Primary Storm (12 page)

Annie said, "Nope. Not good enough. I think there's something else. And once you figure it out, do me the favor of telling me. All right?"

It was my turn to sigh. "Sure. Look, there was no secret agenda, it was just ---"

"Lewis, you're a man with secrets. Most times it's charming. This isn't one of those times."

"I hear you."

"Thanks. Look ... we'll be pretty busy over here tonight. I don't think I'm going to make it over to your place later."

"Oh. I see."

"No, really ... we're busy. I'll see if I can't come over tomorrow. All right?"

"That would be great."

A few more words here and there, and then she hung up. Before me again was the blank screen.

The hell with it.

I was done for the day. The next morning I went for a quick walk across the street to the Lafayette House to get my morning newspapers. Being in such an isolated location, newspaper delivery was out of the question, and since I got my mail from a post office box --- which meant the usual drive into town --- I most always got my newspapers from the gift shop at the Lafayette House.

The air was sharp and crisp as I walked up my driveway.

Hands in my pockets, I carefully made my way up to the hotel's parking lot, trying to decide what to say to any die-hard members of the fourth estate who might still be on stakeout duty. But when I reached the parking lot, I hated to say it, but I was disappointed. No one was waiting for me. The reporting hand, having writ, had obviously moved on to another story.

I took in a deep breath of the fresh sea air. Some other story was no doubt out there, being chased by the dedicated men and women of the news media, and I was now content to be left alone.

I went across Atlantic Avenue, up to the white colossus that was the Lafayette House, and then strode into the marble and glass splendor of its lobby. To the left was the gift shop, and I left a few seconds later, with five newspapers under my arm, after exchanging the usual pleasantries with the gift shop manager, a retired air force chief warrant officer named Stephanie Sussex. She had short gray hair, old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses that were bowed like cat whiskers, a black turtleneck adorned by a simple gold crucifix, and the same old joke.

"Still reading for five people?"

"Looks that way, doesn't it."

She rang up my purchases and said, "Least you could do is make 'em pay for it. Have a good one."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll try."

I liked the feeling of the newspapers under my arm. I know that we are in a new world of computerized information, with most of the world's newspapers now available with the click of a keyboard or a mouse, but I still like the feel of newspapers in my hands. It just feels more real. Besides, the computer geniuses who brought us to this brave new world still haven't come up with a way of devising a personal computer that you can easily carry into the bathroom when the need arises.

I went through the parking lot on my way back, seeing a panel truck at the north end of the lot. JIMMY'S ELECTRICAL SERVICE, FALCONER, it said on the side of the truck, and I felt bad for Jimmy, having to hump his equipment up to the hotel.

Down the driveway I went, and back home, there was someone waiting for me at the doorsteps to my house, sitting there, legs stretched out, looking quite comfortable. It looked like the fourth estate hadn't given up quite yet in their quest to interview me. I came down the driveway, focusing on my footwork, making sure I didn't slip and knock my skull against a piece of rock outcropping. I looked up once, and my visitor was still there, sitting patiently. Well, he could be as patient as he wanted. I certainly wasn't going to say much when I got to the doorway. I was done with the news media. The primary election was just a few days away, and I was going to keep my head down, ignore the senator's wife, and make nice with Annie Wynn after our last discouraging phone call.

When I got to my house, I stopped, as if the snow about my feet had suddenly turned into ice, keeping me still.

For before me was Spenser Harris, fake Secret Service agent.

I stood, waiting to see if he would say anything, but that didn't seem possible.

For he was dead.

Chapter Seven

I gingerly walked around, checking to make sure he was as dead as he looked. He was on the snow-covered ground next to the doorsteps, leaning up against the stone foundation. His legs were out in front of him, his hands were folded primly in his lap. His eyes were closed. Thank God for small favors. I looked to the side of his head and saw a mass of blood and torn flesh and splintered bone just behind his right ear. He seemed to be wearing the same coat and necktie and slacks combination from his first visit to my home.

I stepped back, taking a breath. I didn't like him, and didn't like what he had done to me, but still ... I didn't like seeing him dead on my doorstep.

Another breath.

There were things to do, procedures to be followed, phone calls to be made.

I unlocked the door and went inside.

I left the dead form of Spenser Harris behind me.

I dropped the newspapers and went upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Into my office, up to a small closet. Opened the closet, went through some boxes of papers and files until I saw a small, multicolored box stuck in the rear. I ripped the box open, tearing a bit of finger skin in the process, and sat on the floor, going through about twenty pages of instructions in English, Spanish, French, and German, and then tossed the paperwork aside.

Before me was a prepaid cell phone, about the size of two credit cards together. I had gotten it as a Christmas gift the previous year from Detective Sergeant Woods, when she had told me that in this new age of ours, it was customary to be accessible through instant communications. I replied that I rather liked being inaccessible. And she had smiled and said next time I was driving in East Overshoe, New Hampshire, tracking down a story, it would be nice to have a cell phone in case my car died or I ran into a moose.

I had agreed, and had promptly put the phone in my closet. Until now.

It had no charge in its little battery so I managed to plug it into a free receptacle in my office. I fumbled through a few more minutes of trying to figure out what in hell to do with this marvelous instrument, when I started punching in the numerals.

By now, I guess shock was coursing its way through my system, for my hands were shaking.

But I still managed to dial the number. I waited as it rang.

And waited.

Conscious that a body was cooling itself outside my front door. The phone was answered.

"Yeah."

"Hi, it's me."

"Oh. What's up."

"Got a situation," I said.

"A situation?"

"Quite the situation."

"Go ahead."

I said, "Remember that joke you told me a couple of months ago, about the difference between a friend and a true friend?"

"Yeah."

"I need a true friend. Right now."

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"You injured?"

"Nope."

The voice was as brisk and as professional as it had been from the first greeting. "Be there in under a half. hour. Don't touch a damn thing."

"I won't."

"Good."

I hung up the cell phone. The joys of being accessible.

And somewhat untraceable. I wasn't sure just how untraceable this phone call would be, but there was no doubt that using the old landline telephone in my home would have been as visible as elephant tracks in the snow. Maybe this call would be harder to trace.

Maybe. I sure hoped so.

Then again, maybe I was just fooling myself.

However, after seeing what had been out there in the snow, I was probably in the mood for being fooled.

I tossed the cell phone across the room, and went back downstairs.

I stood out there in the cold, hands in my coat, trying to ignore the body nearby. Hell of a thing. But I couldn't do it. I looked over at Spenser Harris. Still dead. Lots of questions and no answers were rattling inside my head. I toed a piece of ice-encrusted snow.

Just stood there. My breath was visible in the cold air. The sound of the waves just a few feet away were always there, and always ignored, until one listened. I was listening. The waves were constant, were a part of the background.

Toed another piece of ice. Waited. Another noise.

I looked up. A dark green Honda Pilot was maneuvering its way down the driveway, its four-wheel drive making the sloppy trip look easy. Something tight in my chest started to ease. I took my hands out of my pockets.

The Pilot stopped. Felix Tinios got out, looked at me and my uninvited guest. From his dark wool coat, he pulled out two sets of rubber gloves, tossed one set to me, which I caught with one hand. Damn, wasn't I good?

Felix said, "All right. Time for talking is later. Time for action is now. Got it?"

"Gotten."

He put on his gloves, and I followed as well. Instantly my hands felt warm and clammy. Felix went to the rear of the Pilot, opened up the hatchback. With the middle row of seats folded down, there was plenty of room back there. Felix reached in and pulled out a black rubberized body bag, and my stomach did a slow flip-flop, realizing once again what kind of man Felix was: the kind of guy who had ready access to body bags.

But I sure as hell wasn't complaining.

Felix made his way to the body of Spenser Harris, flipped the bag out on the ground. There was a heavy-duty zipper that started at the top, went down the side and then to the bottom, like a garment bag designed for undertakers. Felix zipped the bag open, the noise sounding obscene in my tiny front yard, and opened up the flap. He looked up at me, his face serious.

"Can you give me a hand? You going to be all right with this?"

"Yeah,"

"All right, let's move him. You get the legs."

Felix went to the rear of the body, reached under his arms, lifted him off the steps, and I grabbed the legs. The phrase "dead weight" rang through my mind as we moved the body over to the open bag. I slipped some in the snow and dropped Spenser's legs, but Felix had it under control, and got most of the upper body over the bag. I maneuvered the legs in and then Felix flipped the cover back over, zipped the damn thing shut. Suddenly it just felt better. There was no longer a body in my front yard. There was just a lumpy thing inside a bag, something without a face.

"Okay. Handles on both sides. Let's get him in."

As he always is, Felix was correct. Heavy black web handles were on each side of the bag, and we both grabbed on and got him off the ground. A handful of steps later, we had him in the rear of the open Pilot. Felix went forward to the passenger's side door and dragged the body bag in. When he had moved the bag far enough, I slammed the hatchback door shut. By now Felix was in the driver's seat and the engine was running. I joined him and he said, "You don't need to be here. I can handle it."

"You may think I don't need to be here, but I do. Let's get going."

"Sure."

Felix maneuvered the Pilot about in my yard, and then we were heading back up the driveway, to the parking lot of the Lafayette House, and in a minute or so, we were heading south, away from my home, away from Tyler Beach. We both pulled off our rubber gloves. My hands felt moist and soft. I was feeling just a little bit better. But only a bit.

We didn't go far, only to Salisbury, the first town over the Massachusetts border. We took Route l-A --- Atlantic Avenue -- all the way south. I was conscious of how tight my chest was as I sat next to Felix.

He said, "All right. Good job back there."

"Thanks. Coming from you that's a hell of a compliment."

"Do you know who he is? Or was?"

"Yeah. The fake Secret Service agent who scammed me a few days back. Spenser Harris."

"No shit."

"True. No shit."

Felix made a show of looking back at the shape in the rear, and turned back. "Strange world, isn't it. Last time we were together, I said I'd do a little digging, see what I could find out about this guy, and now he ends up dead on your doorstep. Sorry I wasn't quicker finding him."

"You're forgiven."

"Gee, thanks. Well, I'll keep on digging, but having your Spenser Harris show up dead puts a damper on things."

"I guess so. And when did he become my Spenser Harris?" Felix shrugged. "He was in your front yard. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, it seemed to be a logical assumption."

I told him what he could do with his logic, and that made him smile.

Traffic was light as we went by the deserted buildings of Tyler Beach, approaching the drawbridge that led into Falconer, the southernmost town in New Hampshire. Stuck in almost every snowbank was a campaign sign. HALE FOR AMERICA'S TOMORROWS. WIN WITH WALLACE. POMEROY/PRESIDENT. GRAYSON FOR PRESIDENT. Lots of signs, all with the same color pattern. Red, white, and blue. True imagination at work. It was good to look at the signs. It didn't require me to think of the body riding back there in the rear.