Fatal Harbor (20 page)

She smiled. “Let me get a rubber band so that doesn’t unwrap on you.”

I kept my eye on her as she walked to the service counter and came back. Most of the employees in the store were just a few years over the state drinking age, and both the young men and young women sported tattoos, body piercings, and odd hair colors and styles. But this woman—whose nametag said
PAMELA
—was much older, nearly coming close to my demographic range. She had on hiking boots, socks, khaki shorts, and a black T-shirt depicting a Hubble Space Telescope shot of the Horsehead Nebula, with a caption stating “So much exploring, so little time.” Her eyes were light blue and her hair was blond, with a few streaks of white along the side.

Pamela took the tube, snapped the elastic around it, and looked at my other items in a wire shopping basket. She smiled, revealing thin smile lines about her eyes and lips, which made her that much more attractive. “Going orienteering? Or hunting?”

Among my purchase pile was a compass, a small gas stove, a pair of 7 × 50 binoculars, a small knapsack, and some freeze-dried food packages, along with a couple of other things.

“A little of both.”

She frowned, just a bit. “Really? Deer season’s coming up. Is that what you’re interested in?”

I shook my head. “No, no,” I said. “I don’t mind those who hunt, but it’s just never been my thing.”

“So what are you hunting for?”

I laughed. “Justice, what else?”

She laughed back at me. “C’mon, I’ll take care of you up at the counter.”

At the counter, Pamela rang up my purchases, asked me for my phone number and e-mail address, both of which I declined. She took that in good stride, put my goods in a plastic EMS bag, and then slid over a business card that had her full name: Pamela Howe.

“If you have . . . any questions about your gear,” she said, her eyes bright.

I took the card, gave it a closer look. “If I do, you can count on it.”

I walked out of the mall, the bag suddenly weighing heavy in my hand. Pamela’s world was that of the outdoors and being in good shape and flirting with the occasional male shopper, with each day effortlessly sliding into another.

My world had been reduced to a simple one, where in a matter of days I was going to encounter Curt Chesak, and at the end of that day one of us would be dead.

More errands were run that day in Manchester. I got some more clothes at a JCPenney, found some more clothing at a hunting supply shop—where I had to slip the store owner an extra twenty dollars to get what I needed—and lunch was a quick stop at a Papa Gino’s. I ate a small cheese pizza and drank a large Coke, and after washing up in the restroom, went to my borrowed pickup truck, out in the shopping plaza parking lot.

It was a fine fall day. I leaned against the warm truck fender, crossed my arms, and just let myself bake in the sun for a few minutes. Even though I was in a parking lot, there were fall leaves at my feet, gold and red and orange. They looked beautiful. Traffic was moving at a good pace over on the Interstate. I could be on the Interstate in less than five minutes, on the way up north, where the town of Osgood waited for me, along with Curt Chesak.

Or I could head south, and then east, try to pick up everything and just go on.

“Like hell,” I said, and I got into my Chevy, and then got going to where I had to be.

Nearly two hours later, I was approaching Osgood. Nearly forty minutes earlier, I had taken an exit off Interstate 93 and followed a state road through two other towns before getting to Osgood. It was a type of New Hampshire town that looked great on calendars, Christmas cards, and presidential primary ads. It had a small downtown that consisted of a diner, a Citizens Bank branch, hardware store, town hall, a combination police station and fire station, as well as the usual and customary town common with its Civil War statue in the center.

I took my time going through the town, driving along a couple of side streets, before I kept on driving and left Osgood. To the left I could make out the far waters of Wachusett Lake, and off to the right were the low peaks, one of which was Flintlock Peak. I could make out a cell phone tower at the top, and the backs of my hands tingled, thinking about the voice of Curt Chesak going through the airwaves and bouncing right off that tower and coming to me.

I made my way to the lake, and there was a picnic area that was empty. It had two swing sets, some stone fire pits, and a half dozen picnic tables. I pulled into a finely packed gravel lot, rummaged through my belongings, and went out to the near table.

I unrolled my topo map and found four rocks to anchor the corners of the map. With my compass, I located the top of Flintlock Peak, and I put the compass adjacent to the peak, and then swung the compass around so the needle matched the true magnetic north indicated on the map.

There you go. Using the edge of a guidebook and a pencil, I drew a triangle that encompassed zero degrees and thirty-five degrees. The lines ended on the shores of Wachusett Lake. I stared down at the triangle I had just made, tapped my pencil in the middle. There were about a half dozen roads that were in the triangle. Somewhere Curt was hiding out there.

“Got you, you son-of-a-bitch,” I whispered.

I started writing down the names of the roads. Spencer Lane. Tucker Road. Roscoe Street. Eric Street. Mount Vernon Street. Gibson Lane.

Then there was the crunch of tires on gravel, and I swiveled around.

A police cruiser was pulling in behind my borrowed Chevy truck.

I stood still, waited calmly, not making any moves. The cruiser was white and dark blue, with the markings of the Osgood Police Department on the side. A slim police officer came out, put on his uniform hat. He was about early thirties, which comforted me. A guy in his thirties has been on the job for a while, doesn’t need to prove himself. A guy in his twenties would be full of himself, wanting to do something to show his chief and the police commission or whatever that he was an asset to the force.

Too much thinking. He approached. A slight smile. He had a prominent nose, bushy eyebrows, and black-rimmed eyeglasses.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Everything all right?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Just taking a break.”

His nametag said
TEMPLAR
, and Officer Templar said, “A break from what, if you don’t mind me asking.”

So it began. The gentle questioning, leading down to a not-so-gentle conclusion. If it got to the point where he asked for the truck’s registration, I’d be hard-pressed to explain how I was driving a truck registered to a farm in Bedford, belonging to a farmer whose name I didn’t know. And then it could get really interesting.

“My work,” I said. “I’m a magazine writer.”

I took out my wallet, passed over my press identification card from the N.H. Department of Safety, along with my business card from
Shoreline
. Officer Templar examined them both and said, “So you’re a reporter, then?”

“A columnist, actually.”

“And you write for
Shoreline
?”

Lots of questions. What was driving him?

“Used to,” I said, putting a mournful tone in my voice. “I quit last week. My editor was a real bitch. Couldn’t stand her. I’m trying to rustle up some freelance articles, make some contacts with other magazines.”

“Here in Osgood?” He handed me back my business card and press identification.

“Sure. I’m working on an article about various discrepancies in households and income, even in small towns like Osgood, which I think represents the status of the nation as a whole. You know, the one percent versus the 99 percent. What I do is randomly select some households, maybe interview the owners, and get a nice cross-section of small-town life.”

A slight smile from Officer Templar as he turned to walk back to his cruiser. “Sounds like a lot of work for a lot of nothing.”

“That’s what we writers do,” I replied.

When he left, I changed my clothes in the shadow of my truck. I still didn’t like the interrogation. In small towns like Osgood, it only took minutes for news of a stranger to zip through town.

Back in my borrowed truck, I drove back to the center of the town and went to the town hall. The parking lot was cracked asphalt, and I walked up the wide front steps of the town hall. The building was white; over the double doors, black letters announced
OSGOOD
TOWN
HALL
with the date 1858 underneath it. The doors were heavy, painted green. I walked in, the wooden floor creaking loudly as the door closed behind me. Before me was a bulletin board covered with notices for town meetings such as school board, planning board, and the selectmen. There were also notices for a ham & bean supper, a lost dog, two lost cats, and a flyer announcing a home cleaning service.

Up ahead was a waist-high counter, and a tall thin woman in her late fifties looked down at me as I approached. She wore round wire-rimmed glasses and had on a light yellow dress with tiny white flowers. I gave her my best inquiring smile, and she said, “Can I help you?”

“Gosh, I hope so,” I said. “My name is Lewis Cole, and I’m working on a freelance magazine article.”

I showed her my press ID, and she said, “My, I haven’t met a real magazine writer before. The only writer I know is Sarah Gebo, she’s a stringer for the
Union Leader
, lives over in Warren.” She held out her hand. “Abby Watkins.”

I gave it a quick shake. “Thanks, Abby.”

“So, what are you looking for?”

Poor trusting Abby Watkins. At some time I would have to think of a way to apologize to her, but first I gave her the same story I had given Officer Templar: about getting information on a cross-section of the town of Osgood to write an article about economic differences and challenges, thereby using Osgood as an example of the economic challenges facing not only our region, but the country as a whole. She nodded at the apparent right places and I think the excitement value of being with a writer was rapidly approaching zero. Even with her eyeglasses, I could see her eyes beginning to glaze over.

“All right, I think I understand,” she said. “What are you looking for then?”

“I was hoping to get some information on residences and businesses on these streets,” I said, sliding over a sheet of paper.

She peered down at the list. “An interesting collection of roads. How did you get it?”

“Random, that’s all.”

Abby looked down, hesitated.

I said, “I always thought tax records like this were public information.”

“Oh, they are,” she said, head still lowered.

“Then maybe I should talk to the tax collector, or the assessor?”

That brought forth a laugh. “Sweetie, you don’t know Osgood, do you?”

“True enough,” I said. “But it seems like a nice town.”

“Oh, it is, it is. But it’s a poor town. Besides being the town clerk, I’m also the tax collector and the secretary to the selectmen, the planning board, and the zoning board of adjustment.”

“Sounds busy.”

“Oh, it keeps me jumping.” She took the paper and said, “You’re absolutely right: this is public information. Give me a few minutes, but just so you know. . . .” She paused.

“Yes?” I asked. “What’s that?”

Abby seemed apologetic. “You’re not a town resident. I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you a dollar a page.”

“Best deal I’ve heard today,” I said. “No problem.”

Within ten minutes I got photocopies of what’s called the tax cards for each property listing, paid the Town of Osgood twenty-one dollars in cash, with a receipt for expenses for my nonexistent magazine article. In the parking lot next to my pickup truck was the Osgood police cruiser with Officer Templar sitting inside. He gave me a cheerful wave and I returned the favor. I got in the truck, drove down a block to Osgood Finest Pizza. Before going in, I popped open the glove compartment and memorized the truck’s owner: Bedford Pleasant Farms. I wasn’t going to give Officer Templar an opportunity to trap me with an inopportune question.

Osgood Finest Pizza, like most pizza places in New Hampshire, was owned and operated by Greek-Americans. Not sure why, but the food was always good. A chubby young lady with a thick black ponytail and a cheerful smile in a white uniform with red apron took my order, and within ten minutes I was sitting in a booth by myself eating a hot steak-and-cheese sub, with a nice cold Coke. Feeling a bit concerned about my current diet, I had decided to splurge, so I also had some low-fat baked potato chips.

The sandwich was hot, the steak well cut and tasty, and the Coke did its usual fine job of quenching my thirst. Unfortunately, my diet experiment didn’t end well, since the low-fat chips tasted like pressed cardboard sprinkled with salt.

A few minutes later, I was in my borrowed truck again. I started up and drove east, and I came upon a low-slung motel called Peak’s Paradise. I pulled into the parking lot. Waited. Looked around the lot and the building.

No.

Officer Templar seemed pretty interested in my activities. I didn’t want to be stationary in one place, to pen myself in one location to have to answer a lot more questions. Instead I backed up and drove down one narrow road, and then another. I found a hunting trail or path and backed the truck in, moving slowly and easily, a few branches scraping the side.

I sat and took stock of the tax cards I had received. There were twenty-one names, twenty-one addresses. Where to start? I started culling by going through the list, being brutal in eliminating properties that I couldn’t see Curt Chesak staying in. Each property card, besides listing the owner, address, and value of the property, also gave a description of the building: everything from number of bathrooms and bedrooms to a photograph. So residences that consisted of mobile home trailers, double-wide trailers, or distressed properties that had the cliché front yard of bathtubs, old cars on blocks, and truck tires were discarded.

Not fair, but I wasn’t looking to be fair.

After that first pass, I ended up with eleven possibilities. I checked my watch. About three hours before dusk came my way. Plenty of time to do a recon and see what I could learn. I started up the truck and started out on my quest.