The rain started about an hour later.
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.