Black Tide (20 page)

I got into the Rover, and as I went out the driveway I looked in the rearview mirror, seeing him trudge back to his house with beer and
Playboy
in hand, and it felt good for a moment, knowing that he pitied me.

As I headed east to the New Hampshire seacoast on this Friday evening, I stopped at a convenience store on Route 10 1 to get something to eat. The store was called Greg's Place and had a set of gas pumps up in front and two picture windows that were covered up by posters announcing yard sales, pancake breakfasts, a school play and a couple of lost cats. The store was typical New Hampshire rural, with cans of motor oil and brake fluid two aisles over from soups and canned meat, and there were fresh homemade pies and muffins in one corner. .

At the rear of the store, by a deli-type counter, I ordered a steak and cheese sub to go, and a man about my age with a chest-high white apron began slicing up a roll. His hair was thin and blond and it looked as if he made a big production of keeping each strand in place. As he worked, I wandered over to a cooler and picked out a bottle of lemonade. As I did I looked through an open door, and saw that I was looking into someone's living room. A young boy and girl were sprawled out on the floor, drawing on pieces of paper, while a small-and-white television set showed some evening game show. A tired woman, her hair done in curlers, rested in a chair, holding a sleeping baby in one hand holding up her head with the other. She wore pale pink slippers that had scuffed bottoms, and she would not gaze in my direction. The two kids on the floor looked up at me with a blank stare and I backed away. While my steak and cheese was on the grill, I went outside and filled up my Range Rover with gas. Traffic went by, a car every three or four seconds, and I tried not to think about the future waiting for those children.

After paying for my meal and the gas, I drove east, eating, with one hand, tossing some things around in my head. It seem so odd, didn't it, that at about the same time Felix was getting phone calls and messages from people about the location of that safe house, Craig Dummer would up and leave both his job and his home. And it also seemed odd that when I asked Justin Dix about Craig's home address, he said the museum always knew where Craig Dummer was living. Yet he had been gone for at least a couple of weeks when Justin gave me his Bainbridge address.

Then there was the matter of Ben Martin, retired Manchester police officer, who was the one who let the thieves into the museum, and who was found dead two years later in his car, and there's no autopsy, no records of anything being mentioned about his death having any connection with the theft of the paintings. Nothing. Body found and in three days Ben Martin is in the ground.

And then there's Cassie Fuller's information, about Justin Dix and his problems. What kinds of problems?

A lot of odd things, either pointing to sloppiness or pointing to a plan.

When I had finished with my evening meal, such as it was, I was about fifteen miles from Tyler, and the traffic on Route 101 was beginning to fill up, as it seemed everyone in the central part of the state wanted to get to Tyler Beach this evening. Traffic jams are rare in New Hampshire, but I was tired of dealing with this rarity, so I fooled everyone and got off at an exit in Exonia. By traveling through back roads that didn't have traffic lights and never experienced traffic jams, I was in Tyler Beach in almost no time at all.

At home I ate a couple of apples, to add to the nutritional balance of my on-the-road meal, and I watched a little television, one of those PBS programs that have journalists stationed in Washington trying to tell the rest of us what in hell was going on down there. As I watched the program, listening to the predictions and ruminations, I felt one of those odd tastes of nostalgia, sitting there in my quiet living room in my home in Tyler Beach. There had been a time when I was in that world of the Beltway and powerful men and women, of sharp decisions made and awful stories buried or hidden. There had been some quiet and also some frenzied times back then, when I worked for the DoD and learned so much in so little time. On some evenings with Cissy, we would watch one of these programs, sharing a bottle of wine after a wonderful meal, and for dessert we would giggle at how wrong all of those bright and self-important reporters were. Once Cissy was wearing nothing save a silk robe and she had her head on my shoulder, saying, "Sweet Lord, Lewis, if those well-paid morons know so little about the stuff we work with, can you imagine how wrong they are about everything else?”

I told her I could imagine, and I could imagine other things as well…

With a sharp movement I shut off the TV and went out to my rear deck, breathing deeply of the salt air, not even being bothered that much by the pungent odor of the
Petro Star's
gift to these shores. I was brooding, and brooding is hardly ever healthy. 

I held on to the railings of the deck and looked out at the familiar lights of the Isles of Shoals, and something made me stop thinking, so I stopped.

I looked out again, to the Samson State Wildlife Preserve and its rolling hills and trees that mask the concrete bunkers and old foundations of the Coast Artillery Station. The park closed at dusk, and since it was already a good couple of hours past sunset, the park should have been empty. Yet there was someone there, standing on one of the low hills looking in my direction.

I shifted and tried to look again, without appearing obvious. Not that my night vision is that great, but there is usually a faint glow on the horizon in that direction from the city of Porter, and the person's shape was silhouetted against the evening sky. Sure. Just a stargazer, or someone waiting for a girlfriend or boyfriend.

And then the person started moving, clambering down the small hill, heading south. Toward my beach. Toward my home.

I went inside and shut the sliding-glass door, making sure it was locked. From the living room I picked up my 7x50 binoculars, and I raced upstairs, trying to keep my breathing even. I slipped into my study, which has windows facing north. I brought the binoculars up to my eyes, and even through the screened window, I had a good view of the man as he clambered over rocks and boulders, heading even closer in my direction. My hands were shaking and the shape was darkened, since he had come down from the hill and was no longer being backlit through the good graces of the city of Porter. It seemed as if he might be carrying something in his hands.

From the study I went across the small hallway into my bedroom and knelt beside my bed, reaching down to a rectangular piece of foam rubber which was under the mattress and frame. I slid the piece of foam out, pulled off the cloth covering, and picked up my 12-gauge pump-action Remington shotgun with extended magazine. I didn't bother to see if it was loaded. All of my weapons are loaded, for it's a sure thing that with an unloaded weapon and a sudden threat coming into your house, the sudden threat will always win.

I don't like those kinds of sure things.

Taking a small flashlight off my nightstand, I went back downstairs, running checklists through my mind, wondering who the man could be, and not liking the situation one bit. Sure, he could be a night beach wanderer. Sure, he could be someone lost and scared, and seeing my house here, wanting to come over just to borrow the phone.

Sure.

I still didn't like it. He was trespassing. On my land. At my home.

It took me only a moment or two to decide to go outside. Being outside, I had areas to move to, places to hide behind. Inside the house, I was trapped. I decided to go with maneuverability against the security of my house. I slipped out the front door, ducking down as I went around the house, and then I felt the hot breath of shame against the back of my neck as the man came up my small backyard, whistling and switching on a flashlight in his hand.

"Felix," I called out, switching on my own flashlight. "You came about ten seconds away from having to answer some very stern questions.”

As my light hit him, he gave me a rueful smile as he walked over. The light from my small flashlight made his dark face look even more , as if he had a two-week shadow of stubble on his face. He had on black high-top sneakers, gray sweat pants and a white tanktop.

He shook his head. "Wasn't trying to be a sneak, and I knew about fifty feet away that you were waiting for me. Helpful hint, next time you're scurrying around the upstairs getting your shotgun. Don't leave the bedroom lights on."

"Thanks," I said. "Why the roundabout walk?"

He shrugged. "It's just that I know some people are trying to keep tabs on me. I decided to walk over here the back way, keeping things nice and quiet. Of course, I didn't expect you to nail me with a light and a shotgun."

"I didn't know it was you, and I didn't know it was a visitor. I like my privacy."

Felix tried to make a joke of it and I wouldn't let him. "Don't you know you're supposed to trust your fellow man?" he asked.

"I tried that once," I said. "Damn near killed me, and it brought me here, Felix, and it still might kill me in the end." 

That comment seemed to make him think. He just nodded, slowly. "I've always wondered, and you've never told me. They must have done something awful to you, Lewis. Something awful indeed."

I decided to drop it. "You want to come inside?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Want to keep moving if you don't mind. Wanted to let you know I've made contact with the people who have been sending me the notes and messages."

"You have?"

"Yep. The meet is on for tomorrow night, Saturday, at seven P.M. It's gonna take place at the Vault Restaurant in Porter. And it's with a guy I know from my past. One Tony Russo."

I switched off the flashlight, not wanting to light up things too much, and not wanting Felix to see what kinds of emotions were moving across my face. After a bit I said, "Do you still want me there?"

Felix's voice was brisk. "Yeah, I do, Lewis. Tony and I don't have that great a relationship, if you know what I mean. I used to work for him, years ago, about the time I was being bounced around and when I did some stuff for Jimmy Corelli. I had to do some things for Russo… Well, I'll tell you later, but what I had to do for Russo is the main reason I'm here and I'm freelance. But yeah, I'd like to have you there, Lewis."

"My calming influence, as you say?"

"Whatever you want to call it. I just don't want to be near Tony Russo and lose it if he starts in on me. I want you to help keep me focused and on the straight and narrow. I've already told him that you'd probably be there, and he didn't have any problem at all."

It seemed as though the sound of the waves grew louder. ''All right, then."

Even in the darkness, standing there by my house near the ocean, I could sense Felix's smile. "Look, there's a bar a couple of blocks down from the Vault. The Frozen Chosin. Let's say you and me meet there at about six P.M., we'll go over a couple of things, and we'll walk over to the restaurant. We go in, do some discussions, and by Sunday we'll do the exchange and when it comes Monday morning we'll both be making healthy deposits our bank accounts."

"That easy?" I asked.

"Oh, it's never that easy, but as much as Tony is… well, Tony still has a good head for business. If he wants the safe house's address and the paintings and he's willing to pay, it'll be a sweet deal for all of us."

There didn't seem to be that much to say. I went over and picked up my shotgun and said, "Well, Felix, I guess we're on for dinner tomorrow night."

There came the sound of his laugh and there was a quiet movement, as if he was coming near to shake my hand or touch me on my shoulder, but the moment passed and he was back heading to the beach, walking to the dark hills of the wildlife preserve.

When I got back into my house, I smelled the sweat of fear upon me, and I wasn't sure if just a shower would take care of it.

Tomorrow night seemed very far away.

Chapter Twelve

             
The Frozen Chosin is a rarity among the scores of restaurants and bars in Porter, in that it wasn’t designed to be a specific type of place for a specific type of customer. There is a lot of money to be made in Porter from tourists who don’t like the sand and noise of Tyler Beach, and there are many restaurant consultants who’ve convinced businessmen and businesswomen what type of place to open and kind of food and drinks should be served.

             
But the Frozen Chosin is owned and operated by one Art Cloutier, a sixty-three-year-old ex-Navy Yard worker and ex-Marine who still limps on his right foot from the frostbite he suffered while taking part in that horrible retreat from the Chosin Reservoir in Korea in 1951, and who’s told many a person that he doesn't give a good damn what anybody thinks about his place. He serves a handful of beer brands, some mixed drinks and free popcorn ,and he has a dinner menu that can be printed on a four-by-five postcard. Those customers who don't know their history and who come in looking for a frozen margarita or daiquiri usually leave with their faces red and their steps quick. 

His place is in downtown Porter, near enough to the waterfront to see ships glide into the harbor. It's on two floors, with lots of brass, old wood and some plants, though no ferns. American and Marine Corps flags are on the walls, along with old photographs from Korea and pictures of some of the scores of submarines that were built at the Porter Naval Shipyard. On this Saturday evening the place was just beginning to get crowded, with sunburned tourists standing next to burly men in jeans and T-shirts who'd just finished a shift at the shipyard, along with a good mixture of the artist and writer crowd that Porter has always attracted.