Big mistake.
I caught the five o’clock news from the ABC affiliate in Manchester, and after a story about a shooting in the state capitol in Concord, the second story was about a suspicious fire in Tyler Beach. An earnest young man with blond hair, wearing a trenchcoat, and who looked like he had started shaving during the last Nielsen sweeps week, stood in front of the police yellow tape in the parking lot of the Lafayette House. Behind him was the smoldering wreckage of what used to be my home and garage. Because of the angle from the television camera, the garage was more in display than the house, which meant I got a terrific view of the tail end of my Ford Explorer, which had once been blue and was now charred black. It looked like the roof of the house had collapsed just over my bedroom. Beyond the bedroom, of course, was my office and my hundreds of books on the second floor, with plenty more on the first floor.
I had to stop watching, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. A man and a woman, wearing blue windbreakers with STATE FIRE MARSHAL OFFICE stenciled on the back in yellow, and wearing light-blue latex gloves, seemed to be discussing something in my front yard, now cluttered with burned shingles and what looked to be a shattered window from the first floor.
Along with the images I saw, part of my overprocessed brain caught phrases, breathlessly spoken by the young member of the Fourth Estate.
“… fire believed to be suspicious in origin… ”
“… firefighters had difficulty fighting the blaze because of lack of nearby hydrants… ”
“… historical structure, first used as a lifeboat station in the late 1800s, and then officers’ quarters for the nearby Samson Point coast artillery unit… ”
“… belonged to Lewis Cole, a reported magazine columnist… ”
“… whereabouts unknown… ”
“… reporting live from Tyler Beach, this is Abner Brewer.”
I finally switched off the television.
“Get your facts straight, kid,” I said to the blank screen. “I’m currently an unemployed magazine columnist.”
A little while later, Felix rapped at the door, and after ensuring it was him and he was alone — by looking through the shade at the front window and a peephole in the door — I let him in, still clad in a towel, my Beretta behind my back.
“Based on what you’re wearing and what you’re carrying,” he said, “it looks like you’re either looking for love or looking for trouble.”
“Or both,” I said.
He was carrying two bags, one large and made of plastic, the other small and made of soft black material, looking like a duffel or equipment bag. He tossed the larger bag at me, which I missed catching and which fell to the floor.
“Now I know why you were always picked last for sports at the playground,” he said.
I picked up the bag, peered inside. Pants and socks and shirts and a few other things. I looked up. “Pretty damn thoughtful.”
“Only thoughtful if I got your size right,” Felix said. “Besides, I don’t want you coughing over dinner. It’d be damn impolite.”
“I’ll be right out,” I said. “And lucky you, you’ll be paying for dinner.”
He managed a smile.
“I don’t mind, so long as it doesn’t make me late for breakfast.”
It had finally stopped raining when we went out to dinner, which was just a short stroll down the block to a restaurant called Chez Vachon. Like my new place of residence, it was French-Canadian, and as we sat down I pointed that out to Felix. He smiled. “Sometimes you get the attention of knuckleheads who may be well armed but are lacking in the street smarts department. That’s why I like to mix it up some, by not establishing a pattern of the kind of places I like to eat. Besides, they do a great pork meat pie. Give it a shot.”
And I did just that, and surprised both Felix and myself by having an extra slice. It was spicy, hot, and very filling, and with a side salad and some wine, it fit the bill.
When we were at the coffee stage, I said, “Thanks for getting me out of Fratello’s. How did you get out?”
“With no difficulty, which I found sort of insulting. They’re after you, Lewis, not me. And that’s not the way of the world.”
“We all have our burdens.”
“You seem to have your share of them. So where do you go from here?”
In my briefing back at the Italian restaurant, I had told Felix the details of my visit with the father of John Todd Thomas, the murdered Colby student, and where we were now. “So like I said before, I’m waiting to hear back from Lawrence Thomas. He’s trying to track down the area where Curt Chesak is making his phone calls.”
Felix said, “And then when you get a good location from this ex-spook, you plan to do what then? Go in as an avenging angel?”
“Go in avenging, that’s for sure,” I said. “But I’m no damn angel.”
“Again, is it worth it?”
I stared at him, not quite believing the question. I said: “Less than an hour from here, one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life is still in a coma. If that wasn’t enough, the best home I’ve ever had, filled with memories and books and what few mementoes I have of my parents and my time in D.C., has been burned to the ground. If I didn’t think it was worth it, Felix, I’d be back there, talking to the arson inspectors and my insurance company.”
A slow nod. “I had to ask the question. I know from experience how… personal issues can cloud one’s judgment.”
“My judgment is as clear as a bell. And unlike Don Corleone and his crew, this definitely isn’t business. It’s strictly personal.”
We sat quietly for a while, finishing our coffee, and he quietly said, “My original offer still stands.”
“As does my original objection,” I said. “This is going to be a one-man mission. Thanks for the logistics and the cash, but that’s how it’s got to be.”
Felix nodded. “My turn for the bill.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Back at the Laurentian Peaks Motel, there was just a moment of awkwardness when Felix and I stood there, just outside my room. He looked at me and I looked at him, and no words were exchanged, but there was the thought that this was it, the very last time we’d ever see each other. Not because of what had happened, but what was going to happen.
He shifted from one foot to another. His voice was soft. “Don’t be a hero out there. Be careful.”
“Be as careful as I can.”
“You get into it, you feel like the odds aren’t in your favor, get out. Don’t be fancy, don’t be pretty, just get out. If it means breaking things, running over things, or shooting whoever gets in your way, you fucking do it, Lewis. Capisce?”
I managed a slight smile. “Very capisce.”
He moved quickly, suddenly, and he shockingly gave me a full embrace, slapping me on the back, murmuring “Good luck, all right?”
Felix stepped back, and he turned and strolled away.
I went into my motel room.
It took a long, long while before I fell asleep, and the sleep was light and restless, the hum of the Interstate traffic a constant background. More often than not, I was on my back, staring up at the ceiling, the sight of my burned-out home always in my mind.