Fatal Harbor

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nearly thirty minutes later, I was in the Commonwealth of Virginia, walking along a residential street in a very pricey suburb of Arlington. All the homes looked like their value was about equal to the amount of money I’ve made in my life, and they were set far from the street. They were made of brick or wood, several had horse pastures in the rear, and as the sole pedestrian on the street I felt very much out of place.

The one I was looking for was numbered 119, and it was a huge Colonial-style home, white with black shutters, with an attached three-car garage. The landscape was carefully manicured and set, and there was a brick walkway up to the door. Oak trees and pine trees decorated the yard. I paused and gave it a good long glance.

I strolled up the brick walkway to the front door. It was wooden, carved, and it looked like something out of a sixteenth-century Bavarian carver’s workshop. There was no doorbell, just a knob in the center that I spun and spun. I could hear a rough tingling noise come from within.

I stood back. Adjusted my clothes. Wondered how shabby I looked.

The door opened up. A man about twenty years older than me stood there, wearing khaki pants, loafers, a white turtleneck, and a navy blue buttoned cardigan. Half-sized reading glasses were perched at the end of his prominent nose, and his white hair was trimmed quite short. In one hand he had a copy of The Economist magazine, and he looked attentive, yet so very, very tired.

“Yes?”

“Lawrence Thomas? Lawrence Todd Thomas?”

“Who are you, if I may ask?” he asked, his voice soft.

“My name’s Lewis Cole. I’m a journalist from New Hampshire. I’m here about your son, John Todd Thomas.”

He pursed his lips, shook his head. “I’m afraid I have nothing to say to you.”

“Mister Thomas, please, I really think—”

“Good day, Mister Cole.”

The door started closing, and I said: “Except for his killer, I’m the last one to see your son alive.”

The door halted.

Opened back up again.

His eyes were watery. “Then do come in, please.”

The inside of the house was large, clean, and quite ordered. The carpets were Oriental, the furniture was wood and old, and there were lots of books and framed photos. On one coffee table was a framed photo of the man’s son, John Todd Thomas. The photo was in color, it showed him at his college campus in Maine, and a black mourning ribbon was placed across a corner of the glass.

As Lawrence padded into the living room, he said, “Do have a seat. My wife Frances… well, she’s upstairs, and I prefer her to stay there. I do intend to listen to you, but whatever information you share, well, I do intend to protect Frances. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’d offer you coffee or tea, but even after retirement I still haven’t gotten the hang of our kitchen gear. So how about a bottled water?”

“That would be fine.”

I gingerly sat down on the edge of a couch that looked like it had been lifted from an Early American furniture display at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and gave the room another look. There were black-and-white wedding photos of Lawrence Thomas, with a young woman who was no doubt Frances. More photos of their only son, as a Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Little Leaguer, and soccer player. I recalled the young man I had met over a week ago up at the Falconer nuclear power plant, when he had escorted me to visit Curt Chesak of the Nuclear Freedom Front. Soon after he had escorted me, he had been shot to death in the salt marshes around the power plant, and for a few long hours I had been a suspect in his murder.

Lawrence came back, carrying two bottles of Poland Spring water. I got up and he handed one over, then cocked his head. “I have an idea we’ll be discussing things of a sensitive nature… so perhaps we should go to the rear garden.”

“That would be fine.”

I followed him out of the living room, to a short hallway and a small room that had floor-to-ceiling French doors. He opened up the near door and I followed him out. There was statuary and a water fountain, and small shrubs and plants that I couldn’t recognize. He walked a few yards, past some hedgework, until we came to a stone bench. He sat down with a sigh, stretched his legs. Before us was a small pool, with lily pads and orange fish lazily swimming about. We both unscrewed the tops of our bottles and I took a satisfying swig.

He did the same, looked down at the pond. “This was one of John’s favorite places, this little pond.”

“I can see why. It’s quite beautiful.”

“True, and John would spend hours here, on his knees, looking at the water, the fish, the frogs and crayfish. He often begged me to get bigger and better fish, like Japanese koi, and I always refused. It didn’t make sense to spend ten or fifteen dollars for a fish that might end up in the belly of a raccoon or a Great Blue Heron.”

He took a tiny sip of his water. “Days like these, you look back in regret, think of all the times you said no, all the times you said later, son, all the missed ball games and recitals and events… it makes one feel very, very old. Are you married, Mister Cole?”

“No, I’m not.”

“I envy you, then. For not having that special terror of being a parent, of worrying about your only son, of seeing him grow up with skinned knees and broken arms. At some point, after he’s gone through the temptations of high school and the chances of injury that come with a driver’s license, you expect that the odds are now in his favor. That he will grow old and marry and bless you with a fine daughter-in-law and grandchildren… and in the space of one depressing late-night phone call from a place you’ve never heard of, it’s gone. It’s all gone.”

A jet glided overhead, heading to Reagan or to Dulles, airports named after famed Cold Warriors. I watched the fish at play. “What kind of fish are those?”

A short laugh. “Standard issue goldfish. Five dollars for a plastic bag of a couple dozen. You toss them in the water and you can forget about them. They eat what they eat, they reproduce, and in the winter they burrow in the mud. That’s why I found them so attractive.” He turned a little on the bench. “Tell me about the last time you saw John.”

“I was doing a story about the anti-nuclear demonstrations at the Falconer nuclear power plant. There were two factions in the protests. The smaller was the more violent of the two, the Nuclear Freedom Front. I made an arrangement to interview the head of the NFF, Curt Chesak.”

Lawrence nodded. “I’m familiar with the organization and its leader. Do go on.”

“I was escorted to a hidden site in the nearby woods where the NFF was camping out. I had an interview with Chesak. My escort in and out of the camp was your son.”

He lowered his head, put a hand to his forehead, like he was trying to hide whatever emotions were playing across his face. “My son… a good boy, though we did disagree about politics. Most fathers and sons do, don’t they. His mother and I weren’t thrilled with the schooling he was missing, volunteering for that… group. But he was headstrong, my boy.”

Lawrence raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Was he good at what he was doing? Was he well? Was he proud?”

“Yes to all three,” I said. “He was smart, he knew what he was doing, and he did it well.”

A nod. “Thank you… if I may… ”

“Go right ahead.”

“We’ve not heard much from the police in your state. Do you know anything about the investigation, or its progress?”

This was about to get interesting, and not in a good way. I looked over at the pond again. “Some.”

“And?”

“You might not like hearing what I have to say.”

“I think you underestimate me, Mister Cole.”

“All right. At first police believed that your son had been shot by Victor Toles. Victor earlier had assassinated his stepfather, a prominent anti-nuclear activist.”

“Really? Why? Was he opposed to his father’s actions?”

“Yes, but not involving nuclear power. It involved money, lots of money.”

“And why would he have killed my son?”

“When your son escorted me out of the camp, Victor showed up and took me away instead, sending John back to the site. A few minutes later, Victor tried to shoot me in the marshes near the campsite. I managed to escape and later, slogging around in the marshes, I heard another gunshot, the one that killed your son. I thought it was Victor, shooting your son to cover up the fact that he had tried to kill me. Now, I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because Victor Toles is under arrest, and he’s only been charged with one killing, that of his stepdad. No one’s been charged with the murder of your son.”

He slowly nodded. “All this I pretty much know, except for your part in it. All right, is there more?”

“There is. Curt Chesak led the demonstrators who broke into the plant site, where two demonstrators were killed and a number of police officers were seriously injured. I think Curt killed your son, Mister Thomas.”

“Why? Why would that… man kill my boy?”

I took a deep breath, looked right into the older man’s eyes. “Because I believe he found out that your son was working for you and the CIA.”