LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (16 page)

“You know what they're dedicated to? I'll tell you what they're dedicated to—they're dedicated to talking, talking, and reaching a consensus. That coalition … they're made up of scores of groups, some of them primarily anti nuclear, others pro women, pro Native American rights, anti corporation … hell, there are a couple of groups over there that are pro hemp, for reforming the marijuana laws. Each group is called an affinity group, where decisions are made collectively. Can you believe that, trying to get twenty or thirty people to agree on anything? Hell, a group that big couldn't decide on what to have for breakfast!”

“Yet these groups—”

Chesak was on a roll and wouldn't let me talk, and he said, “Each affinity group has a facilitator. Not a leader, no, a leader is too fascist a term. So each group has a facilitator, and each facilitator meets with the others in a grand council, where they hammer out how they're going to protest, which part of the fence line they'll march to, and even what time they march—but that's not the end of it. Each facilitator has to go back and convince his or her affinity group that they've made the correct decision. And if not, well, the affinity group hammers out their position, like, no, we don't want to march at 9:00
A.M.
, we'd rather march at 10:00
A.M.
, and then the whole grand circus starts up again…”

When he took a breath, I said, “Sounds like the NFF is better organized.”

“You got that right, and you have to be better organized. The stakes are too high to allow all this time wasted on talking and consensus. Which is why I'm certain no NFF member had anything to do with the murder of Bronson Toles.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don't see the correlation.”

He leaned forward a bit. “Because I know the NFF, I know how they operate, how they think—and I know no one would do anything even remotely like that shooting without my knowledge or say-so.”

“So you knew about the plans for those NFF members to disrupt Bronson Toles's speech.”

“Eh?”

I made a point of going back over my notes. “You just said that you know how the NFF membership operates, thinks, acts, and that they wouldn't act without your knowledge or say-so. Therefore, you had to know about that disruption.”

Chesak's eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to say about that. I will say, as the leader of the NFF, I know the members. I know we had nothing to do with Bronson's murder. I also know that most of the stories about Bronson and his saintly life are so much bullshit. Nobody has the balls to report on what kind of guy Bronson really was.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You ever go to the Stone Chapel for a performance?” he asked.

“No, I never have.”

Chesak said, “Well, if you had, then this won't come as a big fucking surprise to you. About ninety-nine percent of his employees—servers, dishwashers, ticket takers—were all young women. Young good-looking women, and you can bet he was getting a lot on the side. Part of being a business owner, eh?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Let me guess, what I just said isn't going to make it into print, is it.”

I didn't like where this was going and said, “Not sure of that.”

“Yeah. Right. That's the kind of response I was expecting. With that, Mr. Cole, this interview is done.”

With each passing minute with Curt Chesak, I found I was liking him less and less. I said, “Just one more follow-up, if you don't mind.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Make it quick.”

Another flip through my notebook. “A couple of days ago, out there on the marshland, you called yourself the coordinator of the NFF. Now you've been telling me that you're its leader. Which is it, then?”

Again his eyes narrowed. “I run the NFF because the members know me, trust me, and have confidence in my decisions. I'm sure you've heard of that kind of leadership, Mr. Cole.”

“I have, but it's been a while.” I closed my notebook. “About seventy or so years ago. Political guy in Germany who gave great speeches and would allow no dissent from his decisions. I think the term used was something called
Führerprinzip
. Leadership principle. I'm sure you've heard of that, haven't you?”

He stood up. “This interview is really over.” He walked into the darkness, and I heard one more word: “Asshole.”

So be it. I tucked the notebook away in my back pocket. I had been called worse.

*   *   *

The man I knew as Todd called out to me. “Turn around, Mr. Cole.”

I followed his instructions, and he came up to me, and the same shopping bag was placed over my head. He said, “It looks like that interview didn't go so well.”

“How could you tell?”

“Curt had some choice words to say about you when he went into camp. Said it was a waste of time. Said if he could, he'd give that UNH bitch a slap upside the head for getting you in here.”

I said, “Can I give you a message to give back to Curt?”

“Sure,” he said, taking my elbow. “What is it?”

“If he has an urge to slap somebody upside the head, he's got my business card, with my cell phone number. Anyplace, anytime, and leave college-aged girls out of it.”

Todd sighed. “Fine. Let's go.”

*   *   *

We moved along the path, and I was processing in my mind what I had learned, what I had done—which wasn't particularly much—but I felt good that I was out and about, doing things, and the worst that could happen was that in the end, I'd have another story to file that Denise Pichette-Volk would be pleased to see, since it was a scoop.

Yeah, the worst that could happen.

I guess my imagination had failed me right about then.

*   *   *

About ten minutes into our walk, a muffled voice called out, “Todd! Curt wants you back at the camp.”

We stopped. “What for?”

“How the hell should I know? He just sent me along, told me to finish this job and to send you back.”

“But Henry…”

“Hey, no names! Jesus, do I have to remind you of everything? I'll take this clown back to the car, get him on his way.”

Todd moved back down the trail, and the man called Henry grasped my arm. “Let's get moving,” he said, his voice still muffled, as if he were wearing a bandanna as well. “I want to get back 'fore dinner is served.”

Unlike Todd, Henry didn't seem to care very much about the speed at which we were moving. I stumbled twice and said, “Hey, would you mind slowing it down?”

He laughed. “Sorry. Like I said, I want to get back soon.”

We kept moving, and then I stumbled again, and one right after another, a series of branches started whipping at my face. I stopped and said, “This isn't the way back.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah,” I said. “No kidding—and the masks and the games are over.”

I moved my hands to take the cloth bag off my head, but my escort was faster.

He grabbed my wrists, pushing them together, and I felt something hard and plastic wrap around them, snug. A tie-wrap, similar to what cops use when they need to secure someone fast and quick.

“No, buddy,” he said, lowering his voice. “The games are just ready to begin.”

*   *   *

Henry got behind me, twisted my arms, and then propelled me through the woods, pushing me, going faster, as more branches struck my face and shoulders.

“What the hell—” I started, and he twisted my arms again, and he said, “You know, in movies, this is where the bad guy, and I admit, that's me, explains everything to the victim, and that's you, why what's about to happen is going to happen, and you know what?”

He jerked me to a halt, the bag still on my head, my hands fastened before me, and he added, “That's never made sense to me, so why start now?”

He shoved me, hard, in the small of the back, and I stepped out into nothing.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

I fell and heard a gunshot, and then there was a sharp, cold splash of water, and I raised my legs, hoping to get some depth into the saltwater, and there was another gunshot, and then another. With my bound hands in front of me, I got the grocery bag off my head, saw darkness and shapes, and I willed myself to keep still, to keep my arms and legs from flailing, from making a noise, making a sign of my presence.

I floated up, cold, shivering, and my head broke through the water. A nearly full moon was rising, illuminating the surroundings in a cold white light. I had been tossed into one of the wide tidal streams cutting through the salt marsh, and I could make out my assailant up on the grassy bank, looking down at me, pistol in hand. Every fiber and ounce of my being was convinced to move away, to dive in the water away from this man, and with a great struggle, I did exactly the opposite.

I slogged toward him, as fast as I could, and he raised his arm, and then I couldn't see him anymore. The embankment where he was standing four or five feet above me had been cut away by generations of incoming and outgoing tides, scooping out some of the soil, leaving the place he was standing on as an overhang.

I caught my breath, waited. I could hear cursing up there.

Waited some more. I gingerly moved away, making sure I was under the muddy and grassy overhang. Now I could make out the stench of the mud that came from the saltwater tides bringing in and out fish, trash, and seaweed. I was in sloppy mud that rose to midshins, and I kept still, knowing moving around would cause slurping and gurgling noises that would draw my shooter to me like an insect to an open flame.

Waited.

No sound from above.

I started shivering, closed my arms around myself. Waited some more. I could make out the sound of feet rustling in the marsh grass as my shooter stood a few feet above my head.

Waited some more.

Kept on shivering.

*   *   *

At some point I knew I'd have to figure out what the hell had just happened, who the shooter was, and why I was targeted, but that point was a long way off. Right now I had to stay still, stay warm, and then get the hell out of this marshland before I got hypothermia, got shot, or got caught in an outgoing tide trying to swim with bound hands.

Waited some more.

I couldn't tell if my assailant—the man called Henry—had moved, but I also knew I couldn't stay here much longer. It was getting colder, and the water seemed deeper around my legs. I had to move. Just had to, and I had a yearning to be home, where there were strong locks and several weapons, any one of which I wished I had with me.

Waited. A cold breeze came through, making me shiver, and I decided it was time to move, now was better than doing nothing, and—

I flinched at the sound of another gunshot.

Realized this one was a distance away.

Chances of two shooters operating at this time of night in these salt marshes?

Not a good chance, but I'd take it. My shooter had moved and hopefully had shot at a shadow or a night creature moving suddenly away.

Took a breath, started slogging.

*   *   *

Time dragged on, strength draining away, as I fumbled my way through the muddy streambeds, the stench strong in my nostrils. Eventually I realized I was traveling in a winding route that was just wasting time and distance, for I was deep enough in the streambed that I couldn't see a damn thing. So I hoisted myself up by grabbing on to an overhang, pulled myself over the lip, and rolled over on the salt marsh, my hands cut and bleeding from the sharp grasses.

I tried to catch my breath, staring up at the few stars that were shining defiantly through the powerful blaze of the moonlight. I rolled over on my belly—my shooter Henry out there, if he was the man that had killed Bronson Toles, had access to a scoped rifle and maybe a night-vision scope as well, so I kept a low profile. Out in the distance were the blinking lights of the Falconer nuclear power plant. That was to the north. I didn't want to go east and keep stumbling through the marshes and streambeds and end up at Route 1-A. So south it was, where I thought I could make out lights from some homes.

I slithered across the salt marsh, grass, and mud, then flopped over in a depressed area of an embankment. I sat up and tried tugging at the plastic ties about my wrist. I moved one wrist and then the other, wincing at the pain cutting through the skin. I even tried gnawing on them with my teeth. Nope. The plastic ties were staying for a while.

After a couple of minutes of futility, I got up, shivering again, and looked to the distant lights over there marking Route 286, which led down to the Massachusetts side of the seacoast and a few restaurants and homes. If I kept on moving, I could be out of this nightmare in less than an hour.

I started slogging, sinking into the mud through the marsh grass, holding my arms out in front of me, trying not to think of what had just happened, just trying to think of the problem at hand, and trying to—

I suddenly came to a drop-off, my feet slipped, and, off balance because of my bound wrists, I tumbled over and struck my head in the darkness.

*   *   *

Dreams. I was dreaming that I was eating saltwater taffy, and that the taffy was melting in my mouth, dripping down my chin, choking me, making me cough, making me—

Woke up with a start, coughing out a spew of saltwater. I coughed again and looked around. I was in the bottom of a saltwater streambed, legs splayed out, head throbbing like hell. Water was around my chest and had been in my face. The tide was coming in. If I had stayed here unconscious, I just might have drowned. I moved, got up, swayed, and vomited in one sharp spasm, bent over, my wrists still bound and aching.

I looked around. I had fallen down into this streambed, and there, a rock was exposed. Must have hit my head there, and hit it hard.

I scrambled and moved and got up on the other side of the embankment. I was really shivering hard, and I took a look around, and there, off to the east, was a pink glow.