Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  I made eye contact with Angela and she took my empty and she shook her head.

  "Excuse me?" I said, raising my voice to be heard over the music. Another Rolling Stones tune, though I wouldn't have I thought this crowd was into classic rock.

  She leaned over the bar, her voice raspy. "Sorry, pal. You're cut off. No more."

  ''I'm what?" I asked. "I've only had two."

  She motioned with her thumb to the rear of the bar, where my earlier friend was walking over with another load of beer cases. “You got a problem, you want to talk to Harry over there? Or do you just want to go home?"

  Message received, loud and clear. I got up and said, "You know what they say."

  "What's that?" she asked, her face not friendly at all.

  "Home," I said. "There's no place like it."

  I guess she missed the subtle humor, because she stalked her way back to the other end of the bar. As I got my coat I looked over to the comer and saw Doug, staring right at me. I smiled and gave him a little kid's wave, complete with fluttering fingers. His two companions were sitting up straight, looking over at him and then looking over at me. For a moment I thought of going over to talk, but a little part of me that's called common sense went into general quarters. I was in a strange place with no friends, no back-up, and no weapons. The staff of the Brick Yard Pub were already not too friendly, and going up and getting in the faces of Doug and his two burly friends made about as much sense as trying to sell Malcolm X T-shirts at an Aryan Nation rally.

  So instead I blew Doug a kiss. He scowled and whispered something to one of his buddies. I headed for the door before Doug or his friends could catch up with me. Outside, the night air quickly cleared my head, and as I walked to the parking lot I thought about what had just happened. Old Doug Miles, instead of being the jumpy loser that Felix and I had determined, actually had some pull. He was somebody, at least in this pub. He had respect and he had friends, and I wanted to know more. The curse of a curious mind, I suppose. I wanted to know why he was there and who his friends were, and what might have happened to Kara Miles because of what Doug was doing,

  I was also aware of a couple of other things. My clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and I was quite hungry.

  First things first. Time to eat. I drove past my home and went into North Tyler for another hundred yards, before stopping at the side of the road to a little restaurant, called Sally's Clam Shack, built right on the beach. Sally's been dead for some years, but her two sons have kept the place going ever since. In the summertime they hire a dozen or so high school students and their parking lot was always full. In the winter it's only the two brothers --- Neil and Patrick --- ho keep the place going, along with another relative or two. All they do is take-out seafood and other fried delights, and they keep going in the winter because of a small contingent of loyal customers who keep enough money flowing in to make it worthwhile.

  On this night the three spaces in the plowed-out lot were full so I parked against a snow bank, just barely off the road. The oldest brother --- Neil --- gave me a shout as I walked in. There was loud country music playing and the clattering sound of food being prepared. Most of the restaurant is closed off and there's a waiting area with folding chairs and menus to look at while waiting. Neil, who is about my age but who has wrists the size of telephone poles, took my order (fried shrimp and fried onion rings --- sorry, no dieting tonight) and whispered to me, "It'll be right up."

  I looked over at the half-dozen customers waiting for their orders and said, "Neil, you don't have to."

  He waved a hand in the general direction of the far wall and said. "Hey, don't worry. It's our business, so to hell with them."

  I gave up and leaned up against the wall. All of the chairs were taken. Near my head was something that always embarrassed me when I saw it. Last year one of my columns had mentioned the old traditional family restaurants of the New Hampshire seacoast, and I had listed about a dozen. Sally's Clam Shack was one of those, and for the reaction I got from Neil and Patrick, you'd have thought that Shoreline had made them the cover story. They made me autograph a copy of the column and it was now framed --- with their four sentences of fame highlighted in yellow --- and hanging on the wall.

  In a couple of minutes I was leaving the Clam Shack, with a promise to come back real soon, now, carrying my quite deadly dinner in one hand, the smells making my stomach grumble. In the still night air steam was rising up from the bag, and it was when reached the Rover that I heard the car approach.

  I turned. It was a four-door sedan, coming up on the road, moving pretty quickly, with all of its windows down and ---

  I tossed the food down and threw myself on the ground, rolling underneath the Range Rover as the first shots came bursting out. The gunfire was loud and raucous and hurt my hears as I scrambled my way underneath, snow and ice and metal undercarriage scraping and pulling at me. I made it through as the gunfire continued, the sound of the exploding rounds impossibly loud, almost drowning out the metallic pangs and pings as the slugs ripped through the aluminum body of my four-wheeler.

  I clambered through to the other side, knowing if I stayed under the Rover, I'd make a damn perfect target for anyone bothering to stoop over. I got on my hands and knees and moved through the ice and snow, propelling myself up and over the snowbank, causing another round of fire to come racing my way. In movies and television the hero always manages to look back and memorize the faces of his attempted killers, the make of their car, and the license plate.

  This particular hero rolled down the other side of the snowbank and yelled when his knee popped against a rock. I got up and moved farther down the snow-covered boulders that edge up against the ocean. I crouched behind a large rock and then spared another quick glance. There were two or three figures up at the snowbank, all carrying something in their hands that certainly weren't snow shovels. The beam of a flashlight came down and I crouched again, breathing heavily, snow melting down the back of my neck, my throat dry and raspy. Some raised voices up on the crest of the bank, and then came the slamming sound of car door and the squeal of tires.

  They were gone. I was alone.

  Alive, but cold, wet, hungry, and terrified.

  Although my common sense told me in a casual voice that the men in the car were probably miles away by now, my not-so common sense was screaming at me to stay low. So I stayed among the snow- and ice-covered rocks, slipping and sliding my way south, making my way back to Tyler Beach. I suppose I should have been thinking great thoughts about what had just happened, wondering if Doug had the capacity to order a hit on me less than a half-hour after I had shown up at his favorite pub, but instead I focused on the matter at hand. Which, no pun intended, included my two very cold hands. Back in my vehicle --- and I refused to think of how bullet-ridden it must be --- were a pair of heavy gloves and a wool hat, all three of which I could have been using with great enthusiasm. My hands were numb and I tried to walk with them stuffed inside my coat, but I was slipping and sliding so much that I had to use them for balance. A couple of times I jammed them against the cold and harsh stone as I tried not to fall.

  Once I didn't succeed. I slipped on a chunk of ice and tumbled down another set of rocks, and ended up knee-deep in the water. I yelped from the cold and slogged my way out onto the shore, shivering, my teeth beginning to chatter. The wind was cutting through me, and I reached down to touch my bruised knee, and winced at the torn fabric and the sticky feeling from the blood oozing out. I rested for a couple of minutes, sitting on the rocks, hunched over with my coat collar turned up and my aching hands buried in my pockets. I looked up at the stars and the elegant figure of Orion, the hunter, almost mocking me here on the ground. Some mighty hunter I was. I tease and poke at my prey, and then turn my back and damn near get my head torn off in the process.

  The wind seemed to increase some and I was shivering all over, my knees trembling from the cold. I was sure that I was starting to slip into shock as my body temperat
ure began to plummet. 1 looked up at the stars and saw the faint lights of Tyler Beach, and I made my way again over the rocks and stones.

  "Damn it, Sally," I whispered. "Why in hell didn't you build you goddamn shack at North Tyler Beach? At least its just sand there.

  I tripped again and fell on the snow and rocks, and there was no answer from Sally's ghost or anyone else. Just the wind and waves and the damnable cold.

  They way was slow going, tripping and falling and sliding, my teeth chattering. I saw the bulk of land ahead of me that jutted out to the ocean, and marked the promontory of Samson Point. At night and in the silence of the state park, there were no lights. I stood for only a moment, taking stock of the situation. I could stay along the shoreline and hug the coast and be perfectly safe, but I knew that the cold would make me lie down and fall into that deadly grip of exposure.

  The best route would be to get out to Atlantic Avenue, and to a warm building and a phone, and that meant cutting across the grounds of the park. There were no streetlights or lampposts here at night ---just the quiet trees and the silent concrete bunkers, and out near the road, the parking lot and park buildings. Everything would be cold and snow-covered, but as I clambered up over the hills and onto the land of the Samson Point State Wildlife Preserve, I was gambling on something.

  I finally stood on snow-covered land, breathing hard, my numb and shaking hands stuck into the soaking-wet pockets. I looked around and started walking, getting knee-deep in snow. The faint starlight made everything glow with an eerie light, and then I stumbled across another bank of snow and allowed myself to relax, if only for a moment.

  Before me was a trail leading into the woods. A cross-country ski trail. And all of the trails led back to the parking lot. I up and down a few times to get the blood moving in my lower legs and then I started jogging across the hard-packed snow. My throat was burning with thirst and my teeth were still chattering, and was sure that with each step I was destroying the carefully groomed ski trails, but if the skiers were to complain, they would have talk to me tomorrow.

  It seemed like hours, but I was back on Atlantic Avenue, seeing the lights of the Lafayette House. I stood in the shadow of a closed-up cottage and looked across the way. No four-door sedan. No mysterious grouping of men huddling around the entrance. Nothing. I turned and looked longingly in the direction of the hotel’s parking lot, which led to my house, but I knew I wasn't going horn alone tonight. Not in a single moment.

  I scampered across the street, the relief at seeing the lights of the Lafayette House almost warming me. I went up the front stairs and a well-dressed couple coming out looked at me, and looked at me again in horror. I'm sure I presented a wonderful sight, and I'm also sure that there'd be stories told later, about the winter vacation at Tyler Beach and the drunken, wet bum will stumbled into the lobby.

  Inside, I began rubbing my hands in the warm air and unbuttoned my coat. I went over to the left, near the gift shop, where there was a pay phone. A portly man in his fifties, wearing khaki slacks and a monogrammed lime-green sweater, was on the phone talking loudly to someone named Albert. Along the walls here was polished insets of marble, and I felt queasy, staring at my reflection. My face was puffy and scraped, and my hair was matted down. Everything I had on was soaked, and I looked down at my pants legs and winced at the bloody knee. My hands were red and scraped raw, and I looked over at the man on the phone and just stared. I stepped closer, close enough to smell his cologne, and I continued to stare, unblinkingly.

  He looked over at me. "Is there a problem?"

  I said nothing. I continued to stare, and I continued to drip onto the expensive carpeting in the lobby.

  "Urn, gotta go," the man said, and he hung up the phone and walked away, muttering something about the lack of respect shown to paying guests.

  I got to the phone and started to dial. I had to dial three times for my swollen fingers kept on slipping off the keypad. The phone rang twice and was picked up, and then I was suddenly tired and I had to rest my head against the cool marble, tears trickling down my cheeks.

  “Yes?" came the voice.

  "Felix?"

  "Lewis, is that you? Do you know what time it is?"

  I took a deep breath and looked around at the comfort and warmth and good taste of this lobby, about a couple of hundred yards away from a place where I had almost been shot down.

  "Lewis?" he said, his voice sharp and quizzical.

  "Felix," I said, my throat still aching. "Felix, I am in a world of hurt."

  His voice snapped down one level. "Where are you?"

  "Lobby of the Lafayette House."

  "You hurt bad?"

  "Bumps, scrapes, and bruises. Plus I'm freezing to death."

  "Someone out there looking for you?"

  "Several someones, all of them armed, in a car."

  His quick voice warmed me. "Stay there, right in public. Don't go anywhere. I'll be there right away."

  Then he hung up.

  I closed my eyes again, not caring who was watching me as I leaned against the marble, breathing in ragged gasps, just waiting and shivering.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I kept peeking out of the main doorway, ignoring the guests staring at me, until Felix came by about ten minutes later. He drove up to the entrance and I stumbled my way outside, knees and legs aching. Inside, the car was warm, with a faint smell of leather and cologne and Felix looked over, one hand on the steering wheel, his other holding his automatic pistol.

  "Where do you want to go?" he said.

  "Home."

  "Not wise," he said.

  "I don't care if it is or isn't," I said. "That's where I want to go."

  He shrugged. "All right, it's your call." He made the short drive over to the parking lot. "By the way, you look like hell. Mind telling me what happened?"

  "Not at all, but later. I've got to get out of these clothes."

  "Fine."

  He pulled into an empty spot and I joined him outside. I shivered, cold again and losing that wonderful warmed-up feeling. Felix went to the rear of his Mercedes and opened the trunk, removing a long, brown-zippered bag, which he unzipped. A twelve-gauge shotgun slid out and Felix handed his automatic pistol over to me.

  "You know what the bad guys were driving?"

  "Four-door sedan. Couldn't tell you make or model. Too dark and too scary."

  He slammed down the trunk. "They usually are. Is it here in the lot?”

  I looked around. These cars were either too new or too foreign to hold the guys that had ambushed me, and I told Felix that. He said, "Fine. Let's get you home."

  1 suppose I should have been frightened, walking down to my house at night after such a horrible event. My mind should have been creating ambush sites and guns and bad guys by the dozens in the shadows among the rocks and few trees near my home, but I felt oddly at ease. I was now armed and at my side was Felix, and the casual yet sharp way he walked with the shotgun in his hands helped make the racing noise in my ears slow down.

  At the house some lights were on. "Anyone supposed to be here?” Felix asked.

  "No. I've got the lights set on a timer."

  "All right," he said. "You stand right here and I'll make a quick circle around, see if there's anybody inside."

  He walked to the house and I stood there in the cold, listening, to the waves, his weapon heavy in my hands, and then he was back, "Looks fine. Ready to go in?"

  "Ready for that and a hot shower and clean clothes," I said.

  "I'm sure you are, but let's make sure you don't get shot in the process. Tell you how it's going to be done. You snap open the door and I'm in, covering the left side of the first floor. You come in after me, keep watch toward the kitchen. Then I'll go upstairs first and you come along, and then a quick cellar check and we should be fine."

  "Let's do it," I said, and that's what we did.

  Watching Felix at work can either be disturbing or enlightening and this night it was th
e latter. It was like watching a Cy Young pitcher close out the ninth inning with three strikeouts, or a star quarterback march his team downfield with two minutes to spare, to seize the winning touchdown. He's that good. He moved through my house with quick, sharp, and economical moves, and in a fistful of minutes we were back on the first floor.

  "You intend to spend the night here?"

  "Yes." I noticed that my hands were beginning to shake.

  "Again, not too smart. You should ---"

  "Stop with the lectures, will you? I'm not letting those creatures chase me from my home. Not tonight and not ever."

  Felix stared at me. "All right, I need to make a phone call.”

  "Go ahead."

  He picked up my phone and dialed, and when his call answered, Felix said, "Manny? Felix here. I've got a job." A pause. "Like right now, Manny. Security detail. A home on Atlantic Avenue on Tyler Beach, across the way from the Lafayette House."

  He looked at me, raised his eyebrows. "Payment will be fair you know that. Thing is, I need the house sealed. You got it? No one comes within fifty yards."

  Another pause, and Felix put his hand over the phone. "Think the Lafayette House will mind a van parked in their lot?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  Felix returned to the phone and said, "You can set someone up in the parking lot, have them keep watch. Manny, make sure, they're pros, okay? All right then, I’ll ---"

  "Hold it," I said.

  Felix looked up. "What's up?"

  "I need something else done."

  "What's that?"

  My throat clenched up again, and damn, my hands were still shaking. "Need something cleaned up. North of here, by Sally’s Pace, my Rover is parked. Felix, it's pretty well shot up. I don't want a state trooper or North Tyler cop poking around."