And when sleep finally came, the sound of a ringing phone made me sit straight up, blankets and sheets around my waist.
The phone rang and rang, and I fumbled in the dark, switched on the light.
The phone was my loaner from Lawrence Thomas.
“Cole,” I said, checking the clock. It was four A.M.
“Got it narrowed down,” he said.
“Hold on, let me get pen and paper.”
I swiveled around in my bed, found what I was looking for, and said, “Go.”
“The second trace on that incoming call places him in a town called Osgood. Are you familiar with it?”
“No, but that’ll change. Any address or location?”
“Unfortunately not, but I do have a search area, based on the cell tower the call went through.”
“Go on.”
“My… associates say that the call went through a cell tower on the top of a mountain called Flintlock Peak. From that cell tower, my associates say, plot a triangle from the tower, using a base point of magnetic north. From zero degrees to thirty-five degrees, you’ll get a triangular-shaped search area, reaching to a lake called the Wachusett. That’s your boundary.”
“Could be a big area.”
“I’ve already done a preliminary. It’s a fairly rural town, and from Flintlock Peak to Osgood, from what I can tell, is farmland and forest. That narrows it down. There’s not many businesses or residences in that triangle.”
I yawned. “I’m on it.”
“Are you leaving now?”
“No, I’m not.”
“And why the hell not?” he nearly shouted.
“Because I’ve got work to do, supplies to retrieve, and breakfast to be eventually eaten,” I snapped back. “Because I’m going in slow, but I’m going in right. This isn’t going to be a Desert One fiasco, got it?”
He started talking again and I talked right over him. “That was early on in my career, when the hostage rescue mission to Iran failed. Lots of things made it fail, including too many fingers in the proverbial planning pie, and a commander in chief that insisted on being in the loop from start to finish. As of now, Lawrence, you’re out of the loop.”
“The hell you say.”
“The hell I don’t. You’re in Virginia. I’m in New Hampshire. Based on those last two calls I received, Curt Chesak is on my turf, not yours. So I’m taking care of it. You got a problem with that, then go rely on somebody else. But I want this done too. And I’ll do it right.”
No words, just the sound of his breathing. I went on. “If I get another phone call from him, I’ll let you know. Maybe that will help your folks narrow the search territory even more. But you’ve got to let me do this, Lawrence. I can’t do it with you calling every hour or so, asking for updates. If all goes well, you’ll get just one more phone call from me, telling you the job is finished.”
He breathed some more. Coughed. I thought I heard a woman’s voice in the background, no doubt asking why her husband was up at such a rotten hour. “All right,” Lawrence said, voice shaking. “All right. I understand what you’re saying. It makes sense. So go out there and do it, Lewis. But by God, do it.”
“I will,” I said, and that was that.
I managed to get some sleep, and in the morning I went back to Chez Vachon, where I consumed about a half-dozen crepes and half-dozen sausages, along with a couple of cups of coffee. I wasn’t sure when or where my next meal would be; I wanted to make sure my tanks were topped off. Back in my motel room, I scratched furiously at my chin and under my neck, where an unfamiliar beard was growing. Time to take care of business.
I took a nice long shower, soaping up, and, with a couple of disposable razors in hand, did what I could do, shaving in the shower. A couple of times, the drain clogged up and I had to clean things up. When I had gotten dried and dressed, I opened the duffel bag that Felix had brought me, following my shopping list to the letter. I also checked my Beretta and my Bianchi holster, and then put it on, put my coat over it, and picked up the duffel bag and got going.
Outside it felt quite cold, and from the duffel bag I took out a Navy-style black watch cap, which I easily slipped over my head. I got in the truck and drove about twenty minutes to the Mall of New Hampshire, right near Route 101 and Interstate 93. I took my time wandering through the mall, admiring the Halloween decorations and displays, and then I ducked into an EMS store. EMS stands for Eastern Mountain Sports, and once upon a time they had three stores: one in North Conway, New Hampshire, the second in Boston, and a factory store at their headquarters facility in Peterborough. Now they had scores of small shops like this one in malls and shopping plazas, and some oldtimers still groused about how the whole feel and style of the place had changed over the years, probably with every change of ownership.
Me, I didn’t care that much. I spent about thirty minutes in the store, getting what I needed, and in one corner of the store — past displays of crampons, ropes, and mountain-climbing gear for those brave folks who want to fight against the law of gravity — there was a wooden bureau with thin drawers. A few minutes later, I found what I was looking for: a U.S. Geological Survey map for the town of Osgood, with roads, rivers, streams, and mountain peaks listed, especially Flintlock Peak.
A woman came up to me. “Help you with something?”
I gently rolled the map in a tube so she couldn’t see what I was examining. “I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”
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.