Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) Page 25
When I got to Atlantic Avenue, the traffic was one lane only, which made it slow going to Tyler Beach, giving me plenty of time to think, which I hated. Lots of beach cottages were either crumpled or ripped apart, and a couple were even torn off their foundations and tossed across the road, into the bordering marshes. Along with the slow-moving cars and trucks, there were more National Guard vehicles and two television satellite trucks from Boston, here to record and report on the devastation, and I knew that later in the day, most stories would mention something about New Hampshire’s Atlantic playground suffering a tremendous loss.
Near the border with Tyler, I saw an amazing sight, an orange State of New Hampshire plow truck, usually dispatched to handle snow and ice, but this time being used to plow sand and rocks that had been tossed up from the ocean by Hurricane Toni.
The Lafayette House came into view, looking like it had come through the storm just fine. Its near parking lot and the parking lot across the street, which I usually use, were pretty full, but I managed to find an empty spot. As I got out, a silly thought came to me: how well would I sleep tonight in the back of the Pilot, with all these cars and trucks parked nearby?
The sky was a sharp blue, with just a light cold breeze blowing through. The waves were roaring in, and to the south there were surfers taking advantage of the higher-than-usual wave action. Men and women, some wearing National Guard uniforms or utility work clothes, walked in and around the parked vehicles. Nobody paid me any attention. I started my long, long way down to where I’d once lived, and another thought came to me, that it wouldn’t make any difference if I spent the night here or somewhere else, because now there was nothing left to keep watch over.
I put my cold hands in my pockets, kept my head down from the heavy winds buffeting me, and I walked and walked.
When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I stopped and lifted my head.
And looked at my house and the near garage.
Still standing.
Still there.
I found it hard to breathe, and I whispered: “If this is a dream, old man, I sure as hell don’t want to wake up.”
Somehow I walked some more and was there, just staring, mouth agape. The converted shed that had served as a garage was standing free and new, freshly constructed. The burnt debris had been removed, as well as the charred corpse of my Ford Explorer.
“What . . . the . . . hell?” I whispered some more.
But my house. . . .
It was standing proud and new as well. No tarpaulins, no boarded-up windows, nothing. It needed some stain and I could easily make out the new construction from the areas that had earlier burned, but it looked good. Damn good.
I stood there for a few minutes and just bawled.
When I could move again, I went to the front door, and a stiff piece of white cardboard was there, wrapped in plastic, nailed to the wood. I tore it free, removed the plastic.
CONSTRUCTION AND REPAIR WORK COURTESY OF:
MASSACHUSETTS CARPENTERS LOCAL 114
MASSACHUSETTS ELECTRICIANS LOCAL 9
TYLER POLICE ASSOCIATION LOCAL 1212
Felix and Diane.
And I remembered something Felix had said earlier, how in his line of work, in order to get things done, you never knew who you would eventually have to talk to.
Felix and Diane.
With hands trembling, I unlocked the door and stepped in, to the smell of fresh wood and paint. The interior was pretty bare and no lights came on when I flipped a switch, which made sense, considering this whole part of the state was without power. I slowly walked through the downstairs, and the upstairs. I recognized the old wood, which I had purchased soon after the fire, exhausting my savings, but there were no bathroom or kitchen furnishings. The studs were bare as well, awaiting sheetrock and additional painting. Some of my belongings, books and furnishings, salvaged by Felix after the fire weeks ago, were in place. There was no bed or bureaus or office desk or computer, but my mind was already racing on when and how I would replace them, once the insurance money grudgingly came to me.
I went back downstairs to the nearly empty living room and to the sliding glass doors. The glass was still new, with stickers attached. I stood there and watched the waves for a while, and then I sat down, cross-legged, and then hugged myself, rocking back and forth for a moment.
My family had come through for me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, thanks to my patient fans and readers. I’m so glad you didn’t have to wait so long for this one. My wife Mona Pinette was her usual keen self in reviewing my first draft. I’d also like to extend my appreciation to Claiborne Hancock, Jessica Case, and Iris Blasi at Pegasus Books, as well as Phil Gaskill for his copyediting skills. Special thanks as well to S. J. Rozan, Andi Malala Schecter, Sandy Balzo, and Deborah Rosan. I’d also like to urge my readers to consider donating to this special charity—www.hero-dogs.org—in memory of a departed friend.
BLOOD FOAM
Pegasus Books LLC
80 Broad Street, 5th Floor
New York, NY 10004
Copyright © 2015 by Brendan DuBois
First Pegasus Books cloth edition June 2015
Interior design by Maria Fernandez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 978-1-60598-790-3
ISBN: 978-1-605-98791-0 (e-book)
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company