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.
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.