Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) by Brendan DuBois

So instead I stayed on Lafayette Road and made a quick right onto one of the side country roads, and in a few minutes we were away from the crowded chaos of downtown Tyler and on a road that drifted through farmland, housing developments, and lots of trees.
    With that bit of driving over, I spared a glance at Paula and said, “Look, are you—”
    She punched me in the arm. I stammered something out, and then she burst into tears and asked “What the hell was that? What the hell was that? Stop the car . . . stop it now!”
    “Nope,” I said.
    “Stop the car!”
    “Paula, you can punch me, you can scratch me, you can pull my hair, but I’m not stopping. That man back there . . . he was about two or three minutes away from asking you some very serious questions about Mark.”
    “What, so you had to rescue me? Is that it? Why didn’t you call the cops if you thought I was in danger?”
    “Didn’t have time.”
    “Lewis. . . .”
    I turned, snapped at her. “You know Dave Chaplain? Mark’s neighbor? Yesterday that big guy told him he was a deputy sheriff, investigating Mark’s disappearance. Even showed him a sheriff’s badge. How long have you been a newspaper reporter, Paula? Hunh? You know how the sheriff’s department operates. Do they conduct any missing-persons investigations?”
    Her arms were clasped tight against her light red coat, her face pale. “He . . . he told me he was with the federal government. He said Mark had uncovered some corruption involving the town and a defense-related industry that was preparing to move in over at the Tyler Industrial Park. He . . . he said Mark was in hiding, and that if I cooperated and kept it confidential, I could see him.”
    I came to a three-way intersection, with no street signs. There were woods and low stone walls. Just for the hell of it, I turned left. A light blue Ford pickup truck passed by and the driver waved, and I waved back. No one-finger salutes this time. I took a breath. Besides the usual smells of my home on wheels, there was also the sharp bitter tang of a pistol being recently fired.
    Paula lowered her head, started crying again.
    We kept on driving.
    Sometime later we passed into Massachusetts, only knowing so by seeing a white post with black letters that said STATE LINE . I had no idea what town we were in, not that it mattered. It was still rural, which suited me well. About ten minutes after passing into our fair neighbor to the south, I spotted a dirt road on the left. I slowed, backed in, and backed in some more, as the road jigged to the right, until I couldn’t see the nameless road we had just come from. I lowered my window and Paula’s window some, to give us some fresh air.
    It was suddenly quiet. Paula’s head was turned, looking out at the trees.
    I cleared my throat. “For what it’s worth, as of last night, Mark was alive and in good health.”
    Her head slowly moved. Her usual pretty features were there, only hidden by her red eyes and puffy face. “How do you know that?”
    “Carl Lessard told me, after the zoning board meeting let out last night . . . or early this morning.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said that Mark had been in contact with him, and that he was doing fine.”
    “Did he say where he was?”
    “No.”
    “Did he say why he’s gone?”
    “No.”
    Her face was red with anger. “And why the hell didn’t you tell me when you found this out?”
    “Because like I just said, it was after midnight, that’s why. I didn’t want to wake you up. And I wasn’t done yet, because I hadn’t yet talked to Mark’s neighbor, Dave Chaplain. And he told me about this guy’s visit yesterday, pretending to be a deputy sheriff. Dave also said he told the guy about you, Mark’s girlfriend. That’s when I came racing into town.”
    The anger seemed to seep out, and my dear friend looked so very tired. “Damn.”
    “What did he say his name was?”
    “Reeve Laughlin.”
    “He told Dave it was Reeve