LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (5 page)

Around us there were cheers and applause, and some of the women started trilling their tongues, making sounds like Middle Eastern tribeswomen. Bronson Toles ambled over to the microphone, and he joined in the applause as well, holding out his arms as if cheering on his supporters. Paula started moving toward the stage, camera in hand, and I followed her until we got right to the front.

Bronson leaned into the microphone and said in a mellow, quiet voice, “With so many here in our quest to save our coast and save our planet, I have no doubt we will overcome … and we will succeed.”

More cheers, more applause, and I took some notes as he spoke up. “For decades, I and so many others have resisted that tempting siren call of joining what passes for civilization, to be better consumers, better rapists of our Mother Earth, better cogs for the machine that serves to control us all. Instead I made a choice, years ago, to do something small, something beautiful, something that would work toward healing communities, not breaking them apart. From our humble beginnings at the Stone Chapel, where we fed the hungry, sheltered the homeless, and gave many a struggling artist their first step on their way to well-deserved fame, we were always here for you.”

Over the applause Paula raised her voice. “At least he didn't talk about loaves and fishes. Even for Bronson Toles, that would be too much.”

Bronson waited again for the cheers to subside. “Other people, at almost the same time as me, had choices to make, and they made the wrong ones. So many years ago, we chose the wrong path when it came to producing the electricity for our homes and businesses. You see, after the atomic bomb was first used against civilians at the end of the Second World War, the military-industrial complex had built a system of engineers and uranium processing, and a support system that needed to be used. It couldn't be allowed to wither away. So that's how that … place over there on our coast got built. Because the military-industrial complex needed to continue their monopoly on power, on secrecy, on inserting themselves into our life … such that the Falconer plant was built, a plant that will disease and kill this living cove behind us, turning it into a place of sickness, of death, a deadly cove.”

The cheers, applause, and trilling returned, and Bronson nodded again, applauded again, and when the noises subsided again, came forward and said, “Together, though, working together, being together, we can change the destiny, can protect ourselves and our future, and—”

Two young men scrambled onto the stage, holding up their right arms, fists clenched, and started yelling, “No compromise! No compromise! No compromise! Bronson's too weak! Bronson's too weak! Bronson's too weak!”

They turned and tore off their jackets, revealing the logo of the Nuclear Freedom Front. There was chaos up on the stage as a couple of women tried to hustle off the two young men, and there were yells and screams next to me, and Paula spoke in my ear and said, “This is good stuff. Civil war breaks out in the antinuclear ranks. Help me up, will you? This'll be a great photo.”

I said, “I don't think that's a good idea,” but I don't think she heard me, and Paula glared, and I hoisted her up by grabbing her slim hips, and she stood up on the stage, held out her camera.

Lucky me, from where I stood, I saw and heard the whole thing.

Heard: a loud, flat
crack.

Saw: Bronson Toles's head shatter open in a pink flower of blood, brain, and bone, falling, Paula next to him, falling as well.

Heard and saw: screaming and terror seizing everyone around me.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

The crowd pushed me against the wooden stage, nearly breaking my ribs, and there was a sharper scream, and Haleigh Miller was next to me, shoved up against the edge of the stage as well, her throat being crushed. I elbowed someone out of the way, pushed again, moved to Haleigh. More screams and shouts. The earsplitting pitch of feedback burst over us all, and then a frantic male voice: “Is there a doctor here? Is there a doctor here? Please, calm down … please … calm down! We need a doctor up here, right away!”

I pushed again, grabbed Haleigh's arm, was able to spin her so that she wasn't being strangled, and then the crowd pushed us again, slamming my back against the wood. I kicked back and found the thin wood covering the bottom of the stage was loose. I kicked and kicked again, and then pulled Haleigh down with me, going under the stage as a thin slab of plywood broke free.

“Do you … do you think a doctor will get there in time?” she cried out to me.

In my mind's ear and eye, I heard the crack of the rifle shot, saw how the top of Bronson's head was blown apart, and—

Paula.

She had fallen as well.

“No, it's too late,” I said. “Head shot. Instantly dead.”

She put her hand up to her mouth.

“Hold on,” I said. “I need to check something.”

I pushed my way through the legs of the people around the stage, thankful that the crowd was thinning out. Sirens were sounding in the distance, and there were two forms on the stage that I barely could make out through the men and women kneeling next to them. I saw one set of feet that belonged to the very dead Bronson Toles, and another set of feet that belonged to Paula Quinn.

“What … what's going on?” Haleigh asked, now standing next to me.

“My friend is down,” I said. “I've got to see her.”

“But I only heard one shot,” she said. “Only one. Maybe she just fainted. I'm sure she's fine.”

I started to say something, shut up. The curse of being well-read, and of being a student of history, for I was about to tell Haleigh that in every war, a certain number of casualties are wounded by the bone fragments of their comrades shot or blown up while huddling next to each other while under fire.

“I'm still going to check,” I said. I spared a glance. Still a fair number of people but not as many as before. “Stay here. It's relatively safe.”

The sirens grew louder, and I saw the flashing lights of police cruisers and ambulances bouncing down the dirt road. I put my hands on the rough stage, pulled myself up, and got up on my knees. It was crowded, and there were shouts and more yells, and I tried to push my way in, and then I was blocked by a red-faced, sweaty patrolman from the Falconer Police Department.

“You a doctor?” he demanded.

“No, that woman, she's a friend and—”

“Off the stage, now,” he said. “Too many people up here already.”

“I want to check on her—”

“Off, now,” he said, pushing a hand into my chest, and I stepped back, stepped back, and the third time, my feet found only air and I fell back onto the dirt lot.

*   *   *

Lots of things were hurting. I tried to catch my breath, didn't quite succeed. I was on my back, which was throbbing, and my ribs ached as well, from having been pushed into the edge of the stage earlier. I coughed and rolled over, got up. More flashing lights. The stage was nearly empty. Three ambulances were parked up close to the stage, and there was a line of Falconer cops and state police keeping everyone away. There were knots of people standing around, craning their heads, trying to see what was going on, and then one ambulance, and then another, pulled away, with a state police cruiser leading the way, siren whooping, lights flashing.

My jaw hurt, too. I rubbed at my jaw and then went over to the stage, bent down, and looked at my hidey-hole.

Haleigh Miller was gone.

I stood up. Who could blame her?

The stage was now a conclave of cops, investigators, and other men and women in serious suits with serious attitudes. Crime scene tape had quickly been strung, and little yellow and black plastic folding signs designating evidence sites were placed on the floor, and there were brief bursts of light, like sudden lightning, as photographers did their job.

I reached into my coat pockets, found my reporter's notebook, my cell phone, and the keys to my Ford. A real reporter, I suppose, would stay behind and try to get the story here, at the actual crime scene, where a prominent antinuclear and peace activist had been gunned down. That's where the story was. News vans from the Boston television stations and the sole New Hampshire television station were already racing down the dirt road, nearly ramming into each other to find a parking spot.

I pulled out my car keys.

Never said I was a real reporter.

I started jogging back up to where my Explorer was parked.

*   *   *

Where Paula and the corpse of Bronson Toles had gone was no big mystery. The nearest hospital was about two towns over from Falconer and an easy drive from Route 1 to the interstate to Route 101, heading west. It's usually a twenty-minute drive. I did it in under fifteen, and I would have gotten there quicker save for a moment when I had to pull over, when I saw Paula's purse sitting on the floor, in front of the passenger seat, like a forgotten pet. I didn't like seeing her purse on the floor. It didn't belong here by itself. I picked it up and put it back on the passenger seat and resumed driving.

Exonia Hospital is a sprawling campus of brick buildings in the charming town of Exonia, home to a famed prep school and a bunch of authors, most of them laboring in deserved obscurity. From past experience and visits, I pulled into the emergency room parking lot, which was already nearly full. I moved quickly through a set of automatic sliding glass doors, and inside, the waiting area of the emergency room was a miniature of the chaos I'd left behind in Falconer. Hospital security officers were trying to keep some sense of order, and men and women and even some children argued, yelled, and cried as others pushed up against the admissions desk. There was some low chanting from a group that sat on the carpeted floor holding hands, praying for whatever was worth praying for.

I pushed and shoved my way up to the admissions desk, and a thin, harried woman in a blue smock looked at me and quickly said, “No statement from us. You'll have to wait for our community relations rep to get down here.”

I realized she had looked at my press badge. I tore the badge off my jacket and shoved it into a pocket. “I don't give a hoot for Bronson Toles and his condition. There was a young woman who was transported here as well. Paula Quinn. What's her condition?”

The woman's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you a relative?”

“Co-workers,” I said, and then, not sure if that was going to do it, “She's also my fiancée.”

That seemed to get to her. “Oh, okay.” She looked at a couple of sheets of paper. Her hands were shaking, and I thought what it must be like, to be working in an ER on an otherwise quiet night, and then to have the place flooded with angry and upset people and an instant news event. “Paula Quinn … she's still being examined in Room Four. You can see her in a few minutes. Why don't you take a seat and we'll call you when she's up to seeing a visitor.”

I looked back at the groups of people, voices raised, demands being made, the security officers and now a couple of Exonia cops trying to maintain order. I said, “All the same to you, I'd like to stay right here. I might get lost if I join that crazy bunch.”

Not a nice statement on my part, but it had the desired effect. She gave me a quick, tired smile and said, “Stand over there, by the elevator. I promise I'll get back to you when it's time.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

*   *   *

Surprisingly enough, it didn't take that long, and in about ten minutes I was led back into the examining rooms, off to Room 4, and at the other end of the polished corridor, past gurneys and chairs and medical equipment on casters, there was a knot of cops standing outside another room, and from that room, I heard the great, racking sobs of a woman.

I turned back and went into Room 4, where I hoped I could do something.

*   *   *

The attending ER physician was a Dutchman, a nice guy in blue scrubs with bad teeth and a two-day-old growth of beard, and a last name that had about two consonants and fifteen vowels. He started talking, and for a few minutes I ignored him. Paula was on a medical bed, curved on her side, wearing the standard-issue hospital jammie top. It was light green. Her blond hair was a tangled mess. There were flecks of dried blood along one cheek and her neck. Her eyes fluttered open and closed, and she was breathing shallowly, as if her lungs had been damaged. There was an oxygen tube looped under her pug nose and an IV tube inserted in one hand, and I held the other hand, the flesh cool and clammy.

Finally I looked up at the doctor. “Excuse me, what did you say?”

He paused and then resumed. “I said, there are no apparent physical injuries, though from what I understand, she was standing right next to the other victim when he was shot. She has no wounds or fractures, but it appears that she may have sustained a slight concussion when she fell upon the stage.”

I looked back at Paula. “Why is she like this? She's unconscious … breathing hard … like she's having lots of bad dreams.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, making a notation on her chart. “When she arrived here, she was quite frantic, upset. She was struggling, crying … we had to give her a sedative to calm her down before we could examine her.”

I squeezed her hand, hoping for a response. A machine over her head on a stainless steel stand beeped twice, and that was it.

“How long do you plan to keep her?”

“Overnight, of course—but perhaps longer. We shall see.”

I kept on looking at the pale face, the brown spots of blood on her fair skin, blood that had belonged to a man that had been breathing, living, and applauding not more than an hour ago. “Why longer, Doc? What's going on?”

He put his pen down. “Years ago … I was working for Doctors Without Borders … assigned to refugee camps in the Sudan, yes? I saw many, many things among the refugees … especially those who had received sudden and unexpected violent trauma, or had witnessed same. Your fiancée here … she was only a couple of feet away from a man who was violently killed. She was sprayed with his blood and brain matter. She has gone into shock. A night of bed rest, some sedatives, should bring her out of it in a day or two.”