Fatal Harbor

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Two 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.

And here I was, alone in a sheriff’s van, heading to jail.

I was thinking so much that I almost missed the vehicle that was now behind us.

It was a black Chevrolet Suburban, with tinted windows and no license plate up forward, which meant it wasn’t local, since New Hampshire requires vehicles to have license plates both fore and aft.

It had pulled out from a dirt driveway, sped up, and was now closing in behind us.

“Deputy Lindsay.”

“Yeah?”

“Check what’s coming up on our tail. The Suburban.”

He leaned over, looked to the rear. “So?”

“Deputy, in about one minute, we’re going to get ambushed. Better call for some backup.”

He flipped back to me, the friendly look entirely gone. His eyes were glaring at me, face flushed, as his hand went down to his holstered pistol. “You bastard, you set us up! That’s why you wanted your handcuffs off!”

“If I was setting you up, I wouldn’t warn you. You don’t have much time. Deputy, get to it, call backup!”

His eyes didn’t leave me as he evaluated my words, and he said, “Move, and you’ll be the first one hit.”

“Take a number,” I said. “Those guys are after me.”

Lindsay took his pistol out and, with his other hand, toggled the radio microphone on his shirt epaulet. “Dispatch, dispatch, this is Grafton Mobile One.”

Static crackled back at him.

His voice louder, “Dispatch, dispatch, this is Grafton Mobile One.”

More static.

“I think they’re jamming you,” I said.

“Shit.”

He tried his cell phone, said “shit” again, and tossed it on the floor.

The Suburban sped up, getting closer. Lindsay pushed by me, rapped on the mesh wire separating us from the cab. “Ski! We got trouble! My radio’s not working, and we got bad guys on our asses!”

Ski said something back; Lindsay said: “Then haul ass! See if we can make the jail in time!”

The van lurched as Ski sped up, and Lindsay came back, checked his pistol, took me in with a look, and asked, “Who’s after you? Same guy who shot you?”

“His friends.”

“They’re pretty pissed off.”

I said: “Whatever happens, don’t get involved. Keep your head down and—”

“The hell with that,” he said with determination. “You’re our responsibility.”

The Suburban came almost to the rear bumper, and then a hell of a thing happened. The van’s engine cut out and the Suburban passed us and Lindsay said, “The hell just happened?”

“They’ve just killed your engine.”

“How the hell did they do that?”

“I’m sure it’s top secret somewhere.”

The Suburban sideswiped the van, up forward Ski shouted, and the van skidded and went off the road, into a drainage ditch. Lindsay scrambled to keep his balance but he fell, as my county wheelchair and I fell on top of him.