“I do,” I said. “Lobbyists. The name of the firm?”
“I don’t remember… the receptionist spoke so fast… but O’Toole was one of the names… I know that… O’Toole… God, please, please… ”
I got off the chair, gently rolled him around, tried to undo the knots. I couldn’t do it. His struggles and the cold had tightened the knots, so I went into his house and his dirty kitchen, came out with a serrated steak knife, and cut away the ropes. He yelped and I spent quite a few minutes, rubbing his wrists and ankles, helping him get the circulation going again. When I thought I had made progress, I wrapped him in the two wool blankets and sat him up. I also tossed the steak knife into the woods.
“So long, Ken,” I said. “Sorry this all took place.”
“What,” he spat out, “you’re apologizing now? You expecting me to accept that?”
“Not for a moment,” I said. “What happened to you was my responsibility, my fault, start to finish. I regret every second of it.”
I started walking up the driveway. He yelled after me. “But why? Why do you want Curt so bad?”
Over my shoulder, I said, “He hurt a friend of mine, put her in a coma, practically killed her.”
His voice raised in a screech. “This? You did this to me over a friend?”
“I did,” I said. “And if you had any friends, you just might understand that.”
He yelled some more and I kept walking, exhausted. When I was out of eyesight and earshot of the not-so-good professor, the enormity of what I had just done to him over the past few hours struck me. I slowed my walking, stopped, and, with a massive cramp and heave, bent over and vomited into Ken’s driveway. Not much came up, not much at all. It’s been said that more often than not, people feel better after throwing up, after expelling whatever was bothering them.
Not tonight. I felt empty and my mouth tasted foul, and what was bothering me refused to leave.
Back to the service station I walked, and in a dim light from the closed building I saw the bus schedule and saw that it had ceased service for the evening. I looked up and down the road and saw no headlights. Lee is a lovely small town, but I doubted there was a motel room within walking distance. I took out my cell phone, made a call, and then put the phone away. I waited. I put my hands in my coat, walked around the small parking lot of the service station. A half moon was shining. A wind came up and leaves skittered across the road. Some distance away, an owl hooted.
I seemed far away in time and place from the crowded demonstrations near the ocean some days back, with the scent of pepper gas and tear gas in the air, the crowds of people chanting, trying to break into the power plant perimeter, and that dark, cloudy, rainy day when a dedicated group did get in, burned a few buildings, and where two of the demonstrators ended up shot dead.
Adding to the murder that had taken place a couple of days earlier.
I paused in my walking. A car roared by, didn’t stop. I thought of other things, of police being pushed back at that last demonstration, of seeing Diane Woods being pushed up a slight incline, all alone, trying to defend herself, falling back, Curt Chesak upon her, wielding a lead pipe which he brought down again and again, eventually holding up her police helmet in triumph.
Remembered a lot of things. Started getting cold. Kept on walking around.
Headlights. The car slowed down and it was a rattling blue Ford sedan with EXONIA CAB on the side. Window rolled down, and the older woman inside said, “You again?”
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Only if you stop paying. Hop in.”
I got in the rear, and she turned around in the lot and headed back out. “Exonia?”
“Yes.”
“Tyler Inn and Suites?”
“Yes again.”
We drove on for a few minutes. “You know my name is Maggie. What’s yours?”
“I’m Lewis.”
“Lewis, may not be any of my business, but what the hell’s going on with you? You seem to be a guy without a car, but you dress and speak all right, have all your teeth, smell good. So you’re not a loser.”
“Maybe I just don’t like to drive.”
“Hah,” she said, turning well through a sharp curve. “This ain’t Boston or Cambridge. Public transport sucks. Way I see things, only losers don’t have cars. Guys like you, if your car is in the shop, maybe you get a rental, maybe borrow a car from a friend.”
“Good observation. You always been a cab driver?”
Maggie laughed at that. “Used to work as a secretary in the Manchester police department. Retired and decided not to sit on my ass all day and get my brains sucked out by the TV, and take care of my alleged better half. This gig gets me out and about, meeting people, stuff like that. Besides, I love to drive.”
I folded my arms, looked out the side window. Should be getting back to Exonia in about ten, fifteen minutes.
Maggie said, “Sorry. Asking too many damn questions. All you’re paying for tonight is a ride, that’s it.”
I said, “You see a lot of justice there on the Manchester streets, working for the police?”
“Sometimes. Not all the time. But at least they were trying. What, you trying to get justice done?”
“I am.”
“You a cop, or a P.I.?”
“You know any cops or P.I.’s who get shuttled around in a cab?”
“Can’t say I do. So you’re keeping a low profile.”
“That I am.”
“Anonymous cab, staying at a hotel, paying in cash… must be some serious justice you’re looking for.”
“It is.”
“Family or friend?”
“Friend.”
“Who is he?”
“She,” I said. “She. And she’s the finest woman I know.”
“Wife? Girlfriend?”
A sharp tang of… guilt? Anger? For I realized what I had just said, and knew I was so glad Annie Wynn wasn’t there to hear it.
“Just a friend.”
She glanced back at me. “That’s one hell of a friend you got there, Lewis. And you need any more transport, I’m your gal. And despite my loud mouth, I know how to keep secrets.”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
CHAPTER TEN
In the morning, after a restless night at the Tyler Inn and Suites, I had a cup of coffee for breakfast and walked up to the Exonia Hospital. Back to the ICU, and another cop was sitting guard outside Diane’s room, and Kara Miles was standing next to him, talking. The cop was yet another bulky guy with short hair, and Kara patted his shoulder as I approached, and he visibly relaxed.
Kara looked tired. No surprise there. She had on sneakers, gray sweats, green T-shirt, and a gray hoodie sweatshirt. I gave her a quick hug and smelled stale coffee and grease.
“Lewis, so good to see you.”
“Same here. How is she?”
Slight shrug. “Bit of excitement last night… it looked like she was responding to some outside stimuli, or whatever they call it. I was talking to her and her eyes opened. Just for a moment or two. God, I was so excited. But the doctors said it might have just been an unconscious reaction.”
She quickly grabbed my hand, squeezed it. “But she’s in there. I know she is. She’s hearing everything… I just know it. And later today, they’re going to take her off the ventilator, see if she can breathe on her own.”
“Can I see her?”
Kara released my hand. “Go ahead. I’m sure she’d be glad to hear your voice.”
I slid open the door to her room and stepped in. Nothing much had changed; there were still plenty of get-well cards, balloons, and floral bouquets crowding a shelf near the window. I went over to Diane, sat down, held her left hand. The usual gear and equipment was over her, bleeping and blooping. She was still breathing via a ventilator, white tape across her mouth holding everything in. Her face was still bruised and bandaged, and I reached up and gently traced an old scar on her chin, where a long-ago fight with a drunken male in the booking room had scarred her when she was just a patrolwoman.