Killer Waves (19 page)

"Of course," I said, standing up and going with her into the bustling Sights and sounds of the
Shoreline
offices. As we walked, the pleasant young woman chattered to me about how much she liked my columns, how she and her boyfriend enjoyed visiting Tyler Beach every year, and how, if she was lucky, the magazine would publish an article of hers in an upcoming winter issue. I grunted and nodded at all the appropriate places, until we came to an office set against a far wall.

"Here you go, Mr. Cole," she said, opening the wooden door.

Inside, I blinked. The office had changed hardly a damn bit in the years since I had last been here. There were tall windows that looked out over the harbor, and by one window was a brass telescope on a tripod. The brick walls had framed photographs of the ships on which the good admiral had served during his long career, and one glass-fronted box lined with velvet held his service ribbons and medals. From behind his wide wooden desk, Rear Admiral Seamus Anthony Holbrook, U.S. Navy (Ret.), stood up and his wrinkled leathery face afforded me a grin. He had on a white turtleneck shirt and khaki trousers, and although he had lost some hair since the last time I saw him, he looked hardly changed at all.

He came from around his desk and shook my hand. "Lewis Cole ... You know, I've always wondered if we'd ever see you again."

I took a chair in front of his desk, remembered the last time I saw him. After moving into my new home at Tyler Beach years ago, I had been offered a job as a columnist for this magazine and he had set the terms of the arrangement quite clearly: I would supply a column each month on the New Hampshire seacoast. If I submitted crap or didn't submit anything at all, they would substitute another column.  Over the years I had found that I actually enjoyed the job, which provided a reasonable cover for the hefty monthly stipend I received from the DoD.

“Well, wonder no more, Admiral,” I said.

He sat down in his leather officer's chair. "We keep on sending you invitations to our Christmas Party, but you never respond. You've got something against Christmas?"

"No, I've got something against driving in Boston."

He laughed. "Don't we all. What can we do for you? Planning to take a long vacation? Looking for a raise? Want to start writing about Maine instead of New Hampshire?"

"Not really," I said. "I'm looking for your help."

The easygoing features on his face disappeared and were replaced with the hard-edged features of a Navy admiral, retired or not. "What kind of help?"

"I need some information confirmed. You're my only and best source in doing this."

"What kind of information?"

I took a deep breath, wished that I could spend a few minutes using his telescope gazing at the harbor traffic, instead of doing what I was doing. "Last week a man was murdered in a state park near my home. People identifying themselves as members of the Drug Enforcement Agency are investigating the crime. They have requested my assistance with this investigation."

One of his hands was on top of the desk, rubbing against a legal pad. "That sounds highly ... highly irregular."

"It gets better. If I didn't cooperate and assist them with the investigation, they promised a few things. Like taking away my house, my savings, and my monthly stipend. And just to prove that they weren't joking, they did that for about a day or so. Which means I'm not really thrilled about writing a column for Shoreline if the agreement reached with the DoD so long ago can be so easily breached."

He spoke carefully. "Lewis, you knew that the job with
Shoreline
was something I administered. It wasn't something that I was responsible for. You understand that, don't you?"

"Fully," I said. "But I need information. I don't think these folks are working for the DEA.  I want to know who they really are, and that’s why I’m here.”

“And what makes you think I can help?”

I gazed straight at him. "When I first came here, you told me that you were part of an unofficial network that assisted the Department of Defense and the intelligence community in performing certain tasks. That means you've been doing favors for a number of people. I would think that you could call in a few of these favors."

His fingers kept on toying with the edge of the paper pad.  "Perhaps you're right. But why should I help you?"

"Why?" I asked. "Because you owe me, Admiral. Right from the start I could have sat back and let you worry about the monthly column for this magazine. Right from the start I could have not done a damn thing for you and this magazine.  But I did. I wrote the columns and fulfilled my responsibility, and when somebody comes along and kicks me in the teeth, I would think that I deserve a little bit more from you than just a 'why.'"

The admiral stared at me and I stared right back, and then he moved about in his chair and picked up a pen. "Okay. What do you have?"

"There's a group of five men and one woman. The woman’s in charge. Her name is Laura Reeves. She's assisted by a  Gus Turner. Of the other men, I know the first names of just two, Clem and Stan. They responded to a murder at the Samson Point State Wildlife Preserve last Wednesday evening.  That’s in North Tyler, New Hampshire. Here's the registration numbers on the vehicles they were driving."

From my coat pocket I took out a piece of paper which I passed over to him. "Those license plate numbers have been traced and don't officially exist."

That got his attention, as he slowly said, "Uh-huh."

"Currently, they are staying at the Lafayette House Hotel in Tyler Beach. Supposedly, the death of this man has been linked to their investigation into one of the Colombian drug cartels.  But I don’t believe that story anymore.”

“You don’t?” he asked.

“I don’t.  I do believe they’re working for the Federal government, but I’m almost positive it’s not the Drug Enforcement Agency.”

"And what agency do you think they belong with?"

Here we go, I thought. Out in spookland, one more time into the breach. "I think they're with the Department of Energy. I think they're NEST."

The admiral's face now matched the color of the papers on his desk. "What makes you think that?"

"What makes me think that is something I should keep to myself, in case this gets kicked around. You've done good by me, Admiral, and I appreciate it. If you can confirm that, I'll be in your debt."

He started doodling with his pen. "If you're so sure they're NEST, why do you need my confirmation?"

"Because then I'll know, I'll know for sure. Any other way Reeves and her group might claim that they're FBI, DIA, or any one of a half dozen agencies. I need something solid to stand on. Something that you can give me, if you can."

He looked down at his desk for a long moment and then he looked up. "All right. I'll do it. But don't ever come back here again. Unless it's for the annual Christmas Party, I don't want to see you darkening my doorway."

"It's a deal," I said.

"Good," he said, picking up the phone. "Go out into the reception area and I'll get to work."

I nodded and found my way back to the place where I had entered and sat down.

The morning dragged on. I got hungry, and then I got

thirsty, but before then, I was bored and antsy, all at the same time. The coffee table in front of me had one
Time
magazine, one
Newsweek
magazine, and half a dozen or so copies of
Shoreline.
I wasn't so hard up that I would reread the familiar words of
Shoreline
, so I went through both
Time
and
Newsweek
, and wrapped that up fairly quickly. Not one of them had a story about the space shuttle mission. I looked through the magazines on the coffee table again. Nothing.  Right then I would have gladly paid ten dollars for a copy of that day’s
New York Times
, just to keep my mind off what was going on inside that office.

I had an odd feeling, one that I had back when I worked in the Pentagon. When the information was sparse or contradictory and a deadline was approaching, sometimes you had to make a leap of faith. The Great Leap, we called it. You didn't like to depend on a Great Leap because usually it would morph into a suicide leap, killing your career in the process, and maybe even some of your countrymen as well. But in the few times I had made the Great Leap, I had that inner sense that I was right, that all I had to do was wait it out until the confirming information came in.

I had that same feeling now, sitting in the office, watching the receptionist work his phone, watching the people stroll in and out, just sitting there, my hands sometimes rubbing anxiously against the backs of my legs.

The door to the offices opened up. The admiral looked out at me. I stood up. He just nodded and walked back inside.

I let out a slow breath. Time to go home.

About a half hour later, as I left the confusing streets, warrens and lanes of Boston behind me, I switched on the radio and let the soothing sounds of classical music fill the car. Once I was on the interstate, I sat back against the seat in relief and let the Ford find its way home automatically. My stomach grumbled, and before I got too far, I slipped into the parking lot of a Boston Market and ordered up a chicken-and-cheese sandwich, on which I munched as I went back onto the highway. It had been a busy morning and the rest of the day would no doubt prove to be just as busy.

Plus interesting. Oh yes, the rest of the day was going to be interesting indeed, and despite the uneasiness of what I was going into, I felt well-armed and ten feet tall. This time, at least, I had good, solid information, and that was a great feeling indeed.

I finished my on-the-road lunch and crumpled up the napkins and waste and carefully deposited it all on the passenger seat.

When I got home I called across the street and this time got Clem.  I think.  The heavyset men who were providing security for Reeves and her activities were all beginning to sound and look the same to me. When I asked for Reeves, he said that she wouldn't be back in town for another hour or so.

"But I've got word," he said. "She said that if you had something important, to page her and let her know."

"No, that's fine," I said. "It's nothing too important, but I do need to talk to her. An hour, you said?"

"That's right, an hour."

"Then I'll call back in sixty minutes."

When I hung up the phone I paced around the house, again feeling that nervousness I had felt in the reception room of
Shoreline
. But this time, there was no confidence in making a Great Leap. I was about to do something great indeed, but that feeling of self-assuredness was gone. All I knew now was that I had to get out of the house and waste an hour.

I was making the third circuit of the living room when I noticed the pile of unviewed videotapes, and I knew where those sixty minutes would go.

After returning those adult tapes to the Route One store in Falconer, I drove into Tyler Falls --- a town just south of Tyler --- and found another store that was under assault by the pro-whatever forces stirred up by Rupert Holman and the editorial pages of the Chronicle. It was in another group of small shops and stores on Route 1, and besides the video store, there were a lighting store, a place that sold antiques and old magazines and a yarn shop. Two young women with baby strollers were parked on the sidewalk, talking earnestly to each other. Homemade white cardboard signs hung from the sides of the carriages. One said, I'M NOT GOING TO GROW UP TO BE A PORN STAR, and the other, I'M NOT GOING TO GROW UP TO RENT PORN TAPES. They looked at me as I went into the store and resumed their talking.

Inside the store, a distracted teenage girl with a ring through her nose was on the phone, saying "uh-huh" a lot. I went through the door marked ADULTS ONLY and spent another few minutes in there, among the random tapes displaying random couplings. Entering the store, I thought I would be embarrassed to rent something from a woman so young, but she just nodded as she filled out the standard paperwork. I was even ignored by the two young women outside, who were talking about day care and such, and I looked at my watch as I got to the Ford. More time to kill. I went inside the antiques store and spent a pleasant twenty minutes going through piles of
Saturday Evening Post
and
Collier
magazines from the 19,50s, boldly predicting colonies on the moon and Mars by the end of the century, and I thought wistfully of the space shuttle pilot I knew, up there in earth orbit on this day, going around in endless circles.

I bought three
Collier
magazines from 1955 that featured interviews with Wernher von Braun and great cover paintings by Chesley Bonestell of winged spaceships with bulbous fuel tanks, heading to the Red Planet. Outside, I went back to my Ford, and I saw that the two protesting women had left.

I also saw that my Ford Explorer was now resting on four flat tires.

I got home about a half hour later than I had planned. In the end, it wasn't as bad as it looked. The air had been let out of the stems ---  women had thoughtfully not used ice picks or knives to damage the tires --- and I only had to walk a half mile to a hardware store down the road to pick up a couple of cans of aerosol flat-tire-repair kits. Using those, I got enough pressure to drive slowly to a service station, where I managed to inflate all four back up to regular pressure. As I got my vehicle underway, I thought about how nice it was that the local moms were getting involved in the political and cultural activities of their area, but now I wished it hadn't forced me to expend time and money as a result.