Free Fatal Harbor by Brendan DuBois Page A

secrets now, eh?”
    A pause on her end, and I sensed I had gone too far. She sighed once more and said, “I know it’s been a while, but you know how D.C. works, Lewis. Knowledge and secrets are the coin of the realm. And I don’t know who might be listening in . . . you know how it is.”
    “I sure do.”
    “Lewis. . . .”
    “Yes, dear.”
    “We need to talk.”
    “That’s what we’re doing now, isn’t it?”
    “No, we’re chatting. Big difference.”
    Headlights appeared at the end of the driveway, along with the sound of a car engine. “Sorry, Annie. I’ve got to run.”
    “We still have to talk.”
    I stepped back, concerned I’d be seen. “I know, I know, but I’ve got to run.”
    “Oh. The hunt continues?”
    “It sure does.”
    A touch of sharpness again in her voice, crystal-clear even though she was hundreds of miles away. “Nice to know you’re dedicated to something.”
    Then she clicked off.
    So did I. And put the phone away.
    The dogs started barking again as a dented and rusty Nissan pickup truck rolled in and came to a halt. A tall guy carrying two plastic shopping bags stepped out, and the dogs increased their barking. “Shut the hell up!” he called out. “I’ll feed you in a minute, for Christ’s sake.”
    He walked up to the double-wide, unlocked the front door, and went in. He bustled around inside for a few minutes, while his dogs kept on yelping, and then there was a sudden flick as an outdoor floodlight came on. He came out again, bearing two metal bowls with dry dog food in them. He appeared to be in his early thirties, gaunt, wearing blue jeans and a tan down jacket. His hair was thin up forward and was pulled back in the rear in a ponytail. He was talking to himself as he dropped a bowl in front of each dog and then went back inside. I gave him a few minutes to recover from his exertions, and then I walked up to the front door. No doorbell or doorknob, so I just hammered on the door.
    “Hold on!” came the voice. He opened the front door, left the storm door closed. “Yeah?”
    “Ken Marvel? UNH instructor?”
    “So far, so good. Do I know you?”
    “Nope. The name is Lewis Cole. I’m a freelance magazine writer, hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
    “What kind of magazines?”
    “ Shoreline, for one,” I said, which wasn’t much of a lie.
    “Never heard of it. Any other magazines I might have heard of?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “Sorry, not interested.”
    He slammed the door.
    Well.
    I wondered what kind of philosophy he taught at UNH, and doubted his students were getting their tuition’s worth.
    I banged on the door again. And again he opened it up. “When I said I wasn’t interested, that meant you could leave.”
    “But I’m still interested. Doesn’t that count for something?”
    “Doubt it. What the hell are you working on?”
    “A story about the anti-nuclear demonstrations at Falconer.”
    “Never heard of it,” he said, and slammed the door once more.
    I opened up the storm door, knocked once more. The main door flew open, and his eyes widened in quick surprise as my right hand snapped out, grabbed his shirt collar, and pulled him forward to me. I stepped aside so he flew out the door and down the steps, where he hit the ground with a satisfying thud.
    I turned around and sat on the steps. He called me a name or two—nothing original, which lowered my appreciation of him as an educated individual—and he rolled over and came right at me. I gauged his approach, and as he got to the steps I quickly lifted up my right leg, braced myself, and he ran right into my right foot, at a particular angle above his knees and below his waist that definitely got his attention.
    A few moments passed as he curled up on the ground, rocking back and forth, looking about the same shape and intelligence as a jumbo shrimp.
    I got off the steps and walked over to him. “Sorry I was so direct there, professor . . . or do your students call you