LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (17 page)

Dawn was coming.

I started moving, coughing, shivering, head and wrists hurting like hell.

*   *   *

Eventually, after some long minutes, I came to a place where the salt marsh came up against some worn pastureland, with a distressed fence consisting of leaning bits of timber and some strands of rusting barbed wire. The sun had risen far enough to lighten everything, and I pushed my way over the barbed wire. Up ahead the land rose, and there was a chicken coop and some tired-looking chickens poking and prodding at the dirt. Next to the chicken coop was a double-wide trailer sagging at one side. There were two flagpoles off to the right, one flying the American flag, the other the black-and-white POW/MIA flag.

I stopped for a second on the rear lawn, then started walking up to the house. I was sure that from here the dirt driveway—which boasted an old VW Beetle and a Chevy pickup truck—would lead off to a road, and from there … well, I'd figure something out.

Then a door burst open from the side of the house, and a burly man with a thick black beard, wearing black Wellington boots, gray sweatpants, and nothing else, stepped out, glaring at me, pointing a shotgun in my direction.

It looked like the time for figuring was over.

*   *   *

He stepped closer to me, his chest covered with a mat of gray and black hair, except for a couple of areas where I saw pink scar tissue.

“You're trespassin',” he called out.

“I certainly am,” I said, “and I apologize for that.”

He came closer, the shotgun still pointing at me. He said, “You one of them protesters?”

“No.”

“A reporter?”

“Not really,” I said. “I live up on Tyler Beach. The name's Lewis Cole.”

He lowered his shotgun a bit. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I … I got into trouble. Some of the people out there in the woods, they didn't like me being there. So they tied up my arms and tossed me into the salt marsh.”

“Why'd they get pissed at you?”

“They didn't like where I've been, what I've said.”

“Were they antinukers?”

“There was just one of them,” I said, “and we didn't have a chance to discuss energy options.”

The shotgun was now pointing at the ground. “You a vet by any chance?”

“No,” I said, “but I did work for the Department of Defense for a number of years.”

He grinned, his teeth firm and white. “The name's Bert Lang. Served twenty years, New Hampshire National Guard. Now I live on disability and whatever else I can scrape up, like a bit of plumbing and electrical work, maybe some drywall if my back ain't aching. Friend, you look and smell like shit.”

“Can't help that,” I said, “but I did trespass on your property. I'm sorry about that, Bert.”

“Hell,” he said, stepping closer. “That's no problem. Real problem is those hippies and protesters out there, and those damn news media, they think they can troop across my land for better pictures, or a place to shit or piss, or whatever. Think they own the joint. But you … here, hold on.”

He lowered the shotgun to the ground, came back up, and with his thick hand reached into a back pocket and took out a Filipino-style butterfly knife, folded the knife into place with an expert flip of his wrist, and came over to me. I held out my wrists, and he gently, almost tenderly sliced through the plastic tie-wraps.

I couldn't help it, I gasped in pleasure and rubbed at my free wrists.

“Bet that feels damn good, now, don't it, Lewis.”

“It sure does.”

He flipped the knife back and returned it to his pocket and then picked up his shotgun. I said, “Look, can I bother you—”

Bert grinned. “Nothing's gonna be a problem. You wanna call the cops about what happened to you?”

“No.”

“You wanna get cleaned up some, and me give you a ride?”

I kept on rubbing my wrists. “That'd be great, thanks.”

*   *   *

I came up to the double-wide, and from inside I heard some dogs barking, and Bert yelled out, “You boys in there shut your yap, you got that?” He turned and said, “I'd let you in and all, but those dogs would be all over you the sec you got inside.”

“Oh, they bite, then?” I asked.

He laughed. “The hell they do. They'd lick you to death, that's what they'd do. Hold on…”

Bert slipped inside the double-wide, and after a couple of minutes, he came back out with a couple of dark blue towels, a sponge, and a white bucket filled with soapy water. He had also thrown on a T-shirt—
FREEDOM ISN'T FREE
, depicting a screaming eagle holding an American flag in its talons—and I washed up the best I could.

“That ride offer still stand?”

“Where do you need to go?”

“I'm hoping my Ford's parked over at the Laughing Bee.”

Bert said, “Shit, I don't see why not. I usually head over 'bout this time for coffee, doughnuts, and some of the best lies ever told. You 'bout done over there?”

“Yes,” I said, holding back one dry towel, “but I'd like to use this later, if that's all right with you. My pants are sopping wet. I don't want to mess up your truck seat.”

A big laugh from that. “Bud, if you saw what my dogs did to the inside of my truck—that's mighty nice of you, but I won't mind. Come along, let's get going.”

He took the bucket, sponge, and wet towels and walked me up to a Chevy pickup truck that was three colors: green, rust, and primer. I got in, and despite Bert's prediction of what I would see—and there were stains and dog hair galore on the upholstery—I spread out the towel and sat down. He got in on the other side and said, “Cripes, Lewis, looks like you dinged your head there somethin' awful.”

I put my hand up to the rear of my head and winced in pain as I felt the egg-shaped bump back there. I took my hand down, and it was smeared with blood. Bert said, “Would have made more sense to use the towel for your head.”

“I'm sure,” I said.

“You wanna go to the hospital in Newburyport?”

“Thanks, but no,” I said. “I just want to get home.”

“Fair enough,” he said, starting up the truck, which took only three tries and an amazing backfire that shuddered through the truck's frame.

*   *   *

In the fifteen-minute drive to the Laughing Bee, my new best friend talked about growing up in Falconer, his service with the New Hampshire National Guard, and his various pains and disabilities. Along the way, some early-morning protesters were straggling along the side of the road, and Bert said, “You notice anything strange about those antinukers?”

Now that I was in a warm truck cab and not thrashing around the marsh, various aches and pains started announcing themselves, including the thumping big ache at the back of my head, where I had earlier struck that exposed rock. I said to Bert, “A number of things, but what have you noticed?”

We stopped at a traffic light intersecting Route 1, and I was happy to know that I was just a few minutes away from getting to my own vehicle, if Todd back there had told me the truth about moving it to the doughnut shop's parking lot. Bert looked both ways and then pulled out. “They're either young or old, you know? Oh, there's a dusting of other ages, but mostly it's the old folks and young'uns. Meaning, it's those who are retired, or who can afford to skip school for a week or two.”

Bert slowed the truck down as a number of protesters straggled across the road, heading to a gas station parking lot where a coffee truck had parked. He watched them line up for coffee and doughnuts and said, “You know … if I was lucky enough to be their age and in school, I sure as hell wouldn't be down here in the mud, muck, and marsh grass. I'd be hitting the books, hitting a few brews, and trying my hand at some rich chicks.”

He laughed and moved ahead, and there, in a lonely spot all by itself, was my Ford Explorer, as promised, at the Laughing Bee doughnut shop. Bert pulled in and said, “There you go, Lewis. Hope today's a better day than last night for ya.”

I shook his strong and rough hand. “Thanks, Bert. Really appreciate it.”

“Buy you coffee and a fat pill?”

I opened the door. “Thanks for the offer, but I really want to take a shower and get into some clean clothes.”

Bert joined me in the parking lot and slapped me on the back. “Can't rightly blame you. Take care, now.”

“You, too.”

*   *   *

I walked to my Ford and as promised, found my key sitting on one of the rear tires. Then I stopped, went through my pockets.

No notebook.

It had to have fallen out somewhere out in the marshes, or the water, or anyplace else.

Damn.

I got into the Ford, started up the engine, and turned the heat up full, and I suddenly had this nagging feeling that I was forgetting something.

I opened up the glove compartment, took out some paper napkins from my infrequent visits to drive-through burger places, and gently placed a couple on the back of my head. The ache intensified.

Took the paper towel away. Bloody as hell.

Still … what was going on? What was I forgetting?

I looked at the dashboard, at the light blue-green numerals that told me what time it was. It was 8:45 in the morning.

The little voice in my mind kept on nagging me.

What was going on?

I saw the numerals flick over from 8:45 to 8:46.

Still I sat.

Come on,
I thought.
Are you going to sit here all day, watch the clock change until it reaches 9:00
A.M.
?

9:00
A.M.

Today.

Oh, crap.

In about fourteen minutes, if they were on schedule, Southwest Airlines would be depositing my Annie Wynn at the Manchester Airport, where she would expect to be picked up by a healthy, happy, and well-dressed and well-groomed Lewis Cole, if not bearing gifts, well, at least bearing a welcoming smile.

From Falconer to Manchester was a drive of about forty-five minutes.

I pulled down the shift lever, got the Ford into drive, and got the hell out of Falconer.

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

One bit of good fortune was that the drive was mostly highway, and as I quickly exceeded the speed limit, I fumbled a bit with my free hand on the passenger seat, where I retrieved my cell phone. If Annie was on the ground, I could at least tell her I was on my way.

Good plan, except my cell phone's battery had drained away overnight. No juice. I suppose I could have gotten off at a highway exit and wasted valuable time looking for a store or gas station that had one of those old relics called a pay phone, but I didn't like the odds. So I goosed my excess speeding along New Hampshire's Route 101 by another ten miles an hour, hoping that any state troopers on duty this morning would be down in Falconer.

*   *   *

The Manchester airport had grown a lot since I moved back to New Hampshire, but it still had a small-state airport feel to it. Some time ago, in a burst of lunacy, the people running the joint decided to stick it to their southern neighbors and call the place the Manchester-Boston Regional Airport, which no one ever uses in talking or writing about it. The name change was done to drag in business from weary Massachusetts travelers, but still, it took some derangement to share the name of your airport with a city more than fifty miles away. I always thought the place should be named for the first American to fly in space—a New Hampshire native—but no one ever asked me, and so the nutty name remains.

Nutty name or not, I was able to park in a short-term lot that, after a spirited run across a lane of traffic in front of the terminals, got me inside in just under sixty seconds.

I looked around the small terminal, at the large metal moose that greets our visitors, and then scrambled upstairs to the waiting area. There, sitting at a table outside of Dunkin' Donuts, was a very cross-looking Annie Wynn, who had a pile of luggage at her feet and who was putting her cell phone away.

I quickly strolled over to her and said, “Annie—”

She interrupted me and said, “Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to call you? I've been here since … holy crap, Lewis, what happened to you?”

All the way over to Manchester, I'd been working through what to tell her, and I said, “Had an accident.”

She stood up, now concerned. “Car accident? Are you all right?”

I stepped up to her. “Not a car accident … but I'll tell you on the way back to Tyler. All right?”

Annie wrinkled her nose and said, “No offense, handsome, but you're not getting a kiss from me until you take a shower. Maybe two of them.”

I bent down, picked up her two bags.

“Deal,” I said. “Let's go.”

We walked quickly out of the terminal, back to my Ford, and in a minute or two, we were leaving the short-term parking lot, where we paid the magnificent sum of two dollars.

Days like these, I do love my little state and its quirky airport.

*   *   *

It was a pleasure to drive to Tyler Beach without worrying a state trooper would pick me up, and it was a pleasure to see and hear Annie right next to me, without a phone line in between, but what wasn't pleasurable was trying to explain to her what had happened to me the night before.

“All right,” she repeated for the third time. “You were taken to a hiding place for these fanatical antinukers, and then were nearly killed when some character named Henry took you out and took a shot at you?”

“That's right.”

“And even after stumbling around the marsh for about half the night, nearly drowning, getting lost and whatever, you still don't want to go to the cops?”

“I don't.”

“Why the hell not?”

“A number of reasons,” I said.