Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (25 page)

I smiled. “They look like a handful.”

She gave me a tired smile in return. “Oh, mister, you have no idea.”

“Being a mom and running a store . . . two tough jobs at once.”

Her smile still remained. “Do what you have to do. What can I help you with?”

“I’m looking for directions,” I said. “Do you know where Blake’s Cove Road might be?”

“Sure do,” she said. “Let me write ’em down.”

With a pencil stub and the back of a grocery receipt, she scribbled something down and then passed it over to me. “There you go. Anything else?”

I was going to say no, but there was now something haunting in her eyes. “Sure,” I said, “I do need to pick up a few supplies.”

I made a quick pass through the store, grabbed a can of motor oil, a bag of Utz potato chips, and a two-liter bottle of Coke. Back at the register,
I went through the twenty-dollar bill that Kathi Hawkins had lent me earlier in the day.

After ringing up my order and giving me a bag and change, she said “Hope you have a nice day, then.”

“You too,” I said, and then, “Oh. Has anybody else been by today, asking for directions to Blake’s Cove Road?”

She yawned. “Mister, I’ve been here since six
A.M.
, and I’ll be here at closing, at seven
P.M.
, and so far you’re the first to ask me any directions.”

I dumped the groceries in the front seat and started up the truck. Following the clearly written directions, I left the grocery store, went out on the narrow and quiet street that was the downtown of North Point Harbor. A small white building that was the town hall, and an even smaller building that was the Post Office, with posted hours that said it was open every day from 11:00
A.M.
to 2:00
P.M.
, made up the downtown, save for private homes. Nobody was out walking around. I could hardly blame them, on this sharp, cold, and breezy November day.

The road curved up the large cove, allowing a great view of the harbor and, in the distance, pine tree-covered islands. The water was gray-blue, choppy, and then the road moved into rocks and trees, and I lost view of the ocean once more. About two more minutes of driving later, past a burnt-out barn that was marked in my directions, I made a right on a wide, rutted dirt road.

The road dropped quickly, went to the left. The first residence I saw was a mobile home, empty, with smashed windows and an old blue Volvo in the front yard, sagging on flat tires. Then an A-frame chalet-type house, with two cars and a truck parked in the yard, wood smoke coming up from a chimney. And then, finally, number 4. The home of Mark Spencer’s convict dad, his dad who had remained hidden for years.

It was on a knoll of land, with a view of the ocean. It was a Cape Cod-style home, with an attached porch built on pilings set in exposed rocks. There was a car parked in the yard.

It wasn’t a Mazda.

It was a small Dodge Omni, with Maine license plates.

I couldn’t help myself. I smiled.

It looked like I had beaten Mark and had gotten here first.

I drove down the road, backed up into the yard of his father—Will Mallory or Stan Pinkerton, take your pick—and parked the truck next to the Omni. I switched off the engine, took the keys out, and stepped outside. A sharp tang of salt air greeted me, and I had a hard melancholy flashback, thinking of how familiar that smell was, back home, back at Tyler Beach, back where nothing was probably going to remain after tomorrow save for a stone foundation.

Embrace the suck, I thought.

I slid my hand under my jacket, checked the position of my shoulder holster and Beretta, and went up to the front door, where a bright yellow sign said no smoking was allowed inside because an oxygen tank was being used.

Seemed this was the right place after all.

I
hammered on the door with my left fist—my right hand still fairly sore after punching Mark yesterday—and after another round of hammering, the door opened up to an older woman wearing sensible white sneakers, white slacks, and a flowered top. Her gray-white hair was tied up in a bun, and she said “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you, but I was hoping I could see Stan Pinkerton.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well. He doesn’t get many visitors. He’s quite ill, you know.”

“Yes, I do know,” I said. “I was hoping . . . well, at least to pay my respects before his time.”

“Are you friends?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “More of a friend of a friend.” I handed over my business card, and she took a quick look and handed it back.

“Tyler Beach,” she said. “You’re far from home.”

“I sure am.”

“’Course, I hear on the news that Tyler Beach and the north shore of Massachusetts, they’re getting a wicked pounding from that storm. Most of the roads in and out of there have been closed.”

“I guess I got out in time.”

She opened the door wider, inviting me in. “Hah. Well, you drive under another hour, you’d run into the coast of Canada, that’s how far away you are.”

I stepped in, and she said: “Maureen Lein.”

“Nice to meet you, Maureen,” I said. “Have you been here long?”

“A month, when Stan started failing,” she said. “There are other girls who come in and take care of him. It’s a pity, he’s all alone up here, no family. Just a few friends from church and the American Legion Post.”

The air was warm but thick with the smells of medicine, ointments, and cleaners. We went through a spotless kitchen, then to an adjacent living room with a small television—turned on to the Weather Channel with the sound off, the footage showing roiling, pounding waves somewhere, blasting over a seawall—and two couches and a coffee table. The floor was shiny hardwood. Another room, maybe a dining room, had a wooden table with chairs piled up on top. I turned my gaze away from the television.

“This way,” Maureen said, and led me out to the enclosed porch I had noted earlier.

The porch was as warm as the rest of the house, which I found impressive, considering how old the place seemed. Heavy storm windows kept out the cold and wind, and there was a great view of the small cove, just yards away. In the middle of the outside wall holding the windows was a door leading outside. Heavy waves stirred up by Hurricane Toni were so close that an occasional wave hit a storm window with a burst of spray and foam. Pine trees and exposed rocks went off to either side. In the porch were three old white wicker chairs with faded cushions, a battered wooden bureau, and a hospital bed.

A dying man was in the bed. He looked ageless, preserved, with white hair combed over a large bald spot, sunken cheeks, and a closely trimmed white beard. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly agape; and an oxygen tube was wrapped around his ears, with two plugs in his nostrils.

A side table with medicines and lotions was at the side of the hospital bed, along with a large plastic cup of water with a bendable straw, and a bag a quarter filled with urine was dangling under the bed. There was the sound of his raspy breathing, the slight hiss of the oxygen tank, and the waves crashing before his home. He had on light red pajama tops, and his wrinkled and faded hands were on top of the bed.

I just stood there and watched him.

Everything then quickly changed for me. He wasn’t my father, he wasn’t my friend, and he wasn’t my relative, but I now felt a sense of responsibility for this man. Forces were in motion against him, were now traveling this way, and, like it or not, I was now part of it.

“Maureen . . . how much longer does he have?”

She stood on the other side of the bed, gently brushed his forehead, checked the reading on the oxygen tank. “Not sure. A couple of days. A couple of weeks. Maybe a month. He’s a tough old bird he is.”

“Is he always like this?”

“What, out of it? No, he’s sleeping, which is a blessing. And when he wakes up, he’s still a pretty sharp tack, no matter that he’s practically skin and bones.”

“What happened to him?”

She brushed his forehead again. “His insides are just riddled through with cancer. Maybe it was all his years smoking, or working at the shipyard, breathing things in he shouldn’t. Who knows. And right now, what difference does it make?”

I looked at her and the setup and asked: “Maureen, if I may, who’s paying for all this? The medical supplies, the twenty-four-hour nursing care. Considering the state of the economy and most medical plans available, it seems . . . forgive me, it seems gold-plated.”

“Sure does, doesn’t it,” she said. “Truth is, the hospice service is being paid by some government-funded foundation. I can’t remember the name of it, but I’m sure our office manager knows. Why do you want to know?”

A government-funded foundation. Sure. Another way of setting up a shell operation, funded by the Department of Justice, to take care of those dying of old age and disease who were in the Witness Protection Program.

“Maureen, please, one more question, all right?”

She was no longer paying attention to her patient. She was paying a lot of attention to me. “Go on.”

“Is there a phone number, a contact person, or anyone else listed who you can call if there’s an emergency?”

“You mean, when he finally passes on?”

“No, I mean if you or anyone else thinks he might be threatened.”

Maureen stepped back from the hospital bed. “I . . . you know, when we first started with the care, yes, Claire, our office manager, she told us to call her if anything happened like that. Like somebody coming by who scared us, or who threatened Mister Pinkerton.”

I moved around so I could look out the far porch window. It had a good view of the dirt driveway, my borrowed truck, and her Omni.

“There are bad men coming here, to do him harm. Can we move him?”

“What do you mean, bad men?”

“Men who want to kill him, that’s what I mean.” I checked the bed, looked out the near door leading from the porch. Possible? If she backed her Omni down here, and we both got underneath his arms, could we do it?

She shook her head. “No. Can’t be done. He’s so frail, he’d probably die between here and my car.”

Which just might be a blessing, considering what Reeve had done to Carl Lessard back in Tyler.

“Is there a phone in the house?”

“No. And there’s no cell service here. I have to drive up to Godin Hill to get coverage.”

“Yeah, I already figured that out.” The man’s breathing grew more raspy. “Maureen, get out of here, now. I’ll stay behind. Call that contact number, and call the police.”

“We don’t have a police department here: we’re too small. We have to rely on the State Police or the county sheriff. It’ll take a while.”

“Do it. I’ll stay here.”

Maureen’s lip trembled. “It’s my job. I’ll stay. You go.”

I went over to her, gently squeezed her hand. “Your job is to take care of him. You and the others have done a great service these past months. But, please, trust me. We’re wasting time. Get going, make those phone calls. I’ll stay with him.”

“But . . . you don’t even know him. You said so yourself!”

I squeezed her hand again, gently propelled her to the living room. “If the cops get here in time, I’ll get to know him pretty well. Maureen. Go!”

I could sense the fight going on inside of her, of a dedicated caregiver who didn’t want to abandon her post. But she then kissed him on his forehead and said “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“I know you will.”

A moment later, the outside door slammed, and Maureen ran up to her Omni, got in, and it started up and roared up the dirt road.

I checked my watch. Maybe five or so minutes to get to a location to where her cell phone worked. A few more minutes making the necessary phone calls. Then . . . the wait. Response time? Depended on a lot of things. How many troopers and deputy sheriffs were there out on the road at this moment. And if they were out there, which end of the county might they be currently patrolling. Or maybe one is in court. Maybe another one is getting his or her cruiser gassed up. Or is at the scene of a fatal car accident.

Response time?

Who the hell knew.

I took out my Beretta and moved one of the wicker chairs on the porch, so I had a good view of the dirt road and my parked and still-borrowed pickup truck.

I sat in the chair, Beretta in hand, and I waited.

A loud cough startled me, almost making me drop my pistol.

He was awake.

As cadaverous as he looked, Will Mallory or Stan Pinkerton was alert and staring right at me. He blinked his eyes twice and said, “Need a drink of water.”

“Coming right up.”

I holstered my pistol and went to the stand next to his hospital bed, picked up the water glass, and he eagerly sucked the straw a few times, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in time, and then he removed his mouth and sighed in satisfaction, lowering his head back down on the pillow. He coughed once and said “My lips are pretty goddamn dry.”

“Hold on.”

I looked over the various lotions and supplies on the counter, picked up a tube of Carmex. I squeezed a dollop onto a finger and gently rubbed it into his cracked and dry lips. He nodded in appreciation.

“Thanks,” he said. “Where the hell is Maureen?”

“Off.”

“What for?”

I only hesitated for a split second. He was dying, but by God this was his life and his home, and I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. “Some men are coming here. I think they’re going to kill you.”

He stared up at me and grinned. He looked like a Hollywood special effect, a grinning skull with dry skin stretched across. “The fuck you say. Is this a joke?”

“No, it’s not, Will Mallory,” I said. “No, it’s not.”

“Who the fuck is Will Mallory?” he demanded, voice hoarse. “My name is Stan Pinkerton.”

I found a tissue, wiped my fingers dry. “You’re Will Mallory.” I grasped a thin wrist, turned it over, and he put up no resistance. A faded patch of scar tissue. “A long time ago, you had a falcon tattooed there. ‘Stonecold Falcon for life.’ Right? At this moment, Reeve Langley of the Stonecold Falcons is coming up here to kill you.”