Killer Waves

by Brendan DuBois

  I could feel her shift her weight next to me. "Remember the two local cops who found the body of the Libyan agent last week?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, one of them came back again on patrol and saw an empty car parked where it didn't belong. Plates carne back odd, as you know, and then he saw blood on the ground, underneath the trunk. Talk about coincidences, huh ? We got the word and we flooded this area, my friend, we really did. Sound and thermal sensors, even in the rain, and we got right to work."

  "Yes," I said. "God bless local cops."

  She turned to me. “Did you hear what I was saying back there on the radio, just a few minutes ago?”

  “Telling your bosses that you secured the uranium. They must be very happy.”

  "More than that; Lewis, more than that," she said, her voice exasperated. "Don't you know what almost happened?"

  Now I remembered. "The bombing raids against Libya."

  "Right. The bombing raids against Libya. I'm not sure of the time frame, but I'm sure we were pretty close to killing hundreds of people. And thanks to you, that was stopped. So, again I say: You done good."

  I was starting to feel cold and my arms were cramping up again from all that exertion, and I was going to say something sharp to Laura in return, when my mouth refused to work.

  Coming out of the hallway, dripping wet and with a compress against the back of his head, was one very alive Felix Tinios.

  I stood up, legs trembling. Laura stood up next to me. Felix broke away from his armed escorts and came over to me. He got right to the point.

  "That guy dead?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Good." Dried blood was on his wrists. "You do it?"

  "No, but it wasn't for lack of trying," I said. "I drew him down with Jack's shotgun. But Jack was low in the ammo department. The only thing I did was to scare him with the sound of a firing pin slamming shut on an empty chamber."

  "Well, shit like that happens," Felix said. His clothes were dripping wet on the concrete, his hair was matted and dried blood was on his neck as well. "I guess I have to thank the fed shooters, huh?"

  "Looks that way," I said.

  Laura spoke up. "Excuse me, and you are... ?

  Felix gave her a chilly smile. "Sony, miss, I'm talking to this gentleman here. Don't you know it's rude to interrupt?"

  Which I did, just then. "What happened?"

  Felix shook his head, seemingly in admiration. "That little bastard was good. I was heading down the corridor, scanning on both sides. Good thing about night-vision goggles is that you can see in the dark Bad thing is that you've got shit for peripheral vision. You know that swimming hole I ended up in?”

  “That I do,” I said.

  "Little bastard was crouched down in that hole. Lots of hand- and footholds on the broken concrete. I went by and he got up and popped me in the back, and then a couple of more times for good measure. I fell in, and without my Uzi, well, I figured the best approach would be to play possum."

  With his free hand, he unbuttoned the front of his shirt, revealing a Kevlar vest. "These things do work, but I know I've got a couple of bruises back there. Damn, it hurts."

  Laura spoke up again, "I'm sorry; I really have to ask. Who are you?"

  Felix smiled, bowed in her direction. "Ma'am, I make it a rule never to talk to the feds without my lawyer present. And since my friend here Lewis is not a member of the New Hampshire or Massachusetts bar, then I must be going."

  "Oh, no, you don't," she said.

  Another smile. "Oh, yes, I will. The name is Felix Tinios, I reside on Rosemount Lane in North Tyler, and if you'd care to stop by, do. You can try to take me into custody, and I'll go willingly, but the only thing you'll hear from me is what I just said. I never talk to feds without my lawyer present. Otherwise ... Lewis, I'm sure I'll be seeing you."

  "You certainly will."

  He smiled again for both our benefit, I suppose, and then ambled down the exit corridor, now well-lit and bustling with people who seemed to know what they were doing and why. I almost envied them. Laura looked at me and said, "Who the hell was that?"

  "A friend of mine who came in to rescue me," I said. "He's also someone who you don't want to piss off."

  She gave me an odd look and said, "You know, I do think you're right. How are you doing?"

  ''I'm doing all right," I said.

  "That’s fine,” she said. “Look, we need to talk and debrief and –“

  I wiped at my face again. “No.”

  Laura said, “Lewis, it’s been a long day and ---“

  “No, no, and still, no. Tell me, how are you doing?”

  "Me?" she asked, surprised. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, all of this," I said. "You're in charge, right?"

  "Yes, of course I am. What are you getting at?"

  In the strong lights now in this concrete chamber, I tried to gauge what was going on behind those still brown eyes, and I failed. I could not understand who she was and what she had done. "What I'm getting at is how your gun crew came in at the last moment. What I'm getting at is that you weren't interested in capturing Gus, or interrogating Gus, or putting him on trial and embarrassing you and the Department of Energy. It would have been easy to capture him. But that didn't happen. Which tells me that your boys with guns got specific orders. Am I right?"

  "No," she said slowly. "No, you're not right."

  "Good going, Laura," I said. "That was the same tone of voice you used on me when you first said you worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Which is why I asked how you were doing. Considering how Gus was set up and terminated, without too much fuss. Pretty cold, Laura. Pretty cold."

  "We do what we have to," she said. "That's the nature of our business. All right, we'll talk tomorrow. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll get a car and driver for you."

  "Sorry," I said. "No again. I'd rather walk."

  Laura said, "It's pouring rain out there. You'll be soaked."

  "That's right," I said. "And I'll be soaked on my own, without owing you or anybody else. See you later."

  And with that, I turned around and started heading out. While the trip in with Gus and Jack in the darkness had seemed to take hours, the trip out took only a few minutes. Earlier in the darkness I had imagined the vastness of the tunnels and chambers, wondering how Jack had gotten us here, and I felt slightly sheepish as I easily made my way back. Other serious looking men and women kept on streaming in, carrying cases of equipment, more lights, photographic paraphernalia and who knows what. At the entrance the door was propped open and more lights wore set up outside, the rain streaming down highlighted in their strong beams.

  A couple of men looked over at me and started coming toward me, but I just kept my look down and went out into the rain.

  Some long minutes later, soaked and with my clothes sticking to me and my shoes squishing in the mud, I made it out to the parking lot of the Samson Point nature preserve. I stopped, coughed a bit, and looked around. I had earlier thought of walking out onto the parking lot and then ambling down Atlantic Avenue, keeping to the side of the road, making my way home quietly, But the lot was full of LTDs and dark vans, and beyond the gate other cars were parked as well, cruisers with lights flashing and what looked like a couple of television news vans.

  Not much chance of a quiet walk home.

  The rain seemed to come down even harder, and I only hesitated for a moment. The longer I'd wait, the wetter and colder I'd get. I turned and started heading out to the low dark hills beyond which my home was. I walked across the parking lot, dodging through the parked vehicles, and as I started climbing up into the darkness, I looked back The last thing I saw was a little pool of light around a parked LTD with its trunk open, where people were looking at the body of a dead ex-Marine who had died this evening at the hands of a trusted coworker.

  When I got home, before I did anything else, anything at all, I made sure the telephone was unplugged. No talking tonight, no, sir. Shiveri
ng and cold, I went upstairs, stripping off my wet clothing and footwear as I got up to the second floor. I turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it, and spent what seemed like a half hour or so scrubbing and washing and rinsing, repeating the process over and over. When my hot water heater finally surrendered and the water started to cool down, I got out and automatically began checking my skin, the way I did after every shower, looking for the bumps or swellings that meant that the bio agent from my long-ago exposure had finally bitten me again.

  My skin was clear, at least this night. I rubbed my body dry and wished there were a way I could reach in and check my mind, for what I had seen today would be with me for a very long time ---- the blood and the bodies and the shooting and that terrible, cold-blooded moment when I had raised the shotgun ready to kill another man, and how disappointed I had felt when the firing pin fell on an empty chamber.

  Dressed in a blue terry-cloth robe, I went downstairs and built a fire in the fireplace, piling in the oak chunks as high as I dared. In my kitchen I grabbed an unopened bottle of Australian Merlot, a package of saltine crackers and from the refrigerator a chunk of cheddar cheese. I got back to my couch, listened to the crackling of the fire and the rain still coming down in sheets, and got to work on the only food and drink I cared about. I sipped from the wine bottle without benefit of glassware, and ate the cheese and crackers, as I looked at the fire, its flames rising higher and higher. I watched the flames for a long time, keeping my eyes open as much as possible, for whenever I closed them, I saw the same things.

  Clem, jackknifed and dead in the trunk of the LTD. Jack, collapsing and dying in the central chamber. Gus, stumbling back, as bullets tore into his chest.

  I drank and ate and stared at the flames as long as I could. Sometime during the night I woke up on the couch. I didn't remember stretching out or pulling a down comforter over me. I woozily stood up and went upstairs and used the bathroom, and then came back down. In the kitchen I drank two glasses of cold water and then went to the sliding glass doors that led out to my deck. The rain had stopped and it seemed the clouds had moved away.

  I got out on the deck, the wood wet under my bare feet. I

  hugged myself and looked out at the ocean, at the swelling of the waves, coming in again and again. I looked up at the stars, the bright and beautiful stars, just imagining what layout there in the universe, what wonders and mysteries. Staring up there, I saw a tiny dot of light moving, fast and unblinking. Perhaps it was the space shuttle. Perhaps it was the International Space Station. Perhaps it was just a weather satellite. But it didn't quite matter. What was up there belonged to us, had been sent up there and now residing up in the heavens.

  I looked over to the north, where Samson Point was, and there were plenty of lights over there, as Laura was doing whatever work and her crew was continuing. I remembered a night some days ago, when the lights I had seen over there had drawn me, like a curious moth to a flame. Well, this particular insect was still living, though singed.

  I looked at the lights and then went back to looking at the stars.

  In the morning I had two cups of tea, three scrambled eggs and an English muffin, and throughout the morning I kept the phone unplugged. If someone wanted to talk to me, they could damn well come down and talk to me in person, though I knew eventually I would have to talk to them. Laura Reeves. Felix Tinios. Even Diane Woods, my detective friend, and Paula Quinn. Always, Paula. I owed her a lot and I knew I had blown off her last phone call, when she had said she needed to talk to me.

  But I had a little work to do. I went up to my office and got out some paperwork I had collected over the past few days, I got to work, typing up a long letter about things I had seen and things I had collected. When I had printed out these documents, and I got the other paperwork together, I put them into a nine-by-twelve manila envelope, sealed it, and then left my house, after making sure I had plugged in the phone. The day was a pleasant, sunny April morning, a day I would usually spend on my back deck, getting some sunshine and enjoying the cool ocean air.

  But not this morning.

  I drove back to Porter and went to the offices of the Porter Herald. I hope Paula would eventually forgive me, but what I was going to supply to a newspaper I couldn't possibly have given to her editor. The Porter Herald is in a one-story brick building a couple of blocks away from the harbor and just a few blocks more from the Porter Submarine Museum.

  I parked in its large lot and went up to the front entrance.

  Near the entrance was a newspaper box, and after dropping in two quarters, I retrieved that morning's issue. 1 don't read the Porter Herald that much ---- its copyediting staff relies too much on computer spell-checking --- but I needed this particular issue. I opened it up to the editorial page, where I scanned the little box that listed the top editors. I skipped the chief editor's name and went down to the news editor: Alan Sher. Knowing how newspapers operate, I knew that the chief editor would be too busy juggling different items from personnel to budgets to office politics to look seriously at what I had to offer. Which is why I scrawled Alan Sher's name on the brown envelope and went inside.

  The receptionist was a young man with a blond crew cut and earrings on both ears, wearing baggy khaki pants and a dungaree shirt with a red necktie. He had on a headset and sat behind a waist-high counter, and through a glass door on the left I could make out the computer terminals and the reporters in the newsroom. I came in and handed the envelope over to him.

  "Could you see that Mr. Sher gets this right away?" I asked. He glanced down at the envelope and said, "Certainly. May I ask who's dropping this off?"

  "You may," I said, and left.

  Outside I felt both antsy and tired, a strange combination.

  There was a pay phone and I made a phone call to Paula Quinn at the Chronicle. No answer. I left a message on her voice mail.

  "Paula, it's Lewis. I know I've been a pain lately, and you have my apologies. I'd like an opportunity --- ah, make that a bunch of opportunities, to make it up to you. Please give me a ring as soon as you can."

  I hung up and rubbed my hands, and kept on walking. At a small restaurant on Congress Street I had a quick bowl of chowder for lunch, and then walked around downtown. Lots of cars, lots of people, lots of everything. It made my head hurt. Coming to the brick-and-glass building that marked the Porter Public Library, I went in. This was what I needed. On the first floor was the periodicals room, with plenty of comfortable chairs, and magazines displayed on racks all around the room. I looked at where they started-Astronomy --- and where they ended ---- Yachting --- and decided this was the place for me.

  I sat down and started looking at pictures of Saturn, wondering how the shuttle was doing overhead.

  Hours later I left the Porter Public Library, after reading about the newest dock facilities in the British Virgin Islands. I wandered back to the Porter Herald parking lot, curious how the news editor's day was going, and I got in my Explorer and headed south once again.

  The drive seemed to take just a few seconds before I was back at Tyler Beach and turning into the parking lot of the Lafayette House. A woman was there, sitting on the trunk of yet another government-issued LTD. She had on black high-heeled shoes and a short black skirt and black stockings, and a leather jacket. I thought about racing past her or backing back onto Atlantic Avenue, but instead I slowed down and rolled down the passenger's side window. Laura Reeves yawned and got off the car trunk and came over.

  "Hey, there," she said. "Hey yourself," I said.

  "I was wondering if you could spare some time my way," she said.

  "If you're looking for a formal debrief, forget it," I said.

  "Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. But not now."

  "Understood," she said, leaning against the open window, her hair hanging into my Explorer. She had on a gray sweater and a strand of pearls about her neck "Look, it's almost time for dinner. Or supper, as you New Englanders call it. How about my treat?"


  "What kind of treat are you offering?"

  She nodded back in the direction of her car. "We can go to the fanciest restaurant around here, or, back in the car, I've got a cooler with dinner fixings. Your choice. Either out or down to your house. You decide."

  I looked at her face, tried to remember the look she had given me late last night, back in the gun complex. "Do we talk business?"

  "Only if you want to."

  I felt my fingers squeeze the steering wheel. "All right. My choice. My house.”

  She smiled. “I hoped you were going to say that. Hold on.”

  And in a minute or two she was in my Explorer as we bounced down the rough driveway, a small cooler rattling around in the backseat.

  She took over my kitchen and when I tried to lend a hand, she shooed me away. "No, you can have this place back when it's cleanup time. Other than that, leave me be."

  So I poured both of us a glass of wine, as she made a roast pork tenderloin dish with rice and a small Caesar salad, and she noticed how I watched her as she cooked. She had shed the leather jacket and looked a hundred degrees away from the woman who had taken control of a crime scene in an underground fortress. "You got a problem with a woman in your kitchen, Cole?"

  "Maybe not," I said. "Maybe I have a problem with this particular woman. I realize I'm not being PC and all that, but after seeing the way you work, watching you worry about the temperature of my stove is a bit amusing."

  "Well," she said, washing some lettuce in the sink "When I'm on a job, living far from home, I get tired of other people cooking my meals. I don't mind restaurants and I don't mind hotel food, but I do get tired of it after a few weeks on the road. It gets quite monotonous. So I actually find some joy being in a kitchen, cooking something the way I like it. You got a problem with that?"

  "Nope," I said.

  "Good," she said, tearing the lettuce into small pieces. "And I especially enjoy it when I'm cooking for someone else, and I certainly hope you don't have a problem with that."

  "Not yet," I said. "Not yet."

  We ate out on my deck, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun set in the west, on the other side of the house. A couple of seagulls hovered overhead, looking for a handout, and we sent them along their way disappointed. Laura looked out and said, "A hell of a view. You ever get whales through here?"