Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series)

by DuBois, Brendan

  I reached for my wallet. “Gladly. I’d even pay you some money for the gas and the bother.”

  He leaned his rake up against a birch tree. “Ain’t no bother. Just make sure you take her out, don’t bang her up against any rocks, and for Christ’s sake, don’t drown. That’d mean me chasing down your estate to get reimbursed.”

  After handing over my driver’s license, I followed him down a narrow dirt path that led to the side of the house that overlooked the lake. There was a second-story deck held up by metal poles, and underneath the deck some wooden furniture, a picnic table, and other odds and ends were stored. There was a stretch of canvas over a shape that he peeled off, revealing a small—and I mean small!—aluminum skiff. A couple of minutes fussing around with a small outboard motor and a gas tank, and I then helped him haul it down to the water.

  “There you go,” he said, pointing inside. “A life jacket you need to have, even if you’re the best swimmer in the state, otherwise the Marine Patrol will write you a nasty ticket. There’s also a paddle in case the motor quits on you, which it shouldn’t, since it’s a Mercury and I keep her in good shape.”

  “Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “The name’s Pete Kimball,” he said. “And where did you say you were from?”

  “Tyler Beach.”

  “Hey, what a coincidence!” he said. “I had a guy here last week from Tyler, rented my big rowboat, same as you. Though he paid me some money ’cause he was going to keep it for a few days.”

  That got my attention. “He leave a name?”

  Pete Kimball looked embarrassed. “No, but he left a couple of Ben Franklins, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Tell me, was he a good-looking guy, maybe well-dressed, black hair, sort of with an expression like he just bit into a lemon?”

  “That sounds pretty fair. A friend of yours?”

  “Not on your life,” I said, and Pete held the bow steady as I climbed in.

  I switched on the motor, squeezed the fuel bulb a couple of times, and with two quick pulls of the starting rope the Mercury started right up. I flipped the control lever from NEUTRAL to REVERSE and backed my way out onto the lake, and then I flipped it into FORWARD and slowly motored my way back to the beach. The Tahoe was still there, and after I got within about fifty yards of the deserted sand, Felix and Paula emerged from the right. Paula elbowed Felix, and when I was sure the two of them were looking at me, I gave them a hearty wave. Paula waved back. Felix didn’t. He’s not one for waves.

  When I was close to the beach, I flipped the engine back into NEUTRAL and gently bumped into the sand. Felix and Paula came down to me and Felix said, “Fleet’s in, eh?”

  “Sure is,” I said. “And I’m here to tell you I’m off to your vacation spot. And it also looks like Mark is over there. The guy I rented this yacht from tells me a few days ago, a man from Tyler rented a boat from him as well.”

  “I want to come,” Paula said, eyes bright with excitement and anticipation.

  “I’m sure you do,” I said. “But there’s no room on this little tub.”

  “Then what’s the point when you get there?” she asked. “If I can’t come out there with you, then you can’t possibly come back with Mark.”

  “I’ll take his boat and tow this little tub back.”

  Felix said, “Paula, it’s settled, and we’re wasting time.” He looked up and down the empty road. “Just because Mark’s hunters aren’t here yet, doesn’t mean they won’t show up in the next few minutes. Time’s wasting.”

  Paula went to the bow of the little boat, shoved me off. “Go get my man,” she said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I put the motor into FORWARD and, using the fixed tiller on the Mercury, I made a U-turn and putt-putted my way out to the main lake.

  It was slow and peaceful, motoring out onto Lake Pettis. Save for a bass-fishing boat on the southern end of the lake, I pretty much had the place to myself. The water was relatively flat, although every now and then a wave would slap against the aluminum side, splashing me with cold lake water. I thought of the lobstermen I had seen earlier this morning, knowing the Atlantic was much colder, and that if I were to dump, I could probably swim to safety.

  The farther out I went onto the lake, the more I made out the close peaks of the White Mountains. A perfect fall day, and there were just a few trees along the quiet shoreline where the colorful foliage was still hanging on, for whatever reason. Overhead there were some seagulls and some smaller birds I couldn’t identify.

  The motor was purring right along, the tiller slightly vibrating in my hand, and I turned to the left, heading to the large island Paula had pointed out. This part of the lake was shallow, and in looking down I could see huge boulders underwater, some covered with dark-colored algae, and I also spotted a couple of tree stumps, the exposed roots sticking out like some nasty and large spider.

  I turned around, could make out the line marking the beach, the tiny shape of the Tahoe, and the even tinier shapes of Felix and Paula. I shifted more to the left and lost the beach from view. I slid past the large island, which had two good-sized homes with their docks pulled up, and no lights on or boats moored ashore.

  The shoreline of the island petered out to a collection of above-water boulders; giving it plenty of room, I arced around in a large loop and spotted a smaller island to the rear, just like Paula had said. I went closer to the smaller island, slowing down the speed some, and at first I didn’t see anything unusual, just a thick stand of trees with exposed rocks on the shoreline.

  I swung around the island and a blue cottage came into view, with a short, fixed dock, and gently bobbing at the dock was an aluminum skiff twice the length of mine. There was a small sandy beach that I recognized from the photo back at Mark’s condo, and I was surprised at the flash of jealousy that slipped through me.

  I slid the engine into NEUTRAL for a moment, considering what was ahead of me, and then I put it into FORWARD again, heading to the island where I believed Mark Spencer was hiding out, on the run from a Wyoming motorcycle gang wanting to do him harm.

  The closer I got to the dock, the more I backed down the motor, and when I was about six feet away, I put it into NEUTRAL and slid into the side of the dock, bump-bumping my way forward. I took a piece of rope from up forward of my rental, tied it off to a cleat, and worked my way up onto the dock.

  I stood up, stretched my legs, rearranged my clothes, then checked out my 9mm, safe and secure in my shoulder holster.

  I took a breath and then started walking, to find a missing person.

  A person who didn’t seem to want to be found.

  There was a dirt path up to the blue cottage, and I took my time, not wanting to surprise or startle him. There were some low-growth blueberry bushes and ferns and saplings, and the cottage sat on a dirt lot, one story tall, with a screened-in front porch, and I walked around it. No sounds of a television or a radio.

  I went back to the front porch, opened the door. On the front porch was some old wicker furniture, a card table, and a dark green throw rug on the wooden floor. The door leading to the interior of the house was closed, but it had a large window, which I peered through.

  Nobody.

  I knocked on the door.

  Still nothing.

  I tried the doorknob, and it opened easily in my hand.

  I remembered the last time I had gone into a house with an unlocked door, and I was glad that I was here alone.

  “Mark? It’s Lewis Cole.”

  I went into the house.

  It was damp and dank inside. The floor was old cracked linoleum. There was a sagging couch to the right, a small kitchen area to the left. A refrigerator and stove that looked like it had been purchased when a president had once grandly announced that he was not a crook was in the far corner. There were plastic bags with recently purchased groceries on the counter. I slowly walked in, and I reached under my jacket, took out my 9mm Berett
a.

  “Mark?”

  Two small bedrooms, beds neatly made. In one bedroom, there was a black roll-on piece of luggage, with a laptop set on top. The other bedroom was empty, as was a tiny bathroom in the rear.

  I went back out through the cottage, holstered my Beretta, and stepped out onto the porch. From here I could make out the dock, my boat and the other boat, and a bit of the sandy beach. Time to tour the island.

  I got off the porch, and a man emerged from behind a thick birch tree, carrying a shotgun, said shotgun’s barrel poking into my chest.

  I stepped back. Mark Spencer stood there, breathing hard, wearing tan chinos, a red L.L. Bean jacket, workboots. He had a four- or five-day-old growth of beard. His hair was messy and mussed, like he had just gotten up a minute or so ago.

  “Cole,” he said. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Counselor Spencer, I presume,” I said, holding my hands up in a reflexive move. Hard not to do with a shotgun about a foot away from my chest. “Mind pointing that somewhere else?”

  His hard breathing continued. The shotgun didn’t waver. “How the hell did you find me?”

  “Trade secrets,” I said. “Look, mind putting that shotgun down? You know I’m not the enemy.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?”

  Enough was enough, and I took three hard and fast steps forward, got close to him, the shotgun harmlessly sliding past my ribs, and after slapping his face I grabbed and twisted the weapon away from him. I stepped back, now armed, and Mark stood there, shocked, hand up against his face.

  “You didn’t have to do that!”

  “The hell I didn’t,” I said, checking the shotgun out. It was twelve-gauge, single-shot. I broke open the breech, retrieved the cartridge, snapped it shut, put the cartridge in my pocket. “I politely asked you twice to stop pointing your shotgun at me. You didn’t move. I wasn’t going to ask a third time.”

  Voice sullen, he said, “I wasn’t going to shoot you.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But a sudden move on your part, a sneeze, a cough, or a stumble could cause you to pull the trigger, and you’d put a good-sized hole in my chest. It’s not a particularly tough or muscled chest, but it works for me.”

  “How the hell did you find me?”

  “Didn’t you hear me the first time around? Trade secret. Now, not to get all pushy and such, but we’ve got to get you out of here.”

  Mark said, “Suit yourself. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, yes, you are,” I said. “I’ve got Paula Quinn on the town beach, along with Felix Tinios, and—”

  “What, Felix Tinios, the mob guy?”

  “You can discuss his career options later,” I said. “But right now, the Stonecold Falcons are hard on your trail, and if I could find your hidey-hole, so can they.”

  He swallowed and said: “I don’t care. I’m . . . I’m doing something important, and I don’t care if they’re after me. I need to see it through.”

  I stepped forward, thinking about giving him another healthy slap or two. “Listen, nitwit, there’s a woman back at the town beach who’s been heartsick over you ever since you bailed out. And you’re coming back with me, tell her you’re fine, and then you can go on your death quest or whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Do you understand, Mark? And what, I leave without you and you plan to hold off motorcycle gang members with a shotgun that holds and fires one round? Is that your plan? All right, you might get one shot off, but these are very hard men after you. They’ll accept that one shot, and while you’re trying to reload while breathing hard and your hands shaking, they’ll rush you and then nail your testicles to a log . . . and then they’ll really get angry. And whatever important crap you’re doing, well, forget about it.”

  Mark’s eyes flickered and he looked to the cottage, to the trees, and then to the waters of the lake. “Paula’s back there? With Felix Tinios?”

  “Yes,” I said. “So gather up your gear, we’ll head on back, and we’ll drive off. Then you and Paula can have a nice reunion, you can tell her what the hell you’re up to, and we can get away from the lake.”

  He shifted his feet, and I said, “Christ, Counselor, do I have to draw a diagram for you? I’m here to save your sorry ass . . . not because I particularly like you, but because Paula asked me. So you’re leaving this island. Your choice if you leave free or tied up.”

  “You think you can tie me up? Really? An old man like you?”

  I spun the shotgun around so it was rising up between his legs, and I managed to stop my movements before the metal barrel struck something near and dear to the town counsel of Tyler.

  “Without a doubt,” I said.

  After I persuaded him to leave his groceries behind, we made good progress getting out of the cottage. He had his luggage and left the shotgun behind, since it belonged to the owner of the cottage. He locked the door and went around to the side of the cottage, where there was a brick foundation that had seen better days. Mark pulled a brick out and put the key inside, and replaced the brick.

  “Breaking and entering, Counselor?” I asked.

  “I had permission.”

  “Really? Permission to come here in November?”

  He glared at me and started walking away. I joined him at his aluminum skiff and tied the smaller boat to the stern, so we could return both at the same time to the generous Mister Pete Kimball. I had a lot of questions to ask him, and probably a lot of information to pass along—from the death of Carl Lessard to the arson at his place of work—but he was up forward in the skiff, slumped, staring at the water and the surroundings, not at all looking like the arrogant and self-confident town counsel I had gotten to know over the past months.

  Mark’s rented skiff had a more powerful engine than mine, so we made good time, heading back to the town beach, and there was the Tahoe, and there was Felix.

  But no Paula.

  Well . . . maybe she was in the Tahoe, warming up.

  Maybe.

  But why was the Tahoe parked facing the other direction?

  Mark lifted his head and was going to say something—

  I yelled at him: “Put your head down! Now!”

  Felix was on the beach, at the water’s edge, something over his shoulder, and he gave me a long, sweeping wave.

  Felix’s not one for waving.

  I turned the skiff around, the smaller boat bumping into us, and Mark asked “What’s going on? What’s up?”

  “I don’t know, but something’s wrong.”

  When we were parallel to the beach is when it happened.

  A black Honda CRV roared in from the left, braked to a halt by the beach. Three men bailed out and by now Felix was trotting up to the beach, unlimbering what he had over his shoulder, which was an H&K MP5 semi-automatic rifle. The three men were reaching under their coats and Felix was first, firing off a series of rapid three- and four-round bursts. The CRV’s windshield and fender were pockmarked with Felix’s outgoing rounds, and I completed the turn with the boat, slammed the throttle wide open.

  We roared back out onto the open lake. I spared a glance back.

  The Tahoe was gone. The CRV was still there, with the three men. Two were standing by themselves, but the third was looking out at us with binoculars.

  I turned and lowered my head, but I knew it was too late.

  Reeve Langley had spotted me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  To get out of view of the beach, I made a turn as quickly as I could, trying not to swamp our boat. Mark’s face looked the color of the lake water, and he started stammering, trying to look behind me. “What . . . who . . . why was Felix shooting . . . was Paula there. . . .”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Hunh?”

  “You didn’t fly up here, Mark. You took your car. Where is it?”

  He pointed. “Up there a bit. There’s a house under construction, looks abandoned. I parked there and hiked over to where I rented the boat.”
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br />   “All right, then.” There were half-submerged boulders up ahead. I maneuvered to miss them, but didn’t do a particularly good job of it. The smaller boat I was towing scraped up against a boulder with an ungodly screech.

  “But what happened—”

  “Out of order, Counselor,” I said. “There’ll be time to talk later.”

  Lots of questions rattling around, but I didn’t want to get into a discussion of all that had gone on earlier. I wanted to get to Mark’s car, get moving, get in contact with Felix, and then try to meet up . . . and find out what had prompted Felix to start firing off 9mm rounds so quickly.

  I had no doubt that Felix had done the right thing. I just wanted to know why.

  Mark turned and hunched his shoulders. Poor fellow. Just a week ago he’d been the lawyer for a prosperous town, had a nice little law practice, even considered a run for state senate, and was engaged to one of the finest women I knew.

  Now he was a refugee of sorts, with a deadly motorcycle gang chasing him, depending for his safety on a Tyler Beach resident who didn’t hold him in high esteem. Or low esteem.

  “There,” he said. “That’s the house.”

  As he said, it was a home still under construction, though it looked like construction had started a couple of years ago. It was a two-story, built in the triangular Swiss chalet style. On its walls, old Tyvek siding was torn and slapping in the slight breeze, the plywood underneath dark from moisture and rot. Its shore was rocky, but there was a short, fixed dock where I maneuvered Mark’s boat in close. Mark took the initiative to tie us off at the dock, and I switched off the engine.

  We got off onto the dock and, carrying his luggage, Mark went up to the house. His light red Mazda 6 four-door sedan was pulled into a dirt rectangle near a couple of high rhododendron bushes, and he led the way. He unlocked the doors and I pulled out my cell phone, to find . . .

  NO SERVICE.

  “You know cell phones don’t work around here?”

  He looked surprised as he tossed his luggage into the rear seat. “Of course. That’s why I didn’t like it when Paula and I vacationed here. Too damn isolated.”