Fatal Harbor

by Brendan DuBois

I was just about a foot longer than the truck cabin’s width, which meant a long night of being curled up on my side, legs knocking around, and I dozed here and there, and when the light finally started streaming into the windshield and directly into my face, I got up, stretched, and walked around the truck. I was cold, stiff, sore, and my unanswered phone call to Kara Miles was on my mind.

  No more.

  No more phone calls to Kara. What was done was done. I was going to do my job. That’s it. No more dialing and re-dialing that memorized phone number. . . .

  Numbers.

  The numbers didn’t add up.

  The rain had stopped a while ago. Dead leaves from oak and maple trees were all around me. I shuffled around, packed up my stuff, and went back into the truck. Started up the engine, let the heat roll over my legs as I unfolded the topographical map of Osgood I had gotten at EMS. I let my cold fingers trace the lines of the roads and streets in that magic triangle where Curt’s cell phone had been located.

  On the topo map, little squares marked each residence along the roads. I spent a good amount of time in the morning, matching the little squares with the roads. I did it once, twice, three times.

  Tucker Road.

  There was a little square, a distance away from the road, that wasn’t listed on the tax cards.

  On the north side of this little square was a property listed for Swinson. On the south side was a property listed for Keller.

  But nobody was listed for the mystery square on Tucker Road.

  Nobody.

  But the topo map didn’t lie.

  Something was there.

  I put the map aside, put the truck in drive, and left my little refuge.

  On the outskirts of Osgood I stopped at an Irving gas station, one of the many outposts of the Canadian oil company archipelago. Fueled up the truck, got a coffee and a pretty good cinnamon Danish. I drove out to the far end of the parking lot, had my breakfast, thought things through.

  My own past dribbled through my mind. Code words. For some reason, code words were bouncing around. In my little corner of the DoD universe, missions were never called missions. They were called pizza deliveries. We might have had pre-op planning sessions that took months, that involved air and naval assets, that inserted extraordinarily dangerous, highly trained and dedicated service members (Navy, Army, Air Force, Marines, or—yes—Coast Guard, take your pick) that resulted in death, destruction, and general mayhem.

  But they were called pizza deliveries. For a joke, I guess, but also to insulate us poor civilians in the rear from what was actually going on in the front line.

  My turn, though, to go into the front line.

  Pizza delivery.

  I went back to Osgood Finest Pizza and ordered a large cheese pizza. I got back into my truck, drove off to Tucker Road. The Swinson place was a gorgeous new home that, if it were a bit bigger and on a lot a bit smaller, would be called a McMansion. Brickwork and shrubbery and finely trimmed lawn, nice paved curved driveway. The number on the mailbox said 10. I went past the nice home and stopped for a quick moment. A scraggly dirt road with a metal gate blocking the entrance. The gate was rusted, leaning to one side, weeds growing at the base. It looked pretty old and beaten up.

  Except for a metal post, with a keypad that controlled the lock.

  I kept on driving.

  The Keller home was an old Cape Cod that sometime in the past had had a porch constructed on the front. The driveway was dirt. In the rear part of the yard, part of it was fenced off and chickens moved around. The number on the mailbox said 14. I pulled up in front of the house, deftly stepped out and went up to the porch with the pizza in my hands. The floorboards creaked loudly as I stepped to the door and knocked on it hard and firm.

  The door swung open and a white-bearded man peered at me. He had on patched blue jeans, work boots, and a green cardigan sweater. His eyes were a twinkling blue, and he said, “Sorry, bud, didn’t order that.”

  “Yes, sir, I know you didn’t,” I answered with a sheepish tone. “Thing is, I’m supposed to deliver this to 12 Tucker Road. But I can’t find 12 Tucker Road.”

  The guy opened the door wider. “Sorry, bud, there ain’t no 12 Tucker Road. There’s me and then there’s the Swinsons, next butt-ugly house over, which is number 10. But no number 12.”

  “Damn,” I said, moving the pizza box from one hand to another. “I thought for sure that dirt road and gate over there was number 12.”

  “Well-l-l,” he said, drawing out the last letter. “It should be, but there’s some sort of non-profit or conservation easement over there, don’t get taxed. Plus you take that dirt road up about a half-mile, you’ll find a christly big hunting lodge, belongs to some outfit from away.”

  Found you again, I thought, found you again.

  “Funny to have a hunting cabin up there, it being conservation land.”

  He shrugged. “People from away. Go figure. Got money to piss away, they do. Sometimes they don’t even bother driving up the road. They take a helicopter in and out. But sometimes you can hear ’em shooting away. I don’t mind, but Mister Swinson, the asshole, ’scuse my French, he’s originally from New York and don’t like the sound. But it’s their land, right? They can do what they want.”

  “Good for them,” I said, holding up the pizza box. “But it still means someone’s pulling a prank, and I’m gonna get hit for this.”

  The guy eyed me, and I said, “Look, you want this? Free? No charge? Otherwise it’s just gonna go to waste.”

  “What kind is it?”

  “Plain cheese.”

  “Hah, I’ll take it,” he said, holding his hands out for it. “Wish it was pepperoni, but we all can’t get what we want, am I right?”

  “Right as you can be,” I said, handing the pizza over to him.

  I took my time that afternoon, prepping for my second pizza delivery of the day. I repacked and rearranged my sleeping bag, food, stove, and extra clothing, along with my weapons and a few other items. I drove along Tucker Road again until I found another overgrown wide trail that led somewhere deep into the dark woods. I carefully backed the truck up the lane until I couldn’t see the road anymore. I switched off the engine. Thought some. It had been a relatively short drive from Manchester to here, but in a lot of ways it was the longest trip I had ever taken. On the seat beside me were my personal cell phone and the special cell phone I had gotten from Lawrence Thomas. I picked them both up and put them in the side pockets of my knapsack.

  I juggled the truck keys for a moment, and then lowered the visor, put the keys there, and put the visor back up. On the back of a takeout menu from Osgood Finest Pizza, I scribbled a note:

  Please contact Felix Tinios of North Tyler to ensure the return of this truck. Thank you.

  Underneath the note I scribbled Felix’s phone number, and I slid the menu into the visor.

  I got out of the truck and shouldered my knapsack, which felt pretty damn heavy. I patted the side of the truck, said, “Thanks,” and walked away.

  Most people who get lost in the woods think their cell phone is a magic mystery tool that will lead them in and out with no difficulty—and if there is difficulty, well, that’s why there are cops and Fish & Game officers. Obviously they’re just sitting around, eagerly anticipating yet another phone call from a lost hiker. Yet a topo map and a compass will always mean you will never, ever get lost. From what my first and only pizza customer of the day had told me, the hunting camp was at the end of that dirt lane, both lane and little rectangle marked on the map.

  Using the compass, I determined how many degrees I had to set to make a fairly straight line to a ridge that overlooked the hunting camp. From where I was, all I did was to sight in the compass to a landmark ahead of me, like a boulder or wide pine tree or a stand of birches. Once I got to that point, I found another landmark. Repeat as necessary.

  Which I did, until I got to the ridgeline and saw the hunting camp beneath me.

  Some camp.<
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  I took out a pair of binoculars, scoped the place out. It was a house, a pretty good-sized home that wouldn’t look out of place along the pricier parts of North Tyler and Wallis. Wooden and two-story, it looked like it had been here for quite a while. The shingles appeared to be cedar, and the yard was a few acres and mowed. At the rear of the house was a concrete landing pad, with an enormous H painted in the center. A post with an orange windsock was some distance away from the concrete. There were two satellite dishes on the roof, along with a set of very tall antennas. Bushes were scattered around the yard.

  At the front of the house, I could just make out a dark green Hummer, the civilian version of the famed Humvee.

  Only the best for Curt Chesak and his friends.

  But how many friends?

  It was tempting to stroll down and start the job, but that was stupid. No need to rush.

  I slipped off the ridgeline and worked my way down to the rear of the yard.

  Dusk was falling by the time I got to where I wanted to be. Like most areas of the state, there are ghost stone walls that travel through wooded areas that had once been farmland. Hard to believe, but there was a time when more than ninety percent of my state was clear-cut for farms. Now, just a hundred or so years later, the ratio has reversed: most of the state is now forested, having reclaimed the farms, the descendants of the original owners now living in Ohio or Indiana or any other place where the land was cheaper and richer.

  What worked for me was that the edge of the home’s landscape butted right up against a stone wall, which gave me great cover to watch things. With my knapsack and most of my weapons left behind, I crawled up to the stone wall and waited. I was now wearing the favorite outfit of snipers and Scottish game men, called the ghillie. It’s a suit one wears that has leaves, twigs, and branches placed all over, so when you stop, if you do it well, you blend in with the scenery. Years and years ago, some old-timers with leathery skin and sun-squint wrinkles around their eyes had told me what it took for good surveillance and tracking, which was three things: patience, patience, and patience.

  Which meant it took me over a half hour to slowly crawl along the forest floor until I reached the stone wall. And another fifteen minutes or so to take out my binoculars and position myself just right.

  By then darkness had fallen and, one by one, lights were lit inside the home.

  I settled in for a long wait.

  Through the night, I saw shapes and shadows move beyond the windows. It was impossible to determine how many men were in there. Once, a light went on in an upstairs bathroom, and I saw a muscular young guy with a short blond haircut take a shower. If I’d been someplace else and was somebody else, that might have proven interesting, but he wasn’t Curt Chesak, whom I desperately wanted to see.

  Eventually from one of the larger windows to the rear, I spotted the light blue glow that mean a television was in play.

  I waited.

  It grew darker.

  Waited some more.

  Out in the woods I could hear creatures scurrying through the fallen leaves. Once an owl hooted loud and long just a few yards away from me, almost causing me to jump up like I had been stung by wasps.

  Lights went on, lights went off.

  I slowly moved my binoculars around, keeping my view on the house.

  One by one, slowly and gradually, all the lights went off.

  I kept still, watching. My eyes adjusted more to the darkness.

  There were little glows of light coming from the house, from those little bits of electronic gear and machines that are always on, all the time, illuminating just a touch to let their human masters know they’re up and awake.

  But it looked like everyone in that house was asleep.

  I waited another hour, and then spent another half-hour crawling back so enough distance was put between me and the stone wall.

  Thus ended the first day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My camp wasn’t really a camp, just a hollow in the woods where I felt comfortable taking some shelter. I used a headlamp with a slight beam to put a ground cloth down, then a thin mattress pad, and then my sleeping bag, still damp from the previous night’s adventure. I put everything within easy reach and then settled down for dinner. I opened up a freeze-dried packet of chicken and rice, but I didn’t dare light a fire or a stove. Maybe the guys in that alleged hunting camp were kicking back and taking it easy, and maybe they were on hyper-alert, with night-vision gear and thermal imaging devices. So I poured in the correct amount of water and ate it cold. If I hadn’t eaten in two weeks, it probably would have tasted pretty good. Dessert was two Hershey’s chocolate bars. I cleaned up and undressed and scooted into the sleeping bag, and I shivered until the down bag eventually warmed me up.

  In the darkness I reached out with my right hand, touched a sheet of plastic. Underneath the plastic were a flashlight and my 9mm Beretta. I was all set. I settled in and looked up through the tree branches, saw a couple of stars, and fell asleep.

  I awoke with the daylight, at about 7:15 A.M. I got out of my bag, stretched, made a temporary latrine about fifty feet away, and went back to my little campsite. Breakfast was water and a couple of granola bars. I brushed my teeth, then got my gear wrapped up and hidden at the base of a tree trunk that had lots of gaps and holes. Dressed and geared up once again, I went back to the stone wall and settled in again.

  Some voices from the house. Television, radio, or real guys?

  Couldn’t tell.

  The sun was shining right into the upstairs bathroom window, so I couldn’t tell if anyone was showering or not. Not that I was curious in that sort of way, but if I saw a bearded guy showering, at least I would know the firm count of men in the house was at least two.

  The morning dragged on. Ants walked over my hand. At some point a fat woodchuck waddled right by me, about ten feet away. I should have felt tired, bored, or weary, but no, I was doing okay. Watching that house and waiting to see if Curt Chesak was really there or not was like having a giant dry-cell battery nearby, feeding me energy. I felt like General U. S. Grant, feeling feisty and like I could wait here all fall and winter if I had to.

  On my back I had a Camelbak hydration pack for water, and I sipped during the morning and kept myself hydrated.

  Then it got very interesting, very quickly, when two men with shotguns appeared.

  They came from my left, moving slowly, about twenty feet apart. I saw them out of the corner of my eye, and if it was possible to freeze even more, that’s what I did. I saw their weapons first, pump-action shotguns, held out, barrels moving left and right as the two men scanned the area in front of them.

  I tried not even to blink.

  They came closer. They were wearing blaze orange vests, hats, and camouflage pants. Hunting licenses dangled from safety pins on their vests. Both men were heavyset and bearded.

  Hunters.

  Shotguns.

  I don’t hunt, but I have no problem with those who do. My only problem was that they were following the stone wall, and in about sixty seconds or so the closest one was going to get one hell of a surprise when he stepped on my back.

  Damn.

  I held my breath.

  They got closer.

  I could smell wood smoke coming from them.

  A voice. “Hey, Darryl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take a break?”

  “Sure, why the hell not.”

  They stopped and lowered their shotguns. Both checked to make sure the safeties were on—thanks, guys!—and leaned the shotguns up against two adjacent oak trees. They both sat down on the stone wall, stretched out their legs in the leaves.

  “George, where the hell is this meadow you’ve been saying?”

  “Another twenty minutes, thirty tops. We just follow this stone wall, get past this place, and we’ll be there ’fore you know it.”

  “That’s what you said a half hour ago. Only a half hour left to go.”


  “Yeah, well, I don’t think the pheasant will mind, so lighten the hell up, Darryl, okay?”

  A few more murmurs of voices, a plastic water bottle passed between them, two cigarettes lit up. They both used lighters and took deep drags from their cigarettes. They talked low for a while—I caught bits and pieces of conversation about mortgage payments, the upcoming presidential election, and wives—and then the one called Darryl raised his voice some and said, “So, how’s it going with you and Marcia?”

  No answer.

  Darryl said, “C’mon, George, if you can’t tell your brother, who can you tell?”

  “Shit,” George said. “It’s like this, I know she’s going through becoming a teenager and all that, but it’s driving me freaking crazy. The other night, I came home from work and she wanted to talk to me about green energy and how I was contributing to the destruction of the planet ’cause I was workin’ at the mill. You know, all I wanted to do was to kick back and have a beer, watch some ESPN, but Margaret tells me I need to pay more attention to her, with all the hormones kickin’ in and shit. So I tried to be polite and say, well, green energy sounds cool and stuff, but that’s down the road, and right now we got bills to pay, and the mill’s the best place around here for a guy like me to get work.”

  The other man said, “Sounds reasonable.”

  A heavy sigh. “Christ, at her age, I don’t think Marcia knows how to spell ‘reasonable.’ So she said if I was right sure the planet was important, I’d make sacrifices now to help save energy and stuff, prevent climate change and global warming, and I said okay, if you want to start saving energy, let’s get rid of the TV in your room, your hair dryer, and your damn cell phone, you can start tonight if that’s so important to you, and then she started getting teary-eyed and said I was making fun of her, and I was part of something called the patriarchal oligarchy, and it wasn’t fair that her class should be called on to sacrifice first, and then she stormed upstairs and wouldn’t come down for dinner, and Margaret got all pissed at me for getting Marcia all wound up, and crap, all I wanted was a beer and some ESPN.”