The Collectibles (7 page)

“O
kay, Casey,” Preston said, looking at the map. “Follow Route 9 North. It's about fifty miles or so. We'll start there.” He pointed to Mineville.

Two hours later they were looking at worn-out houses, dilapidated roofs, stores closed and boarded up or left with broken windows. No McDonald's, no KFC; a church, a grocery store, an old gas station, a tiny post office alongside a laundromat.

After a day it seemed as though Casey and Preston talked with nearly all of Mineville's 1,482 people, but no one knew Joseph Hart or any of his family. When Preston or Casey talked about hunting guides and getting into the mountains, everybody they spoke with had a different idea.

“I'd go up to Lake Placid and come back into the hills,” one said. “Maybe he lived around there.”

“You might try Saranac Lakes Wild Forest Whitney Wilderness,” an aging woman offered. Another suggested Hamilton County, the High Peaks Wilderness. And so it went on.

One old man suggested they check with the hunting camps and guides to see if anybody “had ever heard of this fella Hart.” He said to look for “that fella named after the mountain. What was his name? Yeah, ‘Lockart,' that fella. Try to find a guide like him, someone who grew up huntin' and fishin' in these woods.”

Neither Preston nor Casey had any idea how big the Adirondack Mountains really were. One guide they did talk to, while never having heard of the Harts, told them that the Adirondacks included over five million acres of big game wilderness to explore, hunt, fish and to enjoy the waters. While the enormity of the area was impressive, it was also daunting.

Preston told Casey to drive farther up Route 9 North. “I wish the hell I could remember the name of my father's guide who hauled my ass all over these mountains.”

“If you ask me, I think you're chasing rainbows.”

“I didn't ask you. And don't ever say that to me again. Do you understand? Never!” Preston could see the bend in the wheel as Casey tightened his grip. In all the time that Preston had known Casey, Preston had never talked to him in that manner.

Soon they arrived in the small village of Witherbee, four miles west of Mineville. No one knew of any Harts there. They decided to keep going west. The only encouragement, if you could call it that, was that the roads were winding more and the foothills getting closer.

They pressed on to the next little village. Again, no one knew any Harts. It was getting late, but they decided to try one more town. Casey drove on until they found a few houses and a small battered wooden sign: “Lord's Valley, Population Two Dozen.” The largest building was a big green wooden house set off the road into the rocks and the hill, with seven small green-and-white wooden cabins behind it. The sun was setting now, with rays still shining through the trees and reflecting off a brook that seemed to run under or near the big house. There was something hazily familiar about it to Preston.

When Casey shut the motor off, Preston was immediately aware of the quiet. All he could hear was the babbling of the brook. An old broken-down Ford pick-up sat in the back of the dirt driveway, jacked up sideways to the house. Rotting wood steps led to the screened-in front porch.

Preston and Casey approached the house from the front, and as Preston knocked on the front door, he tried not to fall through the steps. No response. He banged again, harder. The door fell off its hinges and to the ground. A heavyset man with huge arms and upper chest, obviously in his twenties, appeared holding a Remington 1100 Shotgun in his arm. “Can I help you boys?” he asked.

“I'm Preston Wilson, and this is my associate, Casey Fitzgerald. I apologize for the door, and I'd be happy to pay to have it fixed. I'm looking for an attorney named Joseph Hart. You know him? It's important that we find him. We were hoping you could help us.”

“Most folks who come visitin' don't knock. They just come on in. It's the knock that got me worried. But you fellas don't appear to be a problem. Don't worry about the door. One of these days, I'm meanin' to fix it. Save your money. We don't need that neither. Now who is it you lookin' for?”

“An attorney named Joseph Hart. He'd be about forty-six years old,” Preston guessed.

“Don't know no Attorney Hart,” the man said. Preston looked at Casey, who was shaking his head.

“People hunt and fish around here, right?” Casey asked.

“Yep.”

“You hunt and fish around here, right?” Casey went on.

“Nope.”

“You know of any men who have come up here – men in their forties or so – to fish and hunt?”

“Yep, they come up here all the time, but I don't know 'em 'cause I work in the mill.”

“Okay, thanks for your time,” Casey said, as he turned around and walked carefully down the steps. Preston started to follow Casey. As he walked away, he heard the man say, “There was one fella who came up here to hunt and fish and stayed quite awhile. Nice guy. I remember him because he asked me how I liked this house and whether I could afford the rent. I told him I liked the house fine and the rent was real reasonable. He seemed happy to hear that, but I don't know why. Come to think of it, he slept in one of them little cabins in the back for three, four days while he gathered stores and ammunition to go up into the hills. By the look of it, he was gonna stay up there awhile. I don't know why they do that.”

Preston turned and asked, “What did he look like?”

“Average, I guess,” the man said.

“I don't suppose you know his name?” Preston asked.

“Nope, sorry. Guy with him just called him Cap.”

“Why did they call him Cap, do you know?”

“No, I just have a wag.” Seeing the expression on Preston's face he went on, “You know, a wild ass guess,” and laughed. “Not to be smart or nothin', but I figured he might have been in the Navy by the way he talked, you know?”

“Why do you think he was in the Navy?” Casey asked, suddenly showing interest.

“'Cause when he asked me about the house and the rent and all he called me sir. Nobody ain't ever called me sir. I asked him, ‘Why you callin' me that?' He said he was sorry, an old Navy habit. Then I heard the guy he was with call him Cap or something like that. Then they left. That's all I know.”

“It's getting late,” Preston said. “Is there any chance that any of those green cabins is empty? Could we stay there for the night? Do you rent them?”

“There's one empty at the end. I don't rent 'em, but some fella from Witherbee does. I got a key though. You want to rent it, it's ten bucks in advance. And you gotta be quiet, and there ain't no drinking. And stay away from the other cabins, these people want peace and quiet. Especially the lady in the third cabin. She's had a hard time, and she don't want no company.”

Preston gave the man ten dollars, and he and Casey went to the cabin on the end. There were two beds, a table in between with one lamp, and a small bathroom. It looked good to both of them.

“We'll stay here tonight, Casey, and in the morning, we'll try to find a guide to take us up into these hills and see if we can find Commander Hart, also known as ‘Cap.'”

P
reston had already showered and dressed when Casey woke at seven. A morning mist covered the trees and steam rose from the brook as the two men bundled up in the ski jackets they had brought along. They climbed into the SUV and headed west on Route 9. After about six miles of winding road, they saw a brown shingled house with three cars pulled up on the lawn and a wooden sign that proclaimed, “We cook the best for all the rest.”

“You fellas lost or hungry?” the waitress asked, directing them to a table in the front of the large room, with a view of pines and the road. As they walked to their table, Preston and Casey could not help but notice a striking young woman bent over a table in the corner facing the road. She stared out the window through dark sunglasses that barely covered the bruises on the right side of her face.

“Good morning,” Casey said to her as they passed by, receiving a slight nod and no smile in return. The waitress brought piping hot coffee. As they waited for their bacon, eggs, sausage and toast, Casey leaned over to Preston and whispered, “She may be the one the mill guy was talking about.” Preston nodded. Their breakfast soon came and the men ate eagerly.

“You fellas get enough to eat?” the waitress asked. “Like more coffee?”

“No, thank you, we're all set,” Preston said. “Tell me, is there a hunting and fishing club in the vicinity?”

“I don't know about the vicinity, but you could hit the Blooming Grove Hunting and Fishing Club with a stone from here,” she laughed.

“Do they have guides there?”

“You'll have to talk to who's up there this morning, see who's around and who ain't. It's already a little late in the morning. Most of the fellas would've gone out by now. Maybe Larry's around, with his bad foot and all. Don't know. Go ask. Only way to find out.”

 

Casey and Preston saw the white sign with black letters in front of the three-story wooden frame house with steep stairs leading up to the front porch. “There it is,” Casey read, “‘Blooming Grove Hunting & Fishing Club.'”

Hearing no response to their knock, they walked in through the unlocked front door. The shutters were closed, and the inside was dark and chilly as Casey called out.

“Can I help you?” A tall, thin man in his forties appeared.

Preston introduced himself and Casey.

“Larry,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”

“We are trying to find an attorney named Joe Hart. We have reason to believe he's hunting or fishing around here, and it's important that we find him as soon as possible.”

“You in a rush to hunt?”

“No, we just need to talk with him,” Preston said. “Do you know him? Is he here?”

“This is a private huntin' and fishin' club,” Larry said. “Sorry I can't help you.”

Jesus, we come this far, sleep in a dump, find the damn club, and now this guy thinks this is the New York Athletic Club in the mountains and wants to protect its members.
Preston took a deep breath.

“I understand, sir, that this is a private club. I don't want to intrude. We've come a long way to find Mr. Hart. We believe he is an attorney who can be of immense help to us, and we need him desperately. We would greatly appreciate your assistance. It would help a good deal if you could simply tell us whether you know him, and if so, whether he's here or where he is. Perhaps you could help us as a guide and take us to him? I met him years ago when he was a young boy in this general area. He was hunting with an older man, I believe his uncle. I will be happy to pay you – and pay you well – if you can help us find him.”

“You was hunting with him? Can you remember the guide's name?” Larry asked.

“It could have been Howard . . . or maybe Harold . . . I'm not sure.”

“Did this Howard have a last name?”

“I'm sorry but I have been racking my brain trying to think of his name. It was a long time ago.” Preston said.

“Would ya know it if ya heard it?” Larry asked.

“I don't know,” Preston answered, growing more frustrated by the minute. “Also, the attorney we are trying to find is sometimes called ‘Cap,' perhaps because he was in the Navy.”

“How about Howard Buckingham?” Larry asked.

Preston thought for a while and then said, excitement lighting his voice, “Yes, I believe that was it, now that I hear the name. It was a long time ago, but I think I do remember the name Buckingham because he told my father and me we could call him ‘Buck.'”

“What was your dad's name?” Larry asked.

“Peter Wilson,” Preston said, thinking how odd it was that he had never thought of referring to his father as “Dad.”

“When were you and your dad huntin' up here? What year?” Larry asked.

“Well, I was fifteen. That was thirty years ago.”

“And you think Buck was the guide for you and your dad?” Larry asked.

“I think so.”

“Wait here a minute, help yourself to the coffee on the side stand. I wanna check the book upstairs,” Larry said, and limped up the stairway at the side of the room by the fireplace.

Preston fell into the large, leather, winged-back chair while Casey poured himself a cup of strong coffee and flipped the pages of a hunting magazine. Preston assumed that Casey was wondering what in hell they were doing up here and whether they were on a wild goose chase. He regretted that he'd blown up at Casey in the car about the chasing rainbows remark. He knew what haunted him had nothing to do with Casey, who had always been a good friend. His thoughts were interrupted by Larry clunking down the stairs.

“Well, we have a policy against intrudin' in this club. It's private, ya understand? But seein' as you and your father actually met Buck and been huntin' these hills with him before, I reckon Joe would think it's okay to talk to you like this.”

“Then you do know Mr. Hart?”

“Sure do. He's one of us.”

“Can you find him?”

“What do you mean, find him?”

“Well, do you know where he is at this time, and can you tell us, so we can go to him and talk with him?”

“I know he came up here a few days ago. I know he was planning to go up into the hills for a while. I don't know where he was going to go. He didn't tell me and I didn't ask. So no, I don't know where he is in particular, but he's no doubt out there somewhere.”

“How can we find him?”

“You probably can't. You could wait around here till he comes out and then he probably will get in touch with me or need provisions from Sarah. You could see if he would talk to you then. He probably would.”

“Look, this is really important to us. We've got to find him. Do you think we could hire a plane and pilot or a helicopter and find him that way?”

“I doubt it,” Larry said. “We're talking a lot of land here. The State Park alone has six million acres. Actually we don't think of it as acres. It's miles and miles of wilderness and wild country. The woods are thick, heavy. You ain't gonna see much from the air, and that's on a good day. How you gonna tell who you see from the air anyway, even if you saw a man or a group of people? It just ain't practical.”

Casey suggested to Preston that they take a break, get some coffee, and talk it over. Larry invited them into the kitchen of the big lodge and showed them where the coffee pot was.

“Help yourselves, gentlemen,” he said, excusing himself. “I'll be upstairs if you need me.” He left Preston and Casey at the table, drinking coffee.

“Well, Casey, any bright ideas?”

“Yeah. Let's get out of here, go back to the city,” Casey said. “This is like finding a needle in a haystack. It's beyond our control. We've got to let it go.”

“I don't want to let it go, Casey. I can't. Think. What can we do? We've been in tight situations before. We've always found a way out. Why should this be different? It's got to come down to money. It always does. Think about it.”

“Preston, this is not one of those deals where you make a donation to charity and get named man of the year. We're in the boonies. The mountains are big and we don't know where the hell this guy is. Larry doesn't either, assuming he really wants to help us. And I don't know if he does. Let's face it. We're screwed here. Maybe we can find another guy.”

“There's not another guy, Casey. He's the one. That's why the hell we're here. But that's a great idea. Make a donation. We'll make a donation to this hunting club. Let's try that.” Preston got up and went to the foot of the stairs and called Larry.

A few minutes later, Larry came down. “What are you fellas going to do?” he asked.

“Larry, I want to make a suggestion to you,” Preston said. “I hope you will take it in the spirit I intend it. I would like to make a generous donation to the Blooming Grove Hunting and Fishing Club. I appreciate your trying to help us. I know there's no way to know exactly where Mr. Hart is. But I don't want to stop trying, and anything you can think of that we haven't would be greatly appreciated.”

“Well, that's very generous of you, Mr. Wilson. Lord knows, this club can use money. If you want to make a donation, that's fine with us, and we'll be thankful. But that's not gonna find Joe. I can see that you fellas need to hook up with Joe. I don't know whether Joe needs to hook up with you, but that's not my business. Joe will figure that out if you can find him. He's been through a lot, and I know he's not looking for company.”

“We heard about the unfortunate . . . tragic . . . thing that happened to Mr. Hart's wife. I'm very sorry. That shouldn't happen to anyone. I can certainly understand how horrible that must be.”

“Well, I've been thinking about where Joe could be myself. If Joe were going into the park for a while, he would check in with the Rangers. He knows a lot of those fellas, and he would check with them and get a permit. I made a couple of calls when I was upstairs. He hasn't checked with the Rangers on this trip. That makes me suspect that he's heading for some private land. I know of a couple of areas – privately owned – that Joe likes. I'm not saying he's there, but I do know that he wanted to be alone. I figure he would stay away from the hikers, the climbers and all of that. He's probably staying away from the peaks and the trails. He knows how to handle himself out there, so he ain't limited to the trails. Fact is, he'd rather go off on his own. If I knew when he left, that would give me an idea how far he would get, again, if he went where I think he might have gone.

“I'll tell you what. You donate to the club, and I'll donate two days of my time. We'll take a walk to where I think he could possibly be. There ain't no guarantees he'll be there. You got to understand that. But I'll take you up there, and we'll see. Maybe you'll get lucky and find him. Maybe you won't. Whatever happens, it's a pretty trip, and at least you will have tried. That's the best I can offer you.”

“That's good enough for us,” Preston said. “We accept, and, again, we appreciate what you're doing for us.”

“Well, I'm happy to help. To be honest, I'm doing it for Joe and his family. His uncle was a legend in this club. You said you met him, hunted with him.”

“Thanks,” Preston said, with appreciation and excitement energizing his voice. “When do you think we can leave?”

“Seeing as you boys are in such a rush, I would say we can leave at first light. Where's your gear?”

“What gear?” Preston asked.

“Well, you fellas might get a little cold up there, a little wet. You might like something to sleep in. But it's all the same to me. If you don't have nothin', I'll scrounge around here. Probably can find something you can get along with. You fellas go down the road to Sarah's store and get what you want to eat and a bear canister to put the food in. I'll meet you out front by my red pick-up truck in the morning.”

“Tell me about the bear canister,” Casey asked, feeling awkward about the question and hoping it did not mean they really did have to worry about bears.

“It's a regulation now that, if you're going to stay overnight, you've got to keep your food in a canister. Sarah has 'em. No need to invite the bears in for dinner.”

Casey shot Preston a look, but Preston was already up and shaking Larry's hand. “Thank you again,” he said. “We'll see you in the morning.”

Casey and Preston left, climbed into their SUV, and headed for Sarah's.