Shattered Shell (41 page)

"We won't," I said, climbing into the back seat of the BMW, I eased against the plush seating, closing my eyes for just a moment. Felix got in front, and after the door slammed Raymond asked, "Where to?"

I spoke up. "North."

He turned on the engine. "North it is."

Later that afternoon I was in a bathrobe and sitting before a fireplace in a room at the Straggler Inn, one of the best bed and breakfast spots in Porter, a cup of coffee in my hands. Felix was with me, nibbling on a piece of toast. Going home for the both of us didn't seem to be too bright an option, and Felix's attorney was kind enough to stop at both of our residences so we could pick lip some spare clothes and other supplies. One of the spare supplies I picked up was my .357 Ruger revolver. The West Newbury police were holding on to my 9mm Beretta, and I wasn't sure when I would ever get it back.

The room was a small suite, with a sitting room that had a great view of the harbor and the naval shipyard, and a few minutes earlier --- after sleeping for most of the day --- I had enjoyed a full and late breakfast, all the while watching seagulls and cormorant at play in the harbor. I was sore and tired and still shaky, but I WII also warm and content at breathing and being alive. Felix was limping a bit --- no stitches, but a few butterfly bandages from his run in with the tree branch --- and he sat across from me, feet propped up on a coffee table. He had his own room down the hall.

"Some lawyer you've got there," I said. "We should be getting one hefty bill."

He finished the toast and reached down and grabbed a blue berry muffin from off the rapidly emptying breakfast tray. "Nope.  Never got a bill, and never will. I gave Raymond a great gift one evening some years back."

"And what was that?"

"His life," Felix said, unwrapping the muffin. “When he was younger he was quite headstrong, poking his nose into things that weren't his business. He represented someone in a case against a relative of mine. Things deteriorated to the point that he was in the rear of a cabin cruiser one night, going out to Boston Harbor one of those one-way trips. I thought that was a bit excessive, and I managed to convince my relative this wasn't going to take care of the problem. Rented a motorboat and got out there and set things straight, and ever since then, my legal help has been a phone call away."

I leaned back into the couch, feeling the muscles and tendons in my legs creak. "Too bad other problems can't be solved with just one phone call."

"Tell me about it," Felix said. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore. And you?"

"The same. So. What in hell's going on? Who were those guys?"

I looked over at him. "I was hoping you could tell me that."

His hands, which had been busy with the muffin, were now still. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean this," I said. "Our young friend Doug Miles is involved in something illegal. I also think Doug has something to do with his sister's attack. Tonight we were chased around half an island by a gang of about nine or ten guys. That takes organization, discipline, and things very serious. Felix, when it comes to matters like those, you're the most serious guy I know. We were in your old home state. So who were those guys?"

He carefully broke off a piece of muffin and chewed on it. '”Things can change pretty quickly, you know that, right?" he said, talking slowly. "One year some guy can be at the top of his game, and have a good scam going with a few of his friends, and next year, they’ve been busted up. One's dead, one's moved out, and the others are doing time. A lot of stuff can happen."

"So I've been told."

Felix kept on eating, "I try not to get too involved in the day to day activities of what goes on around here and down south. I'm busy with the work commitments I already have. You get too friendly or too knowledgeable about what's going on, then you get on some radar screens. Your name gets recorded. Maybe your phone gets tapped. And maybe a subpoena or two arrives with your name on it. So it's in my own best interest --- both personal and business --- not to know everything that's going on."

"So you don't know who these guys might be."

He wiped his hands on a napkin. "No, I don't."

"I bet you could find out."

A smile. "You're right, I could. But it would take a few days and maybe a trip or two. But I can't do it right now. I'm leaving tomorrow. Remember?"

"Yeah, your business trip down south. It's still on, I imagine?"

"Quite on," he said, nodding. "A straight courier job, something that's going to start off the year right with a hefty payment. Some sensitive materials have to be brought down south, and then I have to make sure they get delivered. It might take three days, it might take three weeks. And when I get back, then I'll start trying to find out what Doug and his friends are up to. In the meantime, here's a suggestion."

"And what's that?"

"Stop."

I shook my head. "I don't think so."

He crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it. "I hope you don't think that the fact we both escaped last night with some scratches, bumps, and a possible criminal record has gone to your head. We --- hell, you --- might not be so lucky next time. You get involved ill something over your head this next week or so, I'm not going to be around to provide backup. You could end up in some cold gravel pit with a couple of rounds in the back of your head, and that's all she wrote, Lewis. So stop."

I was getting tired. I raised up my coffee cup to him. "I'll think about it."

Felix shook his head, whether in disgust or despair I wasn't sure. "You better think pretty hard. I'd hate to miss your funeral service, among other things."

"Thanks for being so thoughtful," I said, and that was it.

Later I stood by the window and looked out at the dim lights of Porter Harbor, still dressed in my bathrobe. Dinner had been a light snack and even though I had slept away most of the day, I was still tired. The bed was nice and wide and with thin, soft pillows, the kind that makes me fall fight asleep. But I still had things to do, and I cranked open the window and let some of the cold air drift in, helping keep me awake.

There was a knock at the door. I looked at the clock. Eight p.m., right on the dot.

I walked over and opened the door and Diane Woods looked at me, cold and her face taut. She came in and I closed the door and I said, "Can I get you some coffee?"

She shook her head, staying a comfortable distance away from me. She tugged off a pair of gloves. Snow was melting around her leather boots, and she had on jeans and her thick parka. "I'm doing a surveillance tonight, down at the beach, so I can only stay for a minute.  Some kids supposedly breaking into a house. What's going on?"

I looked over at her. "You hear about a fracas over at Plum lsland last night?"

"Yeah, West Newbury cops arrested a couple of --- Hold on. You?"

"And Felix."

She stared right at me. "You're getting close, right?"

I nodded. "Quite."

"What do you need?"

"Some support. Maybe to bail me out, maybe just a quick call for an extra set of hands. Felix is going out of town for a while."

"You've got it, any time of the day," and then she reached up with her fist and placed it against her mouth. "You sure you're getting close?"

"Yeah, I am. But no promises. It still might fall apart, just when I think I'm almost there."

She gave me a quick nod. "I understand."

"How's Kara?"

I think she pretended not to hear me. She looked down at her wrist and said, "Jesus, I'm running out of time. Lewis, thanks, thanks for everything."

Within a minute she was gone. The carpet was still wet where she had stood. I remained there for a while, and then walked back to the open window. The lights of the harbor were still there, but something new and heavy was in my chest, something that had just been left there when Diane departed. I took a deep breath, smelling a lot of things --- the salt air, diesel fuel, old food, and things cooking --- and I spoke out loud to Felix, who was hurrying his way south to Logan Airport. He wanted me to lay low, wanted me to do nothing, but I couldn't do that, not with Diane.

"Promises," I said quietly. "Promises."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Promises. Three days later I was back in Newburyport. I was now mobile, having rented a Ford Explorer from Felix's contact. I was also about twenty miles and several hundred dollars away from my lodgings at the Straggler Inn. I was staying at "The Lincoln House- Efficiency Rooms to Rent" and my room could have taken lip half of the suite back in Porter.

There was a sagging bed against one wall, a counter with a hot plate and mini-fridge, and my own bathroom. The radiator clanked at night and the toilet often drained itself for no apparent reason, and my showers had to be quick, for the hot water lasted only a few minutes. I had to pay extra for the private bath and that was worth it, but the real value was the room's location: directly across the street from the Brick Yard Pub. I had pulled a chair up to the window and looked down at the building and the street. I had a good view and could see everyone moving in and out of the front door.

I had been here for two days and was content to stay just as long as I had to. So far Doug had not shown up, but I was sure he would. Everything had started from here. Everything. Felix and I had scoured Kara's neighborhood and had talked to friends, neighbors, family, and employers, and the only time anything got going was when I had followed Doug to this bar. Staying in the snow outside of his house on the other end of town hadn't done much. This was the center, the place that I was sure would hold, and I had books, magazines, radio, and enough food to last for quite a long while.

Felix might be gone, but I was certainly not going to wait.

With the help of a nap that afternoon and a shortwave radio that was bringing in an odd broadcast from Tennessee --- some guy claiming thousands of Chinese troops were training in the high desert of Nevada, ready to help the government repeal the Second Amendment --- I was awake when the pub began to get active. I sat in a tubular metal chair near the window, and there was a constant draft of cold air sliding past me. At my side was a tripod, and on it was a distant cousin of the night-vision scopes Felix and I had used a few nights ago. A quick drive to a sporting goods shop in Maine had provided the gear, which gave me the same ghostly green glow of the landscape below me.

I recognized Angela, the woman who had served me a couple of beers, and Harry, the muscular guy who had warned me away from the backroom. One or two of Doug's friends I also thought I recognized. But I was sure of one thing: no Doug.

I watched the people walk into the pub and, most often, stumble out. At about midnight a guy came out holding the hand of a younger woman. They embraced by the door and then slipped and walked to the parking lot, where they climbed into a van. The engine started up, but the van didn't move. After a few minutes it began gently swaying back and forth. "Such a cliché," I whispered, and my eyes went back to the pub's entrance.

About an hour later the door burst open and two guys flew out, and they tussled in the snow, moving almost in slow motion, fighting and cursing at each other. Lights from inside the pub made the snow brighter, and people gathered outside, cheering them on. Someone obviously made a call, for a Newburyport police cruiser came by, blue lights flashing, and the two guys got up from the snow, staggering a bit. The cop came over and talked to them, and there was a lot of head-shaking and finger-pointing. Then the cop went back into his cruiser, wrote up some paperwork, and then answered his radio and sped away, blue lights still flashing. A more important call, I'm sure.

The spectators either drifted back inside or went to their cars or trucks. The two guys that had been fighting were standing at the other end of the building by a snowbank, casually urinating into the snow. They talked to each other as they did their business, like two old New England farmers chatting over a stone wall. More people came out and then the lights were off and the parking lot was empty. I stood up and stretched, the muscles and ligaments in my hack popping and creaking in protest.

After splashing some cold water on my face I stripped and crawled into the strange bed, and I slept fitfully, wondering how long it would be until I could get home,

Late in the afternoon on the next day, I came back from a walk along a plowed sidewalk near the Merrimack River, and made a phone call from outside a convenience store. Two messages were on my answering machine, along with a bunch of hang-up clicks.

The message was from Diane, and was to the point: "Call me if you have any news." The other was from Paula Quinn: "Give me a call, will you? It's been a while."

So I did, and I caught her at the paper. "How've you been?" she asked, and I had to pause for a moment, censoring through everything that had happened to me in the past few days. After this long pause I said, "Okay, I guess. And you?"

"Bored out of my mind. Want to take me out to dinner tonight?"

I should have been dedicated and said no, but I was tired of eating out of cans and cooking on a hot plate, and dinner with Paula would mean real food from a restaurant, and even if I got back at seven, I would still be able to put in a few hours of surveillance.