Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 29

So I stood there, just watching the rain fall. I suppose I should have put the papers under my coat, and worked my way down to my house to watch the news of the post-primary, to see the talking heads at work, to build a fire and hunker down and be safe and alone in my home.

Like before.

That's what I should have done.

To go home, be safe, be quiet, be alone. Like before.

But instead, I went to a nearby bank of phones, and made a phone call, and I was lucky for the very first time this day, as a familiar and friendly voice answered.

I said, "Felix?"

"Of course. Who else?"

I smiled at his teasing voice. "Just checking. I need a favor. Like, right now."

He said, "Yesterday wasn't enough, what we did with Paul Jeter and your fake Secret Service agent?"

"Oh, it was plenty, but I'd like to think you got some professional experience out of it, experience you can use down the road."

"Maybe so," he said, laughing. "Maybe so. What do you need?"

"Ride to the airport."

"Which one? Manchester or Logan?"

"Don't know yet. I'll figure it out by the time you get here."

"Where's here? Aren't you home?"

"Nope," I said. "I'm in the lobby of the Lafayette House, and that's where I want you to pick me up."

"Right now? Aren't you going to pack?"

"No, I'm not. I need to get to the airport, and I need to get to South Carolina. Today."

He laughed again. "All right, Lewis. I'll be there in just a bit. And if I can be so bold to ask, what the h.e.l.l is in South Carolina?"

I looked at the cold, driving rain, and thought about a warmer place, a nicer place, and I said, "My reward. I need to get to my reward."

"Good for you," Felix said, and after hanging up the phone, I just waited, and no doubt the people coming in and out of the Lafayette House wondered about the smile on my face, but some secrets, I would always keep.

Afterward This was a fun novel to work on --- with research already having been done --- but I faced a particular challenge in writing this one, and it's because of one of the subplots: romance. Yeah, romance, the lovey-dovey, birds & bees stuff, all that kissing... ack! Okay, maybe a bit over the top, but I was conscious in writing the s.e.x scenes that not only would close friends and family be reading it, but my Mom as well. Yes, even at this stage of my career with lots of published novels and stories under my belt, I still worry about my Mom's response.

Part of the challenge in writing a detective novel with a subplot is dealing with the romantic partner. They can't be window dressing. They have to be part of the book, part of the story, and part of the action. I like to think in PRIMARY STORM, I pulled that off.

So. What happens next for Annie Wynn and Lewis Cole? Not for me to say, but it's for you to find out in the next book in the series, DEADLY COVE.

And as before, I'd like to make note of some little in-jokes and references in PRIMARY STORM. When Lewis goes to meet Barbara Hale at the local bookstore, there's a note of a certain bestselling book with the face of the Mona Lisa on the cover. That book, of course, is THE DA VINCI CODE, written by friend and fellow author Dan Brown. And speaking of bookstores... the one I described here does, exist, though not in my fictional Tyler, but in the very real town of Exeter, N.H.

The scene where Lewis is visited by campaign workers in the middle of a raging snowstorm actually happened to me in 1992. During a blinding snowstorm at my apartment, there was a knock one night. I answered the door and found a snow-covered volunteer for the Paul Tsongas campaign, eagerly handing out a campaign pamphlet written by the former Ma.s.sachusetts senator. After he left, I looked out my apartment window, and saw him in the heavy and driving snow, going from one door to the next.

That brief encounter has always stayed with me, and I was glad to put in PRIMARY STORM.

What follows is a fun short story that eventually appeared in "Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine." The particular idea for this story came from a real event that took place when I was a reporter for "The Hampton Union" newspaper, upon which the "Tyler Chronicle" is very loosely based. Like the reporter in this story, I once spent an entire day out on the Atlantic Ocean with a fis.h.i.+ng vessel and crew, gaining a lot of experience and respect for what fishermen do, day in and day out.

Since the story was going to take place on the New Hamps.h.i.+re Seacoast, I decided to have some fun and include the characters of Diane Woods, Tyler police detective, Paula Quinn, newspaper reporter, and Rollie Grandmaison, newspaper editor. I was tempted to slide in at least a mention or reference to Lewis Cole or Felix Tinios, but decide that was a temptation too far.

I hope you like the story. Like I said, everything in the story is based on fact... except for the unfortunate incident that takes place within the tale.

The Final Catch The day started with me arriving at four a.m. at a dock in Tyler Harbor, New Hamps.h.i.+re, to do a newspaper feature story about a local fisherman. The day ended with me being under arrest by the Tyler Police Department. And in between, there was a lot of fis.h.i.+ng, a lot of sitting around on a bobbing boat on the Atlantic Ocean, and a drowning. Or maybe a murder, depending on one's point of view at the time. And in the end, a serious look at who I am and where I was going.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, and my story, which would no doubt upset my journalism professors, thinking they had taught me better.

So back to the beginning.

Well, part of the beginning. That year I was a junior at the University of New Hamps.h.i.+re in Durham, studying journalism, and like most everyone in my cla.s.s, I wanted a summer newspaper interns.h.i.+p to a) gain experience, b) gain clips for the ol' resume and c) get higher up that ladder of eventual fresh-faced college graduates so I could get hired before anyone else. So I started at the top of the food chain for summer interns.h.i.+p applications, in the middle of winter, to get a jump on the compet.i.tion, thinking that being a lower-middle cla.s.s white girl from a single parent household in a small town would give me a leg up. Started off big, of course, with the New York Times and the Was.h.i.+ngton Post, and then worked a bit down to the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Boston Globe, and then down to the 'C' list, Miami Herald and Newsday and Dallas Evening News.

And now I was here, at Tyler Beach.

At a small-town newspaper that headed the 'G' list.

Not much of a jump. Should have started a year earlier. Or maybe being a lower middle cla.s.s white girl from a single parent household in a small town didn't have as much pull any more. Who knew. I suppose I should have been grateful that it hasn't come to the point that intern managers demand a cotton swab DNA test and a credit report, but I wasn't much for being grateful.

So here I was, at the Tyler Chronicle, in the summer time, barely making enough money to rent a one room studio on the other side of town, and writing cheerful stories about the chowder festival, the Miss Tyler Beach contest, and sand castle compet.i.tion at the beach, knowing that if I had taken a waitressing job with a skirt up to there and a cleavage down to there, it would have gained me a lot more money at the end of the summer.

But it was hard-hitting clips I was after, and so far, none of the clips I had really stood out. One story could make a huge difference in one's career, and that was the story I was looking for, something with power. If I had been able to cover the police department at Tyler Beach, I would have had a slew of juicy stuff, about fights and drug busts and DWI arrests of Ma.s.sachusetts politicians, but the police beat known for some strange reason as 'the cop shop' belonged to a cheerful yet rough and tough blonde reporter named Paula Quinn, who smiled sweetly at me the first day of my interns.h.i.+p and took me aside and made a little list. Tyler and Tyler Beach headed the list, and underneath, Paula had written Police, Fire, and Town Government.

Then Paula had smiled sweetly at me and said, "That's my beat, Jenny. It belongs to me. You can write anything else about Tyler and Tyler Beach. But if you come play in my yard, I'll break your arms. Understood?"

I said, sure, and bit off a statement about how I was so happy that she was supporting the Sisterhood, for it seemed to me that Paula wasn't one for abstract theories about feminism and support groups and moving one's cheese. So I did the best I could, and one day, I saw a letter to the editor of the Tyler Chronicle, complaining about new Federal fis.h.i.+ng regulations, and the letter writer said something to the effect that if more people knew what a fisherman had to put up with, well, maybe they and the politicians they elected would be a bit smarter.

So. A good idea. What the heck did I or most people in the Chronicle's readers.h.i.+p know about the day-to-day life of a fisherman? Off to the editor I went a glum man named Rollie Grandmaison, who I think is color-blind, for all he wears is black slacks, white s.h.i.+rts, and black neckties and told him what I wanted to do.

"I see a three-part series," I had said. "Nice spread in the middle of the papers, lots of pix, each story tells a different tale. Part one, the past history of commercial fis.h.i.+ng out of Tyler, part two, the present state of fis.h.i.+ng, and part three "

Rollie had interrupted me. "I can guess what part three is about. The future of fis.h.i.+ng, right?"

I had eagerly nodded. At last, an editor who understood me. Rollie shook his head. "Shrink it into one story, you take the pix, and get it on my desk by next Monday. Got it?"

I had nodded again, not so eagerly. "Got it."

The letter's writer name had been Jack Houlihan. There was one Jack Houlihan in the phone book shared with a Helen Houlihan and I had called and left a message.

No answer after two days.

On the third day, I tried again, and after the phone had rung twelve times, it had been picked up and a male voice had answered, using a string of obscenities that were to my surprise, new to me and hung up the phone.

But still wanting those nice clips, I had called a day after that, later in the day, and got the same male voice.

But not the same stream of naughty words. Instead, there had been a pause and he had said, "Hey, was that you calling yesterday?"

Hesitating but deciding the truth would probably work in my favor, I had said, yes, it had been. Then he had laughed and said, "Sorry about chewing you out. I'd been out two days, got back and was having my first real good sleep when you called. Teach me next time to do a better job of disconnecting the phone. So, you really want to do a story about me and fis.h.i.+ng. Right?"

I had said so, and started giving an explanation of why I thought this story would work, when he had interrupted me and said, "Cripes, I guess that's what happens you get a letter published. You get attention. Sure, if you want to. Meet me at the west end of the town pier, mooring five. Dress warm, and oh, if you're p.r.o.ne to seasickness, take one of those anti-motion sickness pills."

"Great," I had said. "What time?"

"Four a.m."

I think I had choked a bit. "Four a.m.?"

"Sure," he had said, laughing. "Always need to get a good jump on things. I'll see you there. Name of the boat is the Helen H."

So.

Four a.m., at Tyler Harbor. The calendar said it was late June but the dark sky and temperature said it was late October. Jack Houlihan hadn't given me specifics about what dress warm meant, but I figured it out some. So sneakers and slacks and no skirt. s.h.i.+rt and sweater. Jacket. Baseball cap. Reporter's notebook stuck in a back pocket, digital camera hanging from my shoulder, my purse shoved under a seat in my locked Kia, small knapsack with a couple of sandwiches and a fruit drink, for later.

Super.

And on the dock, s.h.i.+vering, I thought, d.a.m.n. Gloves. Should have brought gloves. The wind was coming off hard from the harbor, and I pushed my bare hands into my jacket's pockets. Before me were the waters of the harbor and plenty of moored boats. The dock was empty. There was nothing moored by the large painted numeral 5. I wondered where in h.e.l.l my fisherman had gone off to. Next to my little Kia vehicle was a big pickup truck, with a b.u.mper sticker that said FISHERMEN EAT BETTER, and a vanity plate that said HULIHAN. Even with my minimal experience as a reporter, I determined that this truck probably belonged to my source. The truck and my Kia were parked under a streetlight, and I peered inside. Saw some Dunkin Donuts bags crumpled up, an open ashtray with some b.u.t.ts, and I sniffed. Fresh tobacco smoke. So he'd been here a while ago. A couple of other vehicles were parked further down the lot, including a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle, so at least some people were out there in the harbor.

But where was he now?

I stamped my feet. Waited some more. Out on the harbor there were some lights from the moored boats, some of them lobster boats, others that were larger, but no sailboats. Tyler Harbor was a working harbor; there didn't seem to be any room here for aspiring yachtsman. Out beyond the harbor were the flat salt marshes and the low lights of the town of Falconer, and off in the distance as well, the bright orange lights from the Falconer nuclear power plant, merrily splitting atoms and making electricity for all concerned.

I checked my watch. Just after four a.m.

Looks like I had been stood up, and then I remembered. Earlier I had called Jack and had woken him up. Maybe him getting me out here in the harbor was his way of getting even.

A growling noise. I looked back out to the harbor. One of the fis.h.i.+ng boats was making its way out of the harbor, heading to the channel on the left that eventually led out to the Atlantic Ocean. It had a small cabin or wheelhouse up forward, and a derrick-like contraption on the rear that looked like it held a giant ball of twine. I kept on staring and then the boat swung around, started heading in my direction, to the dock. Red and green running lights were illuminated on the boat, and then a spotlight burst out a beam of light that nailed me and the surrounding ten feet or so. I blinked from the harsh light and the diesel engines growled and then were throttled back, as the boat which seemed to be heading out at a good clip of speed came gently up to the dock. I stepped forward and there was a man's voice, coming from the main cabin.

"Jenny Wilson?"

"That's right," I said.

"Then come on board," the voice said. "It's time to go fis.h.i.+ng."

So I made that tiny leap from the dock to the boat, the tiny leap that was going to change so many things.

The first thing I noticed was the smell, of salt and dead fish and other nasty things. The second thing I noticed was that the d.a.m.n floor wouldn't keep still... and of course, since I was on a deck. I made my way to the cabin and went through a sliding door. Inside the small cabin were two men, one on the right, sitting on a chair, looking forward through the window, a console of sorts before him, including a s.h.i.+p's wheel. Another guy was sprawled out on a padded bench on the other side of the cabin, a Dunkin Donuts take-out coffee cup in his hand.

The guy on the seat turned, offered a hand, which I promptly shook. "Jack Houlihan. That lazy slug over there is Bert Comstock, my supposed first mate. Welcome aboard the Helen H."

"Thanks," I said, trying to keep my balance as the boat rocked some. Jack seemed tall and lanky, with a thin moustache and thin blond hair, and wearing gla.s.ses. Bert was about a foot shorter, with a thick black beard and slicked back hair. They both wore blue jeans, gray sweats.h.i.+rts, and knee-high rubber boots. The floor seemed to be slick cement or something similar. Before Jack was a winds.h.i.+eld and a console with lots of dials and read-outs. At his elbow was a throttle, which he eased out. We were now heading out of the channel, now going under the Tyler Harbor Bridge, and now, before us, was the dark waters of the Atlantic. Jack pushed the throttle out some more, and soon after we left the confines of the channel, we were out in the ocean itself, and the boat started bucking, going up and down, up and down. I grabbed onto the rear of Jack's captain's chair to keep myself up, and he said, "How are you doing?"

"Doing okay, I guess," I said, swallowing, glad that I had taken that anti-motion sickness pill that morning with a slug of orange juice. "How... how long before you get to where you'll do your fis.h.i.+ng?"

"Oh, about an hour or so. Just an hour of steady cruising, about north-northeast, up to the Gulf of Maine."

I looked around the small cabin and something struck me. I hesitated, for a moment, for I didn't want to act too scared or too childish, but as one of my professors had once said, there are no stupid questions. Just stupid reporters, afraid to ask them.

So I asked away.

"Um, I'm sorry, but I'm not much of a swimmer. Where are the lifejackets?"

Jack laughed and his first mate Bert grinned at me, and Jack said, "Sorry, don't mean to make light of it. Lifejackets are necessary but we don't wear them. They're bulky and they get in the way. Bert, show our guest where the lifejackets are."

Bert grinned and got up from the padded bench, lifted the seat and underneath were a handful of bright orange lifejackets. Jack said, "There's a couple of life rings out on the deck, but don't worry. I've been fis.h.i.+ng for nearly twenty years, and haven't gotten my feet wet yet!"

His first mate let the seat lid fall with a thump. "Always a first time, Jack. Always a first time."

Jack laughed and I decided, in the dim light of the wheelhouse, that this was a good as time to start the interview, which is what I did as we motored out into the Atlantic. So I got the basics of Jack and his life. Grew up in Tyler. Local schools. Dad was a lobsterman. Worked summers for dad. Dad had big plans for him, so off he went to college. Got a degree in oceanography, and then his master's. Was working to his doctorate one year when his brain froze. Couldn't think much anymore. Came back to Tyler, borrowed a boat, spent the day on the ocean. Decided a day on the water was better than any days in a cla.s.sroom. Married Helen, his college sweetheart. No kids, not yet. Scrimped and saved and mortgaged a lot, now had his own boat, a 44-foot stern trawler. Bert was a neighbor friend, worked lots of odd jobs, not one for settling down. Sometimes Jack's dad, now retired from lobstering, came aboard to help out. Fished cod and flounder in the spring and fall, shrimp in the winter.

My hand was cramped for writing so fast and furious. I looked up and said, "Enough to make a living?"

That earned me a laugh from the both of them. And then Jack went into a long lecture about state and federal fis.h.i.+ng regulations, about how some fis.h.i.+ng grounds were off limits one year, and how they were opened in another, and how regulations determining what you could catch and how much you could catch sometimes didn't correlate to the actual behavior of the species, so if you had a permit to catch a certain species when they weren't even there. And how fis.h.i.+ng grounds you knew were plentiful were off limits, forcing you to go further and further out into the Gulf, and how the cost of fuel, and insurance, and fuel, and more insurance, kept on rising and rising, and how each year, more and more fishermen would just give up and sell their boats.

Then he took a breath, and I took my chance.

"So why do you put up with it?" I asked.

He motioned to the front windscreen. "Where else would I get to see this, day after day?"

And I looked to where he was pointing, to sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. It was the d.a.m.ndest thing. For the past while, I was interviewing Jack, I had looked out every now and then and saw darkness. Towards the stern of the boat, I could make out the lights of Tyler Beach, and then, the further out we went, the lights of the New Hamps.h.i.+re seacoast. But it had felt like we had been hurtling out into darkness, bouncing up and down.

But now... the sun was rising, and the morning light was starting to make its way. There was a hint of deep red and orange out there in the horizon, which grew brighter and brighter, as the sun finally rose. Then everything came into view, as the red and orange become a ruddy gold and yellow, and I could make out the gentle swells of the ocean, a few seagulls, weaving and bobbing overhead, and the wide, wonderful and wild ocean about us.

I nodded. "I see what you mean."

Now the engine was in neutral, idling, as Jack and Bert went out to the rear deck. On either side of the derrick-like structure that was holding the large bale of twine which I now recognized was a fis.h.i.+ng net, stored in a large roll where flat pieces of wood that looked to be the size of barn doors. Working with just a few grunts and "okay, now, okay?" the slabs of wood were unlocked and dropped over the sides with large splashes of water. By then I had my digital camera out and stared taking a series of photos. Jack then sprinted back to the cabin and in a manner of seconds, came the whining noise of a winch engine letting loose. Cables attached to the slabs of wood started running out, and then, so did the net, made of green mesh. As the net was unrolled over the stern, a fresh smell of dead things struck at my face, and I saw why: bits and pieces of dried fish were still stuck in the net.

Bert kept his eye on the unrolling net, and then I almost jumped, as Jack stood next to me. "Ready for a quick lesson?" he asked.

"Yes, I am."

He said, "Those two pieces of wood, they act like wings down there, under the water, helping the net stay open. The net drops back and those pieces of wood keep everything open as we move forward; it's like a large balloon down there."

"Okay."

"We trawl and the fish swim into the net, and when we're ready, we slowly bring everything up. The net gradually closes and then, boom!, everything's brought aboard."

"Then what?" I asked.

He grinned. "Then you'll see the real work begin."

"I see." I took a couple of more photos, and then looked back to Jack. "How long do you trawl, then?"