Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  I looked right at him. "You're absolutely right. You shouldn't have been there."

  He wiped at his face and looked back through the windshield, voice a bit lower. "Good guys in our squads, all of us reservists. None of us had to be there. We were all volunteers. Patriots, maybe, if you can believe it. We were more than friends. You spend months in the desert with a bunch of guys, you become.. brothers. I know that's a cliché, but it's true. Maybe we were patriots, maybe we were a little naive, being there and thinking were fighting on the side of the good guys. But we also did our job, no matter how dirty and dangerous it was, no matter how stupid the orders."

  He rubbed at his face. "I mean, what was the rush? The war was over. We had kicked some serious butt. But the word earn down to start taking care of those oil wells. They had to be capped and put out. Looked bad on the evening news, and besides, we had to get those oil fields producing so our grateful sons of bitches could start making money again, both for our businesses and to pay us back for this little adventure. So we got to work, tired as we were, and the damn major kept on pushing us."

  "You weren't doing the actual capping work, were you?"

  "No, we were doing prep work. Besides the burning wells, everything else there, the support buildings and pumping mechanisms, had been sabotaged or booby-trapped. We had to clear the way ... make the place safe for the goddamn businesses...."

  Another hand-wipe of his face, another brief pause.

  "Mark Fletcher was from Northern California. Retired surfer, we called him. An old beach bum who said he loved sand, no matter what kind. Worked as one of those legal aid lawyers. We always teased him about being such a leftie and being a soldier at the same time. Contradiction in terms. And his buddy was Scott Flannery. A blue-collar guy, someplace in Kentucky. Ran a grocery store. Don’t ask me how those two got to become such good friends. It just happened. Fletch and Flatch, we called them."

  By now I was getting cold, but I dared not make a sound. “We had been working for twelve straight days, no break at all, couple of us went to the major, but the major wouldn't hear about it. There was a schedule to be met, goals to be reached. We had to keep going. End of the day, Fletch and Flatch, they were working at some small pump house, an idiot little place. But it had to be checked out, so in they went."

  Mike cleared his throat, his voice wavering slightly. "It didn’t even make much of a noise when it happened, like a little burp. We all looked back. The door of that shed flew open and Fletch came straight out, yelling, and then he stopped. Can you believe that, the man stopped. Here he was, a lawyer from California, wife and kids and everything ahead of him, and he stopped and went back in after Flatch. Just like that. Just like that.... "

  We waited for a while, and I said quietly, "What happened after that, Mike?"

  His voice didn't waver again. "The door blew open again and Fletch and Flatch come out, fire all around them. About a second or two after Fletch went back in. No time at all. They came out in flames and the heat was so strong, none of us could reach them. Seconds, seconds was all it took and they were on the ground, almost touching each other, like they knew they weren't going to make it and they were going to be together, right there... God, it was horrid... Ever see a man burn to death?"

  A simple answer. "No."

  "Ghastly, simply ghastly. The clothes go real quick and then the arms and legs draw up, like they were in an oven or something. Like maybe their body is remembering what it was like, back when it was fetus. Skin cracks and pops and in a minute or two, what was a great guy, a buddy who stole your hot sauce and shared his socks, someone who lived and breathed next to you, had dreams and loved ones, this great guy is now a chunk of charcoal."

  Another look over in my direction. "Two of the best guys I've ever known, guys who were there to watch out for my back, these guys were snuffed cause we had to keep those businesses going, and there was a schedule to meet. Do you understand now?"

  "I do."

  "So do I," he said, briefly touching the burn tissue on his head. "Every goddamn time I look in the mirror in the morning, I remember, and I'm always going to remember. So you can see why I don't often have fond thoughts of businesses."

  He switched off the hazard lights and shifted the car into first and we were back on this snowy lane in New Hampshire, and he said, "When I came back I went back to Nashua, like nothing had happened. But the first time I went into a burning building, I freaked. I couldn't be there, couldn't bear the thought of seeing another buddy of mine get killed because some idiot landlord skimped on smoke detectors, or some sleaze business owner burned down his furniture store for the insurance money. That's why I ended up in the hospital, and when I got out, some of my friend in the fire service, well, they understood. Which is why I'm in Tyler."

  I saw the lights of Tyler up ahead, and I thought of something and said, "Mike?"

  "Yeah?"

  "One question."

  "Go ahead."

  "The major," I said. "The major was a woman, right?"

  "That she was," he said. "Major Grace Kimball, a nice enough woman under any circumstances, but who didn't belong on the battlefield. But diversity being such a brave and noble goal nowadays, quotas had to be met. You tell me if it's fair. One woman on the battlefield and two corpses. Hell of a quota, don't you think?"

  I suppose I could have made the argument, but it was late and I was tired and my head ached. I said nothing more as he drove me into the Sunoco parking lot. The station was closed and the lights were off, and as I made to open the door Mike said, "You might want to check one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You and your reporter friend might want to check the Tyler Chronicle issue the day after the third place burned down. The Tyler Tower Motel."

  By now I was outside, looking back in. "What's there?"

  "You're both so smart, I'm sure you'll figure it out. Thanks for a hell of an evening."

  "You're welcome," I said, but I think he missed the sarcasm in my voice as I slammed the door and walked over to my Range Rover. For some reason --- maybe it was the reflection from the streetlights --- the grill and headlights seemed to be mocking m

  For good reason, no doubt.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When I had worked for the DoD we used to call them Mental Health Days, and the day after my wild night ride with Mike Ahern certainly met the threshold. At the DoD, those days usually came after budget time, or after we helped prepare some assistant SecDef for some congressional testimony, or after some crisis blew over that rarely made the papers. Mental Health Days meant coming in late and leaving early, and catching up on paperwork or reading the Style section of the Washington Post.

  For the civilian version, my Mental Health Day began after I got home and pulled the plug on my phones. I went straight to bed and I slept late and woke up stiff and sore. After I got the papers from across the way I had a big breakfast, eggs and sausage and toast. I was very hungry, for last night's dinner had been snacks outside of Doug Miles's house, and dessert had been that ride with Mike Ahern.

  As I cleaned the dishes I remembered what he had said last night. I spent most of the morning reading on the couch, feet stretched out and with a couple of mugs of tea to keep me company. Just before noon I reconnected my phones and called Paula Quinn.

  "You got any back issues of the Chronicle there?" I asked. "

  “You know we do," she said. "What are you looking for?"

  "Something. I'm not sure what. Pull out the issue earlier this month, right after the Tyler Tower Motel burned down. The issue the day after the fire."

  "Hold on."

  There was a clunk as she put the receiver down. A minute or two passed and then there was a clatter as Paula picked up the receiver, and the rustle of newsprint.

  "Okay, I've got it. What should I be looking for?"

  A little too obvious, but let's give it a try. "Look for something on Mike Ahern."

  "Hmm," she said. "All right."

&
nbsp; A few more rustling noises. "Well, I'll be. There's a photo of some firefighters, taken down in Boston. Some guy was retiring and Mike was there, representing the state. Nice photo, he's all dolled up in his dress uniform. In fact, he looks like ... Oh, shit."

  Now I knew what he had meant. "He was in Boston, night of the fire at the Tyler Tower, wasn't he?"

  The faint rustle again, like dead leaves crushed in your hand, "Doesn't mean anything, Lewis. He could have set it up with a timer or something. Or maybe he was working with somebody. Or maybe we've got a copycat, and Mike is the real one. Or --- "

  "Or maybe we're wrong," I said. "That's as good an excuse as any. I had a chat with him last night. I don't like to say it, bill my gut tells me that he's not involved."

  She swore, using some choice words that I'm sure the Tyler Garden Club would be horrified to hear, and said, "Damn it, where in hell do we go from here, then?"

  My head was still achy and my stomach was beginning to grumble. "Actually, I was thinking of lunch. You interested?"

  A brief, oh-so-important pause. "No, can't do it," she said.

  "Maybe tomorrow?"

  "Sure," I said, looking out at the gray waters of the Atlantic. "Maybe tomorrow."

  Lunch was take-out scrod and during the afternoon I puttered around the house, taking a couple of aspirin for my head, cleaning up my office, and dumping some old computer files. I kept busy because I didn't want to think about Mike Ahern, fearful of going into a burning building, or of Kara Miles, terrified of shadows and the touch of a stranger, or of Paula Quinn, who was having lunch with a workmate who was admiring her smile and her laugh and the funny way her ears poked through her hair.

  When I was all puttered out, I gave Felix a call and he started right into it. "Met an old friend of ours this morning," he said.

  "Who was that?"

  "Inspector Dunbar of Newburyport. He pulled me over right after I had spent a couple of hours at Doug's, looking at snow melting and seeing his car in the driveway."

  "And what did the friendly police inspector have to say?"

  "Not much, and it wasn't pleasant. He told me again about me being in the fair city of Newburyport, and also mentioned something about harassing the citizens therein."

  "Interesting."

  "Yeah. Makes me wonder if Doug and his oddball job have any connection with our nice policeman."

  "Maybe so," I said. "Maybe it's Doug. Then again, maybe we've ticked off the neighbors by driving up and down their driveway without their permission."

  "Could be. God knows I'm sick of being up there."

  "Anything else happen? Did he just let you drive away?"

  Felix laughed. "Funny you should say that, yeah, there was something else there. He had this little edge to him, you know? Kept on pushing me and pushing me, making little insinuations about my heritage and manhood. Trying to rattle my cage."

  "Being provocative?"

  "Yeah, that's the word," Felix said. "It's like he wanted me to lose my cool, maybe punch him out, so he'd have an excuse to haul me in. That's the feeling I got."

  "So you acted nice and sweet?"

  Another laugh. "Believe me, one thing I do know is how to be polite to cops when the time comes. I kissed butt so much that I got lint on my lips from his pants, and then he sent me on my way. So ---your turn tonight keeping an eye on young Doug?"

  I shifted the phone to another ear as I made my way to the kitchen, to get a drink of water. "I suppose it is, and you know, Felix, I'm getting tired, too."

  "You are? What do you have in mind?"

  I was smiling in anticipation. "I think it's time Doug knows we're out there."

  Another five hours later I was back at my previous perch, better dressed and with better provisions, watching the lights from Doug's home. The minutes dragged on like before and I listened to my shortwave radio for a while, before I got tired of the cheery voices from warm studios thousands of miles away. So I sat and stared and played little mental games to keep myself alert, to prevent me from nodding off.

  I was on the third or fourth of my little mind adventures --- trying to name every novel written by Robert Heinlein --- when Doug opened the front door and stepped out. I raised my binoculars and my hands trembled with anticipation as I saw him enter his car. I leaped up and gathered my belongings, and by the time I was at the Rover I could make out the sound from his car as h backed down his driveway.

  I tossed everything in, and after turning the key I steered down to the road. I braked a bit too quickly at the end and skidded out into the main road, but I still saw the brake lights of Doug's Dodge Colt, heading into Newburyport.

  It only took a minute or so to catch up with him and soon we were on High Street, back toward the center of town. Traffic had built up and I let another car get between us. As we got into the city proper, a little twinge crept up my back as we passed Kara's apartment. Something was there with Doug, though I wasn't sure what. I just knew that the sculpture at his home didn't walk from Kara's place.

  A couple of turns later and we were on the waterfront, going down Merrimack Street. In the center of the city it was all rebuilt brick and wooden buildings, with ice-cream shops and antique stores mixed in with restaurants. In another mile or so the rebuilt portion of the city dribbled away, and we were in a part of the town that looked like an older, shabbier brother of the downtown. There were apartment buildings and old stores, and a couple of marine shops, and small dark homes that were built new, maybe about two hundred years ago. A small brick building with a chain-link fence around it marked the Merrimack River Station of the U.S. Coast Guard. Off to the left was the wide expanse of the Merrimack River, and the lights of moored boats in the marinas, and on the far shore, the dimmer lights of Salisbury. Out beyond the mouth of the river, the breakwater and the waters of the Atlantic.

  Up ahead Doug's car braked and pulled into a parking lot, and I pulled ahead for a couple hundred feet before turning around and going back toward the lot, seeing him walk into a building. I slowed and found a space a few car lengths down from Doug's Colt.

  I III both sides of the parking lot were apartment buildings, and one building had a flickering neon sign that said ROOMS TO RENT. Across the street was a two-story building with peeling paint and a few torn=ff shingles. The upstairs looked like apartments and the downstairs boasted a well-lit Budweiser sign, and underneath that, a smaller sign that said BRICK YARD PUB. Doug was out for a drink, that’s all.

  "Well," I said aloud. "Maybe we're getting a bit thirsty, too."

  I stepped outside and nearly fell on my butt. The lot wasn't well-plowed, and there was no sand or salt on the ice-covered pavement. I walked across the street and went up to the pub, navigating my way across a snowbank. The windows were darkened and I could make out the noise of some rock music from inside. I opened the door and the noise battered at my ears, and the smoke was thick, thick enough to almost make me gasp.

  The lights were dim and the place was filled with men and women who probably would be listed as "blue-collar" on some sociologist's check-off sheet. There was a square bar set in the center, and off to the right, a couple of pool tables. A jukebox was playing some old Rolling Stones tune. Other tables and chairs were scattered across the dirty wooden floor, and the blue haze of cigarette smoke dimmed the overhead lights. I unbuttoned my coat and made my way to the bar, where an older woman with a beehive hairdo and a cigarette dangling from her lips held court. She was joshing with some of the customers, and I worked my way onto a barstool. At first I thought she didn't see me, but she had great peripheral vision and slapped down a napkin at my elbow. She had on a pink polo shirt and ANGELA was stitched in a heavier pink thread.

  I could just make out her voice and I guessed what she was asking me, and, keeping it simple, I ordered a Budweiser. It came a minute or two later in a long-necked bottle, and leaving glass empty, I tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter and looked around the pub, taking a casual sip from the beer.


  Then I looked again, closer. Doug wasn't here.

  Well. I sipped from the beer and pretended to be waiting for someone, and then I ordered another beer when Angela was looking at me expectantly. No Doug. I had seen him come in and he wasn't at one of the tables or playing pool. I headed to the end of the bar, where there was an alcove that had a pay phone and two restrooms. At the rear of the alcove was another door. I tried the handle. It was locked.

  "Hey!" I turned and there was a man at the alcove's entrance, holding a few cases of beer. He had on a black T-shirt and leather vest, and his beard and shoulder-length hair were black and streaked will gray.

  "What are you doing back there?" he demanded. "That's off limits."

  The muscles holding those cases of beer looked pretty impressive, and I gave him my friendliest, slightly sloppy drunk smile. "Sorry," I said. "I gotta take a leak and the men's room smelled something awful. Thought there might be another toilet back here."

  He just stared. "Then go piss in the snow. That's for employees only."

  I shrugged and went past him, and I could tell his eyes were with me every step back to the bar. I retrieved my stool and took swig from the bottle, and then the guy came back and came over and whispered something to Angela, who then stared at me and went back to work, wiping some glasses dry and hanging them overhead. Damn. Made so quickly. Maybe it was time to go home I took a smaller sip and then saw Doug come out of the alcove, followed by two other guys.

  Maybe not.

  The three sat down at a comer table, and in a quick moment Angela over there, placing down two mixed drinks and a bottle of beer on the table. She walked away without the usual tussle of payment or tips. Interesting. Very quick service for some very special customers. It looked like. Doug was sitting with his back to the rear wall, talking animatedly to his co-drinkers who flanked him. They looked like they came out of Central Casting: jeans, workboots, beards, and leather winter coats. They laughed a lot and I seemed to defer to Doug, which struck me as odd, based on what I knew of him.