LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (15 page)

“The rear doors open?”

I made sure by toggling a side switch. There was a
click,
and then the door opened, and my visitor got in. “Don't look back,” he warned again. “Look back and—”

“Yeah, I got it,” I said. “If I look back, the meet is off.”

“Nice to see you got it. Now drive. Go out and take a left.”

I pulled out into traffic and turned left and followed my unseen visitor's directions. We drove south for a few moments and went through an intersection that marked the closed South Gate of Falconer Station, where there was a crowd of about fifty or so demonstrators waving signs, chanting, and posing for a couple of television crews that had illuminated the area with a harsh light. A billboard inside the gate announced that Falconer was producing safe energy for one million New England homes, and that sign had been defaced by what looked to be paintball guns.

My escort in the rear seat snorted something as we drove by, and I said, “You say something?”

“Yeah, I did. Sheep.”

“What sheep?”

“Those sheep,” he said. “Sheep posing for other sheep, everyone doing their roles—but, buddy, me and my friends, and Curt Chesak, we sure the fuck aren't sheep.”

We drove south for a couple more minutes and, following my unseen escort's directions, I took a left and a right and another left, and I was in a residential area of Falconer, with trailer parks and tired-looking Cape Cod homes. At one point there was a dirt road off to the left in a thick grove of pine trees, and I was tapped on the shoulder.

“There. Take that left.”

I drove down that dirt road a few more yards, and he said, “Stop.”

I stopped and put the Ford in park, and he said, “All right, shut the engine off. Here's a few rules before we proceed.”

I switched the engine off and said, “Where did you learn this? At some professional protester class at school?”

“Very funny,” he said. “No, my dad, he worked for the big bad CIA. Didn't tell me about anything he did for real for the agency, but did teach me some tradecraft. Has proven very useful. So here's the rules. When you step out, you're going to leave everything electronic behind. Got it? Cell phone, pager, PDA. Everything like that stays behind.”

So I worked some and did as I was told. I didn't like it one bit, but this young man behind me was in the driver's seat, no matter where I was sitting. When I was finished he said, “One more thing. And if you don't agree, then—”

“Let me guess. The meet's off.”

“Yeah. The meet's off.”

“What's the one more thing?”

He said, “I'm sorry, but it has to be done. Curt Chesak is one of the most wanted men in New England, and his security is paramount. So we're going to step out of your gas guzzler here, and there's going to be a hood placed over your head. Just for a while. You'll be taken to see him, have your interview, and then be brought back here.”

I didn't like any of it, not one bit, but I also didn't like the thought of Paula Quinn, home by herself, shivering with fear over the thought of being in a killer's sights again.

“All right, but I have something to share with you.”

“Go ahead.”

I said, “This goes well, I get to see Curt Chesak, or friend, I'm going to make you very, very unhappy.”

“Some threat,” he said, voice just a bit sneering.

“No,” I said. “Some promise—and I'm ready.”

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

So I stepped out into the cool October air, and my companion stepped out as well, and in a practiced move, he slipped a cloth bag over my head. It felt like one of those cloth shopping bags that stores encourage you to use to save the earth, which I thought was fairly humorous. My escort took my arm and said, “Just a few feet down the road, all right? Then we're going to go for a short ride. In the meantime, if you give me your keys, we'll move your Ford back to the doughnut shop parking lot, put your key on one of the rear tires.”

“Why can't it stay here?”

“Because it can't. If you think we're low enough to steal your vehicle, don't worry about it. Curt gave specific orders that neither you or your ride was going to get messed up.”

Happy that my auto insurance was up to date, I reluctantly passed over my keys. I then let him lead me on down the road, and I made out the sound of a car engine. As he held my arm I said, “Since we're getting pretty familiar with each other, mind telling me your name?”

He laughed. “Why should I?”

“Why not? Or are you wanted by the police as well?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet. You can call me … Todd. How does that sound?”

“If it works for you, that's fine.”

The sound of the car engine grew louder, and then we stopped. I heard a car door being opened, and Todd said, “I'll help you in. Put your hands out some, that should help.”

I managed to get into the rear seat without falling on my butt, and Todd came in next to me. My hands on the seat revealed it to be some sort of soft leather, and I said, “I'm disappointed in you folks. These are leather seats. Not very environmentally correct, are they?”

Todd said, “Not too soon to cancel everything, if that's what you want.”

“You're boring me with those threats, Todd. So put them away for somebody else.”

The car was put into gear, and for fifteen or twenty minutes we drove around, with sharp turns, brakings, and a few backups. I guess Todd and his driver thought I had some sort of superhuman power so I could count the turns and keep track of the time by tapping my feet or something, but I was just finding it stuffy and clammy inside the shopping bag. The car went down another bumpy dirt road for a distance and then stopped.

“All right,” Todd said. “A bit more walking and we're there.”

The door came open, and I stepped out, helped up by Todd. He said, “Lift your feet up. There's a trail here, it's kinda rough.”

So for a long series of minutes I was led along some sort of trail, and twice I tripped over exposed tree roots, but Todd kept me up. Another time a branch whipped my face, and he muttered, “Sorry about that,” and then there was an “Almost there, and we're going across a footbridge, so be really careful.”

There was the smell of mud and saltwater, and my feet echoed some, walking across rough wood. Then I smelled a fire burning and heard a few voices, and then we stopped.

Todd said, “We're here. Okay? When you're done with Curt Chesak, then I'll take you back—and when he says the interview is over, then the interview is over. All right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Sounds swell.”

With that, the hood came off my head, and I took a deep breath and then opened my eyes, took out a handkerchief, and wiped at my sweaty face. I was in a small clearing in a pine forest. Out beyond some of the trees there were small campfires. Before me sat a man on a camp stool. He had on work boots, blue jeans, and a gray sweatshirt. His hands were folded in his lap, and he was wearing a black watch cap and a red bandanna across his lower face. He had large ears, prominent, and it seemed his eyes were brown. Between us was a small campfire. I looked behind me, saw a camp chair, and sat down. There were other activists there as well, in the shadows and firelight, and most wore ski masks or some kind of face mask.

“Mr. Cole,” he said.

“Mr. Chesak,” I replied. “Is the bandanna really necessary?”

“I'm wanted by a number of people and a number of police agencies. I don't want to take chances.”

“Is Curt Chesak your real name?”

I could sense his smile behind the bandanna. “A question that's not going to be answered tonight. So try something else.”

“Your fellow protesters over there,” I said. “Are they wearing masks for my benefit, or because they don't trust one another?”

“Everyone you see is here because they are trustworthy,” Chesak said. “Some feel comfortable keeping their faces covered, on the off chance we're under some sort of surveillance, or if there's a police raid.”

I took out my notebook and pen. There was enough light for me to take notes, if I wrote large enough. “Thanks for the interview.”

“You're welcome. You should also thank the young lady who pled your case—otherwise, you wouldn't be here. Larger and wealthier media organizations have tried to be in your position, and none have succeeded.”

“Maybe they didn't like the thought of being shuttled around half the county with a grocery bag over their head.”

A slight shrug of his wide shoulders. “The price that must be paid to keep me where I belong.”

“Where is that exactly?”

“Leading the members of the NFF, the Nuclear Freedom Front.”

I scribbled something in my notebook. “I see. How did you come to lead the Nuclear Freedom Front?”

“By direct action, how else. I started with local actions, and when the NFF came together, I was chosen.”

“Why the NFF?” I asked. “Out there are thousands of protesters with the Coalition for a Livable Future, and maybe a few hundred of you folks, the NFF. So why the NFF?”

He said, “Have you spent any time with the Coalition?”

“Not that much.”

“You know what they're good at doing?”

“Protesting.”

“Sure,” he said, as the campfire between us crackled and burned. “Protesting. Discussing. Talking. Oh Lord, can they ever talk. That's what they're very good at. Talking. And that's why we have the NFF. We're more interested in direct action, Mr. Cole. That's our strength. Maybe not our numbers, but our dedication.”

“I've seen your dedication,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“I saw the dedication of a couple of your followers, too, the other day, when Bronson Toles made his last speech. Two of your NFF members were up on the stage, disrupting Bronson's speech.”

“They were making a point,” Chesak said, “that it was no longer a time for talking but a time for taking. Look, Bronson Toles was good at raising money, getting publicity—but doing what has to be done, that was lacking in his department.”

“What's your department, then?”

“What do you mean by that?”

I flipped a page in my notebook. “The coalition is having their big demonstration the day after tomorrow. Let's say you were in charge, and you had … oh, some magic power that allowed you to succeed, do exactly what you hope to do. So what would that be?”

My question seemed to catch him off guard for a moment, and then he said, “Wow. That's some question. That's some dream. All right, bottom line, we plan to go over those fences, go past the cops and National Guardsmen, and occupy the site.”

“What about the nuclear reactor?”

“We plant to shut her down.”

“How?”

Again I had the sense he was smiling at me behind his red bandanna. “It may be hard to believe, Mr. Cole, but among our ranks are disillusioned members of the nuclear power industry, as well as veterans of the nuclear navy. We know that power plant's vulnerabilities, its weaknesses. Even without getting past the heavy security to the plant's control room, we can shut her down. Once that happens, Mr. Cole, that death plant is not going to reopen ever again. That place is not only a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at any second, but its mere presence here is polluting the environment and the people living in its shadow.”

It was a challenge, keeping up with his fast talking, but I did my best. “All right. The plant is shut down. That means New England loses about eleven hundred megawatts of power. What does the region do without that power supply?”

“It makes adjustments,” he said. “Alternative power. Conservation. Better refrigerators, better lightbulbs, better appliances. Hell, this region did fine without air conditioners for a couple of hundred years. Giving those up sounds like a small price to pay for safe energy.”

“That kind of adjustment can take a while,” I said.

“That's what we hear, all the time. Be patient. It'll take a while. Things can't happen overnight. Well, when we occupy and shut down Falconer, that'll be a shock to the system, something sudden and unexpected. Change will have to occur. There will be no other choice.”

Another flip of my notebook. “Some might ask, who or what gives you the right to do something so drastic?”

“It's called self-defense, Mr. Cole. In the New Hampshire state constitution, it even says that the citizens have the right to act on their behalf if there's a greater danger involved. That danger is just over there, less than a mile away—and we citizens are doing to do what it takes, and we're going to shock the system, to make it take notice.”

Well,
I thought,
time to go really nuclear and see what happens.
“What about the murder of Bronson Toles?”

“What about it?”

“Was that a shock to the system, something that had to be done?” I asked.

He stared at me for a bit, the light from the campfire casting dark shadows over the part of his face that was visible. “I'm not sure what you're driving at, Mr. Cole.”

I said, “It's no secret that the coalition and the NFF don't get along that well. Or that you and Bronson Toles didn't have the best of relationships, either professionally or personally. Or that—”

Chesak interrupted me and said, “If you're saying that either me or a member of the NFF were responsible for Bronson Toles's murder, you can stop right there.”

“How can you be sure?” I pressed him. “Wouldn't it be to your advantage to have Bronson Toles removed from the scene, leaving just one visible leader for the antinuclear movement? Maybe even get some coalition members to join you?”

“I wouldn't want most of them,” he said sharply.

“Why? Aren't they dedicated enough to the cause?”