"Neither do I," I said, and went over to my Ford, now sporting a round little hole in its door.
About halfway home to Tyler, driving on the interstate, I suddenly got the shakes and had to pull over to the breakdown lane. As traffic roared by me, heading south, I got out of my Ford and went down to a drainage ditch at the side of the highway, surrounded by cattails and tall grasses. I dropped to my knees and then had the dry heaves for a long minute or two.
Then I sat down in the grass, hands still shaking. I got the clip out of my pocket and popped it into the handle of the Beretta, worked the action so there was now a round in the chamber. I let the hammer down on the pistol and it took both of my hands to replace it in the holster.
I wiped at my face with a handkerchief and took a couple of deep breaths, as my stomach tried to make up its mind as to whether or not to revolt again. When it seemed to settle down, I sat on my hands and looked around. A redwing blackbird was moving about the cattails, chattering at me. Good for him.
Inches. Just a matter of inches and instead of digging a round out of the upholstery in my Ford, a medical examiner from Wentworth County would be doing the same to what was left of my bloody head.
Inches. And that woman who had called my home a few nights ago, warning me off on what I was doing, working with the feds. An empty threat at the time, but now ...
Inches, maybe even just millimeters. I wished I could have sat down and talked more with Detective Stevens from Porter. Tell him about the NEST team secretly working in the area. About the dead Libyan in North Tyler. About the missing uranium.
I wished I could talk about a lot of things, and I remembered a time when I was working for the Department of Defense and had the very same wish.
I freed my hands and held them out. The shaking had mostly subsided. I had things to do, and the time for shakes was over.
I got up and looked at the redwing blackbird one more time, then went up the embankment to my Ford.
In the parking lot of the Tyler Chronicle, I noticed a familiar green Volkswagen Jetta in the lot with a Tyler Police Association sticker in the rear window. I sat for a while in my Ford, listening to talk radio from Boston and wondering what the host would say if I called down there to report an attempt by the Libyan government to secure uranium from New Hampshire to make their very own atomic bomb.
I'd probably be hung up on, and the host would go to a caller complaining about seat-belt laws in Massachusetts. After all, one has to keep these kinds of issues in perspective.
Then the door to the Chronicle opened up and Diane Woods came strolling out, wearing khaki slacks and a short black leather jacket, her hands stuck forlornly in the coat pockets. I got out and was rewarded with a small smile as I met up with her at her car. I thought about telling her what had just happened to me and then decided not to. This was her time, not mine.
"Here to renew your subscription?" I asked.
"Now there's a thought," she said, leaning back against her car. "I plumb forgot to do it after I spent the past half hour in there, being interviewed by your friend Paula on my history as a detective, why I work to help out the people in this town, and why I happen to love women instead of men. Care to guess which one of these three issues will be highlighted on the front page one of these days?"
I felt a chill tingle along the back of my neck, seeing the expression on my friend's face. "They made you do the interview here at the newspaper, instead of your office?"
She shook her head. "No, not at all. I made them do the interview here, that's what. I'll be damned if we were going to do it at my office or at my home, or at some restaurant. I thought if they were going to do something like this story, then by God I’d do it on their turf, not mine.”
"Diane ... "
She held up a hand. "No, it went okay, as okay as one could get. Your friend Paula tried to do the best she could, and both of us knew that it was her new boss pushing her to ask those questions. To be fair, she did talk most about my career in law enforcement, and the kind of cases I've worked on. But she did toss in a few questions about my personal life, which I did answer, as much as I didn't want to answer."
"And how did you answer?" I asked.
She laughed for a moment. "All these years, wondering if and when I'd ever publicly come out of the closet ... I always thought that I'd be the one in control, the one in charge. Deciding when it would be a good time. And I didn't think it would happen like this, and I didn't think I'd be alone while doing it."
"Kara still away?"
"Yep. She won't be back yet for a few days. But I've talked to her a couple of times, and she's given me some advice."
"Like what?"
She folded her arms, smiled. "Kara can be even more strong-willed than I can, and sometimes she favors the direct approach. Like taking a full-page ad out in the Chronicle, showing a photograph of the two of us in a lip-lock. Like those milk ads. Instead, ours would say, 'Got lips?'" She laughed. "You know, that wasn't half-bad, except a full-page ad is so damn expensive. So I went in there and did my own thing."
I had an urge to go over and just put my arm around her, but I stood still, not wanting to disturb her moment. So I said, "And what was your thing?"
Diane reached up, pulled away a strand of her fine brown hair. "My thing was to be truthful, to a point. Paula was about as diplomatic as one could be asking me about my personal life, if I was dating anyone. I told her that if it was anybody's business, I was currently involved in a committed relationship with one Kara Miles of' Newburyport, Mass., and that beyond that, I wouldn't say a damn thing. Which I didn’t.” She tugged on another strand of hair. “All in all, you know, it went okay, except when I was leaving the office, and I saw that new editor, Rupert Holman. He looked at me as I was heading out, and you know what that look was?"
"Undressing you with his eyes?"
That got another smile from her, and I felt good about that.
"Oh yeah, that's my big wish. To be a turn-on for a hetero male. Nope, it was an odd look. Those few men who know about me and who I love, sometimes I do get that undressing look --- though not from you, God knows. Imagining what it must be like, to see two women go at it, hot and sweaty. They don't imagine the other ninety- five percent, like doing laundry together or fixing a leaky faucet. Nope, it's always the sexual thing. Fine, let them have their fantasies."
"But Rupert wasn't giving you that, was he."
"No, he wasn't. He was looking at me like a thing, an object that he and his newspaper could use to further his career and the newspaper's sales, and it gave me the creeps. Almost made me wish that I was back as a uniform, so I could follow him driving around Tyler and pull him over for crossing over the double yellow line. Lewis, looking at that guy... what was going on behind those eyes made me wish that he was fantasizing about me and a can of whipped cream."
"Anything I can do?"
She shook her head, turned and opened the car door.
"Well, lunch on the day the story appears would be wonderful. It'd be nice to be with a friendly face when that little storm breaks."
As she got into her car, I reached down and touched her cheek. "Anything, anything at all," I said. "All you have to do is ask."
Diane reached up and squeezed my hand, tight. "I know. Now, let me get back to work, okay?"
I stood back as she backed up the Jetta and headed out to Route One, and when I turned to head into the Tyler Chronicle building, the rear door opened up and Paula Quinn came out.
Talk about timing.
She stood in the doorway entrance as if she was debating to come outside or go back in, and then she pulled the door shut and said, "Hey."
"Hey yourself."
"It looked like Diane Woods's car was just leaving. Am I right?"
"That you are," I said.
She had on jeans and a brown corduroy coat, and her large black purse was hanging off her shoulder. "Let me guess. The two of you have just spent the past few minutes talking about the inq
uisitive and cold-hearted Paula Quinn, and how she was going to ruin Diane's life because her newspaper is turning into tabloid trash."
"No, not at all."
"Gee, I find that hard to believe," she said, her voice sharp.
I took a deep breath. "Then believe this. If you must know, we talked about the interview. She said it went well, as well as it could. She doesn't have a grudge about you or the job you do. Honest."
She seemed to ponder that for a moment, then said, "Well, we'll see, after the story appears next week and Rupert gets to write another one of his patented headlines about the decline of morals in small-town America. Jesus, I'm getting so tired of this crap. After that story appears, I'll be frozen out by the police department, the fire department, and about half the elected officials in this town, and my job is going to be as much fun as going to the dentist every day for a month. How about you, Lewis? Coming by to check up on me?"
"Yes, I am," I said. "You called my house last night. A woman answered. I called you back but all I got was your answering machine or voice mail, here or at home."
She shifted her purse on her shoulder. "My prerogative, deciding whether to answer my phone or not. Especially after someone's promised a drink and conversation, and blows off both and ends up at home with another woman.”
“And it’s my prerogative, too, to give you an explanation. I tried to make it in time for drink and conversation. The woman visitor was unexpected and unscheduled. She's someone I'm involved with on doing a story for Shoreline, and nothing else."
"What kind of story?"
"A story about the drug trade," I said, not liking these lies to Paula, not knowing what else to say. If I mentioned anything about NEST and Libyans and missing uranium, Paula the reporter would politely tell Paula the friend of Lewis to shut up and get to work.
"The drug trade?" she said, exaggerating the words slightly. "That sounds soooo interesting. What is she, a dealer? A druggie? A cop?"
"She's with the federal government," I said.
"The federal government, and she's meeting with you at your house?" she said incredulously. "I guess the government really is improving public service. Who is she with? Department of Justice? The drug czar's office?"
Now I felt fairly miserable. "I can't say, sorry."
A crisp nod, and she walked by me, heading to her Escort.
"Oh, I get it. Another mysterious Lewis Cole story, another attempt by Lewis to be the hero and the fixer, and us mere mortals can't be let in on his little secret. Well, here's my secret, Lewis. I'm late for an appointment with the town counsel, and I don't like being bounced around by you, no matter how noble your intent."
"Paula... " I said, not knowing what else to say, knowing she had nailed me pretty well. "It's more than that, honest."
She got into her car, started it up, and then was gone without once looking in my direction. I put my hands in my coat pocket and bounced back on my heels, and decided to get the hell out of this cursed parking lot before Rupert Holman came out and arrested me for trespassing or some other damn thing.
At home there was just one message on my answering machine, a message that made the backs of my legs quiver for just a moment. That female voice from the other night: "Mr. Cole. A reminder. I do hope you have your affairs in order.” Then the hang-up. I looked at the machine and said aloud, “If you say so, hon,” and I made a point of checking all the windows of my house, making sure they were locked. Then, even though it was mid-afternoon on a nice sunny day, I drew all the shades and switched on the lights. With shades drawn, anybody out there with a high-powered rifle wouldn't have an easy time of it gunning for me a second time.
I also loaded up my 12-gauge Remington shotgun and stood it up against the headboard of my bed for easy access. A pistol is fine, but in close quarters, when someone's trying to get into your house and cause you harm, a shotgun and its pattern of shot is much more effective. In what seemed to be a long time ago, Paula had asked me why I had such a collection of weapons-a pistol, a revolver, the shotgun and my FN F AL 8-mm assault rifle-and I said, "Tools. That's all. They're tools with different functions in case I get into trouble." When she asked, "Wouldn't dialing nine-one-one be easier?" I had shrugged and said, "What do I do if the phone is out?"
True. And what would I do if someone was trying to nail me and I couldn't say much about it because of the Holy God of National Security? I then had a Molson Golden Ale and some cheese and crackers for a meal. It was too late to call it lunch and too early to call it dinner --- or supper, if you prefer ---- and all I knew is that it eased up my stomach some.
I sat and watched television, deciding that the current crop of talk-show hosts would have done quite well in the old Roman coliseum- "Live! This afternoon! Cultist Christians reveal their sex secrets as they are devoured by lions! "-and when I decided my stomach had calmed down enough, I made a call and then walked across the street to the Lafayette House.
Before I could see Laura Reeves, one of the musclemen who met me when I knocked at the door-Clem-gave me a look and I gave it up right then and there. "I'm carrying," I said. "Nine-millimeter, holster under left arm. Do you want it?"
He nodded, not saying a word. I cleared my throat. "Do you want to retrieve it, or should I hand it to you?”
Clem just eyed me, as if he were gauging both my weight and my intentions. “Sure. Just hand it over, using two fingers of your left hand, on the barrel end. All right?”
"Not a problem," I said, though it was very awkward, removing the Beretta as he had requested. But that was his intent. An awkward man with a gun is much less of a threat than a confident man with a gun. After I handed it over he opened the door wider and let me in. I asked, "Do I get a receipt for that?"
"Tell you what, sport. You get to have it back when you leave. That okay with you?"
"That sounds fine."
"The room next door; go on in."
Which I did, opening up the interconnecting door, but instead of Laura Reeves, Gus Turner was there, sitting at one of the conference tables. He looked up at me and smiled as he started putting papers away in envelopes and manila folders. I guess security had improved here since I had last visited. "Sorry, Lewis. Laura's in a call right now. She asked me to keep you company until she's free. Have a seat, why don't you."
I sat across from him, saw the wrinkled nature of his shirt and trousers, and his red-rimmed eyes. "Gus, you've got to get out more."
"Hah," he said, picking up a can of Coke. Empty cans of
Coke were scattered across the large table like little red lighthouses. He went on, "Ever since I've been here, out is what it's been like. Either driving around in a van or flying overhead in a rented Cessna, all I've done here is been out and about. I know this is your home turf and all, but I'm beginning to hate this little state of yours."
The room was showing signs of being seriously lived in. The wastebaskets were overflowing with fast-food wrappers, old newspapers, and additional empty cans of soda. For some reason the place looked quite familiar to me, as if I had worked in here before instead of coming by earlier for brief visits. "What's Laura up to?"
He picked up the soda can, took a deep swig. "Beats me.
You know the drill, right? Need to know. That's what guides us and everything we do. All I know is that she had to take a call. You want a drink? Nothing alcoholic, but I could rustle up something for you.”
"No, I'm fine," I said, now noting the smell inside the room, of unwashed bodies and clothes, pressed together for a long time. The glamour of government work.
"Hey," Gus said. "Can I ask you something?"
"Go right ahead."
He looked sheepish, like a kid who saw his parents playing somersaults in the bedroom. "I've read through your service record, when you were in the Marginal Issues Section. You sure had your hands full back then. It sure was impressive."
I put my hands in my coat pocket. "If you call reading a lot of reports and writing your own reports impressi
ve ... well, if you say so."
He looked eager as he kept on talking. "Yeah, but even if it was dull work, it was all to a greater purpose. Fighting the old evil empire, the Soviet Union. It was all so clear back then. Us and them. Allies and adversaries. West Germany versus East Germany. Contras versus Sandanistas. Quite crystal-clear. It must have been invigorating."
I sighed. "Did you read the whole file, especially the part about what happened to me and the other members of my section? What happened to us was pretty crystal-clear as well."
He took another swallow from his Coke. "Sure, and sorry about that and all. But look what I signed up to do. Skulking around in the shadows, trying to make sense out of poorly microfilmed documents more than a half-century-old. Flying around in circles with detection gear, trying to ignore readings from hospitals or industrial facilities that use radioactive materials. Tracking down high school students over the Internet who've made a bomb threat against Cleveland. Man, when I signed up for this gig, I thought I'd be doing something, you know. Searching out bomb material in Kazakhstan or Iraq or someplace. Not friggin' New Hampshire."
I was trying to think of a suitable retort when another door opened up and Laura Reeves strode in. “Gus,” she said crisply. “If you’d excuse the two of us.”
“Sure,” he said, but while his tone might have been cheerful, his eyes told me another story. I got the feeling that among the things red-haired Gus Turner didn't like about this assignment included being bossed around by Laura Reeves.
When Gus had gone out into the other room, Laura sighed heavily and sat down, hooking one leg over the arm of the chair, letting her leg swing back and forth. "Well, I just got off the phone with the Secretary. Of Energy, in case you were wondering."
"Go on."
"It seems things are moving quickly in other arenas, and poorly."
"Poorly in which way?"
She rubbed at her face and sighed again. "Poorly in that if we don't get this uranium back and soon, it looks like a nice little war is going to break out in North Africa. That poorly enough for you?"
Killer Waves Page 19
