Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  Most of the time.

  The phone was in hand and a legal-size notepad was in my lap. I got to work.

  First visit was to directory assistance, for the number of Allied Health Services in Canterbury. With that number, my first call was quick and to the point.

  "Allied Health," came the reply from a chipper young man.

  "Good afternoon," I said. "Craig Sher calling from the Department of Health and Human Services down in Concord. Updating our patient records directory. Whose name should I list as the contact for Allied?"

  "Um, that would be Rita Dexter."

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  I hung up and leaned back in the chair, and reached over and picked up a pencil. I waited ten minutes or so and then called back, but this time, I had the pencil firmly clenched in my teeth as I talked to the helpful young man and asked for Rita Dexter. Try it sometimes, you'll see how your voice changes.

  A click-click, and then, "Rita Dexter. How can I help you?"

  "Good afternoon, Rita," I said, pencil now out of my mouth. Carl Solomon, from Mutual Casualty Insurance. We're the new insurance carrier for the town of Tyler, and I'm trying to clear up a billing matter for one of their employees."

  "Unh-hunh. And what would that be?"

  "Mike Ahern," I said. "He's on the fire department in Tyler, and our records show he was a patient there sometime..." and I shuffled some papers near the phone and told her the time period. “Correct?"

  "Hold on for a moment," she said, tapping a keyboard. "Yes, I have him here. He was admitted here for about eleven months, and then we saw him for another six months on an outpatient basis. What seems to be the problem you folks have?"

  "We have a billing here from a physician in Porter, and we're trying to determine if he was seen for a preexisting condition. Who do you have as his doctor?"

  "That would be ... " tappity-tappity-tap-tap, "Dr. Sweeney."

  "I see," I said, scribbling on my notepad. "Is he there?"

  "Yes, but his office is in Concord."

  "Thank you, you've been a great help."

  "Wait, what do you---"

  I hung up on her, silently apologizing for being so rude. I looked down at my notepad and saw that the white sheets of were smudged with my sweaty hands.

  But it was still clear enough.

  I looked over at the clock on my credenza. It was just before four p.m. I leaned back again, thinking of what I was going to say, who I was going to talk to. I made another phone call to directory assistance, for a doctor's office in Concord, and then looked at the clock again. Four-fifteen. Still not they’re yet. I gazed out the window.

  Another clock check. Four-twenty. Almost there.

  Outside it was getting dark, and I thought about my telescope, in my bedroom just a few feet away. Hadn't taken it out lately. Maybe it was time to upgrade to a larger scope. Lord knows I could afford it.

  Four twenty-five. Time. I picked up the phone and dialed, and after two rings, a quick woman's voice said, "Dr. Sweeney's office."

  "Patient records, please."

  "One moment."

  I tapped my pen against the pad. Almost four-thirty. Time for the people in this office to be digging out their winter coals, changing their shoes for boots, putting on hats and gloves... and quickly getting rid of any last-minute phone calls that came their way.

  "Patient Records, this is Mrs. Glen," came another quick voice.

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Glen," I said, trying to put a cheery note in my voice, "I'm calling from Dr. Kimball's office, down here in Porter. We have a patient here who used to be patient of Doctor Sweeney's. One Mike Ahern, of Tyler."

  "Yes?" The tone was sharp and to the point.

  "Look, I know it's late, and I'm getting ready to leave, too," I said. "I have here that he was a patient of Dr. Sweeney's from..." and I read off the dates. "Tell me, has he seen Dr. Sweeney since then?”

  "Hold on," and the phone was thunked down. I could hear a file drawer open and the rustle of papers and then she came back.

  “No, his last visit was over a year ago."

  "Unh-hunh. And his treatment?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "What was he being treated for?"

  "Oh." A flip of a page, rustling over the phone line. "PTS."

  "I'm sorry, what was that?"

  "PTS," she repeated. "Post-traumatic stress. I'm surprised you don't have that."

  "Me, too," I said, and I was rude again in the space of that hour --- I hung up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I woke up in the middle of the night, shivering. I must have dreamed, for the down comforter was kicked off, and my bedroom in the middle of winter is a cold place indeed. Instead of pulling the comforter back up, I got out of bed. Sweat was drying on my body and I went to the bathroom, making my way through starlight, and I got a glass of water and wiped down my skin with a towel. I checked my skin and my oId scars, and there were no bumps or swellings. Very nice. Back in my bedroom I went to the door that led out to the smaller, second-floor deck There was a clear view of Weymouth's Point and the lights of the houses up there, and I watched some clouds pass by, blacking out the stars, darkening the sky. I went back to bed and thought about the previous day's work.

  Mike Ahern. Post-traumatic stress disorder, right after he came back from the Gulf War. Thankfully that war had not created the host of "crazy vet" stories the news media loved to spread around after Vietnam, and I wasn't about to do that with Mike. Still, there were questions. Something had scarred him, had made him into something different. Before the war, a fire lieutenant in a busy city in New Hampshire. After the war, months at a mental health institution and then a job as a small-town fire inspector.

  And a year after he arrives, he takes on the local during the planning board meetings, and motels begin to burn own. He also doesn't hide his distaste for Diane, and just about the same time the arsons begin, her dear one is attacked.

  Connections?

  Maybe.

  Connections.

  And just before I fell asleep, I thought I heard a phone ring, and I think I was dreaming again.

  On Thursday afternoon Felix called me and said, "Well, you didn't miss much. I sat on the little bastard for most of the day, and he stayed cooped up in that shack"

  "Where did you watch him from?"

  "Took a while, but I found a nice place, a little knoll that looks down with good views. To get there, you go past Doug's about a half-mile, take a right. It's a dirt road that's plowed out for a couple of houses. I managed to park there and hoof it over to the knoll. Brought along some thermal underwear and a stool and blanket, and still froze my ass off. I'm going to be looking at a bonus when this little adventure is through."

  "You'll get it," I said. "Tell you what, I'll do some work this afternoon, then get over there and watch him during the dinner hour. See what I can find."

  "Go ahead," Felix said. "I'm still shivering."

  I then called Diane, and we met an hour later, with me picking her up at the station. With cups of coffee we got from a sandwich shop, we parked in one of the hundreds of empty parking spaces along the deserted beach. As we talked I felt something had changed. There was more of the old Diane, with a slight smile and a few choice words about the weather, though she seemed to move more slowly, as if deciding what phrase or word to say.

  She held her coffee cup in her hands and said, "Usually when summer comes, I’m torn. Half of me is looking forward to the warm weather, the long nights, and being able to walk out of my house without worrying about a coat or a sweater."

  "And the cop half, she isn't too happy?"

  "Nope," she said. "The cop part means busy nights and dealing with lowlifes who see this place as their own private playground, and there are some young men and women out there right now, walking and talking and living, whose lives are going to be changed for the worse because of a night with the wrong people at Tyler Beach."

  I sipped from my own
coffee. It was early afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, and the sky over the beach and waves was a hard, polished light blue. "I gather, then, you're feeling differently about this summer that's coming up."

  "Oh, yes, my dear friend, I am. Summer means I'm six months away from this point in time, and that thought makes me quite happy indeed." She looked over to me, an odd mix of cop and friendship in her eyes, and she said, "What do you have? Anything?”

  I chose my words carefully. "A slight lead, that's all. Nothing solid."

  Her eyes were now locked right onto me, pure cop. "Go on. Tell me more."

  "Kara's brother, Doug. What do you know about him?"

  Her gaze didn't waver. "Not a lot. Kara's not one to talk about her family. Go on."

  "He doesn't have a pretty past and not much of a present. He's got a record of some drug dealing, breaking and entering. It looks like he's still busy with other things illegal. Felix and I want to find out about his friends, who he hangs out with. That's what we're up to. No names, no faces, nothing. And we've come up empty everywhere else. Kara's brother being involved with things criminal, well, that's the best we can do."

  I didn't like what I had just done. I hadn't mentioned the piece of sculpture that had gone from Kara's apartment to Doug's place, and for a reason. I didn't know enough, and if I told Diane just that tiny bit of information, she would demand more. And if I couldn't provide it, then she might be tempted to go out looking on her own.

  "I could help," she said. "Let me ---"

  "No, Diane," I interrupted. "Not wise. You start making phone calls and doing record checks, you'll be leaving a trail that you really don't want to leave. Right?"

  The look was still there, and then she nodded and said, "Good point. But the minute you've got anything, anything at all, I want it, and I want it yesterday."

  "All right," I said, draining the last of my cold coffee. "What else is going on?"

  She looked out at the empty sands and the long line of cold waves. "Kara talked the other day to Inspector Dunbar from Newburyport, about the murder of her landlord, Jason Henry. She told him what she could and he didn't say anything useful in return. Just that the matter's under investigation, but you and I know that's a crock."

  "Hell of a coincidence, a rape and a murder happening there in less than a week."

  "Oh, I agree, all right, and from his tone of voice, I do believe the inspector may believe that it was just a coincidence. Of course, that didn't stop him from asking her if poor old Jason had done it to her, and if her, um, friends hadn't gotten their revenge."

  "That's a hell of a reach."

  "Yeah, well, I talked to Dunbar and he didn't have much else to offer." She looked over at me again. "You'll do good, won't you?"

  "The best I can."

  A pause. "I have an odd favor to ask."

  "Go ahead."

  "Put your arm around me, will you?"

  "Excuse me?"

  Diane said, "You heard me. Not a very hard request to fill now, is it?"

  "Not at all."

  I let my empty cup fall to the floor and I reached over with my right arm and pulled her close. Diane snuggled up to me and said, "Squeeze a little harder, will you?"

  "Sure."

  Diane seemed to sink down a bit and her head ducked onto my shoulder. Both of her hands were clasped together in her lap. Her brown hair tickled my face and smelled of clean soap, and she sighed and said, "Don't get any ideas."

  "Nary a one."

  "I just felt a need to be held, and you were there."

  "Glad to be of help."

  "I know I've got this image thing," she said, her voice quiet. "At work I'm the tough, no-nonsense detective who's not afraid to talk to anybody or chase down leads or fight with the selectmen over my budget. With Kara, I'm the take-charge type who's promised to be with her and protect her and help her."

  "That's a lot to carry."

  "Sure is," she said. "Sometimes…" and her voice was almost a whisper, "sometimes I just need to be hugged and told everything will work out, by and by."

  I cleared my throat. "Diane, things will work out, by and by."

  "You're a lousy liar."

  "Just part of trying to be a good friend."

  She shifted some more, her fine hair stroking my cheek. "You and I have been through some odd times, haven't we?"

  "That we have."

  "And I'm sure some odd ones are coming down the pike, that we can't even think about."

  "True enough."

  "You know, when you came here, a few years back, I didn't know what the hell to make of you. You started living in that old government house and you had an odd job and lots of money. I thought you were in the witness protection program, of all things."

  "A good guess, based on what you know," I said.

  "Then I got to know you, and you started doing those odd little stories of yours that never go anywhere and, well, there's still some things that don't make sense. I know you used to work at till' Pentagon, and that's it. I guess you left there on a bad note."

  Well, this wouldn't breach the agreement. "Absolutely right."

  She moved her head against my shoulder. "You had a woman then, didn't you?"

  Oh, my Cissy. "Yes."

  "Something bad happened back there, didn't it?"

  Out there in the desert with her and the others in my section, the high blue sky, and the helicopters coming by, our mistake If II being in the wrong place at the wrong time, out there during a biowarfare experiment. And I the sole survivor, pensioned off to this town with the bad memories and the worse medical history, waiting for those odd bumps and swellings in the skin that meant the old bio agent had bit me yet again.

  "Something quite bad," I said.

  "She's dead, isn't she?"

  I cleared my throat again. It was quite dry. "How did you guess'?"

  "Because you never talk about her, that's why. Because there's no regular woman in your life, except for me and whatever the hell is going on with you and Paula Quinn, that's why. You're still mourning her, aren't you?"

  I was glad she couldn't see my face or my eyes, as I stared out at the darkening ocean. "Some days, yes."

  Her voice, almost a whisper. "Let her go, Lewis. Let that time slip by. Believe me, I know. You keep on mourning for what was there, for what can never come back, it will eat you and change you into a not-so-nice person, and I don't want that to happen."

  "Thanks," I said, and it was the only word I could say.

  We watched the ocean for a while in silence, the quiet gulls skimming across the foam and sands. Diane moved a bit and said, “I’ve never been a follower. I went my own way and did what I wanted, and loved who I wanted. I didn't dress to make a statement or march or be political, and unlike a few I know, I don't have a hatred of all men."

  "Speaking as a male, I'd like to say thanks."

  "You're welcome," and I sensed her smile. "And I'm glad I didn’t have that blind hatred, for I might not have met you, and I can’t imagine not knowing you."

  Something seemed to be in my eyes. "The same, Diane. The same."

  We were quiet for a while longer, until she gently moved from my from my grasp and said, "Please take me back to the station, will you?" And another, gentler smile. "Before someone sees us out here and gets all confused."

  "I wouldn't mind."

  "Neither would I, but I do have work to do."

  Which I did, too, due south. "You've got it," and as I drove her back to the station, Diane held my hand, every yard of the way.

  An hour later I was on my own camp stool, shivering. I had found the turnoff just as Felix had described it, about a half mile from Doug's house. It was a dirt road that had been plowed out and rose up the slight hill. There was a cleared area off to the right, probably used by a snowplow for a turnaround. There were also tire marks, left by Felix's car. I had backed in as far as I could and then trudged through the snow, following his tracks and setting up a watching spot t
hat he had so thoughtfully scouted out for me.

  I lifted up the binoculars in my gloved hands and scanned the crumbling structure that was Doug's home. His car was in the driveway, and on a couple of occasions I made out movement behind the front window. It was cold. I had on my heavy winter coat, lined pants, long johns, and a shirt and sweater and wool hat, and I still shivered and stamped my feet. At my side I had a small rucksack with a Thermos full of hot tea, a couple of chocolate bars, and an apple. I was going to stay for a while, but not the entire night. Freezing to death in these woods wasn't part of the deal.

  A couple of chickadees skittered through the limbs and then moved on. A car or two traveled by on the road. If Doug were to leave, I figured I had a good few minutes to get the hell back to my Rover, supplies in hand, and get down to the road in another minute or two. With the poor condition of Doug's car and the lack of side streets on this particular stretch of road, I knew I would have little problem in catching up with him.

  Another shiver. I ate one of the chocolate bars and sipped from a cup of tea that quickly cooled. It was getting colder. The flesh on my face was getting numb. I fell into a routine of sitting, with hands in pockets, and then every few minutes lifting up the binoculars for another dull scan of the house. The minutes seemed to ooze by as it grew darker. The cars going by had their headlight on now. The birds went away. A light went on from inside Dougie’s house and I kept it in view, seeing him move around, seeing him with a bottle of beer in one hand, and a slice of pizza in another I wondered what he would do if I were to visit him. I wondered how the pizza tasted. And I also wondered how and why that sculpture from Kara's ended up on his bookshelf.

  It was time for the apple, and the tea was now cold. My feet were getting stiff and I tried wiggling my toes. No luck. I tilted my head back and tried to look at the stars, and all I saw was a tangle of tree branches. Another pass with the binoculars. There was a flickering blue light coming from the house. Doug was watching television, now munching on pretzels. How nice. I wondered if his lips moved as he watched his favorite shows, whatever they were.

  I lost track of the time, though my stomach's clock was grumbling and quite active. I finished the last of the chocolate and I had been bright enough to pack my portable shortwave radio. At least I could have had something to listen to while watching Dougie watch television and eat pretzels from a bag. Another loud grumble from my stomach, competing with the sound from the highway. Almost time to go home.