Fatal Harbor (31 page)

T
he next twelve hours or so moved like I was in amber, slow and out of focus. When morning came back the next day, I had a light breakfast—at last—of coffee and toast in the Lafayette House dining room. As I slowly ate, this time I took a place by the window where I could see the flapping blue tarp that marked a safe harbor of mine that was now broken, never to be fully repaired, a fatal harbor to trap unwary mariners.

Back up in my room, I got dressed in a new light-gray suit, the first one I had owned in many years. I had a problem getting the pants over my bandage, so I cut if off with a pair of grooming scissors and tossed it in the trash. I wondered what the maid would think later of what I had done.

Before getting dressed, I looked at the sutured wound in the mirror, gently touched it, admired the bruising and scabs. I saw the other scars on my body, ones that had come to me because I had come up against a system that would never, ever take no for an answer.

Once dressed, with a necktie that seemed to choke me, I looked in the mirror.

Could not recognize the person looking back.

I slowly walked downstairs and out into the cold air of the parking lot, to my rented Honda Pilot. Started it up, backed out of the lot, and then on to Route 1-A.

I managed to avoid looking at the place that had once been my home.

I checked the time.

Plenty of time.

I drove off to the interchange that got me onto Interstate 95. If I took a right, I’d be heading to Boston.

If I took a left, I’d be heading to Porter.

Another time check.

Why not?

I turned left.

At Room 209 of the Porter Rehab and Extended Care Center, I had the place to myself, save for its star patient. Her hair had been washed and trimmed since I had last been here, and her hands were still on top of the covers, still motionless. Her breathing was still raspy, her eyes still closed.

I pulled up a chair and sat down. I had forgotten to bring an Agatha Christie novel, but so what. So I just held her hand and sat and waited, and tried to think of something noble to say, and came up empty.

I looked up at the clock. I was going to be late.

So what. They’d have to get used to me and my management style.

I sat for long moments more, just hearing her breathing, the occasional
bleep-whir
of the medical devices hooked up to her, and the sound of people outside her quiet room, moving about and laughing and talking and living.

I gave her hand a squeeze, got up, and kissed her forehead.

“Later, Diane,” I said, and turned to walk out.

I was halfway to the door when she started coughing, coughing and hacking.

I went back to her, found a tissue, wiped at her lips and her chin. The coughing and wheezing went on, and I was about to ring the call button, when it suddenly stopped.

There was a deep breath, her back arched.

I took her hand.

My eyes had a hard time focusing.

Then her head turned.

Her eyes opened.

Her eyes opened.

I squeezed her hand.

She blinked.

Blinked.

I didn’t dare move, breathe, or do anything.

Her tongue came out, ran across her dry lips, and it moved again. I leaned in to her, staring at her eyes.

A whisper.

A whisper, getting louder.

“Lewis?”

It seemed like a bright light was shining into my face. I took my other hand and covered my eyes for a moment. Then I squeezed her hand again.

“Right here, Diane,” I said. “Right here.”

“Oh,” she said.

She closed her eyes and I was about to yell out about the unfairness of it all, that she would slip away now, and her eyes opened and her face creased up just a bit, just the tiniest bit, like she was trying to smile.

“Lewis,” she whispered. “So happy to see you. I’m so tired. Promise me you won’t leave.”

I squeezed her hand even harder, ignored whatever time it was, or whatever time it was going to be.

“I promise.”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T
he author wishes to express his sincere thanks and gratitude to Otto Penzler, who first gave Lewis Cole a home twenty years ago and is still looking out for him; Claiborne Hancock, Phil Gaskill, and everyone else at Pegasus Books; my agent, Nat Sobel; my wife and first reader, Mona Pinette; Alex Trebek, who knows why; loyal reader and correspondent Alfred E. Betts, Royal Navy (ret.); Frank and Lori Balantic, fellow lake dwellers; and to the friends and fans of Lewis Cole—especially Denise Lamontagne—who so eagerly awaited this book. I promise I won’t be as tardy next time.

FATAL HARBOR

Pegasus Books LLC
80 Broad Street, 5th Floor
New York, NY 10004

Copyright © 2014 by Brendan DuBois

First Pegasus Books cloth edition May 2014

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 978-1-60598-562-6
ISBN: 978-1-605-98596-1 (e-book)

Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company