"Why? You think there may be a phone booth there, some thing we can use?"
"Could be," I said, lying with ease, not wanting to tell him any more. "But let's get going."
He grumbled. "Hell, at least we'll be moving targets, and we'll be warmer."
On our way south we were getting more tired from slogging through the snow and sand, and stopped more for quick rest stops, the Kevlar vests weighing us down. Felix moved nervously, constantly shifting the night vision scope up and down to his tired eyes. During our third or fourth rest stop he said, "You hear that?"
"No. All I hear is the ocean."
"That's what I meant. We're getting closer to the southern tip. We're running out of room."
"How far to the pole?"
"Oh, about a hundred yards or --- "
The ridgeline on a dune to the east of us erupted with winking spurts of light that were followed by loud booming noises. Felix swore loudly and fired back, and I joined with a couple of shots myself, and the whee! whee! noises were louder and my face was pelted by sand tossed up by the bullets, and I fell back, tumbling down the side of the dune, and Felix joined me. We fell along the brush and snow and cold sand, and Felix yelped as he struggled at the bottom.
"You all right?"
"No, I'm not all right," he said through clenched teeth, "I got a piece of branch jammed into my thigh."
"Bleeding?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
It was hard work in the dark, as I gave up a handkerchief and a shirtsleeve to help bandage Felix's leg, stripping down and even removing the bulletproof vest, which steamed in the cold night air. I felt completely helpless. When I got my clothes back on we started moving south again, and Felix said, "What's up with that damn utility pole?"
"You tell me," I said. "Is there something large on top?" We were close. Felix leaned on me and raised up the night scope and said, "Yeah. Odd shape. Hey, isn't that one of ---"
"Sure is."
"How in hell is that going to help us?"
I started moving, Felix's weight on my left shoulder. "It's going to give us a chance, that's all."
We hadn't moved far when gunfire erupted again, closer this time. We returned fire for just a moment and then Felix and J scampered up a smaller dune and collapsed in the snow and sand, I was soaking wet from perspiring and from melted snow, and Felix's breathing was getting labored. "How are you doing for ammo?" I asked.
"Down to the last magazine. And you?"
"Three or four in the rifle."
Felix coughed and said, "Listen, if they get close enough, I might be able to make a deal. Start them talking."
A gunshot boomed ahead of us, and the whee! sound of a slug whistled over our heads. "I don't think they're in the mood for talking."
"It was a thought."
I crept up to the crest of the dune, with Felix at my left side.
The utility pole was at my right, about fifty yards away. There was a boxy shape at the top of the pole, and a smaller, squarish shape about ten feet up from the base of the pole.
"Felix, look at that pole, will you?"
"Why, you see something moving there?"
"Just do it."
"All right," he said, leaning over my back. "It's one of those poles, and yes, it's got a siren on top and a metal control box about two-thirds down. Let's see --- Oh, shit." He moved the scope around to our front. "I've got a couple of bad guys coming down the dunes, Lewis, can you see them?"
I could see movement out there and I moved the rifle over, but I could also make out the pole. Damn. Some choice. A gamble that could possibly save us, versus the certainty of fighting off a well-armed threat merely yards away.
"Lewis, what are you waiting for? Damn it, shoot!"
I said a quick prayer that probably made no sense, and 1 turned and aimed at the utility pole, firing off four rounds, all I had, aiming at the control box near the bottom of the pole, and then all that was in my arms was a harmless piece of wood and metal.
Felix was holding on to my shoulder, quietly screaming into my ear, "You idiot! What the hell were you shooting at it? There's nobody over there."
"You're absolutely right," I said. "But there's a siren pole from the Falconer nuclear power plant over there, and if we're lucky, I just shot out the control box. That means the plant's been alerted that they've lost one of their poles, and the guys at Falconer are starting to start making calls. Especially to the police, to report another act of vandalism. If they're quick and if we're lucky, and if we can hold these guys off that long, there'll be a repair crew and a police cruiser here within ten to fifteen minutes."
Felix let go of my shoulder. "And if they're not quick and we’re not lucky?"
"Then you'll get a chance to cut a deal," I said. "Right after you run out of ammo."
Felix breathed hard and lay down, night scope against his eyes. "You got a bayonet with that rifle?"
"Back home I do."
"Well, here's hoping we don't start regretting that it's at home and not here. Okay. Two bad guys, still coming our way. Guess you’ll have to pretend your rifle's a club. Ready?"
God, no. "Yes, I am."
"Good."
And as the seconds dragged by and the shapes came closer, Felix turned to me and said, "For whatever it's worth, you did good tonight. Better than I thought."
"Shut up and keep watch," I said. "The night's not over yet."
I settled in, the useless rifle cold in my shaking hands, and listened to the waves, and the murmur of voices out there among the sands, of the men coming over to kill us.
Quick and lucky. Didn't seem much to ask for.
"They're right below us," Felix whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Plum Island is within the jurisdiction of West Newbury, and the town's police station is a tiny white building, right next to the town hall. I was seated in an interrogation room at about two a.m., and with me was a West Newbury police sergeant who was not having a very good night. I sat on a wooden chair wearing my wet ant I soiled clothes, and feeling reasonably warm and happy, except for the fact that my hands were handcuffed behind me. Still, it was a small price to pay for the knowledge that at least for the next few hours I wouldn't be shot at, if I was lucky.
Luck. Lucky for us that a police cruiser was on Plum Island, checking out reports of shots being fired, when the call came ill about the siren pole being disabled. It hadn't been ten or fifteen minutes, more like five or six, and that had been long enough.
The sergeant's nameplate said LES SEARLES. He was in uniform and his face was quite red with anger as he wrote out a report He sat across from me, working on a table that was scarred with cigarette burns and old coffee stains. Behind him was a window that was mirrored with one-way glass.
"Name?" he demanded.
"Lewis Cole."
"Home address?"
"Atlantic Avenue, Tyler, New Hampshire."
He looked up from me. "I need a street number."
"Sorry, there isn't one. How about my mailing address? It's Post Office Box Nine-One-Nine in Tyler. Do you need the zip code?"
He was still staring at me. "Home phone number?"
I told him. When he asked for my work number, I shrugged and said, "Same as the home number."
"Occupation?"
"I write for a magazine called Shoreline."
"Hmrnmph," he said. "Never heard of it. Date and place of birth?"
I told him that, too, and he smirked and said, "You sure look older, that's for sure."
Even though I knew he was baiting me, I still didn't appreciate the comment. He wrote some and said, "All right, what in hell were you and your friend doing out there?"
I looked straight back at him with a calm expression. "Star gazing."
Sergeant Searles tossed the pen down on the desk. "Stop the bullshit, will you? I'll tell you what we've got, and then I'll ask you one more time. All right?"
"If you insist."
A tough lit
tle grin. "Oh, I do insist. This is what we have. We have reports of shots being fired on Plum Island. Then we get a report that a siren pole for the nuke plant has been disabled. We get there and we find you and your buddy, one," he looked down at his pages, "Felix Tinios, who's got a very interesting record, by the way. The two of you are there, sitting nice and calm in the dunes. We find a rifle tossed behind some brush. We find both of you carrying nine-millimeter pistols. We also find a lot of empty shell casings and some blood trails. Get the picture?"
I tried moving my hands and found it tough going. Sergeant Searles had done a very good job with the handcuffs. "Sure. Picture is gotten."
"So I'll ask you again. What in hell was going on out there?"
My feet, though, at least I could move my feet. "We were star gazing."
His eyes were glaring right at me. "I don't believe you."
"Sorry about that."
"You're in some serious trouble, Mr. Cole."
Yes, but at least I wasn't being shot at. "You're probably which is why I want to call my lawyer."
His thick hands rested on the papers. "That's your right, we could end this a lot easier if you cooperate. Come on, men were hurt out there. Maybe killed. That's assault, maybe attempted murder. Add on destruction of private property, trespassing on federal lands, and illegal discharge of firearms, and that's a lot of time. Talk to me, hell, talk to anybody you want, but let's work together. What do you say?"
"I want to call my lawyer."
He stood up, face still red, and he slammed the papers the desk. "You friggin' idiot, I'm trying to save your butt here, going out on a limb here, trying to work out a deal, and that's the thanks I get."
He was breathing hard. "Last chance."
"Thank you," I said. "I want to call my lawyer."
The sound of the door slamming hurt my ears, but I still felt warm and relaxed, though I was filthy and my clothes were probably destined for the dump when this was over. Some minutes dragged by and then the sergeant came back in, shaking his head.
"I tried to help you out, but your friend jumped the gun," he said, looking sorrowful. "I got a couple of EMTs in a holding cell, bandaging Felix up, and he's agreed to tell us what happened. This is your last chance to tell your side of the story."
I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing, which didn't improve the sergeant's mood. I didn't think it was possible, but he slammed the door harder the second time around.
A couple of hours later, after some more of the good cop/bad routine, I was finally given access to a telephone. I looked around for Felix and he wasn't there. I dialed a number he'd made me memorize out on the sands, and it was picked up on the first ring.
"Yes?" said a female voice.
"Is this ... I'm looking for Raymond Drake."
"Who's calling?"
"Lewis Cole. I'm a friend of Felix Tinios."
"Hold, please."
There was dead air. No hold music, nothing to soothe you as you stood cold in the concrete-and-steel booking room of a police station.
She came back on the line. "What's the nature of your business?”
"I'm at the West Newbury police station. Felix and I need to be bailed out."
"Is that in Massachusetts?"
"Yes, it is."
"Attorney Drake will be there in one hour."
She hung up, and with handcuffs slapped back on, I was led back to the interrogation room for one more go-around with Sergeant Searles.
The attorney was good to the word of his sleepless assistant. Within the hour he arrived, and after a lot of shouting and yelling that I could hear even through the walls of the interrogation room, Felix and I were taken out to a holding area. Handcuffs were removed and we were given back our shoelaces and belts. A lot of paperwork was signed and there were dark glares from the assembled cops, but Raymond Drake was the model of efficiency. He was dressed in an expensive-looking two-piece suit, Italian shoes, and a camel hair coat. He was about fifty or so, tanned, and with gold bracelets on both wrists.
When we were finally done the three of us went out into the parking lot. The sky was that dark gray that marks an approaching dawn, and Raymond Drake shook Felix's hand and then mine as we approached his dark blue BMW.
"I guess you fellows need a ride?" he said.
"We sure do," Felix said. "Where do we stand, Raymond?"
He flashed a smile as he held out his key chain and disabled his car alarm. Blew-bleep. "It took the usual talk of lawsuits and assorted other dire threats on my part, but I've got the two of you out on bail for gobs of money. They wanted to hold on to you until they’ve scoured Plum Island from one end to the next, looking for bodies. I convinced them that you'll be good boys in the future. Court date in two weeks. Don't miss it."
"We won't," I said, climbing into the back seat of the BMW, I eased against the plush seating, closing my eyes for just a moment. Felix got in front, and after the door slammed Raymond asked, "Where to?"
I spoke up. "North."
He turned on the engine. "North it is."
Later that afternoon I was in a bathrobe and sitting before a fireplace in a room at the Straggler Inn, one of the best bed and breakfast spots in Porter, a cup of coffee in my hands. Felix was with me, nibbling on a piece of toast. Going home for the both of us didn't seem to be too bright an option, and Felix's attorney was kind enough to stop at both of our residences so we could pick lip some spare clothes and other supplies. One of the spare supplies I picked up was my .357 Ruger revolver. The West Newbury police were holding on to my 9mm Beretta, and I wasn't sure when I would ever get it back.
The room was a small suite, with a sitting room that had a great view of the harbor and the naval shipyard, and a few minutes earlier --- after sleeping for most of the day --- I had enjoyed a full and late breakfast, all the while watching seagulls and cormorant at play in the harbor. I was sore and tired and still shaky, but I WII also warm and content at breathing and being alive. Felix was limping a bit --- no stitches, but a few butterfly bandages from his run in with the tree branch --- and he sat across from me, feet propped up on a coffee table. He had his own room down the hall.
"Some lawyer you've got there," I said. "We should be getting one hefty bill."
He finished the toast and reached down and grabbed a blue berry muffin from off the rapidly emptying breakfast tray. "Nope. Never got a bill, and never will. I gave Raymond a great gift one evening some years back."
"And what was that?"
"His life," Felix said, unwrapping the muffin. “When he was younger he was quite headstrong, poking his nose into things that weren't his business. He represented someone in a case against a relative of mine. Things deteriorated to the point that he was in the rear of a cabin cruiser one night, going out to Boston Harbor one of those one-way trips. I thought that was a bit excessive, and I managed to convince my relative this wasn't going to take care of the problem. Rented a motorboat and got out there and set things straight, and ever since then, my legal help has been a phone call away."
I leaned back into the couch, feeling the muscles and tendons in my legs creak. "Too bad other problems can't be solved with just one phone call."
"Tell me about it," Felix said. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. And you?"
"The same. So. What in hell's going on? Who were those guys?"
I looked over at him. "I was hoping you could tell me that."
His hands, which had been busy with the muffin, were now still. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean this," I said. "Our young friend Doug Miles is involved in something illegal. I also think Doug has something to do with his sister's attack. Tonight we were chased around half an island by a gang of about nine or ten guys. That takes organization, discipline, and things very serious. Felix, when it comes to matters like those, you're the most serious guy I know. We were in your old home state. So who were those guys?"
He carefully broke off a piece of muffin and chewed on it. '”Th
ings can change pretty quickly, you know that, right?" he said, talking slowly. "One year some guy can be at the top of his game, and have a good scam going with a few of his friends, and next year, they’ve been busted up. One's dead, one's moved out, and the others are doing time. A lot of stuff can happen."
"So I've been told."
Felix kept on eating, "I try not to get too involved in the day to day activities of what goes on around here and down south. I'm busy with the work commitments I already have. You get too friendly or too knowledgeable about what's going on, then you get on some radar screens. Your name gets recorded. Maybe your phone gets tapped. And maybe a subpoena or two arrives with your name on it. So it's in my own best interest --- both personal and business --- not to know everything that's going on."
"So you don't know who these guys might be."
He wiped his hands on a napkin. "No, I don't."
"I bet you could find out."
A smile. "You're right, I could. But it would take a few days and maybe a trip or two. But I can't do it right now. I'm leaving tomorrow. Remember?"
"Yeah, your business trip down south. It's still on, I imagine?"
"Quite on," he said, nodding. "A straight courier job, something that's going to start off the year right with a hefty payment. Some sensitive materials have to be brought down south, and then I have to make sure they get delivered. It might take three days, it might take three weeks. And when I get back, then I'll start trying to find out what Doug and his friends are up to. In the meantime, here's a suggestion."
"And what's that?"
"Stop."
I shook my head. "I don't think so."
He crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it. "I hope you don't think that the fact we both escaped last night with some scratches, bumps, and a possible criminal record has gone to your head. We --- hell, you --- might not be so lucky next time. You get involved ill something over your head this next week or so, I'm not going to be around to provide backup. You could end up in some cold gravel pit with a couple of rounds in the back of your head, and that's all she wrote, Lewis. So stop."
Shattered Shell Page 29
