Fatal Harbor (18 page)

I nodded. “End of story?”

“End of story.”

“And the lesson, O wise one?”

“The lesson is, people and institutions can plan for a lot, but they often fail to plan for the unexpected. Like a grumpy landscaper. You’re the unexpected piece in this little tale, Lewis. Curt Chesak and whoever’s behind him, they expected to do what they wanted to do, and when things got a bit messy, the right word or the right phone call was made to tamp down the investigation. So in their world, Curt would be able to skate off to whatever next dark assignment waits for him. All is covered, all is contained, and whoever’s paying the checks and pulling the strings, they get to remain unscathed and untouched. Then someone like you, a crazy Irishman who has this funny old-fashioned concept concerning loyalty, pops up.”

I smiled. “Gee, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

“You need to get out more.”

“I am getting out,” I protested. “Didn’t you hear me? Just came back from a trip to our nation’s capital.”

“Point taken.” He took a napkin, wiped at his fingers. “What now?”

“Keep on keeping on being the crazy Irishman. Why stop now? You know my original plan, Felix. I don’t intend to give up.”

“They burned down your house.”

“Gee, thanks, I forgot all about that.”

He drummed his fingers on the white tablecloth. “Okay, then. Anything else?”

From my coat I took out a small pad of paper and wrote a list for Felix. I passed it over to him. “I need what’s here.”

He read it and said, “Interesting. Looks like you intend to sail into harm’s way.”

“And then some.”

He folded the list, made it disappear. “No problem. Can probably get it to you by later today.”

“That’d be great.”

“And where do we go from there?”

“Sorry, I thought I just heard you say the word ‘we.’”

Felix said, “Lewis, please, you have vim, vigor, and a healthy sense of righteousness on your side. The guys you’re going up against have just one thing on their side: bloody experience. I want to come along, even up the odds.”

“No.”

“Lewis. . . .”

The waiter came over, dropped off the bill. I picked it up and left enough cash to cover the tab and the tip. Still no credit card traces, thank you very much.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “You’ve been with me on some very edgy outings in the past, for which I owe you so very much. But this one is different. This one is personal. And trust me, this isn’t a comment on your skills and talents, but by being with me already on this little quest, you’ve been shot at, you’ve had to smuggle your aunt out of Boston, and you needed to find her new digs in Florida. I don’t want them upping the ante on you, by either burning down Aunt Teresa’s new condo or by putting a bomb in your Mercedes.”

His eyes darkened and narrowed, and I suddenly felt sorry for all of those in the past who had crossed him. “Still don’t like it.”

“My apologies,” I said. I took a large swig from my water glass, and I said, “And my apologies once again. I need to visit the head.”

I slid my chair out and Felix said, “One of these days you’ll tell me why you insist on calling the men’s room the head.”

“Old habit,” I said. “One of my bosses back at the Pentagon was ex-Navy. So the walls were bulkheads, the floors were decks, and the bathrooms were the head. So I adopted his lingo.”

“Bet you became Employee of the Year for that suck-up.”

“Not even close,” I said.

On the way back from my brief absence, there was a small crowd of diners waiting for their seats by the hostess station, and I took a moment to spare a glance outside at the parking lot. A steady rain was falling, and I saw a black GMC van slowly go by. It had a side window at the rear that was low to the ground, and which was blacked out.

I got back to the table, sat down, and said, “The bad guys have arrived.”

Felix was sipping from a small white cappuccino cup. “Do go on.”

“Just saw a surveillance van prowl the parking lot. Has one-way glass on the side that hides a specialized camera that scans license plates and runs background checks on the owners. Might be the State Police or Manchester Police, but I doubt it.”

He took another sip. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

Felix moved as fast and as silently as he always did, while I shifted my seat so I could see the entranceway and the far windows. I touched my Beretta and, oddly enough, felt fine. Around me were couples and groups of friends, dining, drinking, and laughing. No one seemed to notice the little drama occurring here in my corner of the universe.

Waited some more.

Felix strolled back, sat down with urgency. “There’s another way out of here.”

“I hope it’s more than just the rear door out of the kitchen area. You have to give these guys credit.”

“You have to give
me
credit,” he said sharply. “There’s a back set of stairs, leads down to an old access tunnel used when this place was one big happy mill complex. That’s where you’re going.”

“And you?”

“I have my ways. Most important thing is to get you out of here, so let’s get a move on.”

I stood up with him and we strolled out past the hostess station, where the young lady gave Felix a wide smile. He led me to a function room, past an alcove that was used to store dishes and glassware. Felix opened a plain wooden door, flicked on a light. Old oak steps led down into the darkness.

Felix said, “The place is lit up now. Go down, take a left. At the third door on the right, go out, wait for me. I’ll be along presently.”

“How in God’s name did you find this?”

“The nice hostess let me in on the secret.”

“Really? In exchange for what?”

A slight smile. “A meal.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a trade.”

The smile grew wider. “The meal’s breakfast. Now get going.”

I got.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
he stairway descended quite a way before it ended in a dirt cellar. To the right were wood pallets piled high with paper towels, napkins, and toilet paper. To the left was a brick archway. A series of overhead lightbulbs went off into the distance. I ducked my head and started walking. The dirt was well packed. It smelled of dirt and dampness and old things not disturbed in a long, long time. I moved the best I could. Other stairways went up to the left, no doubt to other parts of the old mill complex. I passed one door, bolted and locked. Another door, also bolted and locked.

Third door was the charm. It said
FIRE
ESCAPE
on a sign up above, and there was a push bar to gain access. I pushed the door and stepped out on a narrow sidewalk. Rain was coming down. The door slammed behind me. I turned too late to get back inside. There was no door handle to get me back in. I pulled my coat tighter. I was at the other end of the brick building. The road was lined with parked cars. There were no entrances to other businesses over here. Just blank doors like the one I had just left.

The rain was coming down harder. I shivered, stamped my feet. All around me were the old mill buildings, full of memories and dust and old stories of immigrants speaking French, German, Italian, and Gaelic, working long hours, getting bodies bloodied and broken. It was getting dark with the thick rain clouds overhead.

Felix was nowhere about.

What now?

I pulled my coat around myself tighter. A wind came up, cutting through me. A car splashed by, headlights on against the heavy rain.

Where to go?

Felix had told me to wait.

So I waited.

I shifted my weight. The rain was a steady downpour. I thought about when this day was over, I could be home and turn up the heat and take a long shower, put on some fresh dry clothes, and then I stopped thinking.

I didn’t have a home anymore.

It was now smoking timbers, wet books, charred clothes, and who knows what else.

I put my hands in my coat pockets.

My hair was soaked through.

A black van went up the road. I didn’t pay any attention to it.

Pants were soaked through, too.

I looked up the road, which went up a slight incline.

The van had stopped at the top of the incline.

Then it made a three-point turn.

It was coming back.

Well, this was getting interesting.

The van came down the road, slowed, and stopped across from me. Engine idling, headlights on, windshield wipers flipping back and forth, back and forth.

The passenger’s side door opened up. A man came out.

My right hand went up under my coat, slipped my Beretta out of my Bianchi leather shoulder holster. I brought my hand down and rested it behind my back.

No matter what was going to happen, I wasn’t getting into that van.

The man had on black slacks, a long black coat, and a tweed cap on his large head. He looked both ways before crossing.

A careful man.

I switched the safety off the Beretta, pulled the hammer back. There was a round in the chamber. There was always a round in the chamber. I didn’t want to waste time working the action.

The man sloshed his away across the street, stood before me. His hands were in his pockets. I decided then and there that if one of his hands came out of the pocket with a weapon in his hand, then I’d open fire.

I remembered my training. Aim for the lower trunk, keep on shooting, because the recoil would cause the pistol to buck, meaning subsequent shots would go right up the torso.

He stopped. Grinned. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself.”

“Hell of a day.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“You need any help?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you need any help? Shelter, place to stay, a warm meal?”

His right hand came out of his pocket and my pistol started coming up, until I saw he was holding a brochure. Clumsily, I brought my hand down, turned so he couldn’t see what was in my hand.

“Not at the moment, but thanks,” I said.

He held out the brochure and I cautiously took it with my left hand. “Catholic Charities,” he said. “Just driving around in this awful weather, see if we can help people who are in need.”

I nodded, folded the brochure in half. “I’m all right, honest. Thanks for stopping.”

He touched the tip of his tweed cap. “Just looking to help.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He went back to the van. I stomped my feet, splashing up some water.

Hell of a day.

About fifteen minutes later, a light red Chevy pickup truck slowed down, and Felix was driving. He stopped in front of me and I stepped forward and got into the truck. The interior was warm and oh, so comfortable. I sat down and slammed the door.

Felix said, “You didn’t think about waiting inside?”

“I like heavy weather.” I rubbed at the console of the truck. “Not your usual style of driving.”

“You complaining?”

“Observing.”

We pulled out, got into the nearly empty streets of Manchester. I sat back. It felt good to be moving. Felix said, “Got what I could from what was available.”

“Meaning what? You got supply dumps scattered around the state?”

“Around the northeast.” Jazz music was playing from the radio.

“How did you do that?”

“Pretty simple.”

“Nothing’s ever simple when
you
get involved, Felix.”

We came to a stoplight. He stopped, draped a big wrist and hand over the steering wheel, revealing a gold bracelet. “In my years of . . . self-employment, sometimes it worked to my advantage to arrange a cash discount in exchange for future services.”

“Funny, you don’t look like Don Corleone.”

“Well, it’s more than just favors. And I’d never do anything to humiliate or embarrass my former clients, or to put them in an uncomfortable spot. But due to . . . services provided, I have the ability to get transport, housing, meals, and other oddball items rather quickly. So be glad I’ve done so.”

“Very glad. So, how did you get this pickup truck?”

“From an apple farmer in Bedford,” he said. “He had an idiot son-in-law who kept on pressuring him to sell the joint, so another lifeless office park could be built on the property, make everybody a ton of money.”

“Doesn’t sound like something you’d do,” I pointed out. “Get involved in a family squabble and all that.”

“Yeah, but it was the son-in-law who had contacted me first. He had the oddest idea that I’d kill the old man for a sum of money. I told him that he was misinformed, and when he wouldn’t take no for an answer, we had what diplomats call a frank and open exchange of views.”

“I take it you prevailed.”

“Don’t ever doubt me,” he said. “So I went to the old man and explained the situation, and in exchange for letting him know about his idiot son-in-law, and for allowing the poor boy to live, I had the use of the farm’s spare pickup truck and free apple pies for the foreseeable future.”

“And what about the idiot son-in-law?”

“Last I heard, he’s still an idiot. And he’s finally gotten rid of his crutches.”

The light changed, we took a left, and it was good to be moving again.

Felix added: “By the way, now it’s your pickup truck. As long as you need it. Just don’t use it to haul around hay or manure or anything like that.”

“That’s what it’s designed for, Felix.”

“No, it’s designed to give suburban men the illusion that they have deep roots to the land. Or something like that.”

“Looks like you’re reading
GQ
again,” I said. “But another favor, if I may.” I passed over a set of keys. “The Subaru I’ve been driving, it belongs to Kara Miles, Diane’s partner. Can you get it delivered back to Tyler?”

He took the keys, tossed them into the air, caught them and put them in his coat pocket. “It’ll be delivered with a full gas tank and a full car wash.”

“Skip the car wash.”

“Why?”

“I think the rust is the only thing holding it together.”

About twenty minutes later, Felix dropped me off at a motel just off Interstate 93, called the Laurentian Peaks. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours with your wish list,” he said. “Then maybe you can take me out to an early dinner.”