Fatal Harbor

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The next morning at about 11 A.M., my little hospital room was fairly crowded. In addition to myself, there was Detective Pete Renzi; a fierce-looking young woman in a dark gray power suit, who was an assistant attorney general for the State of New Hampshire; a tall balding man with black robes, who was District Court Judge Jaden Bobbett; and Raymond Drake, an attorney from Boston, who was my representation. Drake was wearing a well-cut suit that was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe — or what was left of it — and he was definitely the most unpopular man in the room.

For one thing, he was a lawyer — insert your own lawyer joke here — and for his second strike, he was a defense attorney, and for his third strike, he was from the dreaded People’s Republic of Massachusetts. Even though he had been admitted to the New Hampshire Bar, he was still considered an outsider by Renzi, Judge Bobbett, and the assistant attorney general.

Still, he was my outsider. Some years ago, while practicing in Boston, he had come up against someone who was a business associate of Felix Tinios, and a disagreement arose. Drake was used to settling disputes in well-lit courtrooms with rows of benches and comfortable chairs, but his opponent was more inclined to see things in black and white. Long story short, Drake found himself on the proverbial one-way trip out to Boston Harbor, wrapped in chains in the back of a cabin cruiser, when Felix had intervened and saved him.

Ever since then, he’s been in Felix’s debt, and has always helped for free when the time came.

Like now.

The assistant AG, with a severely cut blond hairstyle and wearing black-rimmed glasses, got right to it. “Your Honor, in this matter, the people are seeking a remand for Mister Cole. He is linked to an arson that destroyed a home worth nearly a million dollars that was of great historical importance to the town of Osgood, and we believe he will soon be linked to the matter of three male homicide victims who were later found in the debris.”

Drake smiled. His skin was always permanently tanned, and he wore gold rings and jewelry on both wrists. His gray hair was finely cut and trimmed, and his blue eyes seemed bright with the thought of going to battle on my behalf.

“Your Honor, if I may, I’ve gone over the preliminary paperwork, and it seems that traces of gasoline were found on Mister Cole’s pants cuff and one of his sneakers,” he said in a calm voice that sounded like it belonged on NPR. “The state fire marshal’s office has also determined that an ‘accelerant’ was used to start the fire in question in Osgood. Now, the way I see it, the only connection between Mister Cole and the fire is that in both cases, hydrocarbons are involved. But I don’t see any evidence that the gasoline found on Mister Cole’s pants is the same type of accelerant used in the fire. He could have gotten gasoline on himself in filling up his vehicle. Or trimming hedgework. Or cutting down a tree.”

The assistant AG instantly responded. “We’d also like to point out, Your Honor, that a few days ago, Mister Cole’s home in Tyler Beach was destroyed by arson. It’s reasonable to infer that the house in Osgood was burned down in some sort of act of revenge.”

Drake didn’t let that one slide. “Your Honor, the Osgood residence that burned down is owned, as far as we can determine, by a real estate trust company based in Los Gatos, California. To think Mister Cole burned down a house in Osgood due to a grudge against someone thousands of miles away is a stretch. My learned friend from the attorney general’s office looks quite presentable today; one could infer that she was chauffeured here in a limousine, but I think we would all agree that’s a fairly poor assumption. Again, where is the evidence?”

The attorney general was a spunky sort and didn’t give up easily. “Your Honor, once the fire was extinguished, arson investigators and the State Police located three male bodies in the debris. Initial medical examination determined that they had died prior to the fire being set. Two of them appeared to have been bound, and all had their heads severed.”

Judge Bobbett blinked a couple of times, got Detective Renzi’s attention. “Do you have any more information to add to that, Detective Renzi?”

“I do not, Your Honor.”

“I see.”

Drake spoke up. “If I may… Your Honor, it’s said that all three men were missing their heads. Have their heads been located?”

Renzi shook his head in disgust. “Not at the present time.”

Drake smiled, gestured toward me. “As you can tell, Your Honor, my client has been grievously wounded with a bullet to his right leg. Is the State truly saying that my client managed to overcome three men, sever their heads, and set the house on fire, all with a bullet wound to his leg?”

The judge looked to Renzi and the assistant attorney general. She said: “The investigation is continuing, Your Honor, and the State is confident that more evidence connecting Mister Cole to these crimes will be found shortly. That’s why we’re asking for no bail. It’s obvious that Mister Cole is a threat to the community.”

Judge Bobbett said, “Well, Mister Drake, you’ve heard what the State has to say. What amount would you be seeking for bail for your client?”

He held out his tanned hands. “Your Honor, we recognize the severity of the crime, but Mister Cole has resided for some time in Tyler Beach, has connections to the area, and with that bullet wound is definitely not a flight risk. We think one hundred thousand dollars, cash or surety, would be quite equitable. We would also agree to Mister Cole surrendering his passport and wearing a monitor bracelet.”

“Is he employed?” the judge asked.

Drake paused, and I knew the judge had struck home with the question. “Mister Cole has been a long-time columnist for the Boston-based magazine called Shoreline. He has left their employ and is now a freelance writer.”

Judge Bobbett looked at me. “Is that true, Mister Cole?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you sold many articles since leaving your job?”

“Not a one, sir.”

“And Mister Cole, do you have a permanent residence?”

“Not at the moment, sir. As the assistant attorney general so capably pointed out, it burned down a few days ago.”

“I see… Mister Drake, we certainly have a situation here, don’t we.”

“That we do, Your Honor.”

“It might be good for all concerned for your client to give the State Police a full and truthful account of what happened that night in Osgood.”

Drake hesitated. “It might be good for all concerned, Your Honor, but I must look out for the best interests of my client. Which is why I’m advising him not to say a word.”

A brief nod. “Which is your right. Well.” Judge Bobbett looked down at his papers and said: “This is how it’s going to be, I’m afraid. Mister Drake, you have done an admirable job in representing your client’s interests, but at the end of the day, we have a home destroyed, three dead men with their heads missing, and your client. Who, by chance, was in the vicinity of said home, with accelerant evidence on his clothes and a bullet wound to his leg. Mister Cole could do the right thing and tell investigators what happened. He’s decided not to. His right. But I’m going to agree with the State’s request. No bail.”

That was that. Detective Renzi looked happy, the assistant attorney general looked happy, and the judge looked somber. Duty done.

Some paperwork was exchanged and examined, and the judge said: “Mister Cole, once your doctor says you can be moved, you’re going to be transferred to the Grafton County Jail’s medical wing. From there, we will be in contact with your attorney for an upcoming date for a probable-cause hearing.”

“I understand, sir.”

The judge gathered up his papers, put them into a soft leather briefcase. “If I can say something unofficially, I’ve looked at your background. Over the years, you’ve been in police custody on a number of occasions, but you’ve never been prosecuted. I’d say that today, your luck has run out. Despite what your attorney has advised you, do consider cooperating with investigators.”

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” I said.

Judge Bobbett said, “I doubt it, but I had to say it.”

Then the full complement of legal and police authorities of the State of New Hampshire left, and Renzi closed my hospital door behind him.

Drake moved his chair closer to my bed. “Sorry, Lewis. Did my best. That sucked.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “At least you get to go home tonight.”

“Yeah, but it’s a hell of a drive. Interstate 89 has got to be the most boring road in all of New England.”

“Agreed. So what now?”

“You tell me.”

“Thought it was the other way around.”

He laughed. “Sure. In normal cases. But this ain’t normal, Lewis. So I’m going to do my very best to get you out, and if I can’t do that, I’ll do my very, very best to get a not-guilty verdict if and when this goes to trial.”

I slowly nodded. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

He began putting his own papers away. “Anything else you’d like to tell me about what’s going on?”

I looked out the window at the near peaks of the White Mountains. So very fine, so very far away. “Over the years, I’m sure you’ve seen those action-adventure movies, right? The ones with high-powered conspiracies, dark shadows, bad guys. Usually there are lots of gunfights, explosions, and fires. Action, action, action. But if you look closely at those movies, there are always some innocents in the background who get hurt, get killed, get run over. They’re forgotten within seconds. The big guys, the protagonists, they go on their way.”

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.