Stuart Woods
Distant Thunder
This book is for Martha Snowman.
1
Stone Barrington woke to the loudest explosive noise he had ever heard, and there was more to come. Lightning flashed, illuminating his bedroom at his house in Dark Harbor, Maine, then a hammering on the roof began. He switched on a bedside light. It came on for a moment, then went off for a few seconds, then he heard the generator kick in, and the lamp came on again.
Holly Barker came running into the room; he had not even noticed her absence. She dived into bed and clung to him. “Please tell me this is a thunderstorm and not a nuclear attack,” she whimpered.
“It’s the mother of all thunderstorms,” Stone said, then switched on the TV to the Weather Channel. A man stood before a weather chart, and there was a large red splotch on it where Maine should have been.
“It’s a nor’easter,” Stone said. “Last night they were saying this would come in the night, then pass offshore. I think it’s making itself at home.”
“I am not flying in that little jet of yours today,” Holly said.
“Nobody is. You can tell them at the office that you have a real good excuse for not showing up. You can refer them to the weather radar.”
“What’s that terrible noise on the roof?” Holly asked.
“That’s called rain.”
“That’s not like any rain I’ve ever heard on any roof,” she said.
“The Weather Channel guy was predicting eight to twelve inches of rain in our neighborhood.”
“Is your airplane going to be okay?”
“Fortunately, it’s waterproof. And yesterday, Seth drove stakes into the ground and tied it down, so it won’t blow away.”
“You were expecting this?”
“No, but Seth was. He’s a Mainer. He put extra lines and fenders on the boats, too.”
“Look out the window. It’s as though we are underwater.”
“We are, in a way.”
“Why haven’t we lost power?”
“We have, but our 25 kW generator kicked in, and that keeps the whole house running.”
“For how long?”
“Until that five-hundred-gallon tank of diesel runs out, and that will take a long time.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
They put on robes and went down for breakfast. Seth’s wife, Mary, was putting food on the table as if nothing unusual had happened. “Morning,” she said cheerfully.
“Morning, Mary,” Stone replied. “How many days of provisions do we have stocked?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Mr. Stone. We won’t starve. Good thing we have that twenty pounds of moose in the freezer that Mr. Rawls gave us last year.”
“Moose?” Holly said. “Last year?”
“Ed Rawls goes moose hunting every year,” Stone said. “He has a hard time getting rid of the meat.”
“What’s moose like?” Holly asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, and I thought I was never going to find out, but one never knows, do one? As Fats Waller used to say.”
“Who’s Fats Waller?”
“Oh, you child! A large, brilliant pianist, songwriter, and singer of the 1920s and ’30s.”
“I hope you don’t think I remember the 1920s and ’30s.”
“You don’t remember World War II, either, but it happened. So did Fats Waller.”
They devoured scrambled eggs and sausage and Wolferman’s English muffins, washed down with orange juice, and followed by black coffee, an espresso roast.
Seth lit the living room fire, though it wasn’t all that cold; it just seemed that way. Stone and Holly showered together, as usual, and got into some L.L. Bean clothes. As they came downstairs, the doorbell was ringing. Stone opened it to find a suit of bright yellow waterproof clothing, topped by a seaman’s hat, a thick moustache, and round glasses.
“Come in, Ed,” Stone said to Rawls. “What the hell are you doing out in this?”
“Helping to divert a minor disaster,” Rawls said. “The ferry got sideways and had to be realigned.”
It was late in the Labor Day holiday weekend, and the “folks from away,” as the Mainers call them, had abandoned the island yesterday, in a rush. This happened every Labor Day, not just when there was a nor’easter.
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Nothing to worry about now. I had a look at the airfield. Your aircraft is still attached firmly to the ground.”
“Always good news. Anybody hurt in the foofaraw?”
“No. And only one murder.”
“Who got murdered?”
“No ID yet. He was found on the ferry deck. The state police won’t venture out until this storm has gone.”
“Cause of death?”
“Two in the head,” Ed said, as if there were one every week.
“That does not bode well,” Stone said.
“Not for him, anyway.”
“Have you got a description?”
“A medium-everything white gentleman, clad in yellow oilskins, like everybody else.”
“Not somebody looking for you, I hope.” Rawls was retired CIA, the last of his breed on the island, and there had been times when people had wanted him dead, but not recently.
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we? I hope it ain’t too early for me to want a drink.”
Stone got him a bourbon on the rocks.
“You ain’t joining me?” Rawls asked reprovingly.
“Not for another eight hours, or so.”
Holly came downstairs. “Hey, Ed.”
“Hey, Holly.”
“I was eavesdropping on the stairs and heard your conversation.”
“Then I got nothing else to report. You were flying back today, weren’t you?”
“Well, gee, Ed.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ve got to check in now and deliver the news.”
“It’s being delivered in D.C. right now,” Rawls said, “so it won’t come as a surprise to them at the White House.”
Holly was President of the United States and found she had some business in the Northeast for the past few days.
She went to the hidden office that Stone’s cousin, Dick Stone, had built for himself to stay in touch with CIA headquarters. Holly had had her own computer installation hooked up. She sent messages to all who needed to hear about the weather in Maine.
2
At lunchtime, the weather was unchanged. Ed Rawls was pressed into staying for some lobster stew, and they all sat down at the dining table.
“I like to brag on the weather to those from away,” Rawls said, “but they’re never going to believe this.”
The doorbell rang, making them all jump. Stone, clutching his napkin, got up and went to answer it. A man in the usual yellow oilskins stood there, identifiable only by his campaign-style, flat-brimmed hat. “Good afternoon, Stone,” said Sergeant Young of the Maine State Police.
“That’s an outright lie,” Stone said. “Come in and get dry.” He pointed at the pegs where the sergeant’s gear should be stowed. “We’ve got a big pot of lobster stew,” he said. “Can I tempt you?”
“You can,” the sergeant said, hanging up his oilskins and sitting down at the table.
“I think you know everybody.”
The sergeant nodded at everyone.
“I’ve heard bad news from the ferry,” Stone said. “Got an ID yet?”
The sergeant reached into his jacket pocket, produced a wallet, laid it on the table, and opened it. Everybody at the table recognized the CIA credentials. Everybody stopped eating.
“Name of John Collins,” the sergeant said. “Anybody know him?”
Heads were shaken.
“Anybody heard of him?”
“Give me a minute.” Holly set down her spoon, picked up the wallet, and went to the concealed office and her computer. Inside, she dialed a number.