But I had a little work to do. I went up to my office and got out some paperwork I had collected over the past few days, I got to work, typing up a long letter about things I had seen and things I had collected. When I had printed out these documents, and I got the other paperwork together, I put them into a nine-by-twelve manila envelope, sealed it, and then left my house, after making sure I had plugged in the phone. The day was a pleasant, sunny April morning, a day I would usually spend on my back deck, getting some sunshine and enjoying the cool ocean air.
But not this morning.
I drove back to Porter and went to the offices of the
Porter Herald
. I hope Paula would eventually forgive me, but what I was going to supply to a newspaper I couldn't possibly have given to her editor. The
Porter Herald
is in a one-story brick building a couple of blocks away from the harbor and just a few blocks more from the Porter Submarine Museum.
I parked in its large lot and went up to the front entrance.
Near the entrance was a newspaper box, and after dropping in two quarters, I retrieved that morning's issue. 1 don't read the
Porter Herald
that much ---- its copyediting staff relies too much on computer spell-checking --- but I needed this particular issue. I opened it up to the editorial page, where I scanned the little box that listed the top editors. I skipped the chief editor's name and went down to the news editor: Alan Sher. Knowing how newspapers operate, I knew that the chief editor would be too busy juggling different items from personnel to budgets to office politics to look seriously at what I had to offer. Which is why I scrawled Alan Sher's name on the brown envelope and went inside.
The receptionist was a young man with a blond crew cut and earrings on both ears, wearing baggy khaki pants and a dungaree shirt with a red necktie. He had on a headset and sat behind a waist-high counter, and through a glass door on the left I could make out the computer terminals and the reporters in the newsroom. I came in and handed the envelope over to him.
"Could you see that Mr. Sher gets this right away?" I asked. He glanced down at the envelope and said, "Certainly. May I ask who's dropping this off?"
"You may," I said, and left.
Outside I felt both antsy and tired, a strange combination.
There was a pay phone and I made a phone call to Paula Quinn at the
Chronicle
. No answer. I left a message on her voice mail.
"Paula, it's Lewis. I know I've been a pain lately, and you have my apologies. I'd like an opportunity --- ah, make that a bunch of opportunities, to make it up to you. Please give me a ring as soon as you can."
I hung up and rubbed my hands, and kept on walking. At a small restaurant on Congress Street I had a quick bowl of chowder for lunch, and then walked around downtown. Lots of cars, lots of people, lots of everything. It made my head hurt. Coming to the brick-and-glass building that marked the Porter Public Library, I went in. This was what I needed. On the first floor was the periodicals room, with plenty of comfortable chairs, and magazines displayed on racks all around the room. I looked at where they started-Astronomy
---
and where they ended ----
Yachting
--- and decided this was the place for me.
I sat down and started looking at pictures of Saturn, wondering how the shuttle was doing overhead.
Hours later I left the Porter Public Library, after reading about the newest dock facilities in the British Virgin Islands. I wandered back to the
Porter Herald
parking lot, curious how the news editor's day was going, and I got in my Explorer and headed south once again.
The drive seemed to take just a few seconds before I was back at Tyler Beach and turning into the parking lot of the Lafayette House. A woman was there, sitting on the trunk of yet another government-issued LTD. She had on black high-heeled shoes and a short black skirt and black stockings, and a leather jacket. I thought about racing past her or backing back onto Atlantic Avenue, but instead I slowed down and rolled down the passenger's side window. Laura Reeves yawned and got off the car trunk and came over.
"Hey, there," she said. "Hey yourself," I said.
"I was wondering if you could spare some time my way," she said.
"If you're looking for a formal debrief, forget it," I said.
"Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. But not now."
"Understood," she said, leaning against the open window, her hair hanging into my Explorer. She had on a gray sweater and a strand of pearls about her neck "Look, it's almost time for dinner. Or supper, as you New Englanders call it. How about my treat?"
"What kind of treat are you offering?"
She nodded back in the direction of her car. "We can go to the fanciest restaurant around here, or, back in the car, I've got a cooler with dinner fixings. Your choice. Either out or down to your house. You decide."
I looked at her face, tried to remember the look she had given me late last night, back in the gun complex. "Do we talk business?"
"Only if you want to."
I felt my fingers squeeze the steering wheel. "All right. My choice. My house.”
She smiled. “I hoped you were going to say that. Hold on.”
And in a minute or two she was in my Explorer as we bounced down the rough driveway, a small cooler rattling around in the backseat.
She took over my kitchen and when I tried to lend a hand, she shooed me away. "No, you can have this place back when it's cleanup time. Other than that, leave me be."
So I poured both of us a glass of wine, as she made a roast pork tenderloin dish with rice and a small Caesar salad, and she noticed how I watched her as she cooked. She had shed the leather jacket and looked a hundred degrees away from the woman who had taken control of a crime scene in an underground fortress. "You got a problem with a woman in your kitchen, Cole?"
"Maybe not," I said. "Maybe I have a problem with this particular woman. I realize I'm not being PC and all that, but after seeing the way you work, watching you worry about the temperature of my stove is a bit amusing."
"Well," she said, washing some lettuce in the sink "When I'm on a job, living far from home, I get tired of other people cooking my meals. I don't mind restaurants and I don't mind hotel food, but I do get tired of it after a few weeks on the road. It gets quite monotonous. So I actually find some joy being in a kitchen, cooking something the way I like it. You got a problem with that?"
"Nope," I said.
"Good," she said, tearing the lettuce into small pieces. "And I especially enjoy it when I'm cooking for someone else, and I certainly hope you don't have a problem with that."
"Not yet," I said. "Not yet."
We ate out on my deck, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun set in the west, on the other side of the house. A couple of seagulls hovered overhead, looking for a handout, and we sent them along their way disappointed. Laura looked out and said, "A hell of a view. You ever get whales through here?"
"Occasionally, though I've never seen them this close to shore," I said. "You've got to take a whale-watch boat out to get a good viewing."
She smiled. "If I had the time, that sounds like fun."
"And what kind of time do you have now?"
Laura shrugged. "Not much. It only took some threats on my part to get this evening off, considering all the hours I've been putting in. But there's reports to be filed, witnesses to be interviewed, evidence to be collected. Right now the uranium's being flown out to Los Alamos, and I still have a couple of people left to talk to. Including you."
"Lucky me," I said.
"Yes, lucky you," she said. "And what do you plan to do when this is all wrapped up?"
"Plans? I didn't know I was suppose to have plans."
"Sure you do," she said confidently. "Everyone's got plans.
You mean to tell me that when this is all over you intend to go back to your quiet little existence, doing whatever it is that you do?”
"Exactly," I said, cutting a fresh piece of roast pork "That's exactly what I plan to do. What do you think I want to do, come work with you?"
She eyed me as she chewed delicately on a piece of meat.
"To repeat a phrase, that's exactly what I'm thinking. Not fulltime. I wouldn't want to take you away from this coastal paradise. No, what I'm thinking is a contract force. Come in when we have particular problems to look at. I like the way you handle yourself, I like the way you poked around and answered questions."
"Did you also like the way I tried to kill your coworker?" I asked.
She raised an eyebrow, while the faint breeze off the ocean blew hair across her face. "I liked the way you handled yourself back there, when your back was against the wall, so let's leave it at that. All right?"
"All right," I said.
She toyed with her fork some and said, "I know you're going through a shakedown after all that happened. But be glad with what you helped to do, Lewis. You saved hundreds of lives, you saved the lives of American servicemen and women who were about to fly into harm's way, and you also helped keep some important Mideast negotiations on track. You should feel proud."
"Maybe I should," I said, still thinking of what it had been like looking at the still form of Felix Tinios floating in that flooded chamber. "But it's too soon. It really is."
She smiled. "Okay. I get it. But I also need a commitment from you on an official debrief Nothing too fancy. Just me and nobody else. Does tomorrow sound okay?"
I thought and said, "Tomorrow afternoon. I might be busy in the morning. Is that all right?"
"Sure. Two P.M.?" "Two is fine."
We ate some more and chatted about the weather and the foibles of working for the federal government, and what kinds of hotels have the best room service. Nothing too fancy. Then the wind picked up some and clouds began to roll in, and when I saw her shiver, I suggested it was time to go in.
It happened just as we were in the kitchen area, after the dishes had been piled up. She looked at me and said simply, "I'm cold," and then she was in my arms. We kissed for long seconds and then stumbled into the living room and onto the couch. I was on my back and she was on top of me, surprisingly strong, and I enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the taste and feel of her, of the long hair gliding through my fingers, the strong muscles of her back as I held her close.
Her legs were entangled in mine and we kept on kissing, her hands now unbuttoning my shirt, and then it all just faded away. I thought about Paula Quinn, a few miles away, maybe coming home from a planning-board meeting or something, and finding my message on her answering machine. I imagined her smiling slightly as she picked up the phone and dialed me back, and then the smile slowly fading away as the phone fang and rang and rang without being picked up.
Paula. Wanting and needing to talk to me, by a silent phone.
Laura raised her head. “Well, permit me to introduce myself. The name is Laura Reeves.”
"I know," I said.
"Then why have you suddenly departed? Something wrong?"
I sighed and rubbed at the sides of her head. "Yes. Several things. All wrong. It's like this, I ---"
"Hush," she said, touching her fingers to my lips, sitting up on the couch. "I don't need to hear anything else. I know the drill. It's one of a few reasons, tried and true. There's somebody else. There's not somebody else, but you don't fit the bill. You're going to be leaving soon, what's the point. You're a hard, tough woman, and sorry, I can't get past that."
She tugged at her sweater, pulled it down back over her skirt. She kissed me quickly. "I've heard it all before and I don't want to get into a lengthy blah-blah-blah session over the ins and outs. All right?"
Laura got up and grabbed her jacket and said, "I'll see you tomorrow at two. And thanks for the company. I really enjoyed myself"
"I did, too," I said, but by then she was already out the door.
I was on my feet now, the scent of her still on my hands, the taste of her still on my lips. I went to the kitchen and started slowly washing the dishes, waiting for the phone to ring, and its silence mocked me during the rest of the evening.
I called Paula Quinn one more time, just before going to bed, and hung up without leaving a message on her machine.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning I felt better, and after a quick stand-up breakfast of tea and toast in my kitchen I took my Explorer out and drove the thirty seconds up to the Lafayette House, where I went into the small gift shop and purchased that day's
Porter Herald
. I folded the paper in half, and from a pay phone in the hotel's lobby, I called Paula. Still no answer. I rubbed the paper against my leg and thought for a bit. Knowing Paula, she also had the habit of letting messages pile up on her answering machine when she didn't want to be disturbed. I checked the time. A little before 8 A.M. Should be up by now, and I thought she'd want to see that day's
Herald
.