Fatal Harbor Page 6

  The police officer gave my license a quick scan, grunted, handed it back. “So it is you, and you’re one lucky fella. There’s four names on a list of people allowed to visit who don’t work at the hospital, and you’re one of them.” He motioned with his left shoulder. “Kara’s in there with the detective sergeant. You want I should get her?”

  To do what? To tell her about the faint outlines of something dark and monstrous that had been stirred up out there, that was after me and her and Diane and no doubt others?

  I passed over the keys to Kara’s car and condo. “Give these to her, if you don’t mind. Tell her thanks, that I’ve made other arrangements.”

  “Fair enough. Anything else you’d like to say?”

  “Officer, I’d love to, but I just don’t have the time.”

  Sometimes in my off moments I like to think that maybe the Greek or Roman gods of old are still at work up there, sort of like a little immigrant grocery store going up against the current Walmart Supercenters of organized religion. Their activities by nature get drowned out, but every now and then they poke up, like they did tonight when the God of Irony—whoever she or he was—sent me a signal with the arrival at the Tyler Inn and Suites of a cab the front desk had called for me. Like before, it was a dark blue sedan with the yellow letters EXONIA CAB stuck on the side.

  The window rolled down. The same cloud of cigarette smoke. The same driver from the other night.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

  “Try to contain your enthusiasm.”

  She took a hefty drag from her cigarette. “What, you need to get over to the train station again? Why the hell don’t you just walk it? Couldn’t be more than a mile.”

  I reached for the door handle. “Maybe I just like your company.”

  “Hah.”

  I opened the door, said, “A different place this time. How does Durham sound?”

  Her tone brightened. “Mister, Durham sounds just fine.”

  To get to Durham from Exonia meant traveling through two small New Hampshire towns, and my new best friend kept up an entertaining chatter as we proceeded. Even in this day and age, there were dairy farmlands and wide-open fields, and it was good to look at the red, gold, and yellow of the fall foliage as we approached Durham. My personal driver talked about the weather, about the snotty prep-school kids in Exonia, her aching hips, and how her husband George was adjusting to his new artificial knee—“and thank Christ the V.A. eventually said it was a service-related injury, otherwise my grandkids would be paying off that bill when we’re both dead and gone.”

  Downtown Durham consisted of the post office, a couple of beer-and-pizza places, and a tidy downtown with two-story brick buildings. The UNH buildings were mostly brick and marble, and when I was dropped off near a main intersection with lots of college students walking briskly along, my driver asked, “You need a ride back?”

  “I do, but I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  She passed over a creased business card. “Call me.”

  I glanced at the card. “Maggie, I appreciate it, but like I said, I don’t know when I’ll be done.”

  Maggie shrugged, put the car into drive. “What, you think my dance card is full for the rest of the day? No worries, pal, okay?”

  She drove off, and I thought: no worries.

  I wondered what that felt like.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I walked a ways and sat on a stone wall, across from a dormitory called Congreve Hall. Like most of the surrounding buildings, it was brick with white windows and black shutters. Students walked along the concrete sidewalks, singly and in groups, most carrying knapsacks or book bags. I eyed them carefully as they walked by. There were times in this nation’s storied past that college students had had the luxury of studying in a safe bubble of fun and higher learning, only worrying about being popular or getting good grades, or getting the best education possible.

  We were no longer in that special time. Nobody said anything as they passed by, but everything was off. Out there in the alleged real world, men and women with decades’ worth of experience in manufacturing, computers, and marketing were desperately snapping up entry-level jobs, leaving nothing behind for the hundreds of thousands of kids graduating each year. And of those graduating, “jobs” sometimes meant unpaid internships, moving back home, and looking with deepening dread at the payment book for their tens of thousands of dollars in student loans.

  I’m not sure if I felt pity, or envy, or what. So I just sat there and ran things through my mind, from the note from Detective Renzi telling me to drop the matter, to the Globe story blithely writing about a movie shoot going awry, to those strong men hanging around Aunt Teresa’s apartment in the North End.

  A lot to keep me occupied, which was good, because a couple of hours passed before the young woman I was looking for showed up. Her name was Haleigh Miller, and I had met her during the Falconer nuclear power plant demonstrations a few weeks back. She had befriended me when I covered the protests for my previous employer, Shoreline magazine, and she had also managed to hook me up with meeting Curt Chesak back before the violence erupted.

  And speaking of violence and friendship, she had also been the girlfriend of Victor Toles, arrested last week for murdering his stepfather, local anti-nuclear activist Bronson Toles, with a skilled sniper shot to the head. Victor didn’t like his stepfather’s plan to sell valuable demo tapes of up-and-coming music acts to support his charitable causes. The stepson and his mom wanted to do something else with the money, like live in luxury for the rest of their lives.

  An old and understandable conflict.

  I stood up as Haleigh came closer, and she spotted me and stopped on the paved pathway.

  “Oh. You.”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I said. “I won’t take much of your time. Just need to ask you a couple of quick questions.”

  Her face sagged, like the muscles and tendons there had suddenly lost their ability to keep things in place, and for a moment it seemed like she was about to burst into tears. She sniffled some and said, “Shit, okay, can we sit for a second?”

  We went back to the stone wall and sat down and I asked, “How are you doing?”

  “Stupid question. Ask another.”

  “What about Victor?”

  A shrug. “Haven’t seen or talked to him since that . . . since that day.”

  Ah, yes, that day, when I’d visited Victor and his mom at their residence, discovering there that Victor was the shooter, and where Haleigh had stood up for her man by slugging me in the head with a softball bat. I had been trapped in a basement for a while, until I managed to escape and overpower Victor, and also managed to burn most of the valuable demo tapes.

  “Some day. What news of him?”

  “Arrested and charged with Bronson’s murder, and his mom’s trying to get a defense fund going with her old leftie friends.”

  “Just the one murder?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “Any more questions? I’ve got a paper due tomorrow and haven’t even started researching it.”

  “A week ago, when I asked to meet up with Curt Chesak, you came through. I was probably the only reporter in the area who got an interview with him before the demonstrations went violent.”

  “And before he beat the crap out of that Tyler cop.”

  “That Tyler cop happens to be my best friend.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I guess.”

  “So here’s the deal. You had to talk to somebody in the movement to set up the interview. I want to know who he or she is.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re an intelligent young lady, Haleigh. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  “So you want to find Curt Chesak.”

  “That I do.”

  “Why not let the cops find him first?”

  “Haleigh, you really don’t want to know any more.”

  She seemed to consider that. She k
icked at some of the colorful leaves on the ground, her head lowered. She lifted her head. “You . . . you had a choice, last week, to let the Tyler and state police know about me and Victor. You didn’t do it. You said you were doing it for my Air Force dad, so he wouldn’t have to worry about his daughter from the other side of the world.”

  I kept quiet. Let her think it through. Haleigh sighed. “Ever since the protests, none of my so-called friends want to have anything to do with me. They think that since I was with Victor when he killed his stepdad, like I should have known, like I should have prevented it. All this talk about fellowship, about togetherness, about standing as one against The Man . . . so much bullshit. I can’t believe it, Lewis. I still can’t believe it.”

  “Sorry you had to find that out.”

  “I guess that’s part of growing up, eh?”

  “Some would say that.”

  “Sure,” she said. “So I say to hell with sticking together. The guy you’re looking for is a college instructor, from the Philosophy department. Name of Ken Marvel. Active in Chesak’s group but real quiet, in the background, almost invisible.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  Haleigh grabbed her knapsack, stood up. “And he’s a real prick. I know about him because he tried to hit on me one night when he was having some beers at the Stone Chapel, trying to bring Bronson Toles over to the dark side of the anti-nuclear movement. I hope you have fun with him, Lewis, I really do.”

  It didn’t take much work, but I found out what I could about Ken Marvel. Like Haleigh said, he was an instructor at the school’s Philosophy department, which meant he didn’t have tenure and served semester to semester at the university’s pleasure. I couldn’t find out much about him in the large digital library called the Internet, but I did find that he lived in Lee, a small town adjacent to Durham, which was home to college employees, a few farms, and a mix of locals.

  Getting there proved to be a challenge, since my Ford Explorer was still at my home on Tyler Beach and unreachable. But fortunately enough for me, this part of New Hampshire had a transit system consisting of brightly colored buses usually operated by college students looking to help pay for their tuition.

  It took me about thirty minutes to get to Lee by finding the right bus to take, and I had a turn of good fortune when it turned out that one of the bus stops in Lee was at a service station that was only about a ten-minute walk to his house, 10 Oakland Road. The road was a typical New Hampshire back country road, single lane with no yellow line painted down the center, and definitely no sidewalk, guard rail, or streetlights. I strolled on the dirt shoulder, checking the mailboxes, until I finally came to number 10, which I found just as the sun was starting to set. The driveway leading into the woods was dirt.

  No name on the mailbox. Not unusual. This was, after all, the Live Free or Die state.

  I started down the driveway, keeping to the side in case a car or truck came bouncing along the narrow dirt lane. Pine trees and brush grew close to the edge of the road, which allowed me cover in case I was spotted.

  But I went down there with no problem, going about a hundred feet to where the road widened to a dirt turnaround before what’s known as a double-wide, a pre-fab trailer, that was dumped here on a concrete slab. Lights were off inside the single-story home with black-shingled roof, and there was a sudden burst of barking. Two dogs emerged from doghouses, secured by long lengths of chain, and they snapped and growled in my direction. I wasn’t sure what breed they were, but they looked thin and mangy. The areas around their doghouses were worn-down dirt, with empty food bowls and water bowls scattered before them.

  The dogs barked some more and, feeling like living on the edge, I talked low and soft to them and walked forward. One and then the other sniffed my hands, then whined and flopped in the dirt. I squatted down and rubbed their heads, butts, and bellies, and in a few minutes I think I made two new best friends.

  “Where’s your alleged master, guys, huh? He coming back home soon?”

  One licked my hand, and the other one licked himself in a private place. Then they panted in appreciation, and I got up.

  “Sorry, guys. If I had a treat or two, I’d pass it along.”

  It was getting darker. I pondered my options, stepped back and into a stand of birches, and took out my cell phone. I checked the time. Not too early, not too late.

  So what to do?

  Something I hadn’t done in a while.

  I dialed a phone number with a Washington, D.C. area code.

  The phone rang and rang and I was anticipating sliding into voicemail, when I was pleasantly surprised by a woman answering. “Hello, this is Annie.”

  “Hey, Annie, it’s your faithful New Hampshire correspondent.”

  A soft laugh that still had the ability to make me tingle. “Why, as I live, breathe, and scramble for votes, it’s the mysterious Lewis Cole. Didn’t recognize your number on the caller ID. Have a new phone?”

  “I do.”

  “What happened to your other phone?”

  “Somebody broke it in half and dumped it in a drainpipe in Boston.”

  “Anybody you know?”

  “It was me.”

  Another soft laugh. “Sounds like a story to me. What are you up to now, hon?”

  “If you really want to know. . . .”

  “Of course I want to know,” and there was the barest hint of impatience in her voice, a hint I long ago had learned to recognize.

  “Currently, I’m standing alone in a bunch of trees in Lee, staring at an empty house, being kept company by two dogs who look like they got a bath last year.”

  “Are the dogs dangerous?”

  “Nope. They’re chained.”

  “And are you waiting for someone?”

  “Always waiting for someone.”

  “I see. Haven’t heard from you in a while. You still hunting?”

  “That I am, Annie.”

  She sighed. “And how long is the hunt going to last?”

  Hearing her sigh made me tighten my grip on the cell phone. “Until it’s done.”

  “Or you give up.”

  “No, until it’s done.”

  “Or you’re hurt. Or arrested. Or something worse.”

  “Tell you what, let’s change the subject. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing so exciting. Just trying to elect a good man president.”

  Yes, I thought, a good man with a bad wife. “Anything new on that end?”

  “Nothing I can share,” she said.

  “Ah, who’s keeping secrets now, eh?”

  A pause on her end, and I sensed I had gone too far. She sighed once more and said, “I know it’s been a while, but you know how D.C. works, Lewis. Knowledge and secrets are the coin of the realm. And I don’t know who might be listening in . . . you know how it is.”

  “I sure do.”

  “Lewis. . . .”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “That’s what we’re doing now, isn’t it?”

  “No, we’re chatting. Big difference.”

  Headlights appeared at the end of the driveway, along with the sound of a car engine. “Sorry, Annie. I’ve got to run.”

  “We still have to talk.”

  I stepped back, concerned I’d be seen. “I know, I know, but I’ve got to run.”

  “Oh. The hunt continues?”

  “It sure does.”

  A touch of sharpness again in her voice, crystal-clear even though she was hundreds of miles away. “Nice to know you’re dedicated to something.”

  Then she clicked off.

  So did I. And put the phone away.

  The dogs started barking again as a dented and rusty Nissan pickup truck rolled in and came to a halt. A tall guy carrying two plastic shopping bags stepped out, and the dogs increased their barking. “Shut the hell up!” he called out. “I’ll feed you in a minute, for Christ’s sake.”

  He walked up to the dou
ble-wide, unlocked the front door, and went in. He bustled around inside for a few minutes, while his dogs kept on yelping, and then there was a sudden flick as an outdoor floodlight came on. He came out again, bearing two metal bowls with dry dog food in them. He appeared to be in his early thirties, gaunt, wearing blue jeans and a tan down jacket. His hair was thin up forward and was pulled back in the rear in a ponytail. He was talking to himself as he dropped a bowl in front of each dog and then went back inside. I gave him a few minutes to recover from his exertions, and then I walked up to the front door. No doorbell or doorknob, so I just hammered on the door.

  “Hold on!” came the voice. He opened the front door, left the storm door closed. “Yeah?”

  “Ken Marvel? UNH instructor?”

  “So far, so good. Do I know you?”

  “Nope. The name is Lewis Cole. I’m a freelance magazine writer, hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

  “What kind of magazines?”

  “Shoreline, for one,” I said, which wasn’t much of a lie.

  “Never heard of it. Any other magazines I might have heard of?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Sorry, not interested.”

  He slammed the door.

  Well.

  I wondered what kind of philosophy he taught at UNH, and doubted his students were getting their tuition’s worth.

  I banged on the door again. And again he opened it up. “When I said I wasn’t interested, that meant you could leave.”

  “But I’m still interested. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Doubt it. What the hell are you working on?”

  “A story about the anti-nuclear demonstrations at Falconer.”

  “Never heard of it,” he said, and slammed the door once more.

  I opened up the storm door, knocked once more. The main door flew open, and his eyes widened in quick surprise as my right hand snapped out, grabbed his shirt collar, and pulled him forward to me. I stepped aside so he flew out the door and down the steps, where he hit the ground with a satisfying thud.

  I turned around and sat on the steps. He called me a name or two—nothing original, which lowered my appreciation of him as an educated individual—and he rolled over and came right at me. I gauged his approach, and as he got to the steps I quickly lifted up my right leg, braced myself, and he ran right into my right foot, at a particular angle above his knees and below his waist that definitely got his attention.