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

by DuBois, Brendan

  “Then let’s get somewhere so you can call Paula, tell her you’re all right.”

  He snorted. “She can wait. I’ve got other things to do.”

  “I don’t think she can wait.”

  “Look, I don’t care how long it’s been since you first met her, I know her best. All right? And I don’t want to get into a big weepy conversation with her over why I left and why I haven’t kept in touch. I don’t have the time.”

  “You looking to piss her off?”

  His smile wasn’t pleasant to look at. “Lewis, if I told Paula to eat a shit sandwich, not only would she do so, she’d thank me for the meal. That’s the kind of girl she is.”

  I stepped forward and punched him hard in the jaw. Mark fell back against the Mazda and slid to the ground, legs splayed wide open, his eyes wide open as well. I bent down, grabbed his shirt collar, lifted him up for a better angle, and hit him again, harder this time.

  “Hey!” he gurgled. “Stop that!”

  Breathing hard, I stepped back, shaking my right hand. It hurt like hell. I shook it again. It hurt even worse.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I guess the hell you shouldn’t have!” He got up off the ground, rubbed his right hand against his face, worked his jaw once or twice. “All right . . . you snapped. I understand. Apology accepted.”

  I shook my hand again, trying to ease the red-hot pain coursing through it. “What apology? I said I shouldn’t have done that, because I might have broken my hand against your thick skull. And I can’t use a pistol with my left hand if we run into bad guys. That’s the only thing I was sorry about.”

  He worked his jaw again, and I said “Time for some info, Mark. Why the hell did you run off like you did?”

  “Because I was scared I had gotten the attention of the Stonecold Falcons.”

  “I guess the hell you did,” I said. “And what did you do to get their attention? Run over a motorcycle while you were out west? Get in a bar fight? Send somebody a nasty letter, threatening a lawsuit over something?”

  Mark rubbed his face again. “No, nothing like that. I was looking for someone from the gang. And the Stonecold Falcons found out who I was looking for and it got nasty, real quick. I didn’t expect them to come out east after me.”

  “Who were you looking for?”

  “My dad.”

  If Mark had told me he was the King of Belgium, I don’t think I could have been more surprised.

  “Wait . . . your parents are dead. Paula told me that. Your boss told me that. Google told me that. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “My real dad, Lewis. From Wyoming. My parents, in Vermont . . . they were my adoptive parents.”

  He lowered his hand and I spotted something on his left wrist. A blotch or something I remembered from seeing the beach photo at his condo. I grabbed his wrist, pulled the shirtsleeve and jacket back so it became more visible. It was a splotch, about the size of a half dollar.

  Mark pulled his arm away, lowered his shirt and jacket sleeves. I stood still, thinking, remembering, recalling what I had seen and heard.

  “The Stonecold Falcons,” I started out. “I’ve seen some of their tattoos, close-up and on the Internet. All of the members have the falcons tattooed on their wrists. ‘Falcons for Life.’ That’s their motto.”

  Mark looked enraged and embarrassed at the same time. I went on. “The missing-persons report that Paula Quinn filed. It said you had no distinguishing scars or tattoos. What did you tell her that was?”

  “A skin blemish, a birth defect.”

  “But that’s not true, is it? Your father . . . pretty prominent in the Stonecold Falcons at the time, am I right? Pretty hardcore, I bet. So hardcore that when you came along, even as a young kid, he probably arranged to have a falcon tattooed on your wrist. ‘Falcons for Life.’ And later on, it got burned off.”

  He rubbed his wrist, probably self-consciously. I continued. “Your dad . . . you were probably told he was dead, right? But he was in witness protection, maybe after turning state’s evidence against the gang. You were born in Wyoming, and for some reason, you kept your correct Social Security number when you came out to Vermont and became a Little League player, honor student. But as a youngster, before Vermont, you started out life as the child of a motorcycle gang member.”

  “Yeah, right, that’s the story, best as I could figure it out,” Mark said. “Look, can we get going? We’re wasting time.”

  “And why are we wasting time . . . oh.”

  It seemed like the Mazda, the trees, the bushes, the half-completed home, and the angry face of Mark Spencer had all snapped into focus. “You’re not on the run because the Stonecold Falcons found out you were the son of a gang member, someone who had betrayed them. You’re on the run because you’re looking for your dad. He’s somewhere in this part of the world, and they want you to lead them to him.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “So let’s go.”

  For some reason, I checked my phone again. Still no service. I held out my hand. “All right, so we’ll go. Give me your car keys.”

  “Why the hell should I do that?”

  I gestured back to the dock. “Those boats don’t belong to us. They belong to Pete Kimball, and we’re going to take them back . . . check that, you’re going to take them back. I’ll meet you at Pete’s.”

  His face set in anger, he said, “Why don’t you take the boats back and I’ll meet you at Pete Kimball’s?”

  I went up to him, pried the keys from his hand. “Gee, because I’m afraid if I take the boats back there, you might take your car and get lost and not show up. I guess I’m just the suspicious sort. Now let’s get down to the dock and I’ll help you push off.”

  We both went to the dock, and I held the larger skiff steady as Mark got himself in. He said, “Suppose there are cops there at the beach.”

  “Ignore them,” I said. “What, you want to volunteer that you saw something? Saw Felix open fire to protect you?”

  He frowned, face red, and got the engine started. I undid the lines and he said, “I still don’t know why we have to take these two boats back. It’d be just as easy to call him and tell him where they are.”

  I gave the prow of the skiff a healthy shove. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  I stood on the end of the dock, waited until he maneuvered the boat, headed in the right direction, and then I walked up to his Mazda.

  I got into his car, started the engine, winced as my sore right hand grasped the steering wheel. Yeah, I was sorry about injuring the hand I use to hold my Beretta, but that was about the only thing I was sorry for. I drove out of the space, went up a short dirt driveway, and a dirt road was in front of me. Left or right? I chose right.

  The road was bumpy, not well maintained at all, and I passed three more uninhabited cottages before the road ended in a wide spot and a dirt berm.

  “We chose poorly,” I muttered as I backed up and turned around. I went past the three cottages again, past the chalet that was still in mid-construction phase, and then past two very large homes that looked out of place with their neighbors. The trees and brush thinned out, and then I came out onto a paved road and turned right, heading to the beach.

  It only took a couple of minutes, and up ahead I saw the beach, and I saw a State Police cruiser, blocking the road, lights flashing, the state trooper standing outside of her cruiser, speaking urgently into a microphone. There was no Honda CRV in sight, so it looked like the bikers had made an escape. I slowed down, switched on the turn indicator, and then went down the dirt road I had earlier strolled on, looking for a boat.

  This time I found Mark, standing in the middle of the dirt road, hands in pockets. I drove up to him, lowered the driver’s side window. “Looking for a ride, sailor?”

  “Hah,” he said. “Very funny.”

  He started toward the passenger’s door, and I said, “Hold on. Everything back to where it
belongs?”

  “The boats are tied up. Nobody’s home. There was an envelope here with your name on it at the back door. Let’s go.”

  I took the envelope, removed my driver’s license, put it back in my wallet. I put the Mazda in PARK, switched off the engine, got out. “When you rented the boat, where was it? Was it at the dock?”

  “No, it was underneath the guy’s back deck. Covered with a tarp.”

  “Same with me. You saw how old he was. You think he can haul both boats up by himself?”

  He turned and walked to the lake, and so did I.

  About fifteen minutes later, my arms and hands sore—especially the right one—and with my pant legs sopped with lake water, and my earlier wounded right leg protesting at being overworked, we got back into the Mazda and went back up to the paved road, neither of us saying anything. At the intersection with the town road, I looked right, where the State Police cruiser had been joined by another State Police cruiser, and one from the sheriff’s department.

  I decided it was in everyone’s interest to take a left.

  I drove for a few minutes, and then took another state road, going off to the left. I had no idea where we were going, I just wanted to put distance between us and the shooting scene at the lake. In this part of New Hampshire, you can be fairly confident that anything called a “lane” or a “street” would eventually stop at a dead end. But those paved lanes called a “road” usually go on for a long while.

  “Where are we going?” Mark said.

  “Where the radiation is blooming,” I said.

  “Where the what is what?”

  “Hold on.”

  I drove a while longer with my good hand, and with my sore hand holding my phone, and when a couple of black bars popped up, I pulled over to the side. There was nothing on either side of us save trees and brush and drainage ditches and, on the other side of the road, a crumbling stone wall.

  “Time to find out where our friends are,” I said.

  I put the car in PARK and dialed Felix’s number, and felt the sweet rush of relief when he answered after the second ring.

  “Yeah.”

  All right, he wasn’t being particularly charming or welcoming, but it was still good to hear that voice.

  “It’s me.”

  “Glad to know it. You alone?” he asked.

  “Nope, the subject in question happens to be sitting right next to me.”

  “Breathing?”

  I made it a point to look at my passenger. “Yep. Though God knows why. Is the lady in question available to take a call?”

  “Alas, no,” Felix said. “We’re at a small gas station in . . . hell, I don’t know where. Could be Maine. She’s in the restroom. I think she’s having a reaction to what went on, but she told me she just wanted some privacy.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Will you tell her that her man is alive and sort of well?”

  “Gladly. Then what?”

  I took a look at Mark, his flushed face, the marks on his skin where I had struck him. If I’d had my choice or been in a grumpier mood, I would have slipped him twenty bucks, told him to find a Greyhound bus to take him home, and then stolen his car.

  “Take Paula somewhere safe,” I said. “I’m involved in something that should be wrapped up in a day or two.”

  “You really think?”

  “I really hope,” I said. My right hand was really hurting. “Tell me, what happened back at the beach?”

  “We were waiting there, like we were supposed to,” Felix said. “Then this CRV slowly rolled by. They were eyeing us and then stopped. One guy came out, and I recognized him as somebody connected with Phil Tasker’s motorcycle club, and he asked me for directions to North Conway, and I told him I didn’t know. He went back to the CRV and drove away. I told Paula to get into the car and I retrieved some . . . equipment.”

  “Then we popped into view.”

  “Quite. The CRV did a U-turn and came back, and after I waved you off . . . you saw what happened next.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just part of the service, ma’am,” he said. “If you don’t mind my asking, now what? Is it time to get these two star-crossed lovers together tomorrow or the day after that? Don’t forget, Thanksgiving is chugging down the pike.”

  My hand ached even more. Mark was looking out the windshield, arms crossed, keeping his own thoughts to himself. I waited. Thought of what he had just said back at the half-built cottage.

  “We’re going to hold off for a bit,” I said. “Seems like the man in question has a quest to fulfill. I help him get that wrapped up, then we’ll set a time and place for a lovely reunion.”

  “Your call,” Felix said. “Hey, Paula’s coming out of the restroom. You want her to have a few words with her best boy?”

  “No,” I said, and I disconnected the phone.

  I shifted in the driver’s seat. “All right. You’re looking for your dad. I can understand that.”

  His voice was bleak. “Do you? I was raised by a couple that I thought were my real mom and dad. And when they died in a car crash, I cried . . . I mourned . . . and I was now an orphan, with no family.”

  A thunder flash of a memory, in college in Indiana, receiving a late-night phone call at a pay phone in my dormitory, getting the call about a commuter plane with my parents aboard, circling an airport, waiting to land, until unexpected ice on the wings flipped the aircraft over and drove it into a farmer’s field.

  “I know what it’s like,” I said.

  “I doubt it.”

  I restrained my right hand once again. “Then go on. How did you find out about your real father?”

  “A client of mine,” Mark said. “Jack Baker. I helped him on a probate matter a couple of months ago, when his grandmother died. An odd guy . . . knows cyberspace and the dark Internet like his own basement. Even did a thorough background check on me after I started representing him, like he wanted to make sure I was really a lawyer or something. We got to talking after his case was resolved, and he started asking about my life in Wyoming. I told him he was mistaken, that I had never been there, hadn’t even been born there. But he was an odd one, wouldn’t let it go, no matter how many times I told him otherwise.”

  “Didn’t you figure you had a connection with Wyoming with your Social Security number?”

  A shrug. “My Vermont parents . . . my adoptive parents . . . they told me it was a foul-up with the Social Security Administration and not to bother with it. Hey, your parents tell you something like that, you just go on and put it behind you. But when I met up with Jack Baker, he kept on telling me something different. He calls himself one of the new mole people, the kind that loves to dig and root around, find obscure information, just for the hell of it.”

  “Why did he decide to check you out?”

  “Like I said, Lewis, he’s an odd guy. If he asked you if it was raining, and you said no, he’d spend ten minutes on the Web, trying to see if you were lying or not.”

  “What did he find out?”

  “My real dad . . . his name is Will Mallory. Worked construction in and around Cheyenne, was active in the Stonecold Falcons. Nearly thirty years back, he was the vice president, got hooked up in a smuggling charge and attempted murder, and flipped on his fellow gang members.”

  “What else?”

  “Not much. My mom . . . she divorced him about the same time, then got cancer and died, and WITSEC promised her to put me someplace safe. Which was Vermont.”

  “So your real dad . . . where is he?”

  “Someplace close. Jack Baker promised me he’d have the info by today, maybe tomorrow at the latest. Please, can we go?”

  I started up the Mazda. “You know how to get there from here?”

  “I do.”

  “Then lead on.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I followed Mark’s directions and we ended up in a small town called East Conway, right next to the border with Maine. It was quite rural, w
ith lots of bare trees silhouetted against the graying sky, and I drove slow and gentle, always keeping an eye on the rearview and sideview mirrors, ensuring we weren’t being followed by a shot-up CRV.

  “How much longer?” I asked.

  “Five minutes or so,” he said.

  Up ahead on the slight country road was a grassy area on the right, with a small pond in its center. I slowed and pulled over, putting the Mazda in PARK and switching off the engine.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s stretch our legs, have a come-to-Jesus moment.”

  “I don’t need to stretch my legs.”

  “I do,” I said. “And since I have the car keys and a pistol, that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Outside, the air was crisp and sharp and I had a thought of that huge hurricane, barreling its way up the East Coast, knowing just how vulnerable my damaged house was, hunkered down on Tyler Beach.

  The area around us was flat farmland with mountains in the distance. Mark came around to me and said, “What do you mean, a come-to-Jesus moment?”

  “What, you don’t know the name of the person a good chunk of humanity believes came to Earth to be our redeemer?”

  “Stop being a pain in the ass.”

  “I’ll give it a try, as soon as you unfocus that thick head of yours.”

  “Hunh?”

  I turned to him. “Cheyenne, Wyoming. What happened there, on your trip out west with Paula?”

  “How did you know I went to Cheyenne?”

  “You had the means and opportunity and a number of missing hours. Give me some credit for puzzling you out, Mark. So what did you do, go to your dad’s hometown, sniff around, ask some questions?”

  “That’s what I did.”

  “What did you find out?”

  He crossed his arms, stared down at the leaf-covered ground.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Not so many fond memories of your dad, decades later. You got scared. You left like your butt was on fire.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yet your info mole kept on working. Found a New England connection with your dad. So it wasn’t a wasted trip. But the Stonecold Falcons probably tracked you down, didn’t they, a small-town New Hampshire lawyer. You probably got word they were snooping after you, and that’s when you bailed out, without telling Paula or damn near anyone else.”