The dogs barked some more and, feeling like living on the edge, I talked low and soft to them and walked forward. One and then the other sniffed my hands, then whined and flopped in the dirt. I squatted down and rubbed their heads, butts, and bellies, and in a few minutes I think I made two new best friends.
“Where’s your alleged master, guys, huh? He coming back home soon?”
One licked my hand, and the other one licked himself in a private place. Then they panted in appreciation, and I got up.
“Sorry, guys. If I had a treat or two, I’d pass it along.”
It was getting darker. I pondered my options, stepped back and into a stand of birches, and took out my cell phone. I checked the time. Not too early, not too late.
So what to do?
Something I hadn’t done in a while.
I dialed a phone number with a Washington, D.C. area code.
The phone rang and rang and I was anticipating sliding into voicemail, when I was pleasantly surprised by a woman answering. “Hello, this is Annie.”
“Hey, Annie, it’s your faithful New Hampshire correspondent.”
A soft laugh that still had the ability to make me tingle. “Why, as I live, breathe, and scramble for votes, it’s the mysterious Lewis Cole. Didn’t recognize your number on the caller ID. Have a new phone?”
“I do.”
“What happened to your other phone?”
“Somebody broke it in half and dumped it in a drainpipe in Boston.”
“Anybody you know?”
“It was me.”
Another soft laugh. “Sounds like a story to me. What are you up to now, hon?”
“If you really want to know… ”
“Of course I want to know,” and there was the barest hint of impatience in her voice, a hint I long ago had learned to recognize.
“Currently, I’m standing alone in a bunch of trees in Lee, staring at an empty house, being kept company by two dogs who look like they got a bath last year.”
“Are the dogs dangerous?”
“Nope. They’re chained.”
“And are you waiting for someone?”
“Always waiting for someone.”
“I see. Haven’t heard from you in a while. You still hunting?”
“That I am, Annie.”
She sighed. “And how long is the hunt going to last?”
Hearing her sigh made me tighten my grip on the cell phone. “Until it’s done.”
“Or you give up.”
“No, until it’s done.”
“Or you’re hurt. Or arrested. Or something worse.”
“Tell you what, let’s change the subject. What are you up to?”
“Nothing so exciting. Just trying to elect a good man president.”
Yes, I thought, a good man with a bad wife. “Anything new on that end?”
“Nothing I can share,” she said.
“Ah, who’s keeping secrets now, eh?”
A pause on her end, and I sensed I had gone too far. She sighed once more and said, “I know it’s been a while, but you know how D.C. works, Lewis. Knowledge and secrets are the coin of the realm. And I don’t know who might be listening in… you know how it is.”
“I sure do.”
“Lewis… ”
“Yes, dear.”
“We need to talk.”
“That’s what we’re doing now, isn’t it?”
“No, we’re chatting. Big difference.”
Headlights appeared at the end of the driveway, along with the sound of a car engine. “Sorry, Annie. I’ve got to run.”
“We still have to talk.”
I stepped back, concerned I’d be seen. “I know, I know, but I’ve got to run.”
“Oh. The hunt continues?”
“It sure does.”
A touch of sharpness again in her voice, crystal-clear even though she was hundreds of miles away. “Nice to know you’re dedicated to something.”
Then she clicked off.
So did I. And put the phone away.
The dogs started barking again as a dented and rusty Nissan pickup truck rolled in and came to a halt. A tall guy carrying two plastic shopping bags stepped out, and the dogs increased their barking. “Shut the hell up!” he called out. “I’ll feed you in a minute, for Christ’s sake.”
He walked up to the double-wide, unlocked the front door, and went in. He bustled around inside for a few minutes, while his dogs kept on yelping, and then there was a sudden flick as an outdoor floodlight came on. He came out again, bearing two metal bowls with dry dog food in them. He appeared to be in his early thirties, gaunt, wearing blue jeans and a tan down jacket. His hair was thin up forward and was pulled back in the rear in a ponytail. He was talking to himself as he dropped a bowl in front of each dog and then went back inside. I gave him a few minutes to recover from his exertions, and then I walked up to the front door. No doorbell or doorknob, so I just hammered on the door.
“Hold on!” came the voice. He opened the front door, left the storm door closed. “Yeah?”
“Ken Marvel? UNH instructor?”
“So far, so good. Do I know you?”
“Nope. The name is Lewis Cole. I’m a freelance magazine writer, hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
“What kind of magazines?”
“Shoreline, for one,” I said, which wasn’t much of a lie.
“Never heard of it. Any other magazines I might have heard of?”
“That’s the one.”
“Sorry, not interested.”
He slammed the door.
Well.
I wondered what kind of philosophy he taught at UNH, and doubted his students were getting their tuition’s worth.
I banged on the door again. And again he opened it up. “When I said I wasn’t interested, that meant you could leave.”
“But I’m still interested. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Doubt it. What the hell are you working on?”
“A story about the anti-nuclear demonstrations at Falconer.”
“Never heard of it,” he said, and slammed the door once more.
I opened up the storm door, knocked once more. The main door flew open, and his eyes widened in quick surprise as my right hand snapped out, grabbed his shirt collar, and pulled him forward to me. I stepped aside so he flew out the door and down the steps, where he hit the ground with a satisfying thud.
I turned around and sat on the steps. He called me a name or two — nothing original, which lowered my appreciation of him as an educated individual — and he rolled over and came right at me. I gauged his approach, and as he got to the steps I quickly lifted up my right leg, braced myself, and he ran right into my right foot, at a particular angle above his knees and below his waist that definitely got his attention.
A few moments passed as he curled up on the ground, rocking back and forth, looking about the same shape and intelligence as a jumbo shrimp.
I got off the steps and walked over to him. “Sorry I was so direct there, professor… or do your students call you instructor? Or Mister Marvel?”
Through gritted teeth, he said, “They call me Ken.”
“Wow, that’s very forward-thinking of you. Getting down with the students, sharing and discussing issues of the day.”
“You bastard… ”
“Nope, my birth certificate says otherwise. But I will admit I’m in a foul, foul mood.” I squatted down on the ground, carefully keeping a good distance away from him. “You see, I’m trying to locate a single bit of information, and after lots of travel, bad food, and so-so sleeping accommodations, I’ve come to you. My mistake was thinking that you and I could have a civilized discussion, perhaps come to a mutual understanding and respect of each other’s positions, and then go on from there. But when you came at me full of attitude, well, the part of me that’s not the better angel of my nature emerged. My apologies.”