LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (6 page)

I rubbed Paula's hand. “Should?”

“All of us are different, are we not? Your fiancée, perhaps she will bounce back quickly, but she may not. She may need help … therapy … she may emerge from this dreadful experience a different person. All we can do now is wait.”

I looked back at Paula. While the doctor bustled around and a friendly nurse came in to check Paula's vitals, I took a moment and wet down a paper towel, and I spent a few minutes gently washing her cheek and neck, getting Bronson Toles's blood off of her, and then I sat back down, watched her breathe, watched her eyelids flutter. When I didn't think anyone was paying me attention, I got up and bent over and whispered in her ear, “Paula … you take care, tonight, okay? You can beat this … honest, you can.”

Then I sat back down.

More minutes passed.

The friendly nurse from before came over and said, “Is there anyone else we can contact on her behalf? Other family members, perhaps?”

I thought for a second and said, “Mark Spencer. He lives in Tyler. He's the town counsel.”

She wrote down what I had told her. “Is he a relative?”

“No,” I said. “He's her boyfriend.”

The friendly nurse now looked not so friendly and confused. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I … I thought she was your fiancée.”

“I'm sorry, too,” I said. “I lied.”

*   *   *

Later the nurse came back and said that calls had been placed to Mark Spencer, and that it was time to move Paula Quinn to a regular hospital room, and unfortunately visiting hours were wrapping up, but I could come back tomorrow after 9:00
A.M.
and see how she was doing then.

I said that was fine, and shook her hand, and the hand of the Dutch doctor, and bent down and kissed Paula's forehead, and then left Paula's room. The scrum of cops and investigators at the other end of the hallway was as large as ever, and I made my way back to the waiting area of the ER, where it was quieter, with some sobs and low conversation about Bronson Toles.

Outside it was pouring rain, but it didn't stop everyone from doing their job, performing their roles. Satellite trucks from the Boston television stations had set up shop, camera lights harshly illuminating the parking lot and the emergency room entrance. Behind hastily erected wooden police barricades, followers of Bronson Toles had gathered, some of them carrying the same antinuclear and safe-energy signs as before, others trying to keep sputtering candles alit in the downpour.

I got to my Ford Explorer, climbed in, and started it up. Paula Quinn's purse was still on the passenger seat. I wondered if I should go back and try to give it to someone to place in her room, but I felt queasy at the thought of having to navigate that mourning crowd out there and the sharp journalists who were busily recording every shout, slogan, or tear.

Tomorrow,
I thought.
Tomorrow.

I backed the Explorer up, and in navigating out of the parking lot, I stopped at an intersection. Underneath a maple tree, lit up by a nearby streetlight, a young woman stood there, alone, arms crossed, as the rain came down. I looked at her twice and recognized her. Haleigh Miller, the demonstrator from the nearby University of New Hampshire campus.

I stayed at the stop sign.

It looked like she was shivering.

I powered down the Explorer's window. “Haleigh! Haleigh Miller!”

She looked up, hesitated, and then walked across to me, running a hand through her wet hair, pulling it out of her face. “Oh … it's you … the writer … ah, Lewis, right?”

“Right,” I said. “Lewis Cole. Look, it's late, you're getting soaked. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

She said, “Oh … that'd be nice … I'm staying with some friends back at the campground … the campground where … well, you know…” and then she started weeping, her arms clasped tight around her chest.

From behind me a car was approaching, the headlights coming at me fast. “Get in,” I said. “I'll give you a ride.”

She skirted around the front of the Explorer, and then I gently took Paula's purse and deposited it in the rear. Haleigh got in, and I drove off, leaving the lights and the protests and the cries behind.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

After a couple of quiet minutes, Haleigh said, “This isn't the way back to the campground.”

“I know,” I said.

Her voice grew stronger. “What's going on, then?”

I said, “Haleigh … the weather report says it's going to rain all night tonight, and into tomorrow morning. So I'm offering you options. I can drop you off in Tyler, put you up for the night in a motel, or you can come back to my place, bunk out on a couch. You're sopping wet, and to climb into a damp sleeping bag, in a damp tent … well, I didn't think you'd have a good night.”

She stayed quiet as I made my way through the wet streets, then said, “Thanks for the offers.”

“You're welcome.”

“You could have told me earlier.”

“I could,” I admitted, “but I didn't want to get into an involved discussion at a stop sign while you were getting more drenched.”

I sensed a smile from her side of the Explorer. “All right. I accept your offer.”

“Which one?”

“The one where I spend the night on your couch. I don't want you spending any money on me.”

“That's a deal, then.”

“Oh, and just so we're clear…”

“Haleigh, I've just come from the hospital, where an old friend of mine is in shock and is being admitted. That's all I have on my mind right now. I promise you a comfortable, warm, and safe night. That's all.”

“Oh,” she said again. “I'm sorry … is she going to be all right?”

“I hope so,” I said.

She folded her arms, then unfolded them, then ran her hands over her wet peasant skirt. “Bronson … I can't believe Bronson is dead. I just can't believe it.”

Then she started crying again as I sped up the Explorer.

*   *   *

My small house is on Tyler Beach, directly across the street from the Lafayette House, an old Victorian-style hotel that's been on Atlantic Avenue for more than a hundred years. I went through the hotel's parking lot—situated on my side of the street—to the lot's northern end, where some rocks had been moved away to allow a small dirt lane that leads down to my home. It's two stories tall, weather-beaten, with a scraggly lawn and a sagging shed off to the right that serves as a garage. I pulled into the garage, and we both got out and sprinted to the front door. I got the door unlocked, we got inside, and I took our wet coats and hung them in the near closet.

Next to the closet was a closed door that led to the small cellar, and over both doors were wooden stairs that went up to the second floor. To the left was a small living room and sliding glass doors for the rear deck, overlooking a rocky portion of the coastline and the Atlantic Ocean. Adjacent to the sliding glass doors was a tiny kitchen, and everything was small and cozy, because at one time, more than a century ago, my house had been a lifeboat station to rescue mariners out on the ocean.

I went into the living room, turned on a couple of lights and kicked up the oil furnace, and in a few moments, warm air started cascading into the room. Haleigh rubbed at her arms and said, “Nice place.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It works for me.”

She stepped up to the glass doors and said, “I bet when it's sunny outside, you get a wonderful view out there.”

“I surely do.”

She looked through the glass, out at the rain-swept darkness. Her voice was quiet now, almost melancholy. “A view like this is a dream for most people, do you know that, Mr. Cole?”

“Mr. Cole is what people called my father. Please call me Lewis.”

She gave me a quick smile. There was a dimple in one cheek. “All right, Lewis … a dream, that's what it is … and for Bronson, a way of offering a view of a clean, healthy environment, no matter where you went in this world was a dream worth pursuing, a dream worth keeping—and now he's dead.” Haleigh wiped at her eyes. “Who do you think did it?”

I went over to the refrigerator and opened it up, just seeing what I had to offer my unexpected houseguest. “These are passionate times, you know. The economy is staggering, jobs are hard to get, energy is expensive. Then you have something like the Falconer Unit Two project, which promises jobs and more power down the road … and you have Bronson opposing it … people's passions rise up.”

Another wipe to the eyes. “You think somebody who supports the power plant did it?”

I closed the refrigerator door. “Or somebody who thinks Bronson didn't do enough, maybe one of those Nuclear Freedom Front folks—or something else. I just don't know. What I do know is that you're soaked to the skin, and even with the heat on, you can't be comfortable.”

She said nothing, just looked at me calmly. I went on. “So why don't you go upstairs, and at the top of the stairs is a bathroom. Duck in and take a shower. In the bathroom is a washer and dryer. Toss your clothes in the dryer, they'll probably be dried by the time you're done—and, Haleigh?”

“Yes?”

I stayed in the kitchen, behind a waist-high counter that separated us. “I'll stay down here, and the bathroom door locks from the inside. So no worries, okay?”

She nodded, then went upstairs, and I heard the door close, and I listened, but I didn't hear the snap of the lock. In a few minutes I heard the humming of the dryer in action and the rush of water into the shower.

*   *   *

I switched on the television, checked the time, saw that I could probably catch a top-of-the-hour newscast in a few minutes, and then looked at my telephone and nearby answering machine, which was blinking a green numeral 2 at me. Two messages. I hit the
PLAY
button, and there was a
whir-whir
as the tape rewound, and then the messages started.

Beep
. “Lewis? Denise Pichette-Volk here. I heard about the shooting at the rally this afternoon. I trust you were there. I want some details. Call me.”

Click,
followed by another
beep
. “Hey, writer man,” came the low, female voice, and I smiled and the room instantly felt warmer. “Annie calling, from the campaign trail. Give me a ring, no matter the time. I doubt I'll be sleeping … Ta.”

I erased both messages, got the phone, and dialed a number from memory. It rang three times, and then a woman's whisper answered. “Yes?”

“It's writer man,” I said. “Remember me?”

A slight giggle. “Hold on. I need to leave this meeting.”

In the background I could make out a slight babble of voices, and then Annie's voice came in clear and sharp. “Whew, nice timing,” she said. “You got me out of a meeting discussing the best ways to allocate our resources to certain congressional districts and vital precincts and so forth and so on.”

“Where are you?”

She sighed. “If this is Thursday, then it must be Virginia—and tomorrow will be Kentucky, and the day after that … Indiana. I think.”

“Days like these, bet you miss the quiet life of New Hampshire.”

“Hah,” she said. “My last couple of months in New Hampshire were anything but quiet, thanks to you and the senior senator from Georgia.”

“How's Senator Hale doing?”

A breath from her. “All right. The race is tightening, which is good, because that usually means it breaks for the challenger, and he's holding up well, with all the airplane food, banquet chicken, and fourteen-hour days—as is his gorgeous and efficient staff.”

I paused, then said, “How about the senator's wife?”

Annie said, “In Alaska. Then Nevada. About as far west as possible.”

“Good.”

“I agree,” she said. “So what have you been up to, my friend?”

I switched the phone receiver from one ear to the other. “I was out covering an antinuke rally in Falconer earlier today. There was a shooting.”

“God, anybody hurt?”

“Killed. A guy named Bronson Toles. Antinuke activist and owner of a local club and restaurant.”

“Any arrests?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Looked like a shooter hiding in the woods … and another thing. You remember Paula Quinn?”

“Sure,” she said. “The reporter that you had a brief thing with few years back.”

“She was standing right next to Bronson when he got hit. She got sprayed by blood, brain, and bone from the poor guy. She's at the hospital in Exonia being treated for shock. Among other things.”

“Sweet Jesus, Lewis, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Upstairs I heard the shower switch off. “Well…”

“Go on. You're definitely breaking up a long workday.”

“Well, there's this college coed. Name of Haleigh Miller. She's upstairs taking a shower.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“She got caught in a rainstorm and was soaked to the skin.”

“You peek in on her while she was showering?”

“Gave that up a while ago,” I said. “Not enough of a challenge.”

That brought forth a laugh, and I said, “She was next to me at the shooting and got caught up in the chaos afterward. Almost got hurt. She's pretty shook up about the killing, and instead of sending her off to spend the night in a wet tent with the rest of her antinuke friends, I offered her my couch.”

“My noble writer man,” Annie said. “How sweet—but it had better be just the couch, or I'm going to go medieval on your ass at some time.”

“How would you know?”

“I'm a woman, with appropriate and magical powers,” she said, “and after Indiana—I'm begging for at least a twelve-hour pass to New Hampshire, where you will have the distinct privilege of wining, dining, and bedding me, not necessarily in that order.”