“Sorry, fellas,” I said. “I think you all just got trumped.”
The next twelve hours went by in a combination of furious activity, followed by hours of me staring at blank concrete walls. I was taken away from the enthusiastic local constabulary and put in the back of one of the Impalas, which took me and a silent woman and a silent man—both well dressed and well armed, of course—to Machias, where the county jail was located. I heard a few voices being raised in protest, but I was ushered into a plain and cold cell, and waited.
Twice I was brought out to an interrogation room, and I suppose the old Lewis Cole—the one with a cushy job at Shoreline magazine, a fat bank account, and a warm and intact historical home—would have cracked wise and made jokes and asked for an attorney.
Instead, I told them everything, jotted down names and dates and places, and even made a sketch of Will’s home and what had happened and how it had happened.
Then night came and I was given a cheese-and-baloney sandwich on white bread—at least with mustard and not mayo—and a bag of Maine’s famed Humpty Dumpty potato chips, along with a container of lemonade. I didn’t bother asking questions or making demands and just kept my mouth shut, and with a hard foam mattress, equally hard pillow, and two gray wool blankets that smelled heavily of disinfectant, I fell asleep in my solitary cell, a guest of both Washington County and a number of polite men and women in business suits.
Breakfast was a container of orange juice, a cup of black coffee, and a plain doughnut. I ate and drank it all and then washed my face and hands from the cold water in the stainless-steel sink.
And I waited.
And I waited.
Then they came for me.
This interview room was a bit larger, a bit more comfortable, with chairs that looked like they had been purchased recently and a polished conference-room table that didn’t have cigarette burns or coffee stains or a heavy ring in the center to chain a suspect. I had been brought in sans handcuffs, which I found encouraging.
A woman was in the other chair, looking to be in her mid-thirties or so. She had on a black two-piece skirt-and-jacket ensemble, with a plain beige blouse. About her neck was a gold chain. Her hair was thick and black, professionally styled, and she had on a minimum of makeup, although her nails were a bright red. Her teeth flashed pure white at me as she smiled when I sat down, but her eyes were hard and the color of platinum.
“Mister Cole,” she said.
“Ma’am,” I said. There was no notebook, no legal pad, no folder, no laptop or tablet. Just the two of us.
It was silent, and I said: “Excuse me, I didn’t catch your name.”
The same white smile. “Don’t worry about that.”
“All right.”
“You’ve been extraordinarily cooperative, and you have my personal thanks for that.”
“Glad to be of help.”
“Now,” she said, folding her perfectly manicured hands together, leaning forward just a bit, “I have a proposition for you. Take your time thinking it through, because it’s a one-time deal, available only at this point in time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I certainly do,” I said. “And I’m eager to learn more.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said. “So here it is. You leave and keep quiet about what you know and what happened at the home in North Point Harbor, then that’s it. There’ll be no publicity, no formal inquiry, no examination of potentially illegal activities on your part. You can go back to whatever you were doing before you were entangled in this . . . situation.”
“Interesting proposal,” I said. “I would guess my silence would be very helpful for those in the Department of Justice who might be embarrassed or hauled before Congress to discuss a multiple shooting involving a person in WITSEC.”
“That,” she said, “is a fascinating hypothesis that I’m not in a position to comment on.”
“All right,” I said. “Speaking of multiple shootings, have you or your associates located Reeve Langley?”
“No,” she said, “although the hunt continues. We located a stolen Jeep Cherokee nearby that we believe he and the other man used.”
“The other man was named Billy,” I said. “What about him?”
“I believe the investigation into his death will show that he was shot by Stan Pinkerton, while attempting to rob his home.”
“Will Mallory,” I said.
“What?”
“The man’s name was Will Mallory.”
Her smile grew just a bit wider. “Like I said, the investigation will show that Billy Conklin, of a motorcycle gang from New Hampshire, shot and killed Stan Pinkerton during an attempted robbery, and that in the ensuing gunfight Mister Conklin also perished.”
“Interesting theory, considering Billy Conklin was shot in the back of the head.”
“As you and I both know from experience, gunfights can be very confusing. Anything else?”
“Mark Spencer.”
“Found wandering in the woods about a half hour after you came with us back to this building.”
“Came with us” was a pretty mellow way of saying “taken into custody,” but I let it slide. “Good to hear, I guess.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Would it be possible to connect this agreement with the lack of investigative vigor into a shooting incident in Tyler a couple of days back? Just so there’s no . . . confusion.”
“I don’t see why not. Is that it?”
I thought for a moment and said, “Two more things.”
“Don’t push it.”
“No worries, I won’t,” I said. “First, I’d like to make sure I get my Beretta back.”
“Why?”
“Sentimental reasons.”
“It’s not here, but I promise, I can make it happen. And the second matter?”
“Gas money.”
While the smile remained, there was a hint of confusion there. “Go on?”
“If you’re letting me go, I’m going to need gas money to drive back to Portland,” I said. “I borrowed that pickup truck, and I’m broke.”
She laughed—a sound that was inviting—and reached into the dark brown leather bag hanging off the back of her chair. She pulled out a wallet, slipped out five twenty-dollar bills, and I nodded in thanks when I took them out of her hand.
“Do you want me to sign a receipt?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she said.
“And about the other issues . . . do you want me to sign some form of a non-disclosure agreement?”
She folded her fine hands together. “That means a document has to be prepared. Which means other people involved, a computer record being created, other records being created as well . . . which can be subpoenaed and reviewed and investigated. Which means no. It’s just between us. Agreed?”
I folded the money up and slipped it into my pants pocket. “Agreed.”
“Fine.” She stood up and said “We’ll have you back to your borrowed pickup truck in just a while. And about the money I just lent you . . . it was a personal favor.”
“Thank you,” I said, standing up as well.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and with an impish tone to her voice, she said: “Next time you’re in Manhattan, you can take me out to dinner to repay it.”
“Sounds delightful,” I said. “But you haven’t told me your name. How will I find you?”
She slung her leather bag over her shoulder. “If you’re ever in Manhattan, I’ll know how and where to find you, Mister Cole. Good day.”
True to her word, I was back in North Point Harbor and back at the home of Will Mallory. My borrowed pickup truck was there, and after I was dropped off from a black Chevrolet Impala driven by a silent man built like a rugby player, I went over to the truck.
A man emerged from the other side of the house.
Mark Spencer.
Well.
He looked to me, anguish in his voice, and said, “They
took my Mazda. Seized it for evidence. There were bullet holes in it.”
I went to the truck, unlocked the driver’s side door. Everything seemed to be in order. Mark came around to my side. “Please,” he said. “I don’t know anybody around here, my cell phone has no service, I need a ride back to Portland.”
“Then why don’t you take your revolver, hijack somebody?”
Mark said “They seized that too.”
“Good. How and where did you get it?”
“Before I left Portland. Gave up my watch to some guy at a pawnshop. That watch was a graduation gift.”
“Tough world, ain’t it,” I said.
I got into the truck and he was now across from me, looking tired, beat down, whipped, fine hair and complexion all messed up.
Paula, I thought. What in the world do you see in him?
“Get in,” I said. “And not one word south. Understand? Not one word, or I’ll dump you on the side of the road.”
He nodded in relief, trotted around the front of the truck, and climbed in.
I started up the engine, and the both of us left North Point Harbor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As we drove on Route 1 back to Portland, I took command of the radio station and ensured that we both listened to classic rock on our long journey south. I had no desire to listen to any news stations, to hear what lies they might say about the shootings in that little coastal Maine town, or to hear what truths might be said about Hurricane Toni and what had happened to the part of the New England shoreline where she had hit.
When I got cell-phone service, I made a call to Felix and made some arrangements. After I got off the phone, I said to my sulking passenger “We’ve got service now. If you want to, you could get ahold of Paula.”
“Later,” he said. “Later.”
“Whatever works,” I said.
Outside the charming town of Camden—where the movie Peyton Place from the 1960s had been filmed—Mark cleared his throat.
“Lewis, I’m hungry. And thirsty.”
That was definitely in violation of our earlier agreement, but by now a heavy rain was falling, the leading edge of Hurricane Toni no doubt, and perhaps I was feeling gracious or just tired, but I slowed the truck, reached down, and retrieved the plastic bag I had gotten yesterday at the general store in North Point Harbor. I pulled out the warm two-liter bottle of Coke and the bag of Utz potato chips and pushed them over at him.
“Have at it,” I said, and then, remembering what day it was, added: “Happy Thanksgiving.”
When we neared Portland, I gassed up the pickup truck at an Irving Station and got back in. Mark was huddled up against the passenger’s-side door and said “Are we going back to the motel?”
“That we are,” I said. “I promised the nice lady who owns it that I’d bring this truck back.”
“Then what are we . . . I mean, what’s going to happen next?”
“Felix Tinios will be there, ready to take you to Milan to meet up with Paula Quinn. I’ll make my own arrangements to get back to Tyler.”
I started up the truck, checked the time. About ten minutes. Mark said “My dad . . . one of the Feds said he was shot, trying to defend me. Is that true?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Oh.”
I drove on and said: “You might want to think about that. An old man, practically dying alone . . . and when he meets his biological son for the first time in decades, he finds out his son has betrayed him for cash to an old enemy. And despite all that . . . despite his weakness and what will happen to him, he tries to save your sorry ass.”
Mark wiped at his eyes. “I . . . I changed my mind, didn’t I? I changed my mind. I thought he had abandoned me, had dumped me . . . I was angry and I wanted revenge. I admit it.”
“Your mind . . . it should have been more open, Counselor. You were assuming facts not placed in evidence.”
Up ahead were the lights of the Ocean View Terrace.
“One more thing,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I want you to do right by Paula,” I said.
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“You’re an educated man,” I said. “You’ll figure it out. Or else.”
I turned into the motel’s parking lot. Standing next to a Chevrolet Tahoe was Felix Tinios. He waved, and I waved back, and then I got out and went into the motel’s office.
The owner and manager, Kathi Hawkins, came out to see me, this time wearing a Red Sox World Series Champion sweatshirt—and even now, I feel like looking twice to make sure it’s not a hoax—and I gave her back the keys to her son’s truck.
“Everything go okay?” she asked.
“Just fine,” I said.
“Where to now?”
“Back to Tyler,” I said, and she frowned, looked up at a television hanging from the ceiling. The sound was down low, but I didn’t need sound to see what I was seeing. It was somewhere on Atlantic Avenue near Tyler Beach, and a front-end loader was evacuating residents, people huddling together in the machine’s bucket.
“Oh, those poor people,” Kathi said.
“Yes,” I said. “Those poor people.”
Underneath the overhang, I held up a hand to Felix and tried to call Diane Woods. It went straight to voicemail, which wasn’t a surprise. If Tyler and vicinity were in a hurricane-induced blackout, the cell towers were probably out of service as well.
I put my cell phone away and Felix came to me, from out of the rain. He had on a heavy black windbreaker and a black Navy wool cap on his head. “Miserable day, eh?”
“Sure is.”
“You got things squared away up there?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I said.
“Did Mark locate his long-lost dad?”
“He did.”
“Where’s long-lost dad now?”
“In a funeral home somewhere up in northeast Maine,” I said. “Reeve Langley put him there.”
“And where’s Reeve Langley?”
“If we and the world are lucky, he’s bled out somewhere in the woods. He got shot as well.”
“Christ,” Felix said. “Who shot him? Mark’s dad?”
I thought of my agreement with the lovely and nameless woman up there, earlier in the day. “There was a crossfire. Lots of shooting.”
Felix eyed me, and then gently tapped me on the shoulder. “Well, damn glad to see you standing up. I’m getting ready to take Mark over to Milan. Want to hitch a ride?”
“No,” I said. “I was planning to take a bus south. Should get into Tyler before the end of the day.”
Felix shook his head. “Nobody’s getting into Tyler today, Lewis. National Guard and State Police are manning roadblocks. The hurricane came ashore around Cape Ann, but still made a hell of a mess on the seacoast. The place is sealed off.”
My house, I thought. My poor house.
Another touch to the shoulder. “Come to Milan. If you’re lucky, you’ll get some leftovers, and then you can head back to Tyler tomorrow. Things should be straightened out by then.”
I moved my feet, suddenly just bone-deep tired from all that had gone on during the past few days.
“Can I sit in the front?”
“Of course.”
“You sure?”
Felix tugged at my elbow, took me over to the Tahoe.
“I’ll even tie the son-of-a-bitch to the roof if that would make you happy.”
“Let me think about it.”
It took nearly three hours to get to Milan, a small town just north of the famed mill city that was Berlin, N.H. I dozed most of the way as Felix took us up I-95, and then west through very rural Maine and New Hampshire. Mark sat in the back, quiet once again, and Felix played Italian opera, volume set to low. I had no idea who was doing the singing or why, and I guess it didn’t make any difference. I woke up as we passed through Berlin, a city based on wood and paper processing; and through a series of back roads
surrounded by mountain peaks, we reached our destination.
It was a simple graded dirt road, off to the right, with a wooden sign nailed to a tree that said HARBOR. Felix turned left and we went up the dirt road, and I was wide awake, paying attention. The dirt road was fairly narrow, and then it widened as we approached a simple wood-and-stone bridge. A fast-moving stream went under the bridge, and I spotted something curious: three concrete Jersey barriers, set side by side, on the other side. Felix drove over the bridge and a number of buildings came into view, including two barns, a large farmhouse, and smaller cottages scattered across what looked to be acres of pastureland. Some of the land was fenced in, and there were horses, cows, goats, and a number of chickens. A couple of Irish wolfhounds trotted out to greet us as Felix pulled the Tahoe to a stop.
“Mark,” Felix said. “You first.”
“What?” he said. “What do you mean?”
“There’s somebody waiting for you here,” I said. “Don’t make her wait.”
He got out and went across a wide dirt parking area. Three pickup trucks, a white GMC van, and a mud-splattered red Chevrolet Suburban were parked to one side. There was also a small green-and-yellow John Deere tractor with a backhoe, parked to one side, a chain and metal hook dangling from the front bucket. Now I understood the Jersey barriers I had spotted by the bridge. In just a few seconds, by using the tractor’s backhoe the road leading into the compound could be blocked.
A man and a woman came out of the large farmhouse, and Mark spoke to them, and the woman went back into the house. Just seconds passed before Paula Quinn flew out, running up to Mark.
She came to a halt in front of him. Her face was red, twisted in anger or frustration, and she held up a hand. She was wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt, and that was all. She stepped closer to Mark, and I could hear her voice—though not make out the words—as she kept on yelling at Mark.
Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) Page 23