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.