Free Fatal Harbor by Brendan DuBois

a ten-minute walk to his house, 10 Oakland Road. The road was a typical New Hampshire back country road, single lane with no yellow line painted down the center, and definitely no sidewalk, guard rail, or streetlights. I strolled on the dirt shoulder, checking the mailboxes, until I finally came to number 10, which I found just as the sun was starting to set. The driveway leading into the woods was dirt.
    No name on the mailbox. Not unusual. This was, after all, the Live Free or Die state.
    I started down the driveway, keeping to the side in case a car or truck came bouncing along the narrow dirt lane. Pine trees and brush grew close to the edge of the road, which allowed me cover in case I was spotted.
    But I went down there with no problem, going about a hundred feet to where the road widened to a dirt turnaround before what’s known as a double-wide, a pre-fab trailer, that was dumped here on a concrete slab. Lights were off inside the single-story home with black-shingled roof, and there was a sudden burst of barking. Two dogs emerged from doghouses, secured by long lengths of chain, and they snapped and growled in my direction. I wasn’t sure what breed they were, but they looked thin and mangy. The areas around their doghouses were worn-down dirt, with empty food bowls and water bowls scattered before them.
    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