Fatal Harbor (26 page)

Drake just looked at me. I continued: “This time, the ones who got hurt, they have friends who don’t forget.”

He said: “From what I’ve been told by Felix, your friend was a cop. Part of her normal duties.”

I shook my head. “Nothing about this was normal.”

He closed his briefcase. “I see. Felix sends his best wishes, you know. He’d be here, but he’s in the middle of . . . something.”

“Understood.”

He got up. “I’ll see what I can do to make your stay at the county jail comfortable, Lewis. I’m afraid neither the food nor the nursing help will be as attractive.”

“I’ll get over it.”

Drake moved his chair back to where it belonged. “I hear every now and then from Annie Wynn. She’s doing well for Senator Hale. She’s going places.”

“I know. I saw her a few days ago in D.C.”

Drake patted my foot on the way out. “Way I hear it, she’s going places without you.”

“True enough.”

“A pity.”

“You’d think.”

Then I was left alone.

Lynn, the nurse from before, came by to help me with dinner, which was a pork chop, rice, and salad. She again cut up the food so I could eat with one hand, and she examined my handcuffed hand and tsk-tsked and put some lotion around my wrist.

“Looks like you’re going to be leaving us in a bit,” she said. “Off to the fine lodgings of the county.”

“Any chance you’d be coming along?”

“Hah,” she said, rubbing my wrist some more. Her fingers were firm and strong. “No chance, I’m afraid.” Lynn stopped and wiped her fingers dry with a piece of tissue paper. “We don’t get official word, just rumors, but it seems the State thinks you’ve done some bad things. True?”

I pondered that for a moment and then said, “According to the laws of New Hampshire, I guess I did.”

“You don’t seem too worried.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

She smiled, took away my dinner dishes. “I sure hope you’re right.”

“Me too.”

Later that night I had to use the bedpan, and Lynn did her work quickly and professionally, and she offered me a sponge bath, which went just as quickly and professionally. As she helped me get back into my hospital slacks and shirt—being quite careful around my bandaged thigh—Lynn said: “Some interesting scars you got there, Lewis. I’d guess this isn’t the first time you’ve been in a hospital.”

“You’d be right.”

“What happened to you, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Lots of random thoughts came up for air in me mind, all revolving around that day in Nevada years ago, when I’d been the lone survivor of a training accident, when my DoD section had unintentionally crossed into a classified testing range and had been sprayed with something that, officially, the DoD wasn’t even supposed to have. Everyone in my section had died except me; but as a lasting gift, I had been plagued with non-cancerous tumors over the years that would suddenly appear and have to be cut out.

Eventually it would no doubt kill me.

But not tonight.

“I got them in the service of my country,” I said.

She got up, bent down, kissed my forehead. “God bless you, then. Sleep well tonight, and . . . I do wish I could be there for you at the county jail.”

My eyes were open. My hospital room was dark, save for a few lights associated with monitoring equipment. To the right was the window, overlooking the distant mountains. There were no lights up on the peaks. Below was a parking lot for the hospital. Nothing was moving. In front of me was a television, off, hanging from a stand set in the ceiling. Empty chairs and a table on wheels flanked my bed.

My heart was thumping. Mouth dry. I felt like I couldn’t move.

The door to my room was slowly opening, casting a pillar of light across the tile floor.

I knew what was going on.

They were coming for me.

I tried to scramble with my right hand, to get the call button.

I couldn’t move.

A form came into view. Male. Dressed in black. Something strange was on his head. He moved his head. I recognized it right away. Night-vision goggles.

I tried to call out.

My mouth so very, very dry.

He came closer, moving with no sound, moving like dark fog.

No call button.

I thought of rolling off the bed.

Couldn’t move.

Mouth dry.

Heart thumping, racing, almost choking me with its speed. I was now panting.

The man stopped next to me. A hand moved. Light from somewhere glinted off something metallic in his hand.

A blade.

Knew exactly what was going to happen next, knew all it would take would be a quick snap of the blade to my throat, and it would be over in seconds.

The blade descended.

I shouted.

Chest seized.

My eyes opened again.

I rolled to the side, shaking, my handcuffed wrist clanking along. One hell of a bad dream.

One hell of a bad dream.

There was a cup of water with a flexible straw. I grabbed it with my free hand and drank and drank until the cup slurped, empty.

I fell back against the bed. My heart was still thumping along, and my bedclothes were soaked through.

One
hell
of a bad dream.

I wiped my face and stretched out, wincing as a shot of pain burst out from my thigh. I eased my breathing, rested my head against the pillow.

A memory floated up to me, of my time back at the Puzzle Palace, when my section was responding to the news of an embassy attack in the Mideast, back when they weren’t such a common occurrence. We were trying to make sense of the information that was flowing in, and one of my fellow section members had shaken his head and said, “Pizza deliveries . . . sometimes they can go both ways.”

My breathing slowed down, my racing heart began to ease.

Pizza deliveries can go both ways.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T
wo days later was moving day. I didn’t have much in the way of personal belongings—most were now in the custody of the New Hampshire State Police—but I did get a little plastic bag with a toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste. Two polite deputies from the Grafton County Sheriff’s Department came into my room, one pushing an empty wheelchair. Paperwork was signed and exchanged, and the older of the two deputies—who had a florid handlebar moustache and a nearly bald head—tried to be gracious and polite with the whole process. His partner was tall and young, with close-cropped black hair, and eyed me suspiciously, like he wished I would make a sudden break for it so he could put a round in my good leg.

The older man, Deputy Lindsay, moved the chair close to my bed. “Mister Cole, this is what we’re going to be doing today. We’re in charge of transporting prisoners to the county jail. There’s a bed in the medical facility that’s waiting for you, though I’m sure the help won’t be as attractive as what you’re used to.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

The other man, Deputy Bronski, glowered at me, holding a manila envelope. Both men wore tan slacks and brown uniform shirts with brown neckties. Wide leather utility belts held their usual equipment of pistols, handcuffs, and pepper spray, along with radios that had microphones clipped to their shoulder epaulets.

Deputy Lindsay went over to the left side of the bed, and he quickly undid my handcuff. I wanted to prove how strong and noble I was by not rubbing the wrist, but I couldn’t help myself: I rubbed and rubbed the wrist, feeling like I was scratching at an itch that had been tormenting me for nearly a week.

Lindsay pocketed the cuffs and asked, “You need help getting into the wheelchair?”

“If you hold the chair steady, I should be able to make it.”

By now, my leg was no longer in some sort of suspension system. I tossed off my blankets and sheets and, gritting my teeth, managed to rotate around and put both feet on the floor. Lindsay held the chair fast and, after a few deep breaths, I got out of bed and into the chair.

It felt good to be out of the bed.

That nice feeling lasted about ten seconds.

“Sorry, Mister Cole,” Lindsay said. “Rules are rules. Put your wrists together.”

Wrists together, the handcuffs went back on with a metallic snap. He took a white cotton blanket and put it around my lap and down my legs. “If you’d like, put your hands underneath the blanket so no one can see them.”

I shook my head, rested my cuffed wrists on the blanket. “It was a fair pinch. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Deputy Bronski led our little procession out into the hallway, and Deputy Lindsay pushed my chair along. The lights seemed very bright and everything seemed so clean, and I didn’t want to think much about what my lodgings were going to be like later that day. Passing the nurses’ station, I got a few sympathetic smiles from the Dartmouth-Hitchcock pros, and that felt fine. We got an elevator to ourselves, and I twisted my head back to Lindsay.

“Excuse my ignorance, but where the hell is the county jail?”

“North Haverhill,” he said. “We take Interstate 91 and get off on one of the state roads. Just over a half hour.”

“Sounds quite scenic.”

Bronski spoke up, voice low. “No worries, you won’t see shit.”

We got out in a main lobby area. Patients and family members swarmed around the elevator banks, but as our trio went out to the glass doors leading to the outside, it was like we were made of garlic and the people were vampires. They all backed away and turned their eyes, save for one little boy, wearing a Batman sweatshirt, who stared at me with wide, wide eyes.

If I had just persuaded him not to follow a life of crime, I guess this little public display was well worth it.

Bronski slapped a square button that opened up a set of doors, wide enough for the wheelchair to go through. Outside, the cold air snapped at me like a blast of A/C, and I took a deep breath, enjoying the taste and smell of outdoor air. Off to the right, parked right up to the curb, was a brown-and-tan GMC van with a gold sheriff’s department shield, and a long line of lettering announcing
GRAFTON
COUNTY
SHERIFF
’
S
DEPARTMENT
. Lindsay wheeled me to the pavement and off to the rear of the van. More family members were strolling up to the main entrance and, seeing me and the van, they all walked around in a wide circle.

“Look how popular you are,” Bronski said.

“And they don’t even know me yet,” I said.

Lindsay laughed. He parked my wheelchair and opened up the rear of the van. I was impressed. There was an elevator system in the rear made for wheelchairs. Lindsay toggled a couple of switches, and a platform unfolded and lowered itself to the ground. I was wheeled in, the chair’s wheels were locked, and in a couple of minutes everything was squared away. Bronski was up forward in the cab, with a mesh screen separating him from his dangerous prisoner.

The rear of the van was spare, metal and utilitarian. Benches lined both sides, and metal rings were set into the floor and the sides. I was set in the middle, wheels locked, and Lindsay took some heavy-duty bungee cords and secured the chair even more.

He leaned over, rapped the rear of the mesh. “Ski, we’re good to go.”

Bronski grunted, spoke something into his microphone to Grafton County Dispatch, started up the engine, and we were off.

In just a few minutes, we were on Interstate 91, heading northeast. Bronski had been wrong. I was seeing shit, although only through the rear windows with mesh wiring embedded in the glass. The landscape was wooded low hills and mountains in the distance. There wasn’t much left in the way of foliage. My wrist ached where the handcuff was cutting into the skin and bone. Deputy Lindsay leaned forward, wrists on his thighs, thick hands clasped together.

“You feeling okay?”

“Not bad.”

“Leg hurting?”

“Enough to know I got shot.”

“Jesus, that’s what I heard,” Lindsay said. “Who the hell shot you?”

I smiled at him. “A nine-millimeter pistol.”

“Hah,” he said. “I mean, who? Who shot you?”

I smiled wider. “A mysterious gunman.” He stayed quiet. I added: “Nice try, Deputy. Don’t worry about it.”

He grinned. “Hey, I gotta try. Never know what might happen.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “For all you know, somebody might confess to the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. Or Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Guy can dream, right?” he asked.

A few minutes passed. I said: “Excuse me for saying this, Deputy, but you don’t look like a cop. You’ve been a sheriff’s deputy long?”

“About five years.”

“What did you do before then?”

“Firefighter. City of Nashua. Got my twenty in, got the wife and kids, and headed north. Nice piece of land, raise some chickens, pigs, and beef. Figured if and when things collapse, we’ll make it through. In the meantime, I get out of the house, meet some interesting people, and add to my pension.”

“Sounds great.”

“Better than a lot of other people are doing here, that’s for sure.”

A few more minutes. I cleared my throat. “Deputy Lindsay, could I ask a favor?”

“Hmm?”

I raised my hands up. “I know it’s against the rules and all, but could you take off the cuffs? Please? My right wrist is really aching.”

“Christ, no.”

“C’mon,” I said, moving my hands over my bandaged leg. “You think I’m going anywhere with this bum leg? Do I look like I can overpower you? Please. Besides, your buddy up there driving looks like he’d like to pump a round in the back of my head, just for the hell of it.”

He looked up at the mesh screen, looked back at me. I quieted my voice. “Take the cuffs off, treat me just like a patient, and I’ll put my hands under the blanket. Keep my mouth shut. Your partner won’t know. We pull into the jail, put them back on, and that’s it.”

Lindsay seemed to be thinking over something, and then he came to me, worked quickly, and undid the cuffs. I put my hands under the blankets, rubbed both wrists this time, and said, “Thanks.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lindsay said.

About two minutes later was when it happened.

Bronski took an exit that put us on Route 25, and the road was narrow and curvy, with farms and pastureland and a few mobile homes out there in the distance. Old stone walls and barbed-wire fences, and herds of sheep and cows at work. I looked out at the passing rural landscape, wondering what my view would be like once I got to the county jail. I also thought about what Attorney Drake was doing on my behalf at this very moment, and spared some thoughts for Diane and Kara and Felix.