LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (34 page)

Loud reports, coming from behind me. Gunshots. Not more tear gas. Gunshots.

I put my hand at her throat, feeling and looking for a pulse.

I couldn't feel a thing.

Couldn't feel a thing.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I was grabbed from behind, thrown to the ground. Sirens wailed, and I got up and was kicked in the head and fell back. Long seconds seemed to pass. I got up again in the rain. An ambulance from the nuclear power plant was parked near the rise of land, and a folding gurney was being pushed in, a still shape wearing a Tyler police officer's jumpsuit aboard, a blanket pulled up, the head secured in a pink foam collar. Four or five police officers were helping put the gurney in. The door was slammed, and the ambulance roared off, siren sounding.

Two other ambulances were parked nearby. A fire engine was by the trailer, and firefighters in yellow turnout gear were wetting down the structure. I got up, legs shaking. Some semblance of order seemed to be restored in the driving rain. Police officers with shotguns were standing guard over a seated assembly of protesters, their hands behind their heads. Another line of police was standing by the opening in the fence. Between them was a pile of wooden staves and plywood signs with the NFF logo. Two more gurneys were being loaded onto ambulances. On paved ground near a collection of pipes and valves, two bodies were stretched out, and police officers there were taking photos, measuring, talking to each other, hands moving a lot. Little triangular signs with letters on them were set up around the bodies, marking evidence.

I swallowed. My mouth was very dry, and my hands and knees hurt where I had fallen onto the dirt and gravel. A helicopter roared overhead, followed by another, both from Boston television stations. There were loud voices coming from somewhere, and I saw Ron Shelton standing on a cement block, being besieged by reporters. I moved over and caught snatches of his conversation, as Ron tried his best.

“… we abhor violence, of course we do, but this was not a peaceful organization…”

“… we can't make a comment yet on these deaths, until we have the full facts from the investigating authorities…”

“… we believe our security force responded appropriately to the threatening actions posed by these trespassers…”

I elbowed my way through the reporters frantically taking photos and shouting questions, and I yelled out, the best I could, “Ron, can I get an escort to leave the plant site?”

I had to shout twice more before he responded. His face was quite red, and his hands were trembling. “No,” he said. “No one's leaving until the police and our security organization complete their preliminary investigation. I'm sure you understand that.”

I was going to say something else, but I saw two security officers from the Falconer nuclear plant standing warily behind Ron, watching us members of the Fourth Estate at work, and I just nodded and slipped out from the crowd.

*   *   *

I walked away from the news gaggle, took out my notebook, made sure my press pass was fluttering publicly in the breeze. I knew I was being watched, and I had an idea of what to do. I walked slowly and then stopped, making notes in my notebook, trying to shield it from the rain, so it looked like I was trying to reconstruct what had just happened. There were more sirens sounding out in the distance, meaning reinforcements were on their way, so I didn't have time to waste.

So I didn't waste any. I ambled slowly away from the ambulances, the bodies, the police, the security force, the firefighters, and the helicopters overhead, and from that bloody rise of land where one Chris Chesak had pummeled my best friend, Diane.

In a few minutes, unescorted and by myself, I reached the main parking lot, where my Ford Explorer was parked. About twenty feet away, there was a news van from the ABC affiliate in New Hampshire, and a young, attractive woman dressed in a red cloth coat whom I recognized from the 6:00
P.M.
newscasts was screaming at two plant security officers, her face the color of her coat, using language that would make a U.S. marine blush.

I quietly got into the Ford, started up the engine, and slowly backed out of the parking lot and went out to the main access road, where I halted at a stop sign. Ron had said the plant was closed down, which meant that the gates at the north and south ends were closed and guarded.

I shifted into drive. I knew there were other ways out of the plant site.

I felt the urge to slam the accelerator down and get going, but I kept things under control as I made a turn onto a bumpy dirt road, and kept my speed limit at about fifteen miles an hour, passing underneath the huge transmission lines that led out to the rest of the state. It was a short but difficult drive, because in my mind's eye, I kept on seeing the form of Diane on the ground, the gleeful joy that Chris Chesak took in battering her, and I also remembered the cold touch of her skin, and my frantic search for a pulse.

There. The Stony Creek Road gate. Last time I was here, it was locked and unguarded. Today, in the driving rain, it was still locked.

Locked and guarded.

*   *   *

I drove up a bit and glanced over at the gate. A pickup truck from the Falconer security force was parked at the side, and two security officers were standing outside, in light brown rain slickers, weapons over their shoulders, watching me. I gave a cheery wave, then stopped the Explorer, then put the gearshift into reverse. I slowly backed into a turn, as if I had gone down the wrong road and was lost.

I backed down a few yards toward the gate and waited, looked out the rain-streaked windshield, watched the moving wiper blades, and then looked up at the rearview mirror. The security officers were talking and didn't seem too concerned, and again I saw the bloody shape of Diane on the ground.

I slammed my foot down on the accelerator.

Still in reverse, the Explorer quickly barreled its way down the dirt road, right up to the gate, and the guards seemed shocked, and I braced myself for the impact as I roared right by them and the rear bumper of the Explorer struck the fence hard. The jolt of the collision rattled my teeth, and my hands flew off the steering wheel, and the Explorer fishtailed and went off the side of the road, and the rear hatchback window was shattered, but in front of me was a splintered and open gate.

Two very angry security officers were running toward me, one shrugging off his shotgun, the other frantically talking into a handheld radio.

I gave them another wave, punched the Explorer into drive, made a muddy and violent U-turn, and got the hell out of there.

The trip from Falconer to Exonia takes about twenty minutes.

I got there in twelve.

*   *   *

As on my last visit to the hospital after a violent incident, the parking lot was crowded, with cars parked everywhere, another news helicopter overhead, and a television crew doing a live stand-up outside of the emergency room entrance, the harsh lights from the camera making everything look unreal in the driving rain. I found an empty spot at a parking lot a hundred yards or so away, and backed in my Ford so the broken rear window wasn't visible. If the security people at Falconer had put out an alert to local law enforcement about a Ford Explorer with a shattered rear window, I didn't want to make it easy for the Exonia cops to track me down.

I trotted up a slight hill to the emergency room and was out of breath when I got in, and I was so fortunate as to see Kara Miles standing by herself, sobbing. When she threw herself at me I hugged her hard and said, “How is she? What do you know? How is she?”

Through the sobs she gasped out that she wasn't sure, that Diane had gone straight into surgery, that she was promised an update as soon as one was made available, and for God's sake, will you stay with me?

“Yes,” I said, still holding her tight. “By God I will.”

*   *   *

We found a place to sit just outside of the emergency room entrance, in a short hallway, and she held my hand and said, “Thank God I got the call … there's a secretary at the police station, she knows about me and Diane … when she got word about her being hurt, she called me … and bless the people here, Lewis, there's none of this bullshit about me not being a family member or a relative … so here I am…”

She had on a pair of dark blue sweats and a dungaree jacket, and her eyes were swollen and weepy. Her nose looked raw as she sniffled. “Lewis … you're bleeding. Your lower lip.”

I touched my lip, and my fingers came away bloody. I put a handkerchief to my lip. “Had a bit of a problem getting out of the plant site. How long have you been here?”

“Not that long … damn it, did you see Diane before the fighting broke out? Did you talk to her?”

“Yes, I did,” I said, “and she told me the good news about you two. I'm happy … real happy.”

Kara drew a forearm across her nose, wiping it. “Some fucking happy good news … I gave her a hard time, I delayed and delayed, all because I was such a tight ass about fighting for some cause … instead of fighting for the woman I love … and look where I am. Shit, Lewis, tell me … how bad is it? Did you see what happened?”

I couldn't say anything else. “She was cornered by a couple of the violent ones. She put up a fight. She fell. They beat her up pretty bad, Kara … I saw a lot of blood … but this is a good place. They'll do their very best.”

She sobbed some more, and as the minutes and minutes dragged on, more police officers from the Tyler Police Department came in, most of them in civilian clothes, as the usual efficient cop telegraph got to work, alerting everyone that a fellow officer had been hurt. While they came in, a few nodded at Kara, but they clustered together as a wounded tribe as Kara held my hand tight and talked about the trips she and Diane had taken over the years to Northampton and Provincetown and Key West, and lots of islands in the Caribbean, where Diane would often rent a sailboat so they could go island hopping, and how they had planned a trip after Christmas to the British Virgin Islands to celebrate their engagement, and—

A short, plump woman in surgical scrubs came out through a set of swinging doors that had
HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY
posted on them, and then she spotted Kara and came toward us. Kara squeezed my hand so hard I could feel my muscles ache, and she whispered, “Oh Christ, what will I do if I'm a widow before I get married, oh, Lewis, what will I do?”

The doctor smiled weakly and said, “Let's go somewhere private, all right?”

The two of us got up and made the very, very long walk to a private reception room that was about five feet away.

*   *   *

The doctor's name was Hanratty and she got right to it. “The good news is that she's alive. She's made it through surgery. However, she's suffered some severe injuries to her face and skull.”

The doctor went on, talking about fractures and abscesses and broken orbital sockets and nose, and stitches and such. I felt like I was going to float out of the chair. Diane was alive. She was alive. I knew her well. She was so very strong, and—

Then I came back hard to the chair.

“Excuse me, could you say that again?” I asked. “I didn't quite hear it.”

The doctor looked to Kara and then at me. “What I said is that she's in recovery, but so far, she's not responsive. It appears that she suffered some severe trauma to the head … and as of this moment, she's in a coma.”

Kara's voice was bleak. “How long?”

Dr. Hanratty said, “We just don't know. It could be a day or two. Or more than that. If it goes on beyond a week … we'll be very, very concerned, and we'll be looking at other options.”

“What other options?” Kara demanded.

“Options that we don't need to discuss at the moment,” she said, but I knew what those options were going to be: an eventual transfer to a long-term-care rehabilitation facility, as whatever passed for Diane Woods in the recesses of her brain flickered and died, and her strong body withered and curled up and looked like an adult fetus, staying alive year after year through tubes and humming machinery.

“Can we see her?” I asked.

The doctor shook her head. “Not right now. She's in recovery, and will be there for a few hours. Then she'll be transferred to the intensive care unit. Your best bet will be to come back sometime tomorrow—but your visit will have to be a short one, you understand.”

I'm sure Kara understood, but her face was set, tears streaming down her cheeks. Dr. Hanratty got up and passed over a business card. “We're doing all that we can … and I'm sorry, right now I have to brief the Tyler police chief. She went through surgery better than we anticipated … so keep that in mind.”

Kara nodded, and Dr. Hanratty walked out, and I stayed with Kara as she cried some more.

*   *   *

Later we ate something in the hospital's cafeteria, and Kara said, “I called my brother. He's coming up here to be with me … and I don't plan to leave this place. I mean, what if she wakes up and asks for me?”

I wasn't going to crush her illusion, so I said, “I hate to do this, Kara, but I've got to leave. I don't want to, but there are things going on.”

She stared right through me and said, “I think I understand. I really do. So go and do what has to be done … and thanks, Lewis. Thanks for being here.”

I got up from the cafeteria table. “I couldn't be anywhere else.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

After making an ATM run in Exonia and traveling as fast as I could without being pulled over, I was in a small motel on the outskirts of Concord, New Hampshire's capital, where I paid in cash and registered as Kelly Smith. Earlier I had made a quick stop at a nearby Walmart and had taped up the rear opening the best I could with duct tape and plastic sheeting. Now I was lying on top of the motel's lumpy bed, a McDonald's plain cheeseburger and fries balanced on my chest as I watched and rewatched the news coverage of the day's disaster from the three Boston channels, the Manchester channel, and the small but proud New England Cable News Network.