Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (9 page)

“No, they’re not.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” he said. “I had a county sheriff in here yesterday, asking the same questions you’re asking.”

I slowly sat back down.

Dave said “He was very polite, well dressed. Showed me his deputy sheriff’s badge and identification. Said he was investigating the disappearance as well.”

“I see. Do you recall his name?”

“Sure. Reeve Longwood.”

“And he said he was from Wentworth County?”

“Yep.”

“What was he looking for?”

“Same as you. Said a town official that goes missing is a big deal, worthy of investigation. Asked me questions about his work habits, neighbors, friends. I’m afraid I told him about the same I told you. Not very much.”

“What did he look like? Was he wearing a county sheriff’s uniform?”

“What does a county sheriff’s uniform look like?”

“Brown and tan. Campaign-style wide hat.”

“Oh, cripes, no. Was wearing a nice suit. I figured deputy sheriffs don’t have to be wearing their uniform all the time, now, do they?”

“No, they don’t. Besides his clothing, how else did he look?”

“Physically? Maybe thirty, thirty-five years old. Wore a nice suit. Bulky guy, like he worked out a lot . . . which makes sense, if he’s a cop.”

“Yes,” I said, growing more terrified with each word he said. “Go on.”

“He had on a cloth cap, but I think he was bald. Had a funny black beard, like one of those, whaddya call ’em, Vandykes. Right. That triangular thing. Let’s see, what else . . . oh, yeah, he had some tattoos.”

“Really? How could you tell? Were they on his face? Hands?”

“Nope,” Dave said. “I got up to make him a cup of tea—he turned down coffee—and when I was behind him, pouring it, I could see tattoos at the base of his neck. Couldn’t tell what kind . . . they were black,
that’s all . . . oh, and he had one on his right wrist. He reached over for some sugar, sleeve rolled back, and there it was. Some kind of angry bird.”

Holy crap.

“Did the deputy sheriff know that you saw his tattoos?”

“No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”

Good for you, I thought.

I got up one more time. “Did he leave you a business card or anything?”

“No, he said he had run out, that they were at the printers. But he said he had my name and number, and would follow up with me in a few days.” He paused, looking closely at my face. “Hey, is everything all right?”

Everything is so not right, I don’t know where to begin, which is what I thought. In this state, county sheriffs run the county prisons, help administer the superior courts, transport prisoners, and serve warrants or other court paperwork. They certainly don’t do serious investigative work, especially ones involving missing persons. And they don’t wear beards, Vandykes or otherwise.

I lied easily. “Everything is just fine. And I appreciate your time.”

He got up and said “Cool. Like I said, I hope you or the cops find him quick. Let me show you out.”

We walked to the door leading out when something struck me and I stopped suddenly, and Dave bumped into me. “Sorry,” I said. “One more thing just came to me . . . when the deputy sheriff asked about friends and family, did you mention that Mark had a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I did. I told him that he should make sure to talk to her, to get leads and shit.”

“Her name,” I said quickly. “Did you tell him her name?”

“Nope, I didn’t, ’cause I didn’t know it.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling relief. “Thanks.”

I got through the door, started down the stairs leading outside, and Dave called out to me, “Oh, but I did tell him she was a newspaper reporter at some local paper, I do remember that.”

By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, Dave Chaplain had closed the upper door, and I had burst through the door going outside, running to the Pilot. I got in and started the engine, grabbed my cell phone, and called the
Tyler Chronicle
.

It went to voicemail.

I next called Felix Tinios.

No answer.

By now I was on High Street, heading to the center of Tyler, and about three or four minutes away from the
Tyler Chronicle
.

I called the newspaper one more time.

A woman’s voice answered. “
Tyler Chronicle
, this is Melanie.”

“Melanie, Paula Quinn, please.”

“Oh, hold on,” she said. “Let me see if she’s here. . . .”

A clunk of the phone being dropped on the desk.

Up ahead there was a traffic light, flicking over to yellow. A blue Volvo with Vermont plates decided to be a good citizen and quickly braked to a halt.

I almost slammed into the Volvo’s rear. I fumed, hand tight on the steering wheel, other hand on the cell phone.

A clatter of the phone being picked up.

“Sorry,” Melanie said. “You just missed her.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Nope, all I know is that she left with a man who said he needed to talk to her.”

Shit.

“Was this guy bulky, with a slight beard?”

“Um . . . yeah . . . who’s calling, please?”

I tossed my cell phone onto the passenger’s seat. Up ahead the light turned green. The road was marked with a double yellow line, indicating no passing.

I punched the accelerator and passed the Volvo anyway, causing a blare of a horn to follow me as I sped up High Street, driving awkwardly, with one hand still on the steering wheel, and the other hand scrabbling underneath my front seat, grabbing the Bianchi leather holster that contained my Beretta 9mm pistol.

I
n about sixty more seconds of driving, I got to the intersection of High Street and Lafayette Road, right in the center of the town of Tyler proper. Traffic was heavy for this time of the morning, and I was stuck at a red light, with the evil Volvo behind me, the young female driver waving at me with one finger extended. A quick left onto Lafayette Road and then a quick right past the Common, and I’d be at the
Chronicle
.

But she wasn’t there. That’s what Melanie had said.

You just missed her
.

Right behind the small building containing the
Chronicle
was a set of railroad tracks, which paralleled a grove of pine trees. Would he take her there? Or would that be too risky? What kind of tale could he spin to get Paula out of the
Chronicle
and to walk across the railroad tracks?

No, he’d be cautious. He’d want her away in peace and quiet.

But it didn’t mean
I’d
have to be cautious.

I swore, spun the steering wheel left, flashed my headlights and horn, and blasted my way through the oncoming traffic. There were three lanes—two heading to Lafayette Road, one of which was a turning lane to the right—and the other which was the incoming lane from Lafayette Road, full of cars heading in my direction. There was the squeal of brakes, horns
blaring in my direction, a few more one-fingered salutes, and I got onto Lafayette Road. Before me were the white buildings and black shutters that, among other things, contained the law offices of Adams & Lessard, and on the right was the Common, the Common Grill & Grill, the Tyler Professional Office Building, and—

A black Chevrolet Suburban, heading out into traffic, with a bulky man driving, cloth cap on his head, a Vandyke beard on his face, with a blond-haired woman as his passenger.

I slammed the accelerator down again, the Pilot roared in response, and I cut off the Suburban just as he was edging out into traffic. He braked suddenly, his female passenger flailing forward, and I hammered my brakes as well, sliding to a stop about a foot in front of him. Other cars and trucks halted at seeing what was unfolding before them.

I threw the door open, managing to remove my Beretta from the leather holster, and I ran right up to the driver.

“Hands!” I yelled. “Show me your hands, right now!”

He hesitated just for a moment, and maybe it was my eyes or the Beretta or the way I yelled again, louder, “Hands!” but both hands came off the steering wheel.

And just like Dave Chaplain had said, there was a tattoo of a bird on his right wrist.

“Paula! Get out! Now!”

She emerged from the passenger’s side door, face red, blond hair cascading in the wind, purse in hand, and boy, was she glad to see me.

“Lewis, you idiot! What the hell are you doing?”

I didn’t dare remove my stare from the driver. His eyes had narrowed into two dark spots, but at least his hands were still visible. “Get into my Pilot! Now!”

“Lewis! He’s a federal agent; he knows where Mark is!”

“He’s an impostor! Yesterday he was a deputy sheriff! Paula, if you’ve ever trusted me . . . move!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hesitate, for the briefest of moments, and despair seized me, thinking: what do I do? What do I do? Try to manhandle her into my Pilot, while taking my eye and attention away from her kidnapper? From his look and appearance, I knew if this
man had a brief second of opportunity, he would take it, and I’d quickly be on the cold asphalt of Lafayette Road, bleeding out.

Paula moved. She went around the front of the Suburban, cursing, and got into my Pilot. I started slowly backing away, and the man in the Suburban—Reeve Longwood, if that was his real name—managed to use an elbow to toggle a switch, and the window lowered.

His voice was slow, gravelly, like a country music star just wrapping up a four-hour gig. “Pretty bold move, bro, and I’ll give you this one. But what, you think I’m just gonna sit here and watch you drive away?”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” I said, and I pulled the trigger twice on my Beretta, shooting out a front and rear tire of his Suburban.

With Paula secure in the passenger’s seat, I drove south on Lafayette Road. In about a mile or so, we’d get to Route 101, the state’s main east-west highway, which also intersected I-95. There were options, but not too many. If I took the intersection to the Interstate, I’d hit the main Tyler tolls, which could quickly have a State Police roadblock. So instead I stayed on Lafayette Road and made a quick right onto one of the side country roads, and in a few minutes we were away from the crowded chaos of downtown Tyler and on a road that drifted through farmland, housing developments, and lots of trees.

With that bit of driving over, I spared a glance at Paula and said, “Look, are you—”

She punched me in the arm. I stammered something out, and then she burst into tears and asked “What the hell was that? What the hell was that? Stop the car . . . stop it now!”

“Nope,” I said.

“Stop the car!”

“Paula, you can punch me, you can scratch me, you can pull my hair, but I’m not stopping. That man back there . . . he was about two or three minutes away from asking you some very serious questions about Mark.”

“What, so you had to rescue me? Is that it? Why didn’t you call the cops if you thought I was in danger?”

“Didn’t have time.”

“Lewis. . . .”

I turned, snapped at her. “You know Dave Chaplain? Mark’s neighbor? Yesterday that big guy told him he was a deputy sheriff, investigating Mark’s disappearance. Even showed him a sheriff’s badge. How long have you been a newspaper reporter, Paula? Hunh? You know how the sheriff’s department operates. Do they conduct any missing-persons investigations?”

Her arms were clasped tight against her light red coat, her face pale. “He . . . he told me he was with the federal government. He said Mark had uncovered some corruption involving the town and a defense-related industry that was preparing to move in over at the Tyler Industrial Park. He . . . he said Mark was in hiding, and that if I cooperated and kept it confidential, I could see him.”

I came to a three-way intersection, with no street signs. There were woods and low stone walls. Just for the hell of it, I turned left. A light blue Ford pickup truck passed by and the driver waved, and I waved back. No one-finger salutes this time. I took a breath. Besides the usual smells of my home on wheels, there was also the sharp bitter tang of a pistol being recently fired.

Paula lowered her head, started crying again.

We kept on driving.

Sometime later we passed into Massachusetts, only knowing so by seeing a white post with black letters that said
STATE LINE
. I had no idea what town we were in, not that it mattered. It was still rural, which suited me well. About ten minutes after passing into our fair neighbor to the south, I spotted a dirt road on the left. I slowed, backed in, and backed in some more, as the road jigged to the right, until I couldn’t see the nameless road we had just come from. I lowered my window and Paula’s window some, to give us some fresh air.

It was suddenly quiet. Paula’s head was turned, looking out at the trees.

I cleared my throat. “For what it’s worth, as of last night, Mark was alive and in good health.”

Her head slowly moved. Her usual pretty features were there, only hidden by her red eyes and puffy face. “How do you know that?”

“Carl Lessard told me, after the zoning board meeting let out last night . . . or early this morning.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that Mark had been in contact with him, and that he was doing fine.”

“Did he say where he was?”

“No.”

“Did he say why he’s gone?”

“No.”

Her face was red with anger. “And why the hell didn’t you tell me when you found this out?”

“Because like I just said, it was after midnight, that’s why. I didn’t want to wake you up. And I wasn’t done yet, because I hadn’t yet talked to Mark’s neighbor, Dave Chaplain. And he told me about this guy’s visit yesterday, pretending to be a deputy sheriff. Dave also said he told the guy about you, Mark’s girlfriend. That’s when I came racing into town.”

The anger seemed to seep out, and my dear friend looked so very tired. “Damn.”

“What did he say his name was?”

“Reeve Laughlin.”

“He told Dave it was Reeve Longwood. He’s experienced, then.”

“How?”