strategy and tactics, but all I wanted to do was get the job done.

  I got out and went to the store’s entrance. There was a low creaking porch, with snow shovels, rakes, and bags of ice melt out front. A handwritten sign on a sheet of paper was taped to the door. CLOSED TOMORROW FOR THANKSGIVING. I went inside and it was warm and comfortable, and I heard some ding-ding-dings coming from the left, behind a low dark wooden counter. At the end of the counter was a case with some doughnuts and pies, and a cold grill and four barstools. Before the counter were tiny racks for candy bars and bags of chips, and opposite the counter were wooden shelves holding everything from canned goods to cereal boxes to laundry detergent and fishing gear. A young woman was behind the counter, saying “shhh” to someone I couldn’t see.