Fatal Harbor

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The bus drive back to Massachusetts took about the same amount of time as before — twelve hours — but as I brooded and thought and brooded some more, it seemed to take twice as long. I napped and drank water or fruit juice, my stomach too tightly wrapped to accept any food. We stopped twice for refueling and rest stops, and I had to force myself to get off the bus and walk around to stretch my legs. The trip to D.C. and Arlington had been fruitful, even though the fruit had been bitter indeed. Probably a cliché; so sue me.

Our last stop was outside Hartford, and after I returned to my seat, I noticed a young man and his pregnant wife come up the aisle. He was in BDUs and his black hair was cut high and tight. He was in his twenties and his wife looked to be in her teens, and she had a shy smile as she followed her soldier husband onto the bus. The driver was still inside the station, completing some paperwork.

There were two empty seats, one behind the other, right next to me. Their companion seats had been occupied by two young men, bearded, wearing cargo pants and black fleece jackets. Bottles of designer water and bags of snacks were next to them on the empty seats. At the previous stop, the two of them had come in together, laughing and joking. The soldier stopped and looked at them, murmured something, but he was ignored by both young men. Each of them had iPod earphones in, they were reading Maxim and Rolling Stone, and their heads were slowly bobbing up and down in time with their secret tunes.

Feeling generous, I gave the two seated men about fifteen seconds, and then I stood up. The soldier looked me over and I gave him my best older guy smile. “Just a sec, just you wait.”

I leaned down, tapped the near guy on the shoulder. He glanced up at me, frowned, went back to his music and magazine. I gave him a harder tap, and he looked up.

“The fuck you want?” he said, taking one of his earbuds out.

“Nice to meet you too,” I replied. I motioned to the soldier and his wife standing in the aisleway. “How about being a sport, move up one seat, let the corporal and his pregnant wife sit together.”

“How about minding your own fucking business?”

He moved to replace his earbud, but I was quicker. With my right hand, I grabbed his beard, tugged him forward. He yelped. With my left hand, I took the wire to his iPod and quickly wrapped it around his neck, started twisting it as I also twisted his beard. He gurgled and started waving his arms.

“Tell you what,” I said. “When I let you go, you can move one seat forward and sit next to your pal.”

I tightened the beard and the iPod wires a bit more. His face colored. “Or you and I can see if that emergency exit behind you really does work, as I toss your ass out on the pavement. Can I get an amen?”

He nodded once, twice, thrice.

I let him go, stood up.

“Fair enough.” I stepped back and the guy, his face red and his nose dripping, bustled out of the seat, grabbing his belongings as he did so. The soldier and his wife backed down a few feet, and when the way was clear, they sat down together. The soldier gave me a knowing glance, and his wife ignored me and just kept her adoring gaze on her husband.

I took my seat, let out a breath. Wondered what Annie Wynn was doing at this very moment, and decided not to think about that anymore.

At North Station in Boston, I sat for a few minutes on one of the long wooden benches, just catching my breath. People in a hurry moved around, to and fro, and I tried to organize my thoughts, which were dark and disorganized indeed.

Curt Chesak.

Hell, I wasn’t even sure that was his name.

But I knew who he was, and what he did.

He was a hired gun, hired to raise hell, to be an agent provocateur. Soon after my last view of him at the Falconer nuclear power plant, beating the proverbial crap out of Diane Woods, my chase of him had resulted in a gunfight outside Boston University, the disappearance of a BU professor, said professor’s house burning down, and a fair number of well-armed and sharp-eyed men keeping an eye on Aunt Teresa’s house in the North End and my own house at Tyler Beach. Not to mention the story of the BU gunfight being spun into a story for the Boston Globe about a student filmmaking project gone awry.

So who were they? Contractors working for a federal agency? Contractors working for a foreign government — take your pick of any unstable oil-exporting country out there — or a foreign intelligence agency? Or maybe for some transnational corporation?

Too much to think about.

I rubbed at my hands, thought longingly of a meal that hadn’t been wrapped in plastic and a wide comfortable bathroom that didn’t bump and sway in the traffic.

Still too much to think about.

So stop thinking.

I smiled slightly.

So stop thinking already.

I flashed back to my first weeks working at the DoD as a research analyst, when one of my now long-deceased instructors had forcefully told us young ’uns, as she had said, not to think above your pay grade. Meaning, as she pointed out, if your job was to research and prepare a report on the latest variant of the Soviet SS-18 intercontinental ballistic missile and its guidance system, then do the goddamn report. Don’t think about any impact on arms control treaties, about the future threat of war, or the current nuclear offensive capability of the United States or the USSR.

Just do your goddamn report.

So there you go.

I didn’t care who was paying Chesak or why they were doing it.

I just wanted to find him.

After getting my ticket for the Downeaster to take me back up north to Exonia, I gave Felix Tinios a call. He picked it up after four rings and said, “Yeah.”

A signal. Things were not well, which was why he answered the phone the way he did.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Been better.”

“You where you said you’d be?”

“Had to go someplace else. Didn’t work out.”

“How’s the other part of the equation?”

Slight laugh. “Looking for a knife.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“Got anything for me?”

“Nope.”

“Anything you need?” he asked.

“Not at the moment.”

“Gotta go.”

He hung up. I put the cell phone back in my coat pocket, feeling cool, feeling uncomfortable. Felix had been going to take his Aunt Teresa to her winter haven in Florida after the BU shootout, and obviously the long reach of whoever was in Boston had managed to reach the Sunshine State and was nipping at Felix’s heels.

Just another signal, as if I needed one, of what I was up against.

And I had lied to Felix just now. I sure as hell needed him here, and not thousands of miles away. I needed his muscle, his street smarts, and his resources as I went up against the well-armed shadows that were protecting Curt Chesak.

Then my phone rang, and I felt sweet relief course through me.

Had to be Felix, calling me back, telling me all was well, squared away.

I dug out my phone, saw that the incoming number was blocked.

Good ol’ Felix.

I answered the phone. “So, things improving?”

Another voice answered instead. “Beats the hell out of me,” the man said. “I understand you’re looking for me.”

I literally could not believe who was on the other end of the phone.

“Lewis? It’s Curt Chesak. How’s it going?”

I had to press my phone hard against my ear because my hand suddenly started trembling. “Curt Chesak? For real?”

He laughed and I had no doubt it was him. He said, “In the flesh, my friend. In the flesh.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Just being polite.”

“Then be a sport and, speaking of in the flesh, why don’t you stop by, have a chat? Maybe we could have a cup of coffee or something.”

Another laugh. “Lewis, sorry, that’s not going to happen.”

“So, why the call? To gloat?”

“Oh, no, no, I’m too professional to gloat. No, the reason I’m calling you is to politely ask you to stop sniffing around and asking questions.”

“Gee, you know, Curt, I sort of quit my job last week, so I have a lot of free time on my hands. And I find you so very fascinating.”

“Then you have good taste. But trust me when I say this, Lewis: keeping after me is going to end badly.”

“As badly as Detective Sergeant Woods? Or John Todd Thomas? And those other innocents shot at the power plant? Sounds like something you would do, doesn’t it. Shooting two protesters to raise a fuss.”

“Just doing my job,” he said. “Like you used to do, back at the Pentagon.”

“No comparison.”

“Oh, really? So tell me, Lewis, when you were in the bowels of the Pentagon, doing your research tasks for the higher-ups, isn’t it the truth that some of the work you did was used in targeting? Mmm? Helping those with the fingers on the triggers send a Tomahawk cruise missile to some tents in a desert, or helping certain troops go into Bolivia or Colombia to take out a village or two? How many innocents perished because of your job?”

“Still no comparison,” I said, feeling my voice rise. “I was working under the direction of lawfully selected personnel, under the direction of a legally elected government.”

Another laugh. “Perhaps I can say the very same thing.”

“Oh? Is it confession time?”

“Not hardly,” Curt said. “If I was one to blab, it would sort of kill my employment opportunities.”

“Funny you mentioned kill. That’s been on my mind for a while.”

“Oh, Lewis, please. Stop talking nonsense. Your time has passed, and I thank you for your service. It’s my time now. There are huge forces at play out there, moving around, settling scores and preparing for the next half-century. You were a pawn once, and now I’m in the same place. Doing what I can, making money, just muddling through.”

“Sounds like you have a real self-esteem issue, Curt. Leave me out of it.”

“I would love to leave you out of everything. So why not do me the favor of stopping your activities, then, and we’ll both be on our separate ways? What you’re doing is stirring up attention and notice, in lots of different circles, and that has to stop.”

“You forgot to add one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The ‘or else.’ It’s part of the rules. You issue a request, you tell me to fulfill the request, ‘or else.’ So what’s the ‘or else’?”

“The ‘or else’ is that you won’t like the end results. Like a certain missing BU professor. Or those bodies at Falconer. Or a vegetable at the Exonia Hospital.”

My heart wasn’t racing along, it was moving glacier-slow, one heavy lump-lump at a time. “Then why the warning? Why not just take care of me and remove me from the board?”

There was quiet for a bit of time, such that I thought he had hung up. He spoke again, and his voice had a sense of concern in it. “Trust me, I’ve been under a lot of pressure from my employer… supervisor… whatever the hell you want to call them, to do just that. But you know what, Lewis? I like you. I like you bunches. When we had that conversation back in Falconer during the demonstrations, at that disgusting campground, you came in full of piss and vinegar and attitude. Before you, I had a few other news media interviews and by God, they came in with their kneepads, ready to kiss my ass or do even more. They were convinced that I was working for the poor huddled sheep out there, that I was on the cutting edge of some societal revolution. Those loons missed the 1960s and the Pentagon Papers and Watergate, and by God, here I was, to make them feel oh, so very special.”

“How did you not laugh, knowing what you knew?”

A chuckle. “Yeah, that was something. They would have croaked if they knew who I was and who was paying me. But you came along, not ready to kiss anything, and you didn’t take any of my carefully pre-planned bullshit. Nope, hell, you even lectured me on the background of Führerprinzip, of a strong leader who is infallible. God, I almost reached over and kissed you for that. The first real intelligent conversation I’d had in months. You know how hard it is to show enthusiasm when some pimply longhair who isn’t old enough to drink wants to lecture you on how algae will solve our energy problems?”

“Poor you. Almost makes me feel sorry, except for the woman and the men you killed, and what you did to my friend.”

“Can’t you just put that aside, Lewis? Show some respect? From one pawn to another? Please?”

“Tell you what,” I said, my heart rate now kicking up several notches. “I like you, Curt. You have a way with words. You know how to flatter, plead, and make me feel so special. Let’s get together, real soon, and swap war stories. What do you think?”

A cold voice. “You’re mocking me.”

“Like I said, Curt, I’m sensing a terrible self-esteem problem from you.”

“I gave you a chance. So here’s the deal. Agree to stop right now or I’ll finish my job, hurt you bad. Got it? Do you agree?”

“Take this for what it means,” I said: “Not on your life.”

And I hung up on him.

I got the shakes for a few minutes and then heard my train being called, and I hustled down to the platform and just made it, settling into a comfortable seat that had a nice view of northern Boston as we headed out. But my mind wasn’t on the view.

He was going to finish the job.

He was going to hurt me bad.

Pretty easy to figure out what he meant.

I got my cell phone out, tried Kara Miles.

Went straight to voicemail.

No time to waste on leaving a message, hoping she’d pick it up.

“Sir?”

I called the Exonia Hospital switchboard, asked to be connected to the ICU.

A burst of static, and then nothing.

Lost cell coverage.

“Sir?”

Went back to the phone, my fingers feeling as thick as sausages, pressing down the keys.

Still no service.

“Sir!”

I looked up. A sharp-faced woman was staring at me from an opposite seat, wearing a khaki jacket, khaki slacks, sensible black flat shoes, and a multi-hued terrycloth bag at her feet.

“Yes?”

She pointed to a sign. “This is a no-cell-phone car! Can’t you read?”

“I can read,” I said. “This is an emergency.”

She turned, sniffed loudly. “That’s what they all say.”

So many responses tumbling through my mind, no time to choose one.

Focus.

Dialed the number to the Exonia Hospital again, and this time it rang through to the switchboard. I asked for the ICU and, after a few seconds that seemed to last a few hours, the phone was picked up.

“ICU, Eva speaking.”

“Eva, this is an emergency. My name is Lewis Cole, I’m from Tyler, and I need to speak to Kara Miles, right away. She’s the partner of Diane Woods, a patient there.”

Eva, God bless her, didn’t waste my time, didn’t ask me questions, didn’t demand to know more.

“I’ll put you on hold. I’ll get her.”

There was soft music that seemed better suited for a slow-moving elevator, and then there was a satisfying click and Kara’s voice: “Lewis, what’s going on?”

“Kara, listen to me, and please don’t waste time, all right?”

“If you’re trying to scare me, you’re succeeding.”

“Good. I just got a phone call from Curt Chesak, the—”

“The guy who tried to kill Diane? What did he want? Where is he? Did you call the cops?”

“Kara, shut up.”

“Lewis—”

“Kara, somebody is coming to kill Diane. In a very few minutes, if not sooner. Is there a Tyler cop there, guarding Diane’s room?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know him?”

“What?”

“I said do you know him, do you recognize him, have you ever seen him before today.”

No answer. Had I been cut off?

A slow response. “No… he said he was new to the department. Said he hoped Diane would get better… said it was a shame what had happened to her.”

“Kara, when we’re done, I want you to call Captain Kate Nickerson and get her to send some cops over from the Exonia police, and then have her send a couple more off-duty cops from Tyler. Then have Eva, the ICU nurse, have her get hospital security up to Diane’s room. I don’t want that rookie within ten feet of her, all right?”

Even with the lousy cell phone connection, I could tell she was weeping. “Okay… okay, I get it. How do you know someone’s coming to kill Diane?”

“Because Curt Chesak told me so, that’s why.”

I hung up, sat back in my seat, wondered why the train was moving so damn slow.

The sharp-faced woman across the way with the sensible shoes frowned at me again.

“That seemed to be one very long emergency,” she pointed out with a cutting tone in her voice.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was thinking locally, acting globally.”

Puzzled, she said, “What?”

“Exactly,” I said.