Fatal Harbor (19 page)

“Fair enough, since I’m using your cash advance.”

Check-in was fairly straightforward, with a plump older woman with dyed black hair who spoke French to a man about her age, who sat in a corner, reading a newspaper with French headlines, half-watching a black-and-white television hanging from the white foam ceiling. From her directness and tone of voice, I imagined the guy was her husband. Or her long-suffering husband, if he ever got a word in edgewise to tell me.

Cash and my driver’s license was good enough, and I got a real key with a triangular hunk of plastic and a white number 5 in the center.

“You need anyt’ing,” she said, leaving the “h” out of the third word, “you jus’ call up ’ere, eh?”

I nodded in thanks, went to my room, and dumped my clothes about halfway to the shower. I took my 9mm Beretta along and put it on the toilet seat, within easy reach, and after unwrapping two of those little soap bars, washed up and warmed up in equal measures.

I wrapped myself in a white towel and hung up my wet clothes in the bathroom. The room was small but clean, with a constant drone coming in from the nearby Interstate. Inside the nightstand were a Gideon Bible, and also one in French. On the far wall was a portrait of the famed Chateau Frontenac; next to that, a crucifix. I didn’t have the number of the ACLU on speed dial on my cell phone, so I let it be. The television was a small color Sony, chained to a credenza; after a long, troubled nap, I watched a little news while waiting for Felix to show up.

Big mistake.

I caught the five o’clock news from the ABC affiliate in Manchester, and after a story about a shooting in the state capitol in Concord, the second story was about a suspicious fire in Tyler Beach. An earnest young man with blond hair, wearing a trenchcoat, and who looked like he had started shaving during the last Nielsen sweeps week, stood in front of the police yellow tape in the parking lot of the Lafayette House. Behind him was the smoldering wreckage of what used to be my home and garage. Because of the angle from the television camera, the garage was more in display than the house, which meant I got a terrific view of the tail end of my Ford Explorer, which had once been blue and was now charred black. It looked like the roof of the house had collapsed just over my bedroom. Beyond the bedroom, of course, was my office and my hundreds of books on the second floor, with plenty more on the first floor.

I had to stop watching, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. A man and a woman, wearing blue windbreakers with
STATE
FIRE
MARSHAL
OFFICE
stenciled on the back in yellow, and wearing light-blue latex gloves, seemed to be discussing something in my front yard, now cluttered with burned shingles and what looked to be a shattered window from the first floor.

Along with the images I saw, part of my overprocessed brain caught phrases, breathlessly spoken by the young member of the Fourth Estate.

“. . . fire believed to be suspicious in origin. . . .”

“. . . firefighters had difficulty fighting the blaze because of lack of nearby hydrants. . . .”

“. . . historical structure, first used as a lifeboat station in the late 1800s, and then officers’ quarters for the nearby Samson Point coast artillery unit. . . .”

“. . . belonged to Lewis Cole, a reported magazine columnist. . . .”

“. . . whereabouts unknown. . . .”

“. . . reporting live from Tyler Beach, this is Abner Brewer.”

I finally switched off the television.

“Get your facts straight, kid,” I said to the blank screen. “I’m currently an unemployed magazine columnist.”

A little while later, Felix rapped at the door, and after ensuring it was him and he was alone—by looking through the shade at the front window and a peephole in the door—I let him in, still clad in a towel, my Beretta behind my back.

“Based on what you’re wearing and what you’re carrying,” he said, “it looks like you’re either looking for love or looking for trouble.”

“Or both,” I said.

He was carrying two bags, one large and made of plastic, the other small and made of soft black material, looking like a duffel or equipment bag. He tossed the larger bag at me, which I missed catching and which fell to the floor.

“Now I know why you were always picked last for sports at the playground,” he said.

I picked up the bag, peered inside. Pants and socks and shirts and a few other things. I looked up. “Pretty damn thoughtful.”

“Only thoughtful if I got your size right,” Felix said. “Besides, I don’t want you coughing over dinner. It’d be damn impolite.”

“I’ll be right out,” I said. “And lucky you, you’ll be paying for dinner.”

He managed a smile.

“I don’t mind, so long as it doesn’t make me late for breakfast.”

It had finally stopped raining when we went out to dinner, which was just a short stroll down the block to a restaurant called Chez Vachon. Like my new place of residence, it was French-Canadian, and as we sat down I pointed that out to Felix. He smiled. “Sometimes you get the attention of knuckleheads who may be well armed but are lacking in the street smarts department. That’s why I like to mix it up some, by not establishing a pattern of the kind of places I like to eat. Besides, they do a great pork meat pie. Give it a shot.”

And I did just that, and surprised both Felix and myself by having an extra slice. It was spicy, hot, and very filling, and with a side salad and some wine, it fit the bill.

When we were at the coffee stage, I said, “Thanks for getting me out of Fratello’s. How did you get out?”

“With no difficulty, which I found sort of insulting. They’re after you, Lewis, not me. And that’s not the way of the world.”

“We all have our burdens.”

“You seem to have your share of them. So where do you go from here?”

In my briefing back at the Italian restaurant, I had told Felix the details of my visit with the father of John Todd Thomas, the murdered Colby student, and where we were now. “So like I said before, I’m waiting to hear back from Lawrence Thomas. He’s trying to track down the area where Curt Chesak is making his phone calls.”

Felix said, “And then when you get a good location from this ex-spook, you plan to do what then? Go in as an avenging angel?”

“Go in avenging, that’s for sure,” I said. “But I’m no damn angel.”

“Again, is it worth it?”

I stared at him, not quite believing the question. I said: “Less than an hour from here, one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life is still in a coma. If that wasn’t enough, the best home I’ve ever had, filled with memories and books and what few mementoes I have of my parents and my time in D.C., has been burned to the ground. If I didn’t think it was worth it, Felix, I’d be back there, talking to the arson inspectors and my insurance company.”

A slow nod. “I had to ask the question. I know from experience how . . . personal issues can cloud one’s judgment.”

“My judgment is as clear as a bell. And unlike Don Corleone and his crew, this definitely isn’t business. It’s strictly personal.”

We sat quietly for a while, finishing our coffee, and he quietly said, “My original offer still stands.”

“As does my original objection,” I said. “This is going to be a one-man mission. Thanks for the logistics and the cash, but that’s how it’s got to be.”

Felix nodded. “My turn for the bill.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

B
ack at the Laurentian Peaks Motel, there was just a moment of awkwardness when Felix and I stood there, just outside my room. He looked at me and I looked at him, and no words were exchanged, but there was the thought that this was it, the very last time we’d ever see each other. Not because of what had happened, but what was
going
to happen.

He shifted from one foot to another. His voice was soft. “Don’t be a hero out there. Be careful.”

“Be as careful as I can.”

“You get into it, you feel like the odds aren’t in your favor, get out. Don’t be fancy, don’t be pretty, just get out. If it means breaking things, running over things, or shooting whoever gets in your way, you fucking do it, Lewis.
Capisce
?”

I managed a slight smile. “Very
capisce
.”

He moved quickly, suddenly, and he shockingly gave me a full embrace, slapping me on the back, murmuring “Good luck, all right?”

Felix stepped back, and he turned and strolled away.

I went into my motel room.

It took a long, long while before I fell asleep, and the sleep was light and restless, the hum of the Interstate traffic a constant background. More often than not, I was on my back, staring up at the ceiling, the sight of my burned-out home always in my mind.

And when sleep finally came, the sound of a ringing phone made me sit straight up, blankets and sheets around my waist.

The phone rang and rang, and I fumbled in the dark, switched on the light.

The phone was my loaner from Lawrence Thomas.

“Cole,” I said, checking the clock. It was four
A
.
M
.

“Got it narrowed down,” he said.

“Hold on, let me get pen and paper.”

I swiveled around in my bed, found what I was looking for, and said, “Go.”

“The second trace on that incoming call places him in a town called Osgood. Are you familiar with it?”

“No, but that’ll change. Any address or location?”

“Unfortunately not, but I do have a search area, based on the cell tower the call went through.”

“Go on.”

“My . . . associates say that the call went through a cell tower on the top of a mountain called Flintlock Peak. From that cell tower, my associates say, plot a triangle from the tower, using a base point of magnetic north. From zero degrees to thirty-five degrees, you’ll get a triangular-shaped search area, reaching to a lake called the Wachusett. That’s your boundary.”

“Could be a big area.”

“I’ve already done a preliminary. It’s a fairly rural town, and from Flintlock Peak to Osgood, from what I can tell, is farmland and forest. That narrows it down. There’s not many businesses or residences in that triangle.”

I yawned. “I’m on it.”

“Are you leaving now?”

“No, I’m not.”

“And why the hell not?” he nearly shouted.

“Because I’ve got work to do, supplies to retrieve, and breakfast to be eventually eaten,” I snapped back. “Because I’m going in slow, but I’m going in right. This isn’t going to be a Desert One fiasco, got it?”

He started talking again and I talked right over him. “That was early on in my career, when the hostage rescue mission to Iran failed. Lots of things made it fail, including too many fingers in the proverbial planning pie, and a commander in chief that insisted on being in the loop from start to finish. As of now, Lawrence, you’re out of the loop.”

“The hell you say.”

“The hell I don’t. You’re in Virginia. I’m in New Hampshire. Based on those last two calls I received, Curt Chesak is on my turf, not yours. So I’m taking care of it. You got a problem with that, then go rely on somebody else. But I want this done too. And I’ll do it right.”

No words, just the sound of his breathing. I went on. “If I get another phone call from him, I’ll let you know. Maybe that will help your folks narrow the search territory even more. But you’ve got to let me do this, Lawrence. I can’t do it with you calling every hour or so, asking for updates. If all goes well, you’ll get just one more phone call from me, telling you the job is finished.”

He breathed some more. Coughed. I thought I heard a woman’s voice in the background, no doubt asking why her husband was up at such a rotten hour. “All right,” Lawrence said, voice shaking. “All right. I understand what you’re saying. It makes sense. So go out there and do it, Lewis. But by God, do it.”

“I will,” I said, and that was that.

I managed to get some sleep, and in the morning I went back to Chez Vachon, where I consumed about a half-dozen crepes and half-dozen sausages, along with a couple of cups of coffee. I wasn’t sure when or where my next meal would be; I wanted to make sure my tanks were topped off. Back in my motel room, I scratched furiously at my chin and under my neck, where an unfamiliar beard was growing. Time to take care of business.

I took a nice long shower, soaping up, and, with a couple of disposable razors in hand, did what I could do, shaving in the shower. A couple of times, the drain clogged up and I had to clean things up. When I had gotten dried and dressed, I opened the duffel bag that Felix had brought me, following my shopping list to the letter. I also checked my Beretta and my Bianchi holster, and then put it on, put my coat over it, and picked up the duffel bag and got going.

Outside it felt quite cold, and from the duffel bag I took out a Navy-style black watch cap, which I easily slipped over my head. I got in the truck and drove about twenty minutes to the Mall of New Hampshire, right near Route 101 and Interstate 93. I took my time wandering through the mall, admiring the Halloween decorations and displays, and then I ducked into an EMS store. EMS stands for Eastern Mountain Sports, and once upon a time they had three stores: one in North Conway, New Hampshire, the second in Boston, and a factory store at their headquarters facility in Peterborough. Now they had scores of small shops like this one in malls and shopping plazas, and some oldtimers still groused about how the whole feel and style of the place had changed over the years, probably with every change of ownership.

Me, I didn’t care that much. I spent about thirty minutes in the store, getting what I needed, and in one corner of the store—past displays of crampons, ropes, and mountain-climbing gear for those brave folks who want to fight against the law of gravity—there was a wooden bureau with thin drawers. A few minutes later, I found what I was looking for: a U.S. Geological Survey map for the town of Osgood, with roads, rivers, streams, and mountain peaks listed, especially Flintlock Peak.

A woman came up to me. “Help you with something?”

I gently rolled the map in a tube so she couldn’t see what I was examining. “I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”