Fatal Harbor (8 page)

“What about Victor?”

A shrug. “Haven’t seen or talked to him since that . . . since that day.”

Ah, yes, that day, when I’d visited Victor and his mom at their residence, discovering there that Victor was the shooter, and where Haleigh had stood up for her man by slugging me in the head with a softball bat. I had been trapped in a basement for a while, until I managed to escape and overpower Victor, and also managed to burn most of the valuable demo tapes.

“Some day. What news of him?”

“Arrested and charged with Bronson’s murder, and his mom’s trying to get a defense fund going with her old leftie friends.”

“Just the one murder?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Probably,” I said.

“Any more questions? I’ve got a paper due tomorrow and haven’t even started researching it.”

“A week ago, when I asked to meet up with Curt Chesak, you came through. I was probably the only reporter in the area who got an interview with him before the demonstrations went violent.”

“And before he beat the crap out of that Tyler cop.”

“That Tyler cop happens to be my best friend.”

“Oh. Sorry, I guess.”

“So here’s the deal. You had to talk to somebody in the movement to set up the interview. I want to know who he or she is.”

“Why?”

“You’re an intelligent young lady, Haleigh. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“So you want to find Curt Chesak.”

“That I do.”

“Why not let the cops find him first?”

“Haleigh, you really don’t want to know any more.”

She seemed to consider that. She kicked at some of the colorful leaves on the ground, her head lowered. She lifted her head. “You . . . you had a choice, last week, to let the Tyler and state police know about me and Victor. You didn’t do it. You said you were doing it for my Air Force dad, so he wouldn’t have to worry about his daughter from the other side of the world.”

I kept quiet. Let her think it through. Haleigh sighed. “Ever since the protests, none of my so-called friends want to have anything to do with me. They think that since I was with Victor when he killed his stepdad, like I should have known, like I should have prevented it. All this talk about fellowship, about togetherness, about standing as one against The Man . . . so much bullshit. I can’t believe it, Lewis. I still can’t believe it.”

“Sorry you had to find that out.”

“I guess that’s part of growing up, eh?”

“Some would say that.”

“Sure,” she said. “So I say to hell with sticking together. The guy you’re looking for is a college instructor, from the Philosophy department. Name of Ken Marvel. Active in Chesak’s group but real quiet, in the background, almost invisible.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

Haleigh grabbed her knapsack, stood up. “And he’s a real prick. I know about him because he tried to hit on me one night when he was having some beers at the Stone Chapel, trying to bring Bronson Toles over to the dark side of the anti-nuclear movement. I hope you have fun with him, Lewis, I really do.”

It didn’t take much work, but I found out what I could about Ken Marvel. Like Haleigh said, he was an instructor at the school’s Philosophy department, which meant he didn’t have tenure and served semester to semester at the university’s pleasure. I couldn’t find out much about him in the large digital library called the Internet, but I did find that he lived in Lee, a small town adjacent to Durham, which was home to college employees, a few farms, and a mix of locals.

Getting there proved to be a challenge, since my Ford Explorer was still at my home on Tyler Beach and unreachable. But fortunately enough for me, this part of New Hampshire had a transit system consisting of brightly colored buses usually operated by college students looking to help pay for their tuition.

It took me about thirty minutes to get to Lee by finding the right bus to take, and I had a turn of good fortune when it turned out that one of the bus stops in Lee was at a service station that was only about a ten-minute walk to his house, 10 Oakland Road. The road was a typical New Hampshire back country road, single lane with no yellow line painted down the center, and definitely no sidewalk, guard rail, or streetlights. I strolled on the dirt shoulder, checking the mailboxes, until I finally came to number 10, which I found just as the sun was starting to set. The driveway leading into the woods was dirt.

No name on the mailbox. Not unusual. This was, after all, the Live Free or Die state.

I started down the driveway, keeping to the side in case a car or truck came bouncing along the narrow dirt lane. Pine trees and brush grew close to the edge of the road, which allowed me cover in case I was spotted.

But I went down there with no problem, going about a hundred feet to where the road widened to a dirt turnaround before what’s known as a double-wide, a pre-fab trailer, that was dumped here on a concrete slab. Lights were off inside the single-story home with black-shingled roof, and there was a sudden burst of barking. Two dogs emerged from doghouses, secured by long lengths of chain, and they snapped and growled in my direction. I wasn’t sure what breed they were, but they looked thin and mangy. The areas around their doghouses were worn-down dirt, with empty food bowls and water bowls scattered before them.

The dogs barked some more and, feeling like living on the edge, I talked low and soft to them and walked forward. One and then the other sniffed my hands, then whined and flopped in the dirt. I squatted down and rubbed their heads, butts, and bellies, and in a few minutes I think I made two new best friends.

“Where’s your alleged master, guys, huh? He coming back home soon?”

One licked my hand, and the other one licked himself in a private place. Then they panted in appreciation, and I got up.

“Sorry, guys. If I had a treat or two, I’d pass it along.”

It was getting darker. I pondered my options, stepped back and into a stand of birches, and took out my cell phone. I checked the time. Not too early, not too late.

So what to do?

Something I hadn’t done in a while.

I dialed a phone number with a Washington, D.C. area code.

The phone rang and rang and I was anticipating sliding into voicemail, when I was pleasantly surprised by a woman answering. “Hello, this is Annie.”

“Hey, Annie, it’s your faithful New Hampshire correspondent.”

A soft laugh that still had the ability to make me tingle. “Why, as I live, breathe, and scramble for votes, it’s the mysterious Lewis Cole. Didn’t recognize your number on the caller ID. Have a new phone?”

“I do.”

“What happened to your other phone?”

“Somebody broke it in half and dumped it in a drainpipe in Boston.”

“Anybody you know?”

“It was me.”

Another soft laugh. “Sounds like a story to me. What are you up to now, hon?”

“If you really want to know. . . .”

“Of course I want to know,” and there was the barest hint of impatience in her voice, a hint I long ago had learned to recognize.

“Currently, I’m standing alone in a bunch of trees in Lee, staring at an empty house, being kept company by two dogs who look like they got a bath last year.”

“Are the dogs dangerous?”

“Nope. They’re chained.”

“And are you waiting for someone?”

“Always waiting for someone.”

“I see. Haven’t heard from you in a while. You still hunting?”

“That I am, Annie.”

She sighed. “And how long is the hunt going to last?”

Hearing her sigh made me tighten my grip on the cell phone. “Until it’s done.”

“Or you give up.”

“No, until it’s done.”

“Or you’re hurt. Or arrested. Or something worse.”

“Tell you what, let’s change the subject. What are you up to?”

“Nothing so exciting. Just trying to elect a good man president.”

Yes
, I thought,
a good man with a bad wife
. “Anything new on that end?”

“Nothing I can share,” she said.

“Ah, who’s keeping secrets now, eh?”

A pause on her end, and I sensed I had gone too far. She sighed once more and said, “I know it’s been a while, but you know how D.C. works, Lewis. Knowledge and secrets are the coin of the realm. And I don’t know who might be listening in . . . you know how it is.”

“I sure do.”

“Lewis. . . .”

“Yes, dear.”

“We need to talk.”

“That’s what we’re doing now, isn’t it?”

“No, we’re chatting. Big difference.”

Headlights appeared at the end of the driveway, along with the sound of a car engine. “Sorry, Annie. I’ve got to run.”

“We still have to talk.”

I stepped back, concerned I’d be seen. “I know, I know, but I’ve got to run.”

“Oh. The hunt continues?”

“It sure does.”

A touch of sharpness again in her voice, crystal-clear even though she was hundreds of miles away. “Nice to know you’re dedicated to something.”

Then she clicked off.

So did I. And put the phone away.

The dogs started barking again as a dented and rusty Nissan pickup truck rolled in and came to a halt. A tall guy carrying two plastic shopping bags stepped out, and the dogs increased their barking. “Shut the hell up!” he called out. “I’ll feed you in a minute, for Christ’s sake.”

He walked up to the double-wide, unlocked the front door, and went in. He bustled around inside for a few minutes, while his dogs kept on yelping, and then there was a sudden
flick
as an outdoor floodlight came on. He came out again, bearing two metal bowls with dry dog food in them. He appeared to be in his early thirties, gaunt, wearing blue jeans and a tan down jacket. His hair was thin up forward and was pulled back in the rear in a ponytail. He was talking to himself as he dropped a bowl in front of each dog and then went back inside. I gave him a few minutes to recover from his exertions, and then I walked up to the front door. No doorbell or doorknob, so I just hammered on the door.

“Hold on!” came the voice. He opened the front door, left the storm door closed. “Yeah?”

“Ken Marvel? UNH instructor?”

“So far, so good. Do I know you?”

“Nope. The name is Lewis Cole. I’m a freelance magazine writer, hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

“What kind of magazines?”

“
Shoreline,
for one,” I said, which wasn’t much of a lie.

“Never heard of it. Any other magazines I might have heard of?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sorry, not interested.”

He slammed the door.

Well.

I wondered what kind of philosophy he taught at UNH, and doubted his students were getting their tuition’s worth.

I banged on the door again. And again he opened it up. “When I said I wasn’t interested, that meant you could leave.”

“But
I’m
still interested. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Doubt it. What the hell are you working on?”

“A story about the anti-nuclear demonstrations at Falconer.”

“Never heard of it,” he said, and slammed the door once more.

I opened up the storm door, knocked once more. The main door flew open, and his eyes widened in quick surprise as my right hand snapped out, grabbed his shirt collar, and pulled him forward to me. I stepped aside so he flew out the door and down the steps, where he hit the ground with a satisfying thud.

I turned around and sat on the steps. He called me a name or two—nothing original, which lowered my appreciation of him as an educated individual—and he rolled over and came right at me. I gauged his approach, and as he got to the steps I quickly lifted up my right leg, braced myself, and he ran right into my right foot, at a particular angle above his knees and below his waist that definitely got his attention.

A few moments passed as he curled up on the ground, rocking back and forth, looking about the same shape and intelligence as a jumbo shrimp.

I got off the steps and walked over to him. “Sorry I was so direct there, professor . . . or do your students call you instructor? Or Mister Marvel?”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “They call me Ken.”

“Wow, that’s very forward-thinking of you. Getting down with the students, sharing and discussing issues of the day.”

“You bastard. . . .”

“Nope, my birth certificate says otherwise. But I will admit I’m in a foul, foul mood.” I squatted down on the ground, carefully keeping a good distance away from him. “You see, I’m trying to locate a single bit of information, and after lots of travel, bad food, and so-so sleeping accommodations, I’ve come to you. My mistake was thinking that you and I could have a civilized discussion, perhaps come to a mutual understanding and respect of each other’s positions, and then go on from there. But when you came at me full of attitude, well, the part of me that’s not the better angel of my nature emerged. My apologies.”

His hands fell away from his private parts. His breathing eased. He got up and into a sitting position. “You sure move fast for an old guy.”

“A compliment and insult in one sentence. I’m sure you fit right in at the Philosophy department.”

He ran a hand across the bald part of his head. “Yeah, but there’s no future there. No future in anything in higher education that doesn’t produce good little worker bees and consumer bees. Plus I’m an instructor, which means no tenure, lots of hours, and minimal pay. And the tenured ones, no matter which department they belong to, they live in that special ivory tower where they’ve managed to quickly pull the ladder up after them.”

“We’ve all got problems, don’t we. Look, I’m looking for some information about the anti-nuclear demonstrations. I get that and I leave.”

“Maybe I’ll call the Lee cops, have you arrested for assault.”

“Maybe you will, and I’ll say it’s all a misunderstanding, with no witnesses. To be terribly self-promoting, I’ll drop a name or two in law enforcement that will cast suspicions on you and make me look like the citizen of the year.”

He rubbed at his head again, moved his legs around. “So what are you looking for, what information about the demonstrations?”