Shattered Shell (37 page)

“What's that?"

He rinsed off the washcloth. "That courier job is coming right up soon. I can join you on this meet, but everything else for a week or two, you're on your own. Remember that, in case you decide there are places we need to go. I'm not going to be around."

"Any idea when you'll be back?"

"Depends," he said. “I’ll let you know."

I said that was fine, and after washing my own dishes I walked him out to the front door. Felix stepped out onto the shoveled path and looked over at me.

"You were pretty lucky last night," he said.

"I sure was."

He smiled. "Let's just hope your lucky streak keeps on going, all right?"

"With you in my hire, how could anything else happen?" He waved and started walking, and I was going to thank him again for what he did, and then he was far enough along the path so that I decided not to. I closed the door, knowing that he knew, knowing that Felix always knew, and that was good enough.

Later in the morning I was cleaning my 8mm FN assault rifle and securing the cartridges I needed for it, when the phone rang.

"Mr. Cole?" came the voice, and it was not my friend from last night.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Cole, this is Manny, up here in the parking lot, the guy that Felix hired?" he said, his voice rising. "There's a woman here who wants to see you."

"Is she a cop?" I asked.

"Nope," he said. "Just a cute little thing, no weapon on her at all. You want I should send her down?"

"Sure," I said, hanging up the phone, conscious that my house smelled of both bacon and gun oil. A not-unpleasant combination. I tidied up some, throwing newspapers and magazines into a reasonable pile, and when someone started knocking at my door. I walked over, wondering what news Paula Quinn might have for me.  I opened the door and froze, the brilliant midmorning sunlight hurting my eyes.

"Well?" she asked. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Sure," I said, and I stepped aside as Kara Miles came into my home.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Kara came in and sat down on my couch, unbuttoning her short leather jacket and taking off a pair of black gloves. She looked good, with only a slight discoloration on her cheek and a puffy lower lip to mark what had happened to her in the outside world.

I made the usual offers of a befuddled host, and in a few minutes we were sipping tall glasses of orange juice. Kara smiled and looked around. "It's been a while since I've been here. Still such a beautiful place. You know, Diane once told me that if she were single and hetero, she'd be moving in here so quick it would make your head spin."

"Really?" I said. "Would I be allowed to live here?"

"Probably, but don't ask me if you'd be her lover or her roommate.”

We both laughed, and after some forced discussion on the weather and the last big storm we had, she put the glass down on the coffee table and looked up, her face somber. I couldn't begin to imagine how different she was, and how she had changed in these past days. A shattered shell is damn hard to put back together again.

"I want to start by saying two things, okay?"

"Go right ahead."

"The last time we talked was awful. I know you're just trying to help. I was ----"

I raised a hand. "Kara, please. You don't have to say a thing.”

A firm nod. "Yes, I do. It wasn't right and I've felt bad were just trying to help us and you didn't deserve to get a flamethrower in the face. So I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

She sighed and crossed her arms. "That was the easy part. Here comes topic number two. Please stop."

No need to ask what she wanted me to stop. "I'm not sure I can do that."

"Yes, you can," she said. "Just go back to Diane and tell her that you're done, that there's nothing out there, nothing more you can do. Just stop it. Please."

I looked at her, seeing the tension in her face. "Protecting your brother Doug?"

She looked away from me. "I can't say anything about that.”

"Kara," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "What happened that night? Is your brother connected? And your landlord, died couple of days later. What's going on?"

Her eyes were welling up. "I'm not going to appeal to our friendship. You're more Diane's friend. But please, for God's sake, will you stop asking questions and bothering people? You’re going to get hurt, and if Diane ever... " Her voice trailed off.

"You're afraid of what Diane might do to your brother, is that it?"

She rubbed at her chin with a clenched fist. "I can't say anymore, I'm sorry."

"What's your brother involved with? Why did your landlord get murdered?"

Kara still looked away. I went on and said, "Yesterday afternoon I saw Doug at the Brick Yard Pub. He didn't seem happy to see me. A couple of hours later, I'm getting shot at in North Tyler. So what's he involved with?"

She sighed. "Doug was my first friend. We could talk about things and play together, and go hiding when my parents were on the warpath. Doug wasn't too bright, and I helped him with his schoolwork, though I'm not sure how much I accomplished.  She smiled faintly and looked back at me. "You've met my parents, right?”

"We had a brief visit that seemed to last about a year."

"Good description," she said. "Mother and Father --- I could really never call them Mom and Dad --- felt like they had responsibilities. So they labored to have the required two children, and were quite pleased that they received a male and a female. As we got older, we were just props, props for them to show that they were committed parents. We were also expected to do well in school, be active in the required school events --- sports for Doug and music for me --- and then join the right crowd. Which always turned out to be the children of my parents' friends."

"Somehow I don't think your parents are too pleased about what happened."

She was still smiling but in an odd way: I could see a note of anger play across her face. "That's so true. The true-blue son who was supposed to do well and go to Harvard and join the old man's business, well, he turns out to be a college dropout with a taste for potato chips and soap operas. The dutiful daughter who is supposed to marry the up-and-coming lad in Father's business and have two point-nine children, well, she turns out to be a dyke. After all these years, still quite a shock to both of them."

I leaned forward a bit. "After all these years, are you still protecting Doug? Even if it means something connected to your landlord getting murdered?"

She looked right at me. "Will you stop what you're doing?"

Everything felt heavy about me as I answered her. "I made a promise to Diane, one I take seriously. I can't lie to her. I have to see it through."

Her voice was clear and to the point. "If you do that, I'll never speak to you again, Lewis, and I can tell you, as much as Diane is fond of you, she loves me more. If I shut you out, she'll follow me. She might not like it, but she'll follow me and you'll never see her again. Are you prepared to do that?"

"I'm prepared to keep my promise."

She nodded and said, "Don't get up," but of course I did, walking her to the door, and she trudged up the snow-covered path and my mind was racing, trying out the phrase or combination of
phrases I could use to call her back and try to make it right with her, but nothing came to me, nothing at all, as she went over the rise.

I slammed the door and went back into the living room, and picking up the two juice glasses, I went into the kitchen and in one quick motion threw them down into the sink, the glass shattering so loud it almost hurt my ears.

Felix called me later that day. "I've finished my snooping. They did well, picking that place. The airfield's been abandoned, but someone keeps plowing it out. The access road is a couple of hundred yards in, and then you come to a grove of trees. Past the trees is the hangar. Nice and remote and wide open. Some old pieces of machinery in the yard, and a couple of outbuildings. You could hide a platoon of assassins in there with no problem. There's another access road, leading out back to the highway."

"So we get there early, and then what?"

"Then we wait for them. If it's not a trap --- a slight possibility --- then they're surprised to see us there and we apologize, saying we misread the time or something. If it is a trap --- a much larger possibility --- then we've spoiled their plans. We've confused them, then maybe we get a good look at who's been shooting at you. Or maybe everything works out for the best and we end up with the package.  Do you believe that?"

"I don't know what to believe."

He laughed. "Who does? I'll be by tomorrow, about nine o'clock. You plan on bringing along some ... urn, supplies?"

"Wouldn't leave home without being supplied, not these days."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."

I hung up and went to wash my hands. The house smelled of cooking, gun oil, and a faint scent from Kara's visit. There was also another odor there, of fear and terror and apprehension, and I opened the kitchen window to the January air, hoping it would help.

At five minutes before five o'clock on the next day, my phone rang.  It was Felix. "I'm up in the parking lot. Are you ready?"

"That I am," I said. "I'll be right up."

I hung up the phone, and by the front door I gathered up my belongings and looked back. I guess I should have been thinking great thoughts about what lay ahead for us this winter night, or at least I should have had melancholy feelings about leaving my safe house for a possible bloody encounter, but no, I was just ready to get on with it.

Felix stood at the parking lot's border, hands in pockets, the engine of his car rumbling and gray exhaust clouds eddying around the open trunk. He nodded at me as I placed two long zippered bags inside.

"What do you have there?" he asked.

"Twelve-gauge shotgun," I said. "And an eight-millimeter assault rifle."

He whistled. "Anything else?"

"Just my Beretta, under my coat."

"Expecting trouble, I see."

"No, expecting to be alive when this evening is over," I said.  “And you?"

He grinned as he slammed down the trunk. "Let's just say you and I have parity."

I climbed in and Felix joined me. On the rear seat of the car was a collection of black zippered bags. We got out of the parking lot and I said to Felix, "Do we have time?"

"Time for what?"

"A quick favor." And when I asked him, he agreed and we headed north.

Fifteen minutes later I was standing on cold concrete in a garage in Bretton, hands in pockets, just looking. Before me, on three flat tires, was my Range Rover. The driver's side was stitched with bullet holes and most of the windows had been shattered. Fluid was still dripping from the engine. I wanted to touch the scarred metal, and I forced myself to stand there and look, feeling the memories come back to me, back when I had first moved into Tyler Beach and had bought this four-wheeler. Many good miles had passed with this vehicle, far from its home in England, and now it lay dead and hidden.

What an ending. I rubbed at my eyes and turned to Felix "Let's get out of here."

We headed south, to Newburyport and its neighbor Plum Island, a barrier island off the East Coast. It's a community made of loners, fishermen, malcontents, and other people who believe the mainland doesn't understand them, and they're probably right. It's connected to the coast by a drawbridge, and the north end is a cozy community of winterized cottages and shops, and the entire south is a national wildlife preserve.

As Felix drove I looked around at his car. It was a rented black Toyota Camry. The fact that we were driving a rented car was another sign of what we were getting into.

I looked out at the lights and said, "Where do you get your vehicles?"

"Trade secret," Felix said. "And a pretty expensive one. The deal I have, I'm all set, no matter what dents, dings, or odd bullet hole might be in it when I bring it back. The only real no-no is blood. I can't bring back a car with bloody seats or trunk."

"How do you get around that?"

"Plastic sheets."

"I'd like to have you connect me with that someone," I said, "I need a vehicle, and I'd like to have it by tomorrow."

"Deal."

After another hundred yards or so, Felix pulled over to the side, letting the engine run, switching on an overhead light. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the glove compartment and unfolded it. It was a hand-drawn --- and quite nicely done --- map of the airport and the surrounding buildings.

"Pre-job briefing," he said. "We drive in there, nice and slow, like we're lost or something. We'll both have windows down and weapons in our laps. We're about two hours early, so either we're going to catch them by surprise or it'll be empty. Then we'll sit, engine running, keeping an eye on things."