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

by DuBois, Brendan

  Then, like a switch had been thrown, Paula lowered her head and rushed into Mark’s arms, and they hugged and hugged. Long seconds went by, and then Paula took his hand and took him inside.

  Felix said “Ain’t love grand.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  We both exited the Tahoe.

  It was a crowded and busy night, and I forgot the name of every man and woman introduced to me, as well as the names of the dogs—which seemed as big as ponies—and the children who ran and giggled underfoot. They didn’t fit the popular media stereotype of doomsday preppers: I didn’t see one firearm in public, nor a Guns & Ammo magazine, nor a Confederate flag imprinted with the motto THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN. Just . . . men and women, old and young, and a mass of kids that I found impossible to count. In one brief moment, Paula cornered me in the wide and open kitchen—where I was trying to secure a plate of leftover turkey and stuffing—and kissed me on the cheek, and whispered “Later.”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  After I ate, the friend of Felix who had set up the place—and whose name I forgot once more—took me upstairs to the corner of a small attic loft. It was cozy, with a triangular ceiling that bumped your head when you walked in. There was a futon, pillow, and light green down comforter on the floor, and a table lamp also on the floor. A window about the size of a porthole looked out. My host bent over and switched on the lamp and, with a rueful smile, said, “Sorry, that’s the best we can do.” He was in his early sixties, wearing blue jeans and a gray turtleneck with a green wool shirt buttoned over it. “We weren’t expecting company. Your friend there, Mark, at least he can share a room with his fiancée.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, not bothering to correct him on my status with Mark Spencer. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

  He started to leave the room, and I asked him: “Tell me, do you really believe all this? That civilization is going to end?”

  My host smiled, revealing dimples. “All civilizations end, Mister Cole. It’s one of the hard rules of history. Why should this one be any different? Oh, we have superior technology and knowledge, but that just makes us even more vulnerable, whether it’s a computer virus or a flu virus. And viruses like that . . . once they’re set loose, it’s just a matter of the odds and time before they won’t be stopped.” He shrugged. “I don’t think big cities are going to be particularly safe places in the future. If I’m wrong . . . well, my kids and their kids and some friends and relatives, we all grew up in a pretty part of the world and learned some important skills. And if I’m right . . . I’m giving them the chance to live. That’s what dads do, when you get right down to it. Give their offspring the best chance to live, do what they can to protect their families.”

  We exchanged our good-nights and he closed the small door behind him, and I stripped and crawled into the futon, shivered until my body heat warmed things up, and then I switched off the light. I craned my head for a moment, to see if I could make out anything through the tiny window.

  Nothing.

  The futon was now warm and comfortable, but I had a hard time falling asleep. I puzzled over that and realized what was bothering me, and it was one of the Seven Deadly Sins: envy. Lust would probably have been more fun at the moment, but it was envy that was keeping me awake, and, surprise of surprises, it wasn’t the thought of Mark cuddling up with Paula.

  It was the thought of all those people down there, and the nice man who had just put me up, and something they all had that I didn’t have.

  Family.

  I woke up at some early time and decided it was time to find my way south. I got dressed and slowly went downstairs, and there was Felix, standing before the double sink, washing pots and pans. He had on gray slacks, a buttoned-down striped Oxford shirt, and a large apron that said KISS THE COOK. There were two long wooden tables that were covered with dishes, pots, pans, glasses, knives, and forks. In a corner was a woodstove, churning out a lot of heat. Before the woodstove were two large dog beds, and the Irish wolfhounds were curled up with each other on the beds.

  But they weren’t alone. The blond hair of a young girl was visible just above their torsos, said girl wearing pajamas and maybe being six or seven. She gently snored.

  I went over to Felix, found a reasonably dry dish towel, and started drying some of the pots and pans. “Sorry to take you away from friends and family.”

  “Oh, not a problem. Truth is, it was . . . confining. My Aunt Teresa yapping at her boyfriend, her boyfriend yapping back.”

  “And the medical aides?”

  “Replaced at the last minute with two fine strapping young fellows. Quite skilled and experienced, but not what I was looking for.”

  He snapped the towel out of my hand, nudged me. “C’mon, what’s your plans for the day? Not doing dishes with me, I hope.”

  I was disappointed he had taken the towel away. It had been good, mindless work, and now I was forced to think.

  “Head south,” I said. “Maybe grab a bus in Berlin, get over to Tyler Beach and see what’s left.”

  Felix smiled, and I wondered how he always looked so damn good. “This way, friend.” He led me to the mud room, where I secured my jacket from a pile of coats, scarves, and hats, and went out into the cold morning. A vehicle had been added to the census since we had arrived.

  My rental Honda Pilot.

  “Felix . . . if I may, that’s been reported stolen.”

  “And it’s been reported unstolen.” He gave me the keys. “Go on and get out of here.”

  I took the keys and he added, “Unless you want some company. I could follow you south until you get back to Tyler Beach. . . .”

  I knew what he was saying, what he was offering. He didn’t want me to be alone when I saw the storm-swept cellar hole that had once been my home.

  I raised the keys in salute. “Thanks, but I’m going to lone-wolf it. Maybe catch some of the Black Friday sales on my way down. And you?”

  A smile and a walk back to the house. “Christ, do you have to ask? Didn’t you see the piles of dishes back there?”

  I got into the Pilot, which had been washed and vacuumed. In the rear were some of my belongings, including my sleeping bag and pillow, which I would be using probably in another twelve hours or so. I said, “So, we ride again, muchachos,” and I was nearly jolted out of my seat by a loud bang!

  I turned and Paula Quinn was there, having just pounded the hood of my Pilot. I got out and she was in a long yellow nightgown, feet in muddy Wellington boots and wearing a blue down vest. She was shivering and she passed over a mug of coffee. “Black, with two sugars. I remembered.”

  “So you did.” I took the coffee mug from her hands, put it on the center console of the Honda, turned back to her. “You’re freezing. Get back inside.”

  She nodded, smiled, rubbed at her bare arms. “You found him. You brought him back. Thanks so very, very much, Lewis.”

  “I was glad to do it,” I said, and right then and there, despite what I had seen, who had died, and what was waiting for me at the end of my drive home, I meant it.

  She kissed me briefly on the lips, stepped back. “He . . . he’s all right, but he’s not saying much.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “But . . . I need to know. How was he? I mean, I knew the two of you were in danger, there was some gunfire . . . did he help you? Did he have your back?”

  I looked at her solemn face, her inquiring eyes, the way her slim legs trembled. I kissed her again. “He was the man I always knew he was,” I said. “Now, go back inside.”

  She gave a wide smile, trotted back toward the house, and by the time I was in the Pilot and had started her up, she was gone.

  The coffee tasted good, and I got two healthy sips in as I drove out of the compound. I switched on the heater for the seat, turned on the interior heat, and just let my mind drift. I went over the compound’s bridge, down the fine dirt road, and, when I came to a stop, took a left, headin
g back toward what passed for the center of Milan. From there, get on Route 16 and take the long, long drive south to the seacoast. I should get there in just over three hours.

  This part of the road was straight and narrow, and I took another sip of coffee and glanced up behind me to see a Range Rover speeding toward me, with New Hampshire plates. I lowered my coffee cup and the Range Rover sped up, started to pass me.

  “Go right ahead,” I murmured; “I’m in no goddamn hurry.”

  But the Range Rover didn’t pass me. It fell back, accelerated again—fast—and, with its right front bumper, struck my left rear bumper.

  I quickly went into a spin, the coffee splashed over my lap and hands, and the Pilot skidded and skidded, nearly turning over, until it slammed into a drainage ditch at the side of the road. The seatbelt and harness held firm as I snapped forward and, when I was able to take a deep breath and open my eyes, looked up at the rearview mirror.

  The Range Rover had stopped. A man got out.

  Even with mirror twisted, it was easy to see who it was.

  Reeve Langley, carrying a pistol, walking right toward me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I scrabbled at my seatbelt, undid the lock, mind racing. Beretta. Somewhere in government hands. Felix. Back a few hundred yards at the compound. Tire iron for the Pilot. Somewhere in the rear. I slammed the door open, fell into the drainage ditch, and Reeve screamed “Freeze, Cole! Freeze, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off right now!”

  I turned, standing in cold water and mud.

  Reeve came closer, stumbling, and now he was moving slow. His right hand held his pistol, his left hand was holding tight to the side of his pea coat, right on his torso. His hat was off, and his bare head and face were shockingly white.

  Another man got out of the Range Rover, short and squat, holding a shotgun. Reeve turned to him. “George! You stay the hell right there! This one is mine!”

  George stayed behind the open driver’s door.

  Reeve swayed and came back to look at me. I slowly walked up onto the roadway, hands extended.

  “You look fairly peaked,” I said. “Don’t you belong in a hospital, Reeve?”

  “Bah.” He swayed again, spat on the ground. “Doctors . . . I get into a hospital, they see a gunshot wound, a whole lot of shit gets stirred . . . and I don’t get to find you . . . and put you down. . . .”

  He raised the pistol and fired it. I winced, closed my eyes. It was damn loud, and I could hear the sound of the empty cartridge casing hit the pavement.

  But that was it. I was cold and scared out of my mind, but I was fine.

  “Missed,” I said, keeping still. “Think you can try again?”

  “I . . . won’t . . . miss. . . .” His face was raw with pure hate.

  Another shot, but this time it was even more wide of the mark. There were snick-snack sounds as the round went through the woods.

  “Bold talk for a bleeding biker, far away from home,” I said, standing still, right in front of him.

  “Fuck . . . you. . . .”

  Another stumble, and his hand with the pistol weaved around and around, like the weapon was made of solid lead.

  “Give it up, Reeve,” I said. “You failed. Spectacularly. Sure, Will is dead, but you just hastened the process. No glorious tales of revenge there, Reeve. And his son Mark is still alive and well and going to get married soon. As for you, it’s going to be a hospital room. And a prison term in our fair state, far from family and friends. And your bikers back west will eventually find out that it was an out-of-work magazine writer who took you down.”

  He made a noise of a bellow and a moan, and tried to use both hands on his pistol. But taking away the hand holding his wounded torso weakened him even more, and he stepped forward, stumbled, and fell to the pavement. I walked over and picked up his pistol, looked down at him. His face was twisted with pain, hate, and scorn as he looked up at me. I got down on the asphalt on one knee and said: “Reeve? Reeve? You hear me?”

  A long, bubbling sigh that I took for a yes. I said “Remember back then, when we met, I said one of these days I wanted to visit Wyoming?”

  A softer bubbling sigh. I leaned in so he could look up at me.

  “I lied,” I said.

  Then he was quiet and still.

  I got up.

  The man called George was now near me, pointing his shotgun right at me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” he said right back.

  I waited, not wanting to lift up Reeve’s pistol, not wanting to give George an excuse. Finally, I said “Looks like we’ve got a situation here.”

  “Yep.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  He looked down at Reeve’s body. “He told me that you shot Billy, back up in Maine. That true?”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “An old man who once rode with him with the Stonecold Falcons, he shot Billy. He was trying to protect his son.”

  “What happened to the old man?”

  “Reeve killed him.”

  George was squat, wide, with a thick heavy black beard and a bushy crop of hair. With a change of clothes, he could have easily gotten work in any number of Hollywood productions looking for a swordsman or axeman.

  But right now I was focusing on his skills as a shotgun man.

  “You telling me straight?”

  “I am,” I said.

  Then he looked at Reeve, looked at me, said “Ah, shit,” and raised up the shotgun so it rested on his shoulder. I slowly took Reeve’s pistol and put it in my waistband, at my back. “Where’s Billy now?” he asked.

  “A funeral home up in Machias, Maine. The Washington County Sheriff’s Department could probably get you the address.”

  “Ah, shit,” he said, and he started crying, and he ran a wrist across his eyes. “What the hell am I gonna say to my aunt. . . .”

  Then it was clear. “You and Billy . . . cousins?”

  A nod.

  “You were with the Crawford Notch Boys. You were helping out Reeve, weren’t you.”

  “Yeah.” Snot was bubbling out of his nose.

  I looked at him more closely, and said, “You were the one back in North Tyler, when we were checking out the attorney’s house. The one with the metal-detecting gear that walked by the Tahoe when Paula was in there by herself.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s how you knew to come here to Milan. You slipped some sort of tracking device on the Tahoe. So you’d know where Felix was, and me, and Mark Spencer’s girlfriend.”

  Again, the one-word answer: “Yeah.” He wiped his nose and said, “That device . . . didn’t work all the time. . . . And we got paid well, but . . . Reeve Langley, he was a cold-hearted psycho, that’s what he was. Me and Billy, we wanted to quit, but we couldn’t.”

  “Phil Tasker,” I said, recalling the name of the motorcycle club’s president. “He wouldn’t let you quit?”

  George shook his head. “No. Mister Tinios wouldn’t.”

  “Mister Tinios?”

  “Yeah. We got word from Phil, through Mister Tinios . . . no matter what happened, that we were going to stick with Reeve. We weren’t gonna harm you. No matter how mean it got, we’d find a way to help you.”

  Back in Maine, at Will’s house. The sound of the furniture falling.

  Billy, knocking around a chair to make it easier for me to break free.

  Billy, not tying the ropes as tight as he should have.

  Billy, standing in front of me, pistol in hand, hesitating.

  Hesitating until he was shot and killed by Mark’s father.

  Sweet Jesus.

  “He did just that, back up in Maine,” I said. “He saved my life.”

  George paused in his sniffling. “You telling me . . . you telling me my cuz, he died a hero?”

  “That he did.”

  George pursed his lips, nodded a couple of times. “That’s . . . that’s good to hear. His family will be real proud to hear
that.”

  I looked up and down the road and said “George . . . there might be some traffic coming along here, you never know.”

  “Christ, that’s right,” he said. “I stole this Range Rover back in Gorham, and there’s a length of heavy chain in the back. Guess I could pull you out of that ditch if you’d like.”

  “That’d be great,” I said, and then pointed to the body between us. “And what about him?”

  A casual shrug. “We haul your Pilot out of the ditch, and we haul him in. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The drive home to Tyler took over three hours, as predicted, and it seemed to go by quite fast, like the moment you jump out of a perfectly functioning airplane with a parachute and before you know it, you’re on the ground, wondering, why in the hell did I just do that? On the drive south, I stopped only once on Route 16, in that town called Ossipee that seemed to sprawl over most of my long drive. I made my stop on a concrete bridge that spanned a fast-moving stream, and when I was sure no traffic was in view, I dumped Reeve Langley’s pistol, and then went on.

  I made a phone call to Diane soon after that, and she asked “Christ, you okay?”

  “Just fine.”

  A burst of static and her voice faded “. . . no power and not much battery life, but Kara and I, we did okay and—”

  Then her phone died. I called twice, it went straight to voicemail, and then I gave up.

  My clothes and the Pilot’s interior stunk of coffee, but I paid it no mind, the further south I got. Other traffic started to appear, from utility trucks from neighboring utilities coming in to help restore power, along with a number of National Guard vehicles moving along. Once I got into Wentworth County, I got off I-95 and took a series of back roads to Tyler Beach.

  It was a grim drive. Lots of utility trucks and workers—some from as far away as New Brunswick—were trying to make sense out of the twisted spaghetti of power lines. Houses with shingles torn off, a couple of homes with collapsed roofs. Going past an elementary school in North Tyler, sign outside saying EMERGENCY SHELTER HERE, the parking lot full and cars parked on the lawn. And along a beautiful stretch of farmland in North Tyler, within view of the ocean, scores of pine and oak trees upended and torn away.