Black Tide (36 page)

Dr. Ludlow whispered something I couldn't hear, and I felt my cheeks getting wet. "This man survives and is hospitalized and almost immediately a soft-tissue tumor starts growing on his kidney. The tumor is removed. Then for no apparent reason, the survivor becomes slightly paranoid. He's in an underground Department of Defense installation. He's not allowed any visitors, any mail or any phone calls. He's seen his woman and his best friend die. He's not sure what the future holds for him, and he begins to think that if certain people had their way, he would suddenly die of heart failure. So he bullies and scams his way out, and in exchange for absolute silence, he will be supported for the rest of his life."

I took out a handkerchief and rubbed at my eyes, and said, "That's the story, Doc. And remember, it's just a story."

The doc turned in his chair, looked up at his certificates, and in a steady voice said, "I've always been amazed at how we cattle pay our taxes each year to support the likes of people who can kill you or harm you without a blink of an eye, without a moment of lost sleep, without hesitation." He turned to me. "I just hope nobody's been listening in to this little exchange, Lewis. It could cause some problems for both of us."

"Don't worry," I said. "I still have a few bites left if I depart unexpectedly. "

He smiled. "Good move. So have I. Pre-addressed envelopes stored in safe locations, to be sent to various people and agencies in the event of my untimely death. All totally unnecessary and the result of my paranoid tendencies, you realize."

"Of course. I seem to share your paranoid tendencies, and I'm sure there are other people out there just like you and me, Doc."

The doc's grin was wider. "Hell of a thing. Maybe we should form an organization, start up a newsletter."

I got up and shook his hand. "Don't push your luck."

His hand squeezed mine back. "Pushing luck is all that you and I do, every day."

''As someone once said, that is a true fact." When I got to the door, I turned and said, "Don't take this wrong, Doc, but I hope it's a long, long time before you and me see each other professionally. "

He began writing in my folder. "By the time you're on 1-95 'and heading north, I'll forget that you were even here this afternoon.”

“If you don't mind, I'll return the favor," I said, and I left.

When I got home I checked my answering machine, as always, and the steady glowing green light of the machine meant that at least for these past few hours no one had been looking for me. That was a pleasant thought. I poured myself an ice water, went out to my rear deck, and sat and sipped and wondered about dinner. Up north there was a dark band of clouds moving majestically to the east, like a squadron of  battleships gliding out to battle. I sipped at my water, raised up a pair of binoculars, and watched two sailboats fleeing the onset of the clouds. There was a shiver of anticipation and fear along my back as I saw the fragile craft try to escape the winds and the lightning. In the dark mass came that sudden flash of lightning that is always a surprise, and it looked like a giant flashbulb had gone off from inside the clouds of vapors. The heavy rumbling came just a few moments later, and I remembered an earlier storm, one I had come through a couple of weeks ago, after finding the mutilated body of Felix Tinios's cousin down on the wet sands of North Beach.

Just a few days more, Felix had predicted. Just a couple of more days, and the matter of the paintings would be taken care of. The exchange would occur and I would be a part of it (for reasons I still wasn't sure about). Then Felix would go on his private mission. I would come back home and work on that overdue
Shoreline
column, and ponder when I was going to blow Cameron Briggs out of the water by releasing his Department of Defense file to the
Boston Globe
and the
Tyler Chronicle
. Finally, I would think with joy and anticipation about the upcoming Perseids. Another flash of light, another rumble. The wind picked up speed and it was a strange breeze, sometimes warm and sometimes cool, and it was oddly refreshing, tossing about my skin. I raised up the binoculars again. The sailboats were still there, probably heading for Tyler Harbor. I lifted my water glass in salute, and thought for a while. I was enjoying my stay here on the deck, knowing that I could leave at any moment and be sheltered in my hundred-and-fifty-year-old house, yet I still had a feeling of envy. Part of me wanted to be out there, on the heaving and slick fiberglass deck of the boat, wearing foul-weather gear and looking back at the advancing storm, nervous and scared and exhilarated all at once, knowing I was on my own, and that the nearest Coast Guard station was many miles away.

A paradox, those feelings, but it was a paradox I faced each day, and one I would meet again when I went with Felix the day or night the Winslow Homer paintings were turned over. But it wouldn't be the end of it, not yet, and I wondered how I would keep an earlier promise, that I would try to return those three masterpieces to the Scribner Museum. Deck and sailboat. Home and with Felix. Safety and danger.

More rumbling, and the clouds sailed on. I sat for a while longer, waiting for the storm to pass by, and I wasn't sure how long the wait would be. All I knew was that I was ready.

Chapter Twenty-One

Well, I was having a friendly and comfortable Monday morning until the phone rang. Earlier I had eaten a quick breakfast with Paula Quinn at the Common Grill & Grill, and we didn't discuss much of anything, except for the usual small-town gossip of who's sleeping with whom, which selectman from which town had the mental capacity of a turnip, and when did we think the Goddamn Tourists Would Get Up and Finally Leave. Though the conversation wasn't that significant, it was a definite improvement over how we had gone through most of the summer. I mentioned in passing that I had just completed another doctor's appointment, and Paula asked me how it had gone, and I said fine

She then reached across the table and touched my hand, just for a moment, and said, "Whatever does happen to the two of us, I do owe you one thing, Lewis, and that is my regrets. No matter what happened back then in June, I shouldn't have reacted like I did. I should have just been there when you were in the hospital, no matter what kind of friendship or relationship we have.  Instead I got angry and sulked and stayed away, and that wasn’t right.”

That was the most Paula had said to me in a while, so I told her what she said sounded pretty good to me and she laughed and tossed a roll at me. We gave each other a brief kiss before I headed to the post office and home. My mail this Monday was also fairly good, with a bank account statement that showed my monthly check from DoD via
Shoreline
was still being deposited on time, and I also got the latest issue of Astronomy magazine. I then spent a lovely hour on the back deck, reading, drinking lemonade and wondering what the poor working population was doing on this fine Monday morning in August, and that was when the phone rang.

And that was when everything went down the gutter.

"Cole? Lewis Cole?" came a male voice, one that tickled at my memory for a moment. .

"You've got him."

"Well, I've got more than that, I guess. This is Justin Dix calling, from the Scribner Museum."

"Oh. Morning."

"Hah. There's not much good about it and that's what I want to talk to you about. I need to see you today."

"Can't be discussed over the phone, Justin?"

Again, a sharp noise. "Not a question of can't, Lewis. It's a question of won't. I won't discuss it over the phone."

''All right, I guess I can make it up to Manchester in time for lunch ---"

"Forget lunch," he said, and in his voice was a sense of one was in charge, who was used to having his orders filled and didn't seem much like the man I had talked to over a week ago.

"No lunch?" I asked, looking down at the Astronomy magazine in my hands. Guess I wouldn't finish it on this Monday morning.

"Nope. Don't feel much like eating with you, Lewis."

Well. I suppose I could have tried to pump him for information, wheedle and whine a bit, and try to find out why he was treating me like a museum visitor with dirty fingers, but something about his tone irked me. I didn't like the sense he had, that he possessed some power over me, that he had some sort of control. He was mad about something, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of word-dueling with me some more.

"But you want a meeting, is that it?" I asked.

"That's exactly what I want."

"You got it," I said, and left it mostly at that.

Within the hour I met Justin Dix at a McDonald's restaurant in Rayburn, a small town just off Route 101, which had the advantage of being halfway between Manchester and Tyler. When I walked in, my stomach grumbled at the smells, and I tried to tell my stomach to shut up. I'm sure that deeply buried in the hidden archives of McDonald's corporate headquarters is a secret study on how to make the smells of its food go right to the pleasure and hunger centers in one's brain. But on this morning, my mind wrestled free from the scent of temptation and I avoided the midmorning lines that offered guilty pleasures for under five bucks.

Justin was sitting in a rear booth. I didn't even bother with the pretense of buying something before I walked over and sat down. He had on a dark blue suit and white shirt with light red tie, and his double chin seemed to have developed a bit more since I had last seen him. His thick brown-and-gray hair looked a little mussed, as if he had driven here with his car windows open, and behind his black-rimmed eyeglasses there was no cheer in his eyes.

Justin had his hands around a cardboard coffee cup and got right to the point. "I want to know who the hell you think you are, and what you're up to."

I got comfortable in the plastic booth and said, "You know who I am. I write for
Shoreline
. You also know what I'm up to. I'm doing an article about the Winslow Homer thefts. For this we had to meet at a McDonald's in Rayburn?"

His beefy hands seemed to caress the coffee cup and I thought he probably preferred them around my throat. "I talked earlier today to a Gus Straccia. You know the name?"

"Can't say that I do."

He smiled, and I was mortified at what he said next. "Well, that's pretty unusual, Lewis, considering he's the assignments editor for
Shoreline
. I called him and asked him about you and article about the museum theft, and he had no idea what I was talking about. Said all you write for that magazine is columns, and you've never done a feature-length piece for them since you started working there."

I made a note to call down to Seamus Anthony Holbrook and to tell the admiral to keep a lid on his staff and whatever they discussed about me and my employment, and then I promptly erased the note in my mind. It wouldn't work. I was late on my column and Admiral Holbrook wouldn't have much sympathy with me. It was my own damn fault that I didn't keep track of the magazine's masthead, but I had dealt with Admiral Holbrook on everything else, so keeping up on who was on the editorial staff was something that slipped my mind. So much for my DoD training.

Instead of acting as embarrassed as I felt, I said, "Just because the assignments editor doesn't know about the article doesn't mean I'm not working on it. I am. I just haven't told them, that's all."

"You seem to be a man who likes secrets."

That was inching in too much to my former job, and I said, "I do what it takes."

"Oh?" he said, putting on a fake tone of query. "Is that so? Then tell me what you can about three odd happenings that have popped up in my life recently. The first is that Cassie Fuller came to me the other day and warned me off about you. Said that you were a coldhearted bastard who only cared about getting things from other people, and she didn't trust you. And that's all she'd say. Second is some gossip that came my way through some banking friends of mine. Seems someone's been showing some interest in my credit history lately."

He looked at me as if he expected an answer or an explanation, but I said, "You mentioned three odd happenings. You have a third?"

Justin nodded sharply. "That I do. I'm not too sure who the hell you think you're dealing with here. You think I'm a fool? A loser? Well, I still have friends and contacts with the Manchester police department, and that's where the third happening came up. Seems a few days ago, somebody made inquiries at the Manchester police department into my background, and that of Craig Dummer and Ben Martin. I'm sure you remember those gentlemen. A friend of mine at the department found out and passed that little gem along, and the interesting thing, Lewis, is this. That inquiry came from the Tyler police department, from a woman detective who's known to be a friend of yours. Is that your normal mode of operation? Asking your lover to do your dirty work?"

He was right about my mode of operations and was wrong about my relationship with Diane, but I didn't feel like correcting him. "Without admitting to anything, Justin, you've got to agree that a man with your credit history raises a number of questions about your possible involvement with the theft. You seem to always have money problems, and that could have been some temptation. A reporter who's doing his or her job looks at all the information, all the possibilities."