Shattered Shell (34 page)

I tossed everything in, and after turning the key I steered down to the road. I braked a bit too quickly at the end and skidded out into the main road, but I still saw the brake lights of Doug's Dodge Colt, heading into Newburyport.

It only took a minute or so to catch up with him and soon we were on High Street, back toward the center of town. Traffic had built up and I let another car get between us. As we got into the city proper, a little twinge crept up my back as we passed Kara's apartment. Something was there with Doug, though I wasn't sure what. I just knew that the sculpture at his home didn't walk from Kara's place.

A couple of turns later and we were on the waterfront, going down Merrimack Street. In the center of the city it was all rebuilt brick and wooden buildings, with ice-cream shops and antique stores mixed in with restaurants. In another mile or so the rebuilt portion of the city dribbled away, and we were in a part of the town that looked like an older, shabbier brother of the downtown. There were apartment buildings and old stores, and a couple of marine shops, and small dark homes that were built new, maybe about two hundred years ago. A small brick building with a chain-link fence around it marked the Merrimack River Station of the U.S. Coast Guard. Off to the left was the wide expanse of the Merrimack River, and the lights of moored boats in the marinas, and on the far shore, the dimmer lights of Salisbury. Out beyond the mouth of the river, the breakwater and the waters of the Atlantic.

Up ahead Doug's car braked and pulled into a parking lot, and I pulled ahead for a couple hundred feet before turning around and going back toward the lot, seeing him walk into a building. I slowed and found a space a few car lengths down from Doug's Colt.

I III both sides of the parking lot were apartment buildings, and one building had a flickering neon sign that said ROOMS TO RENT. Across the street was a two-story building with peeling paint and a few torn=ff shingles. The upstairs looked like apartments and the downstairs boasted a well-lit Budweiser sign, and underneath that, a smaller sign that said BRICK YARD PUB. Doug was out for a drink, that’s all.

"Well," I said aloud. "Maybe we're getting a bit thirsty, too."

I stepped outside and nearly fell on my butt. The lot wasn't well-plowed, and there was no sand or salt on the ice-covered pavement. I walked across the street and went up to the pub, navigating my way across a snowbank. The windows were darkened and I could make out the noise of some rock music from inside. I opened the door and the noise battered at my ears, and the smoke was thick, thick enough to almost make me gasp.

The lights were dim and the place was filled with men and women who probably would be listed as "blue-collar" on some sociologist's check-off sheet. There was a square bar set in the center, and off to the right, a couple of pool tables. A jukebox was playing some old Rolling Stones tune. Other tables and chairs were scattered across the dirty wooden floor, and the blue haze of cigarette smoke dimmed the overhead lights. I unbuttoned my coat and made my way to the bar, where an older woman with a beehive hairdo and a cigarette dangling from her lips held court. She was joshing with some of the customers, and I worked my way onto a barstool. At first I thought she didn't see me, but she had great peripheral vision and slapped down a napkin at my elbow. She had on a pink polo shirt and ANGELA was stitched in a heavier pink thread.

I could just make out her voice and I guessed what she was asking me, and, keeping it simple, I ordered a Budweiser. It came a minute or two later in a long-necked bottle, and leaving glass empty, I tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter and looked around the pub, taking a casual sip from the beer.

Then I looked again, closer. Doug wasn't here.

Well. I sipped from the beer and pretended to be waiting for someone, and then I ordered another beer when Angela was looking at me expectantly. No Doug. I had seen him come in and he wasn't at one of the tables or playing pool. I headed to the end of the bar, where there was an alcove that had a pay phone and two restrooms. At the rear of the alcove was another door. I tried the handle. It was locked.

"Hey!" I turned and there was a man at the alcove's entrance, holding a few cases of beer. He had on a black T-shirt and leather vest, and his beard and shoulder-length hair were black and streaked will gray.

"What are you doing back there?" he demanded. "That's off limits."

The muscles holding those cases of beer looked pretty impressive, and I gave him my friendliest, slightly sloppy drunk smile.  "Sorry," I said. "I gotta take a leak and the men's room smelled something awful. Thought there might be another toilet back here."

He just stared. "Then go piss in the snow. That's for employees only."

I shrugged and went past him, and I could tell his eyes were with me every step back to the bar. I retrieved my stool and took swig from the bottle, and then the guy came back and came over and whispered something to Angela, who then stared at me and went back to work, wiping some glasses dry and hanging them overhead. Damn. Made so quickly. Maybe it was time to go home I took a smaller sip and then saw Doug come out of the alcove, followed by two other guys.

Maybe not.

The three sat down at a comer table, and in a quick moment Angela over there, placing down two mixed drinks and a bottle of beer on the table. She walked away without the usual tussle of payment or tips. Interesting. Very quick service for some very special customers.  It looked like. Doug was sitting with his back to the rear wall, talking animatedly to his co-drinkers who flanked him.  They looked like they came out of Central Casting: jeans, workboots, beards, and leather winter coats. They laughed a lot and I seemed to defer to Doug, which struck me as odd, based on what I knew of him.

I made eye contact with Angela and she took my empty and she shook her head.

"Excuse me?" I said, raising my voice to be heard over the music. Another Rolling Stones tune, though I wouldn't have I thought this crowd was into classic rock.

She leaned over the bar, her voice raspy. "Sorry, pal. You're cut off. No more."

''I'm what?" I asked. "I've only had two."

She motioned with her thumb to the rear of the bar, where my earlier friend was walking over with another load of beer cases. “You got a problem, you want to talk to Harry over there? Or do you just want to go home?"

Message received, loud and clear. I got up and said, "You know what they say."

"What's that?" she asked, her face not friendly at all.

"Home," I said. "There's no place like it."

I guess she missed the subtle humor, because she stalked her way back to the other end of the bar. As I got my coat I looked over to the comer and saw Doug, staring right at me. I smiled and gave him a little kid's wave, complete with fluttering fingers. His two companions were sitting up straight, looking over at him and then looking over at me. For a moment I thought of going over to talk, but a little part of me that's called common sense went into general quarters. I was in a strange place with no friends, no back-up, and no weapons. The staff of the Brick Yard Pub were already not too friendly, and going up and getting in the faces of Doug and his two burly friends made about as much sense as trying to sell Malcolm X T-shirts at an Aryan Nation rally.

So instead I blew Doug a kiss. He scowled and whispered something to one of his buddies. I headed for the door before Doug or his friends could catch up with me. Outside, the night air quickly cleared my head, and as I walked to the parking lot I thought about what had just happened. Old Doug Miles, instead of being the jumpy loser that Felix and I had determined, actually had some pull. He was somebody, at least in this pub. He had respect and he had friends, and I wanted to know more. The curse of a curious mind, I suppose. I wanted to know why he was there and who his friends were, and what might have happened to Kara Miles because of what Doug was doing,

I was also aware of a couple of other things. My clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and I was quite hungry.

First things first. Time to eat. I drove past my home and went into North Tyler for another hundred yards, before stopping at the side of the road to a little restaurant, called Sally's Clam Shack, built right on the beach. Sally's been dead for some years, but her two sons have kept the place going ever since. In the summertime they hire a dozen or so high school students and their parking lot was always full. In the winter it's only the two brothers --- Neil and Patrick --- ho keep the place going, along with another relative or two. All they do is take-out seafood and other fried delights, and they keep going in the winter because of a small contingent of loyal customers who keep enough money flowing in to make it worthwhile.

On this night the three spaces in the plowed-out lot were full so I parked against a snow bank, just barely off the road. The oldest brother --- Neil --- gave me a shout as I walked in. There was loud country music playing and the clattering sound of food being prepared. Most of the restaurant is closed off and there's a waiting area with folding chairs and menus to look at while waiting. Neil, who is about my age but who has wrists the size of telephone poles, took my order (fried shrimp and fried onion rings --- sorry, no dieting tonight) and whispered to me, "It'll be right up."

I looked over at the half-dozen customers waiting for their orders and said, "Neil, you don't have to."

He waved a hand in the general direction of the far wall and said. "Hey, don't worry. It's our business, so to hell with them."

I gave up and leaned up against the wall. All of the chairs were taken. Near my head was something that always embarrassed me when I saw it. Last year one of my columns had mentioned the old traditional family restaurants of the New Hampshire seacoast, and I had listed about a dozen. Sally's Clam Shack was one of those, and for the reaction I got from Neil and Patrick, you'd have thought that
Shoreline
had made them the cover story. They made me autograph a copy of the column and it was now framed --- with their four sentences of fame highlighted in yellow --- and hanging on the wall.

In a couple of minutes I was leaving the Clam Shack, with a promise to come back real soon, now, carrying my quite deadly dinner in one hand, the smells making my stomach grumble. In the still night air steam was rising up from the bag, and it was when reached the Rover that I heard the car approach.

I turned. It was a four-door sedan, coming up on the road, moving pretty quickly, with all of its windows down and ---

I tossed the food down and threw myself on the ground, rolling underneath the Range Rover as the first shots came bursting out. The gunfire was loud and raucous and hurt my hears as I scrambled my way underneath, snow and ice and metal undercarriage scraping and pulling at me. I made it through as the gunfire continued, the sound of the exploding rounds impossibly loud, almost drowning out the metallic
pangs
and
pings
as the slugs ripped through the aluminum body of my four-wheeler.

I clambered through to the other side, knowing if I stayed under the Rover, I'd make a damn perfect target for anyone bothering to stoop over. I got on my hands and knees and moved through the ice and snow, propelling myself up and over the snowbank, causing another round of fire to come racing my way. In movies and television the hero always manages to look back and memorize the faces of his attempted killers, the make of their car, and the license plate.

This particular hero rolled down the other side of the snowbank and yelled when his knee popped against a rock. I got up and moved farther down the snow-covered boulders that edge up against the ocean. I crouched behind a large rock and then spared another quick glance. There were two or three figures up at the snowbank, all carrying something in their hands that certainly weren't snow shovels. The beam of a flashlight came down and I crouched again, breathing heavily, snow melting down the back of my neck, my throat dry and raspy. Some raised voices up on the crest of the bank, and then came the slamming sound of car door and the squeal of tires.

They were gone. I was alone.

Alive, but cold, wet, hungry, and terrified.

Although my common sense told me in a casual voice that the men in the car were probably miles away by now, my not-so common sense was screaming at me to stay low. So I stayed among the snow- and ice-covered rocks, slipping and sliding my way south, making my way back to Tyler Beach. I suppose I should have been thinking great thoughts about what had just happened, wondering if Doug had the capacity to order a hit on me less than a half-hour after I had shown up at his favorite pub, but instead I focused on the matter at hand. Which, no pun intended, included my two very cold hands. Back in my vehicle --- and I refused to think of how bullet-ridden it must be --- were a pair of heavy gloves and a wool hat, all three of which I could have been using with great enthusiasm. My hands were numb and I tried to walk with them stuffed inside my coat, but I was slipping and sliding so much that I had to use them for balance. A couple of times I jammed them against the cold and harsh stone as I tried not to fall.

Once I didn't succeed. I slipped on a chunk of ice and tumbled down another set of rocks, and ended up knee-deep in the water. I yelped from the cold and slogged my way out onto the shore, shivering, my teeth beginning to chatter. The wind was cutting through me, and I reached down to touch my bruised knee, and winced at the torn fabric and the sticky feeling from the blood oozing out. I rested for a couple of minutes, sitting on the rocks, hunched over with my coat collar turned up and my aching hands buried in my pockets. I looked up at the stars and the elegant figure of Orion, the hunter, almost mocking me here on the ground. Some mighty hunter I was. I tease and poke at my prey, and then turn my back and damn near get my head torn off in the process.