Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (31 page)

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.

T
he 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.

When I got to Atlantic Avenue, the traffic was one lane only, which made it slow going to Tyler Beach, giving me plenty of time to think, which I hated. Lots of beach cottages were either crumpled or ripped apart, and a couple were even torn off their foundations and tossed across the road, into the bordering marshes. Along with the slow-moving cars and trucks, there were more National Guard vehicles and two television satellite trucks from Boston, here to record and report on the devastation, and I knew that later in the day, most stories would mention something about New Hampshire’s Atlantic playground suffering a tremendous loss.

Near the border with Tyler, I saw an amazing sight, an orange State of New Hampshire plow truck, usually dispatched to handle snow and ice, but this time being used to plow sand and rocks that had been tossed up from the ocean by Hurricane Toni.

The Lafayette House came into view, looking like it had come through the storm just fine. Its near parking lot and the parking lot across the street, which I usually use, were pretty full, but I managed to find an empty spot. As I got out, a silly thought came to me: how well would I sleep tonight in the back of the Pilot, with all these cars and trucks parked nearby?

The sky was a sharp blue, with just a light cold breeze blowing through. The waves were roaring in, and to the south there were surfers taking advantage of the higher-than-usual wave action. Men and women, some wearing National Guard uniforms or utility work clothes, walked in and around the parked vehicles. Nobody paid me any attention. I started my long, long way down to where I’d once lived, and another thought came
to me, that it wouldn’t make any difference if I spent the night here or somewhere else, because now there was nothing left to keep watch over.

I put my cold hands in my pockets, kept my head down from the heavy winds buffeting me, and I walked and walked.

When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I stopped and lifted my head.

And looked at my house and the near garage.

Still standing.

Still there.

I found it hard to breathe, and I whispered: “If this is a dream, old man, I sure as hell don’t want to wake up.”

Somehow I walked some more and was there, just staring, mouth agape. The converted shed that had served as a garage was standing free and new, freshly constructed. The burnt debris had been removed, as well as the charred corpse of my Ford Explorer.

“What . . . the . . . hell?” I whispered some more.

But my house. . . .

It was standing proud and new as well. No tarpaulins, no boarded-up windows, nothing. It needed some stain and I could easily make out the new construction from the areas that had earlier burned, but it looked good. Damn good.

I stood there for a few minutes and just bawled.

When I could move again, I went to the front door, and a stiff piece of white cardboard was there, wrapped in plastic, nailed to the wood. I tore it free, removed the plastic.

CONSTRUCTION AND REPAIR WORK COURTESY OF:

MASSACHUSETTS CARPENTERS LOCAL 114

MASSACHUSETTS ELECTRICIANS LOCAL 9

TYLER POLICE ASSOCIATION LOCAL 1212

Felix and Diane.

And I remembered something Felix had said earlier, how in his line of work, in order to get things done, you never knew who you would eventually have to talk to.

Felix and Diane.

With hands trembling, I unlocked the door and stepped in, to the smell of fresh wood and paint. The interior was pretty bare and no lights came on when I flipped a switch, which made sense, considering this whole part of the state was without power. I slowly walked through the downstairs, and the upstairs. I recognized the old wood, which I had purchased soon after the fire, exhausting my savings, but there were no bathroom or kitchen furnishings. The studs were bare as well, awaiting sheetrock and additional painting. Some of my belongings, books and furnishings, salvaged by Felix after the fire weeks ago, were in place. There was no bed or bureaus or office desk or computer, but my mind was already racing on when and how I would replace them, once the insurance money grudgingly came to me.

I went back downstairs to the nearly empty living room and to the sliding glass doors. The glass was still new, with stickers attached. I stood there and watched the waves for a while, and then I sat down, cross-legged, and then hugged myself, rocking back and forth for a moment.

My family had come through for me.

A
s always, thanks to my patient fans and readers. I’m so glad you didn’t have to wait so long for this one. My wife Mona Pinette was her usual keen self in reviewing my first draft. I’d also like to extend my appreciation to Claiborne Hancock, Jessica Case, and Iris Blasi at Pegasus Books, as well as Phil Gaskill for his copyediting skills. Special thanks as well to S. J. Rozan, Andi Malala Schecter, Sandy Balzo, and Deborah Rosan. I’d also like to urge my readers to consider donating to this special charity—www.hero-dogs.org—in memory of a departed friend.

BLOOD FOAM

Pegasus Books LLC

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New York, NY 10004

Copyright © 2015 by Brendan DuBois

First Pegasus Books cloth edition June 2015

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 978-1-60598-790-3

ISBN: 978-1-605-98791-0 (e-book)

Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company