Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (23 page)

We approached the counter. “Maybe so, but they don’t pay the bills.”

“No, but they feed the soul.”

“My soul will be fine on its own,” he said. “It’s my bank account that needs to be fed.”

After a few minutes of delicate negotiations in Mark’s Mazda concerning our relative cashworthiness and credit standing, we drove around the waterfront until we came upon a motel that looked like it had seen better days back when the first Arab oil embargo had struck. The place was called Ocean View Terrace, but the view was of a smelly cove that was some distance from the ocean. It seemed to be a forward-looking, liberal establishment, since it offered hourly, daily, and weekly rates.

Mark sighed as I drove his Mazda into the potholed parking lot. “Last year at this time, I was on a junket in Florida. Stayed at a resort town on the Gulf of Mexico. It was a free conference for lawyers who represent small towns. Not a big city but not small either. Right on the beach. Four
days. Didn’t have to pay for a single thing, just agree to attend a couple of seminars.”

I found an empty spot near the office. It was one story, stretching out with two wings. “Sounds like legalized bribery to me.”

“I agree.”

“So why did you go?”

“Because there wasn’t a chance in the world that the organizers could do anything to bribe me,” he said. “It was some conservative PAC, dedicated to rolling back state income taxes to what they thought were more reasonable levels.”

“New Hampshire doesn’t have a state income tax.”

“Right, but whoever organized this little shindig didn’t know that. So why not take a vaca? I checked with the town manager, and so I went . . . and I nodded at all the right places and ate great food, stayed in a great room . . . now look where I am.”

“Correction, Counselor. Look where
we
are.”

“Yeah.”

“Just a reminder, you’re not alone on this little quest.”

We got out and into the night, and the air smelled of fuel oil, saltwater, and dead fish. At the office we had to ring a buzzer before a woman wearing black sweat pants and a Portland Sea Dogs sweatshirt came out. On the counter was a sign:
KATHI HAWKINS, MANAGER
. After some talk, she said, “Fellas, only rooms I have left have queen beds in ’em. So I can rent you one room and you’ll share, or I can give you each a separate room.”

Kathi looked at us and our faces, and said “Separate rooms it is. Sign here.”

We both got room keys with numbers etched on heavy, red diamond-shaped plastic; and as we went back outside and retrieved our respective kits, Mark asked “What time do you want to start tomorrow?”

“As soon as I wake up.”

“When will that be?”

“When my body lets me know.”

The room was spare and neat, and that’s when I ran out of positive adjectives. One queen-sized bed, sagging in the center like it had been used in a previous life to support boulders. The carpet was green and beaten
down, and there was a small television on a stand in the corner, with an impressive-looking stain on the carpeting before it. I closed the drapes and gingerly checked the bathroom, and then walked out, thinking a shower could definitely wait, though I could probably get away with washing my face and hands without contracting anything. I took off my jacket and holster and stretched out on the bed. That was going to be it for any disrobing tonight.

I took my new phone out and dialed a number from memory, and a brisk man answered, “Porter Rehab and Extended Care Center.”

“Room 209, please.”

“One moment.”

The phone was answered on the first ring, and then it was dropped, and there was a clatter and fumble, and some giggles, and it was picked up and a woman said, “Chaos central, Major Disorder here, how can I help you?”

That brought a smile. It was Kara Miles, Diane Woods’s partner.

“Hey, Kara, it’s Lewis. Is Diane handy?”

“In the kitchen? No. In the bedroom . . . well, I’ll let you tell her.”

Some whispers and more laughter, and then Diane answered, her voice as strong as I’d heard it these past few weeks. “Hello, friend. Where the hell are you?”

“In Portland, in one of its fine lodging establishments.”

“Oh, and which one is that? The Sheraton Shorefront? The Hyatt?”

“Not quite . . . it’s a place where they change the sheets and towels once a week, whether they need it or not.”

“Christ . . . you okay?”

“I hope to be. And you?”

Even over the radio waves, I could sense her smile. “Son, at this very moment, my sweetie here and I are packing up my belongings, including a pound or so of greeting cards, and once daylight comes into this room, I am gone. I am departing, I am leaving, and I’m going to happier shores.”

“Damn, I wish I was there to help.”

“Don’t need a man’s help, or have you forgotten our little talk when we first met?”

“Not hardly,” I said. “But I wish I was there anyway.”

“Unh-hunh,” she said. “And the big day is Thursday. Are you coming by?”

Damn.

“I wish I was, Diane. I really . . . I really wish I was. Any chance for leftovers?”

“Hah. The way Kara eats, I doubt it.” A muffled voice and Diane said, “Well, it’s true, you can pack it away, though God knows it never shows up on your ass.”

More muffled sounds and giggles and Diane lowered her voice. “All right, pal, what’s going on? How’s the hunt for Mark Spencer?”

“The hunt . . . is completed. He’s safe.”

“Sweet Jesus. Why are you in Portland, then?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Of course it is. Just don’t tell me any more . . . but you’re going to see it straight through, make it right. Correct?”

“Going to do my best.”

“I’m sure . . . but Lewis, that hurricane is coming up here, landfall set for sometime Thursday.”

“You and Kara going to be safe?”

“Oh, Christ, yes. The family who built these condos way back when, they were oddballs. They went above and beyond the building-code requirements, and I’m sure we’re going to ride it out just fine. But what about your house?”

“It’s . . . also complicated.”

“Oh, Lewis. . . .”

“My contractor promised he’d get over there, put up some more tarps, but. . . .”

I just couldn’t say any more.

Diane said, “You being in Maine. Pretty important stuff.”

“Not to me, but to—”

“No more words necessary. Christ. What we do, eh? For those who are our families, and those we love or have friendships with. You’re the truest man I know.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Right now, I’m the smelliest man.”

She laughed and said “All right. Leftovers. I’ll do my best. You want a turkey leg?”

“Nope, just some white meat, gravy, and stuffing. I’ll make do.”

“I’m sure you will. Be safe, come home quick . . . and thanks for sticking by me. A little bird told me that you had a job lined up at
Shoreline
, as the goddamn editor, and that you lost the job because it meant moving out of Tyler. True?”

“Well-informed bird you have there.”

“So. Was it because you didn’t want to leave Tyler, or didn’t want to leave me?”

“Good night, Diane. Happy trails.”

With that phone call put away, I made a run into the bathroom, washed my hands, wiped them on my pants, and went back and made another call.

Felix Tinios answered on the first ring and, when he heard my voice, said, “Ah, the most unpopular man in New Hampshire has decided to give me a call.”

“I’m in Maine,” I said.

“Fine, then. The most unpopular man in northern New England. What’s up with the new phone number?”

“Had an earlier conversation with Reeve Langley. Somehow he got my number, decided to negotiate. I decided to dump my phone when the call was over.”

“What was he looking for?”

“Mark Spencer, up on a silver platter.”

“Bet you were tempted,” Felix said.

“I was, but I couldn’t do it, not to Paula.”

“Speaking of Paula, she’s made a number of calls to your old phone number. Maybe you should listen to them.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “I don’t want to get discouraged so late at night.”

Felix said, “Well, I was next to her when she made most of them. It’s been a while since I’ve heard such language come from such a sweet-looking young lady. If I thought she had a sense of humor, I would have suggested another line of work involving 1-800 numbers, but I didn’t want to go there.”

“So where did you go?”

“From where we departed, up north. Small town called Milan. Very remote, very empty.”

“Christ,” I said. “Where did you put her? At some no-tell motel?”

“No, some friends of mine. They have a remote and very secure compound.”

“‘Compound’? Felix, who the hell are your friends? Aryan Nation? Klan?”

“Lewis . . . please.” His voice was chilly. “That’s quite the insult, even coming from you. You know my methods, know my associates.”

I rubbed at my eyes. “Sorry. You’re right. Speaking of no-tell motels, that’s where I currently am, dreading to go to sleep in a few minutes because I’m not sure what’s going to crawl out and greet me when the lights go off. What’s in Milan, then?”

“Up here in Milan is a guy who used to work for the Federal Reserve in Boston. Did some . . . after-work details for him. Anyway, he told me he once saw some paperwork he shouldn’t have, about future financial trends and such. I have a head for numbers, but even I had a hard time figuring out what he was saying.”

“Is he a doomsday prepper?” I asked.

“You got it,” he said. “He’s convinced that some day, the strands and ties that bind this global economy are going to cut loose in a bad way that’s going to make the Great Depression look like a Black Friday sale. So he sold all his upper-class goodies, and he and a few friends and neighbors, they hightailed it up north, bought a few hundred acres, and are waiting for doomsday.”

“How long have they been waiting?”

“Three years. But we’re still friends. So I brought Paula in, told them that it would be a considerable favor to me if she was a guest for a couple of days.” Felix paused. “It will only be a couple of days, right?”

“It had better be.”

“Good. I’ve avoided a lot of things over the years, and I don’t want to add attempted kidnapping to the mix. So there she is. She put up one hell of a fight, even when I was trying to tell her to calm down and make her realize this was all being done for her own safety. Lucky for me, they have a number of puppies and horses here, which managed to distract her. Paula’s cooled down some, but I wouldn’t push it.”

“Thanks.”

“So what’s on your agenda? What’s the quest you’re on?”

“Seems like Mark Spencer is a man with a mysterious past.”

“Lewis, all men have mysterious pasts. That’s why women put up with us.”

“It seems his Vermont parents were his adoptive parents. His birth mom is dead, and his birth dad is alive and up here in Maine, under the Witness Protection Program. The old guy is dying, and Mark wants to see him before that happens.”

“The old man from Wyoming?”

“Yes.”

“The old man once a member of the Stonecold Falcons Motorcycle Club?”

“The vice president. Before he flipped and sent a number of them to prison.”

“Oh, my,” Felix said. “Which explains why the club’s president is hot on Mark’s trail. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but when you do something like that, go against the club and put men that consider you their brother in jail . . . there’s no time limit on that. Revenge will be a dish served freeze-dried, if you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do. So the agenda is for the two of us to go up the coast of Maine, do a meet and greet, maybe some sobs and reconciliation, and then get the hell out and go to the police, tell them what happened back in Tyler and who’s behind it.”

“Sounds like a busy agenda.”

“Yeah.”

“Got any room on your agenda for day after tomorrow?”

“Felix. . . .”

“Don’t argue. Doesn’t Thanksgiving with Aunt Teresa, her current boyfriend, and lady caregivers sound like fun?”

“You really expect to fly south in this weather?”

“No, I don’t, which is why they’re up here, in a nice hotel in western Massachusetts. Might get some rain, but that’s it. Private suite, dinner with all the trimmings. . . .”

“Felix, I can’t leave until I’m done . . . and even when I’m done, there’s my house.”

“Oh. Your house. Anything new?”

“No, but I think there’ll be a lot new after the storm comes through. A nice cellar hole where it used to be.”

Felix stayed quiet, like he was embarrassed to bring up the matter, and I said: “About those doomsday preppers. Do they have a space for you when the markets collapse, or when the long-promised zombie apocalypse hits?”

“Nope.”

“And why not? It sounds like something you’d want to be prepared for.”

Finally a laugh from Felix. “When and if doomsday comes, it’s going to be scared of me. Not the other way around. Talk to you later.”

It took a while for sleep to come. I turned on the light in the bathroom and closed the door mostly shut, so there was some illumination coming into the room. It was noisy with a nearby road, horns from boats in the harbor, and some drunken shouts and yells from a bar just a ways down the street. I slept on top of the bed in my clothes, tossed and turned, and thought about what would happen in the morning. I’d sleep in as much as possible, get up and wash up, and then grab Mark and head northeast up the coast of Maine. Once we got to North Point Harbor, track down Mark’s dad, do a quick reunion, and suggest—even with his illness—that dad go somewhere else on the off chance the Stonecold Falcons made it up there.

That was the plan I made during the night.

And it fell apart about ten minutes after I woke up.

I
t was just after seven
A.M.
when I rolled out of bed, and I spent a handful of minutes washing up and brushing my teeth, and changing out some of my clothes from my recent Walgreen’s purchase. Putting on my holstered pistol and jacket, and with my hands pretty much empty, I stepped outside, where a light rain was falling, the first gentle and deadly kisses from Hurricane Toni.