Killer Waves (23 page)

Before starting out that day, I had gone over to the Lafayette House, where I found that the entire NEST group had left early that morning. But a nine-by-twelve manila envelope had been left for me at the front desk, with a black-and-white photograph of the Libyan intelligence operative, sitting dead in his car. I opened the envelope far away from the elegant splendor of the front desk, not wanting to upset any potential guests with a photo of a dead man with a bullet to his head. But Laura had chosen well.  The photograph made it look as if he were sleeping, not dead.

I checked the envelope again. No note or letter from Laura.

And I was surprised at how much that disappointed me.

At the stables in North Tyler, I parked next to Felix's Mercedes and walked over to one of the fenced-in areas near the barns. The place was well-kept, with a fresh-hay smell and the scent of horses mixed in with the salt tang of the ocean. It was a crisp day and Felix was leaning over one of the wide white planks that made up the fencing. Out at the farthest end of the enclosed paddock was a woman riding a horse, with an English-style saddle. Felix had on a short black leather jacket over a light blue polo shirt, and stone-washed jeans. He nodded in my direction as I ambled over.

"Carrying?" he asked, now looking out toward the open field and the woman on horseback.

"That I am," I said.

"How come you always guess so well?" He shrugged. "From years of experience. It's always been a good thing to spot when you meet someone that he's carrying a concealed weapon. That way, you're not surprised when it suddenly becomes unconcealed. Plus, that L.L. Bean jacket you have doesn't do such a good job of covering up your shoulder holster. It gets all bunched to the side. You should think about getting a smaller holster, wear it in your waistband."

I joined him at the fence, leaning my arms over the planks as well. Just a couple of good 01' country boys hanging out together who wouldn't know the difference between a Morgan and an Arabian. "I like a shoulder holster," I said. "Thing is, I don't like having a loaded weapon stuck in my pant waistband. Too much opportunity for something bloody hitting close to home, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, that could suck," Felix said, watching his woman canter back and forth. "What's going on with you?"

"Looking for some advice," I said.

That made him laugh. "Me? Advice? Many a times I've offered you advice before and you've never taken it. Why should this time be any different?”

From this distance I could tell that Mickey was a redhead, for she had a ponytail that bounced along her back in time with the horse's movement. "Always a first time," I said.

"True," he admitted. "Go ahead. What's up?"

I cleared my throat, looked around in a bit of paranoia, just making sure we weren't being overheard. "I'm involved in something delicate, something involving the feds."

"Department of Justice?" he asked.

"Can't say, I'm sorry," I said. "But I'm... well, I just want to make sure I'm not in over my head. I've always had the feeling that you might have had some dealings with feds in the past, some experiences you could pass on."

He gave a low chuckle. "Yeah, experiences, that's a good word. What do you mean, 'involved'?"

"It would appear that I'm now working for them."

“They paying you well?"

"I'm volunteering," I said.

"Well, that's a thought. I remember reading that there's a new spirit of volunteerism sweeping the land. Glad to see an example firsthand. They promise you anything in exchange for your help?"

"Sort of," I said. "It was more like a series of threats that won't come true if I cooperate with them."

He nodded, clasped his large hands together. "Boy, does that sound familiar. Okay, remember this, and remember it well. A couple of times I've been entangled in some federal business, and I've been fortunate enough to wiggle my way out without too much fuss. But I did learn a few things. First, feds always lie. Always. It's in their nature, because usually they're operating on a couple of different levels, and these levels don't all involve you. And if they're not out-and-out lying, they're holding things back. So remember that, and use it to your advantage."

"How?" I asked.

He turned and looked at me. "Don't give them everything all at once.  And don’t feel guilty if you don’t come forward with some information you fid out.  Make the playing field level.  Hold some things back on your own.”

I mulled that over for a moment, thinking about the dead Libyan and the little button that showed he had been to the submarine museum. Good, I wouldn't feel guilty anymore about not bringing that up with Laura.

"Anything else?"

"One more thing," he said. "Always have an end game prepared, in case things go to the shits unexpectedly. You don't want to be sitting there, fat dumb and happy, being led away in handcuffs in case you were promised immunity in exchange for whatever you're doing. Remember that, too, and remember it well."

"Thanks," I said. "I will."

"Good." He smiled. "Thus endeth the lesson."

I was going to say something else when there came the sound of a loud and out-of-tune engine. We both turned and saw a van roar into the parking lot and skid to a stop. It was a light blue and had once belonged to some sort of business, for lettering and illustrations on the door and side had been painted over in black. The two front doors flew open and two guys jumped out, wearing dirty jeans, heavy boots and white hooded sweatshirts. They strode forward purposefully, the one on the left holding a tire iron, the one on the right a baseball bat. They were both heavyset and bearded, and the one with the tire iron had a ponytail.

I cleared my throat. "I do believe these gentlemen are here to see you."

Felix sighed. "Unfortunately, you're right."

I said, "Somehow, I don't think they want to discuss the differences between the Western and English style of horseback riding."

"Once again, you are correct, sir."

"Tinios!" the guy holding the baseball bat said. "You were so fucking tough with our cousin, breaking his arm like that! Let's see how tough you are now, asshole."

I was conscious of what was under my coat and I said, "You going to need some help here, Felix?"

"Yep," he said, shrugging off his leather jacket.  “Hold this for me, will you?”

I did just that. "Are you sure I can't do anything else?"

He gave me a cheerful smirk. "Sure. Tell Mickey my last thoughts were of her. Excuse me for a sec, will you?"

With that, he went over to the two advancing men, and I was reminded again of just how good Felix was at what he did. He went up to them, hands held up in front of him, as if he were showing them that he was unarmed. "Come on, guys," he started. "Your cousin was shooting off his mouth about burning this place down if the owner didn't come up with some ---"

And then things moved quickly indeed. Felix moved whip like under the reach of the guy holding the tire iron, and threw an elbow into his chin. The guy grunted and dropped the tire iron and fell back against his partner. The guy with the baseball bat tried to untangle himself but Felix came in again with a flurry of punches to the man's nose. They both collapsed onto the ground and Felix went in again with fists and feet.

I moved Felix's coat from one hand to another. Felix backed away, chest moving hard, but his face calm enough, and he kicked away the baseball bat and picked up the tire iron. He went over to the van and punched out both headlights with the tire iron, and then tossed the tire iron into the open doorway of the nearest bam. Back he went to the two guys on the ground. One was looking up sourly, hand to his bloody nose, and his companion was facedown on the ground.

"Satisfied?" Felix asked.

The guy with the bloody nose used a variety of four-letter words and then said, "Whaddya mean, satisfied?"

Felix shrugged. "You wanted to see how tough I am. I just demonstrated it to you. Now, you and your bud should get up and get out, and don't ever bother me or this place again. Or next time, you'll get to see how tough I am when I'm angry."

More four-letter words and threats were issued, but within a minute or two the van was backing down the road, the reverse gear whining in a high-pitched sound, one man driving, the other hunched over in the passenger seat.  Felix came up to me, hand held out, and I passed his coat over.

“Nicely done,” I said.

Felix grinned. "Thanks. And if I'm lucky, Mickey didn't see a thing."

I looked over and saw the woman and her horse still prancing around at the far end of the field. She waved and I waved back. "Looks okay to me."

"Good. Hey, you want another piece of advice?" "Sure. What do you have?"

Felix tossed his coat over a fence plank. "Just remember my phone number, that's all. You get into anything silly, give me a ring."

"Care to define silly?"

He gave me a look, one that was a cousin of the look he had given to the two previous visitors. "Like pornography, I think you'll know it when you see it."

I nodded. "You're probably right."

It was a busy day at the Porter Submarine Museum, with two tour buses parked in the lot among dozens of cars, the diesel engines to the buses grumbling, and a number of people lining up to go into the
Albacore
. I got out and went over to the museum, envelope in hand, and found a sort of roiling chaos as I got inside. Jack Emerson was bounding as fast as he could with his cane, going from his office to the telephone on the countertop. There was a small crowd about the gift counter, and from the dark looks they were shooting in Jack's direction, I figured he hadn't been over there in a bit.

I stood self-consciously there for a moment, and then made a quick decision. I went to the gift counter and maneuvered my way through the people and stood there looking at their angry faces. Now I knew once again why I'd never liked working at any type of service job.

"So," I said. "Who's next?"

A heavyset woman with glasses hanging by a thin chain around her fleshy neck tapped the top of the glass. "We've been for a long time! Where have you been?"

"Sorry, I'm late."

The woman wouldn’t let it go.  “And why are you late?”

I looked back at her. "Water buffalo got loose in my garden. Please, who's next?"

She looked suspiciously at me, and then tapped the glass again. "One of those coffee mugs, please."

I reached under the counter, pulled out a white mug with the
Albacore
's name and profile painted on the side.

"How much?" she asked.

I turned the mug over, which revealed a tiny price tag stuck on the bottom. "Five ninety-five."

She shook her head, the dangling eyeglasses moving to and fro. "No, I mean how much with the tax and all."

"That's it, that's the price," I said. 'There's no sales tax here in New Hampshire. Or an income tax."

The suspicious look came back. "Then how do you folks pay your bills?"

I shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me. Look, do you want the mug?"

“I’ll take two."

"Two it is," I said.

Within a half hour most of the people had cleared out of the lobby, either going into the museum proper or heading outside to the submarine, which offered a self-guided tour. My feet ached, my hands were cramped from wrapping up coffee mugs and shot glasses, and I had paper cuts on a few of my fingers. Jack came over, leaning heavily onto his cane, and slapped me on the back.

"Man, you were a lifesaver today," he said. "I rightly do appreciate it, Lewis. Honest, I do."

"Glad I could help," I said, handing over a pile of bills and change. "Sorry I piled everything up here in the corner. I figured I didn't have enough time to learn how to run the cash register. Here, I also kept track of what I sold."

He took the paperwork and the money and went to the cash register, and started punching in the sales I had made. As I watched him work, I said, "Are you always by yourself when it gets this busy?”

“Nah, not really,” he said.  “Lucky for me that today a couple of Boy Scouts are in the submarine, helping make sure the people go through the submarine without getting themselves into too much trouble. Some of these tourists we get, they show their appreciation for the sacrifice of the sailors that manned the
Albacore
by trying to steal something from the boat, or scratching in their names on an instrument panel."

"How charming."

"Yeah, how friggin' charming. Anyway, Ross Termin, he was supposed to come help me this morning, but he woke up puking his guts out and couldn't make it. And my idiot son Keith said he'd be over this morning as well, and as you can see, he ain't here. So there you go. Hey, did you come back here to do a story, or what?"

"More like 'or what,'" I said. "I'm still trying to track down a visitor you might have had a few days ago."

He shook his head, his gnarled fingers still punching the keys to the cash register. "Did you see what kind of day we're having here today? Lewis, I could have had a guy come in here wearing a sombrero, and within a half hour I'd forget his face and what color the hat was. That's what kind of day we're having."