Despite Gallo's beauty distracting Rook from the impending interview, a single word caught his attention.
Again.
FORTY
With a population of 1,532 people, downtown Pinckney, New Hampshire, consisted of a post office/general store, a church, and not much else. Its main tourist attraction were the Ice Age Caverns, a series of cliffside caves that formed as the last of the ice-age glaciers retreated. But the single most populated area in town was the Pinckney Bible Conference Grounds. During the winter months the population on the conference grounds swelled to 160 on weekends when schools, youth groups, and winter sports teams rented the center's Prescott Lodge for snowy getaways. But during the summer months, the number of visitors blossomed to over a thousand people, increasing the town's summertime population to just over 2,500. Not only did the lodge fill up, but also the campground's six cabins, forty-nine privately owned cabins, and more than three dozen RVs.
As King, Knight, and Bishop rounded the final turn on route 27 passing a small pond on the left, then Prescott Lodge, they got their first views of the campground where they'd rented a cabin. With the campground representing the most densely populated area in town, they wanted to be there to protect the people in case things went sour and an army of regens was released. But as they passed the swing set, volleyball court, and swimming pool, it became apparent they would have a hard time fitting in.
Not only were they three single men staying in the same cabin, but they were also large, weathered, and lacked kids. Their clothing also stood out. King in blue jeans and a Doors T-shirt; Knight wearing black designer pants and a loose, white button-down shirt; and Bishop, muscles bulging beneath a tight l ong-sleeved navy blue shirt and cargo pants. To fit in with the summertime revelers, they would have to change into shorts and T-shirts. King made a mental note to go out to the department store they'd passed and get new clothes before mixing it up with the locals. The only one among them that might help with meeting and discreetly interviewing people for leads was Thor, a one-hundred-pound, thick-headed golden retriever. He was picked for his friendly disposition and love of children, but he was also one of the best tracking dogs in the military.
King steered the massive, cherry red Chevy Tahoe into the main entrance where two kids sat at a makeshift lemonade stand. He gave them a wave and a grin. They waved back, eager to make a sale, but he drove right past. A quick glance in the rearview made him laugh. One of the kids flipped him off. Good Christian kids. Still human.
"It's your third left," Knight said, looking at the directions sent to them by the family that owned the cottage.
They entered the campground proper. To the right was a baseball field, a soccer field, and a green and white building sporting a sign that read "Snack Shack." Some kids sat on a picnic table drinking sodas while others played shuffleboard. A pair of old men wearing pastel-colored slacks and white polo shirts sat in the shade sipping iced tea and watching the kids. Grandparents, King realized. This place had history.
On their left was a small, brown registration building and a churchlike bookstore painted white and green to match the Snack Shack. They turned after the bookstore, onto a dirt road cutting through the forest — Praise Street — and pulled up to a small white cabin that bore a name that insinuated enough to stand out in stark contrast to the ultra-conservative campground: Honeymoon Nook. Reading between the lines, the cabin could have just as easily been named Love Den.
Knight slid down from the passenger seat, landing on a bed of brown pine needles that covered the wooded campground's forest floor. One-hundred-foot-tall pine trees swayed and creaked high overhead, buffering the wind and blocking out the sun and its heat. He looked at the cabin's nameplate. "Rook has got to see this place."
They entered the cabin using a key hidden in the cabin's utility shed. Inside they found a large living/dining room furnished with a collection of old rocking chairs, a dining room table, and a mishmash of dining room chairs. A pellet stove sat to the right, not yet installed, and four doors exited the room. The first to a master bedroom taken up, for the most part, by a king-sized bed. There was a second bedroom with two twin beds, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. The air, though a little musty, was cool and easy to breathe.
Bishop sat in one of the chairs and picked up a 2000 issue of Time magazine featuring Bill Clinton on the cover. The chair groaned under Bishop's bulk, but held him. He grunted in approval, the first positive communication he'd had with any of them recently. While he normally didn't talk a lot, something about him had been different since Tristan da Cunha. He'd been more on edge. He did what was asked of him and made curt reports, but stayed distant from his teammates.
King entered with Thor on a leash and cut him loose. The dog ran through the cabin, smelling everything. He returned from the master bedroom with a chew toy, compliments of whatever dog stayed here previously.
As King and Knight did a security check on the cabin, looking for exit routes and scanning for bugs, a knock cut through the silence. Bishop stood and answered the door. Two boys, no older than ten, stood at the door. When they saw Bishop their eyes went wide. "Whoa…" the first said.
The other, after swallowing, asked, "Is… is Josh or Matt here? We saw the car… You're not related to them, are you?" Bishop shook his head, no.
"You've got huge muscles!" the first said with a grin.
Bishop's patience grew thin. He didn't have time or desire to chat it up with the local kids. He fought a growing urge to slam the door in their faces. Realizing his emotions were suddenly, without reason, spi-raling into chaos, he looked away from the kids and took a deep breath. He listened to the wind whispering through the tall evergreens. He breathed deep a second time, filling his barrel chest with pine-scented air. When he looked back down, calm returning, the boys were still staring at his large right arm, which bulged as he gripped the door.
He let go of the door. "What are your names?" "Mike and Nate."
He dug into his pocket and gave both boys each a dollar. "Mike and Nate, go get a soda."
The kids ran off, talking loudly about the giant they'd seen. When their voices had faded into the distance, Bishop turned around and found Knight and King staring at him like he'd grown horns. He grinned. Something about this place, not necessarily the people or environment, but something, relaxed him. Put his mind at ease. And for that, he was thankful. His old feelings of rage had been more powerful over the past few days. So much so that he thought he would eventually lose the fight. Here, he felt something else.
Hope.
FORTY-ONE
"What do you mean, again?" Rook asked.
Gallo sat back, her mouth closed tight. She wasn't entirely sure who her two visitors were or what they wanted. Perhaps they were the source of George's trouble? He had left quickly, and mysteriously.
"Look, Ms. Gallo," he continued, "Pierce is in a good amount of trouble. Life-threatening. If you know something, spill the beans."
Queen cleared her throat. "Please."
"Who are you, really? The U.N. would have left a message. You all hung up nearly fifteen times in a row."
Queen considered the request. The woman wasn't stupid. "We're friends. That's all we can say."
"Friends," Gallo said with a scowl. "No offense, but if George had been friends with you, I'd know about it."