Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (28 page)

Mark started a low wail, like an old Irish woman learning that her youngest had been lost at sea, and Reeve pushed him to the floor, kicked him, and then took off his Navy pea coat. Will started to say something, nothing I could make out; and with his coat off, Reeve took off his shoulder holster, lowered it to his feet. He then started unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

When he’d gotten his shirt unbuttoned and tugged part way off his tattooed arms, that’s when I raised myself and the chair off the floor and slammed into his back.

M
y mouth slammed shut hard with the force of the impact, feeling like my chin was broken, but I managed to get Reeve on the floor, with his arms tangled in the sleeves of his flannel shirt. The chair cracked and I got a hand free, pulled it out of the ropes, and got a length of a chair leg and strut, and slammed it against the back of Reeve’s head.

“Move!” I yelled to Mark, and I slammed one more time and Reeve was bellowing, moving underneath me, and I got up, pulled the rest of the ropes and chair off of myself, and shouldered my way outside the porch. I could have stayed behind, I could have gotten in a wrestling match with Reeve, and I would have lost. He was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, in brutal bar fights that started and finished within seconds, and I had to get out.

Quick look to the right. Billy was coming across the lawn, carrying the leather case with Reeve’s butchering tools. Billy stopped, mouth agape, and he dropped the case and started fumbling under his dungaree coat.

His Glock was coming out shortly. To the left were trees and low brush. To the front, and much closer, was a jumble of rocks and boulders and foaming water from the incoming waves. I didn’t hesitate in my running: I made my way straight to the rocks.

The water was iceberg cold. I shuddered and slipped and fell, banging my ribs. Shouts were coming out of the house. I looked back.

Mark was out of the porch but was still hidden from the approaching Billy, who was still fumbling under his coat. Still had some time.

And Mark turned, and his .357 Ruger was in his right hand.

Good man! He had managed to retrieve it in all the confusion.

“Mark!” I yelled. “Over here!”

My quick thought was that he could join me by the rocks, and we could make a stand with his Ruger until the cops arrived.

Mark saw me, looked right at me, and turned and started running.

To the safety of the trees.

By now Billy had his Glock out. Reeve was at the open door of the porch, shirt off, tattoos decorating his massive chest and upper arms.

“Where are they?” he bellowed.

“The writer guy,” Billy yelled back. “He’s over here, by the rocks. I don’t know where the other guy went!”

“Kill him!” Reeve shouted. “Kill him now!”

I kept my head down, started moving away up the cove, best I could. Reeve ducked back into the house. I moved. The rocks and boulders were cold, slimy, the foamy waves breaking over me, chilling me, choking me.

I slipped and fell, over my head. Quick thought of drowning instead of being shot. What a damn choice.

Got up, spurting water, moved some and looked up.

Billy was staring down at me.

Glock in his hand.

Staring and staring. I couldn’t understand why he was waiting, or what he was thinking.

I froze still. Not moving. In the far, far distance, it looked like Reeve was out of the house again, heading to where the Mazda and pickup truck were parked, but I wasn’t paying that much attention. He could have been Jimmy Hoffa for all I cared at the moment.

The Glock started to rise up.

I took a breath, thought of what to say, doubted anything was going to work.

A gunshot, part of Billy’s head blew open in a spray of blood and hair, and he collapsed in front of me.

Out in front of the house, a vision from the Old Testament, a bearded and angry prophet in a robe, stumbling out of the house, a revolver in both of his shaking hands.

“Get . . . away . . . from . . . my . . . boy!” Will shouted. He moved in Reeve’s direction, and another shot was fired. Reeve rolled and ducked behind the Mazda, then rose up with the speed and suddenness of a jack-in-the-box, and fired off three quick rounds, all of which hammered into Will’s chest. He fell flat on his back, bare legs tangled together.

I got up from the rocks, went to Billy’s body, looking for his Glock, not seeing it, not seeing it. Reeve moved around from the Mazda, spotted me, yelled out “Still got plans for you, Cole!”

No Glock.

I ducked behind Billy’s body, pushed at the heavy weight, got his jacket flopped open, dove around his belt—

Got my Beretta.

Raised it up, clicked off the safety, didn’t bother taking time to aim.

No time. Best to get off a quick shot, to surprise or scare the target.

I fired.

Reeve was definitely surprised, ducking down, but I doubted I had scared him.

He raised up his pistol and I shot again.

He whirled, cursed, grabbed at his side, and bounced behind the Mazda again, fired once at me, and I sent three more shots downrange at him.

I ducked behind the rocks, breathing hard, accidentally dropping the Beretta into the ocean and grabbing it with my left hand.

I moved some, raised up my head.

No movement. No motion. I stared at the Mazda. I was fortunate to be in a spot where I could see through the undercarriage.

Didn’t see Reeve.

Looked to the corner of the house.

No Reeve.

I sloshed through the ocean, looked again.

Not
hing.

I got to a point where a large pine tree was near the rocks, and I got out, banging both knees in the process, and spent a couple of minutes behind the wide tree trunk.

Still nothing. I moved from tree to tree until I got a good view of the far side of both the Mazda and the pickup truck, and the rear of Will’s house.

Empty.

I walked over to the Mazda, pockmarked with bullet holes. On the stretch of lawn by the driver’s side of the car, there was a smear of blood. My heart was pounding right along and it was hard to catch my breath, but I was pleased to see that my hands holding the Beretta were rock-solid. I made my way around the edge of the house, saw another splatter of blood.

So there you go.

Out in the distance, a siren.

Weapon still in firm hands, I went over to Will.

His eyes flickered open.

Still alive.

I knelt down. His chest was a bloody mess.

His voice wavered but still had strength behind it. “My boy. . . .”

I lowered my head to his as he said it again. “My boy. . . .”

I reached out, grabbed his hand, squeezed it hard. “He’s just fine. You saved him. You saved him, Will.”

I think he tried to smile, but I’m not sure. Bright pink blood foam was on his lips, a contrast to the white foam washing up on his land. I squeezed his hand again, and his eyes flickered once and remained open.

His chest was no longer moving. But there was a lot more blood lower down.

Didn’t make sense. It still looked like all of Reeve’s shots had struck him right in the chest. I looked more closely at his hospital gown, didn’t see any tears or rips, and then it made sense.

To get out of his hospital bed, to reach his weapon, to save his boy, Will had had to tear the urinary catheter out of his body.

I squeezed his hand again. “Damn, Maureen was right. You were a tough old bird.”

I got up as a white cruiser from the Washington County Sheriff’s Department roared down the road and along the dirt driveway. I placed my Beretta on the ground and walked back and stood still, arms and hands extended. A young deputy sheriff in a dark blue uniform shirt and trousers stepped out, pistol extended.

I raised my hands before he could say a word. I yelled out, “There’s a man in the woods, armed! He’s dangerous!”

He spoke into a handheld microphone at his shoulder, head moving about, other hand holding his weapon. Then he got around the cruiser—smart move, putting it between himself and the woods—and he came to me. “You don’t move, you keep your hands up, you keep still!”

“Yes, sir,” I said, doing exactly what I was told. He looked at the bodies of Will and Billy and said, “Sweet fuck, what the hell happened here?”

“A shootout.”

“Christ, I can see that. What the hell happened?”

I was going to point with my right hand but quickly remembered my orders. “The old man by the house . . . he shot and killed the man by the rocks. The old man was shot by a third man, the one who’s in the woods.”

“Why’s he in the woods?” the deputy sheriff asked.

Fair question. “Because I shot him,” I said.

He slowly moved around, weapon aimed right at me. “Kneel down, ankles crossed, hands behind your head.”

I stood still. “Deputy, any other day of the week, I’d love to. But you’ve got an armed biker gang leader out in the woods, and even wounded, he’s tough and quick enough to put a bullet through your head with no hesitation.”

“I’m ordering you, on the ground, now!”

I refused to move. “Deputy, I have the utmost respect for law enforcement, but your best bet now is to let me pick up my pistol and for us to wait for reinforcements. I have a carry permit for here and New Hampshire.”

His young face was bright red. “On the ground, now, or I’m gonna put you in a world of hurt.”

Sirens.

Sirens were approaching.

I lowered myself to the ground, as ordered.

I may be dense sometimes, but I can learn on occasion.

The first down the short driveway was a gray Maine State Police cruiser, followed by another sheriff’s cruiser, followed by a police cruiser from a neighboring town. I was quickly and efficiently handcuffed, someone threw a blanket over me, and then a lengthy argument proceeded over who was going to take control of me, the bodies, and the crime scene.

I just waited, standing still, legs shaking from the cold, the deputy sheriff holding on to one of my arms, a State Police trooper holding on to the other, and the local cop trying to decide which side to join. The debate sometimes got fierce and personal, and I kept my mouth shut, until I saw two black Chevrolet Impalas with blue and red flashing lights in their grilles slowly approach the parked cruisers, like they had all the time in the world.

“Sorry, fellas,” I said. “I think you all just got trumped.”

The next twelve hours went by in a combination of furious activity, followed by hours of me staring at blank concrete walls. I was taken away from the enthusiastic local constabulary and put in the back of one of the Impalas, which took me and a silent woman and a silent man—both well dressed and well armed, of course—to Machias, where the county jail was located. I heard a few voices being raised in protest, but I was ushered into a plain and cold cell, and waited.

Twice I was brought out to an interrogation room, and I suppose the old Lewis Cole—the one with a cushy job at
Shoreline
magazine, a fat bank account, and a warm and intact historical home—would have cracked wise and made jokes and asked for an attorney.

Instead, I told them everything, jotted down names and dates and places, and even made a sketch of Will’s home and what had happened and how it had happened.

Then night came and I was given a cheese-and-baloney sandwich on white bread—at least with mustard and not mayo—and a bag of Maine’s famed Humpty Dumpty potato chips, along with a container of lemonade. I didn’t bother asking questions or making demands and just kept my
mouth shut, and with a hard foam mattress, equally hard pillow, and two gray wool blankets that smelled heavily of disinfectant, I fell asleep in my solitary cell, a guest of both Washington County and a number of polite men and women in business suits.

Breakfast was a container of orange juice, a cup of black coffee, and a plain doughnut. I ate and drank it all and then washed my face and hands from the cold water in the stainless-steel sink.

And I waited.

And I waited.

Then they came for me.

This interview room was a bit larger, a bit more comfortable, with chairs that looked like they had been purchased recently and a polished conference-room table that didn’t have cigarette burns or coffee stains or a heavy ring in the center to chain a suspect. I had been brought in sans handcuffs, which I found encouraging.

A woman was in the other chair, looking to be in her mid-thirties or so. She had on a black two-piece skirt-and-jacket ensemble, with a plain beige blouse. About her neck was a gold chain. Her hair was thick and black, professionally styled, and she had on a minimum of makeup, although her nails were a bright red. Her teeth flashed pure white at me as she smiled when I sat down, but her eyes were hard and the color of platinum.

“Mister Cole,” she said.

“Ma’am,” I said. There was no notebook, no legal pad, no folder, no laptop or tablet. Just the two of us.

It was silent, and I said: “Excuse me, I didn’t catch your name.”

The same white smile. “Don’t worry about that.”

“All right.”

“You’ve been extraordinarily cooperative, and you have my personal thanks for that.”

“Glad to be of help.”

“Now,” she said, folding her perfectly manicured hands together, leaning forward just a bit, “I have a proposition for you. Take your time thinking it
through, because it’s a one-time deal, available only at this point in time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I certainly do,” I said. “And I’m eager to learn more.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said. “So here it is. You leave and keep quiet about what you know and what happened at the home in North Point Harbor, then that’s it. There’ll be no publicity, no formal inquiry, no examination of potentially illegal activities on your part. You can go back to whatever you were doing before you were entangled in this . . . situation.”

“Interesting proposal,” I said. “I would guess my silence would be very helpful for those in the Department of Justice who might be embarrassed or hauled before Congress to discuss a multiple shooting involving a person in
WITSEC
.”