LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (20 page)

“Only if I get through these e-mails. You're a dear man, but having you here is a distraction. Lovely as you might be.”

Another kiss to the top of her head. “Message received and understood.”

I went back to bed and eventually fell asleep to the sound of Annie's fingers tapping on my keyboard.

*   *   *

A few hours later I took Annie back to the Manchester airport, and in the hour or so drive to the west, she used her BlackBerry to make phone call after phone call and to text the scores of people she owed messages to. She had taken a shower, begged off breakfast, and was dressed in a sharp black outfit that said
serious woman on a serious mission.

When we got to the airport and I pulled up to the single large building that served as the terminal, the serious woman left for a moment and the tender woman appeared. She touched my cheek and said, “Thanks for the day and night of sanity, Lewis.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “At least three times.”

She giggled and we kissed, and I got out and retrieved her luggage, and she said, “I hope I didn't scare you earlier this morning.”

“By taking over my computer without asking permission and looking for my hidden porn collection?”

She gently kicked me in the shin. “Cad. No. About what happens after the election. About me. About you.”

“No,” I said. “Not scared. I know we'll do well, whatever happens. That's for later. You've got a man to elect president.”

Annie hugged me, and I felt her hand run up my side, where I was wearing a Bianchi shoulder holster and my Beretta, and she whispered, “Armed, are you?”

“Yes.”

“And you've got a man to catch.”

“I do.”

“Then do it,” she whispered, “and don't get yourself killed. Because I'll be so pissed you'll run scared, even if you're dead.”

I rubbed her back. “Deal.”

We broke apart, and she grabbed her luggage and started walking into the terminal, talking again to her BlackBerry, towing her wheeled bag behind her. I waited and waited as she approached the sliding glass doors.

Waited some more.

The doors slid open.

Annie walked through.

Stopped.

Turned. Smiled and threw me a kiss.

I threw one back.

It had been worth the wait.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

After spending an hour in my office writing a story for
Shoreline
about my oddball interview with Mr. Chesak of the Nuclear Freedom Front—and doing a fairly good job, if I do say so myself, with my reporter's notebook turning into sludge somewhere in the Falconer salt marsh—I got into my Ford and started driving south to Falconer for the big demonstration due for later that morning.

I took out my cell phone and made a call to Ron Shelton of the Falconer nuclear power plant, and got my first big surprise of the day.

“Say that again?” I asked, sitting still at a traffic light on Route 1 in Tyler.

“Sorry, Lewis,” he said. “I've been told not to allow you on the plant property, and before you ask me why, you know the answer.”

“No, I don't. Do tell.”

He sighed. “That story the other day. About the unnamed utility executive who said, quote, ‘those fucking Russians.' Well, that came back and bit me in the ass, big-time.”

“I didn't identify you by name, Ron,” I pointed out, “and you cleared the quote. So what's the problem?”

“The problem is that a real executive at the plant saw a reporter depart the visitors' center, and then read a story you filed, about twelve hours later, with that pungent quote. Two and two were put together, and I was called into the executive's office for a grilling. So when I was put on the spot about what reporter was in a power plant's offices … sorry, I had to give you up, Lewis.”

“And you? What happened to you?”

“Some sort of half-assed investigation is going on, and I'm in the center of it. To calm things down, I had to ban you. Sorry again.”

The light ahead of me changed. There was the honk of a horn behind me. I started driving.

“Gee, thanks a lot, Ron,” I said. “So how long am I banned from the plant site?”

Another sigh. “Don't know. I'll see what I can do.”

“The big demo is taking place in about an hour,” I said. “Don't do me any more favors.”

I clicked off and resumed driving.

*   *   *

The U.S. Marine Corps—an organization I've long admired and had dealings with in a previous life—has a saying that marines improvise, adapt, and overcome when faced with challenges. This challenge was one that I was certain any marine could handle before his or her first cup of coffee in the morning, but it was one I still had to address. So I kept on moving south along Route 1 until traffic started backing up and slowing down, and I luckily found a space at the Laughing Bee doughnut shop and, despite my history of parking there, dropped off my Ford. I had a small knapsack that I slung over my shoulder—to go along with my 9 mm Beretta in my shoulder holster—and I made a quick stop at a nearby 7-Eleven, where I picked up a couple of bottles of water and a ham and cheese sandwich of uncertain provenance. Then I went back outside and started walking.

Getting to the demonstration proved to be fairly easy. I followed some stragglers, and then more protesters joined us, and then we started moving through the woods. Trails had been cleared, with splotches of white paint on tree trunks marking the way, and soon enough, more and more people were joining us. I had my press pass outside my coat, and for the most part, I was ignored. The protesters formed into clusters, marking affinity groups that worked among themselves, and each carried flags or banners naming the particular group. I saw one that was from the University of New Hampshire, but I didn't see Haleigh Miller among its members. When we emerged onto the salt marsh, cheers went up, getting louder as more and more people streamed out.

I stood for a moment on a hummock of grass and dirt, watching the marchers. Once they came out of the woods, they fanned out across the marsh, some banging drums or cymbals, others waving banners and flags. I saw two protesters—in their late twenties, both male—pose for a photograph, holding up a large pair of wire cutters in their arms, gas masks poised on top of their heads. Cheers erupted from the nearby demonstrators as they did that.

Next to me was a news photographer, and identification marking him as being from the Associated Press hung around his neck. He was tall and wore khaki slacks, a black turtleneck, and a mesh, camera equipment vest, and around his neck a number of cameras and lenses hung like odd Christmas decorations. He nodded in my direction and said, “Lots more people than I thought.”

“Impressive,” I said.

He raised a camera and said, “Makes you wonder if they can actually do it.”

I looked out at the hundreds and hundreds of protesters moving like a multicolored river across the flat salt marsh. “If they have any organization, they'll go over that fence like Sherman through Atlanta.”

The photographer laughed. “Now that'd be some pix. See you around.”

I stood there for a bit longer and then joined the masses. More chanting, more drumbeats, and a few papier-mâché puppets bounding along. Helicopters were buzzing overhead, and I recognized one as being from the New Hampshire State Police, and two from Boston television stations.

The going was tricky, with flat areas of marshland cut open here and there by streambeds. The first demonstrators across the marsh had prebuilt wooden spans that they dropped across the deep streambeds, and I was impressed. Maybe they would do it, after all.

The lines of people moved along, and then they spread out. I stood a little apart and scribbled notes, noting the number of people, the colors of their clothes, their signs protesting nuclear power plants and supporting green power, and there were more cheers as round weather balloons went up in the air, each trailing a thin rope holding flickering bits of ribbon. The helicopters seemed to note the new arrivals, and they moved away, and again I was impressed. This was more of an organization than I'd thought.

I looked to a small rise of dirt, brush, and crushed rocks, the foundation of the chain-link fence and barbed wire marking the southern boundary of the Falconer nuclear plant. On the other side of the fence was a long line of police officers in dark jumpsuits, with batons and helmets. They looked pretty organized, as well.

There was a crackle to the air, a nervous energy of forces in motion that were about to collide, and the sensible part of me warned me to walk away.

Instead, I got closer.

*   *   *

Up near the fence line I went, along with a few other members of the news media, as the lines of protesters dressed themselves, going down the marshland in front of the fence line for a few hundred yards. I scribbled some more notes, shifted the small knapsack on my back, and looked around.

More chanting, more shouting, more fist waving, signs moving up and down.

I waited some more.

The morning dragged by.

I shifted my feet in the salt marsh, yawned, and walked around some.

A couple of reporters were huddled together, talking to their news desks on their cell phones.

The chanting, the shouting, and the fist waving had died away. Some of the protesters were actually sitting on the mud and grass.

What the hell was happening?

A couple of demonstrators went by me, arguing between themselves, and I got in their way and held up my press pass and said, “Guys, what's going on?”

The one on the right, wearing one of those colorful wool hats from the Andes with droopy sides, looked at me with flashing eyes and said, “None of your fucking business, you corporate shill.”

His companion was more cooperative. He had on a long denim jacket covered with buttons, including a black-and-white one stating:
ANARCHY RULES!
He coughed and said, “Going on? I'll tell you what's going on. A goat fuck, that's what's going on. All these people out there … and no one knows what to do next. Hell, we know what to do next—get a move on and go over the fence! But they'd rather sit and talk and reach a consensus, debate how many representatives should get together to reach a decision, how many of those reps should be men, women, gay, transgender, handicapped, Native American … fuck that shit, man.”

I scribbled as fast as I could, and then the first one said, “Yeah, look over there. Those asshats know what to do.”

I looked up to the fence line, where a gate had opened up, and the black-clad cops were marching out to face their opponents.

When I looked back, the two dissidents had moved away, heading to the nearest tree line.

*   *   *

The shouts and the chanting dribbled away as the cops came out, and behind them, beyond the fence line, the National Guard troops moved down the hill to take their place. They marched out in fairly good order, across the grass and uneven ground, stretching out in a line. The hundreds of protesters moved away a bit, and then they stopped.

There was about fifty yards separating the two groups, and the sudden appearance of the police seemed to surprise the antinuclear forces. I went over to the mass of protesters with a few other reporters—including the tall AP photographer—and I gave up taking notes before long. It was just too confusing, with lots of rumors, loud voices, and plaintive talk along the lines of “What are we going to do now?”

The Associated Press photographer caught my eye and said, “What do you think?”

“Tactics,” I said. “For an unorganized mob like these folks”—and I could hear some murmurs behind me from those who disagreed with my observation—“it's one thing to go up and attack an object, like a fence, but now you're facing cops. It's more serious. You have to be face-to-face, person against person. Whatever existing plans there were have just been tossed into the trash bin, and it'll probably take them a while to figure out what to do next.”

The photographer brought a camera up to his face. “Tactics. Yeah, I can see that.”

Then somebody punched me hard in the side.

*   *   *

I turned. A slight woman with short dark hair stood there, fist balled, and she laughed. “I should have known it was you, Lewis. Speaking about tactics and disorganization. How do you like being out here with the unwashed masses?”

Kara Miles, Diane Woods's significant other, stood next to me, bringing a smile to my face. She had on jeans, Timberland boots, and layers of clothing up top, and her ears were festooned with the usual studs and earrings.

“How goes it, Kara?”

She paused, as if she didn't like the question, and I noticed she was wearing a blue scarf, and so were a number of other protesters behind her. Two of them—young women with long blond hair in braids—held up a hand-painted banner that read:
TRUE BLUE!

“We're doing all right,” she said. “Trying to figure out what's going to happen next. Some of the affinity groups want to engage the police, appeal to their better nature. Others want to sit down and just squat for a while. Some just want to go charging over. I mean, there's not even a hundred cops and National Guardsmen over there, and we've got thousands.”

Some of her friends nodded in agreement with what she was saying, and I said, “Hate to be a history geek again, but remember what Napoleon said.”

“An army marches on its stomach?” she asked coyly.

“Nicely done,” I said. “I was thinking of something else he said. That God's on the side of the heaviest artillery.”

One of the women holding the banner called out, “But we have truth on our side! We'll win! Just you wait and see!”

Kara rolled her eyes and said, “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

She gestured to the line of police officers. “Diane's over there. If you get a chance, could you get a message to her?”