At Hickory Road, thick woods dissolved into a secluded pastoral valley. Charlie turned the Durango in at I HICKORY, the mile-long lane’s only sign, onto a gravel driveway that wound through hundreds of acres of serene pasture neatly fenced by weather-grayed rails. After several more miles, the driveway ended in a cobblestoned circle and a large stucco-over-stone colonial farmhouse with a commanding view of old-growth orchards and a barn that almost had to have been the basis for the Wyeth painting. Everything was copper as the sun sank into the hazy foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
As he turned off the engine, he heard only a mild breeze, the whinnying of horses, and the soft-shoe of a stream. Nudging Drummond from a nap, he said, “If we need to hole up somewhere while Hattemer straightens things out, this wouldn’t suck.”
“Burt Hattemer?” Drummond asked, as if there had been discussion of several Hattemers. Clearly the nap had not recharged him.
“Christ. Please don’t tell me he’s really one of them?”
“Them?”
“The people you used to work with who keep trying to kill us?”
“Right, right, of course. No, we’re okay. Burt’s a good friend.”
Despite the assurance, Charlie thought only of how Hattemer might prove their undoing. There was an H in Hattemer, and an E. But at least there was no N. If his name were Hatten, Charlie would have insisted they drive the hell away this instant.
“Come on inside before y’all catch your death,” came a squawky voice.
It belonged to the man who stood atop the marble front steps, holding open the door. Seventy if a day, he wore a parka over long underwear surely purchased in his beefier years; the bottoms hung like pantaloons until sucked into high rubber boots. In and around his assortment of puckers and pits and creases was a cheery face topped by a thicket of white hair.
Ushering Charlie and Drummond into the vaulted foyer, he said, “I’m Mort, the caretaker, and I’m it for the staff here during winter months, so don’t be cross if your suppers are nothing fancy.”
Entering, Charlie was struck by an anxiety he couldn’t explain. He hoped it was just a reflex born of being attacked everywhere he’d set foot the last two days.
He took in the foyer, furnished with an antique drop-leaf table, a tall pewter vase, and a series of framed ornithological watercolors. The lustrous pine floorboards were as wide as diving boards. If this room were representative of the home’s decor, interior design enthusiasts would pay admission to see the rest.
“Whose place is this?” he asked Mort.
“Sir, all I can tell you is he’s an oilman named MacCallum from up in Alaska.”
“You mean that’s all you’re allowed to say?”
“No, sir. Except for he’s a friend of Mr. Hattemer’s, it’s all I know. Mr. MacCallum’s never once set foot here.”
Charlie suspected that he now knew at least as much about MacCallum as Mort did.
“Why don’t y’all come on here into the den and take a load off?” Mort said, leading the way.
The floor of the massive “den” was covered by a pair of rich Oriental carpets-probably no single Oriental carpet on Earth would have been big enough. The walls, with refined checkerboard wainscoting, boasted more art than many galleries; the glass and pewter frames mirrored the flickering within the stone fireplace, making the brass banquet lamps unnecessary. Charlie ogled a Breugel snowscape.
Drummond remained behind in the doorway, seemingly lost.
Mort was so hunched that he barely needed to bend in order to draw a log from the brass rack on the floor. With a sibilant grunt, he tossed the dry wood onto the andirons. The fire flared, turning the room a soft ochre and revealing what Charlie deemed the home’s most attractive feature: the pair of scallop-rimmed dinner plates, set on the bar, each with a hearty turkey and cheddar sandwich and a pile of potato chips-the upscale, kettle-cooked kind.
“There’s your suppers,” Mort said. “Help yourselves to whatever you want to drink-the fridge behind the bar’s loaded with cold beer and pop. If you’re still hungry, y’all’re welcome to try your luck in the kitchen. Also there’s clothes and anything else a person could ever need in the mudroom. And if y’all’re okay with that, I’m gonna go on up to bed-the beasts here like to get up and eat their breakfast way too darn early. Mr. H. oughtta be here in a half hour or thereabouts.”
Charlie understood his misgivings now.
Suppers.
During his ten-second phone conversation with Hattemer, Drummond hadn’t indicated Charlie was with him. Yet Mort had been instructed to prepare two suppers.
“Hey, Mort, just one more thing?” Charlie asked.
“Sir?”
“Was it Mr. H. himself who called you?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he tell you how many people to expect?”
“Four, I think.”
“Four?”
“Y’all plus him and Mr. Fielding.”
“Who’s Fielding?”
Mort turned to Drummond. “Fella you and Mr. H. work with, ain’t that right, sir?”
“Could be,” Drummond said. “I don’t know a lot of the men in Refrigeration.”
In a mirror, Charlie caught Mort shooting a bewildered look at Drummond. Mort didn’t know anything, Charlie concluded.
Mort dug a sticky-pad message from a pocket and read, “Nicholas Fielding?”
Drummond shrugged.
“Also Mr. H. said Willie wasn’t gonna be able to make it,” Mort added.
“Can I see that, please?” Charlie asked.
“Yours to keep,” said Mort, handing over the piece of paper.
“Thanks,” Charlie said. “Thanks for everything, Mort.”
As Mort climbed the stairs, Charlie studied the handwritten message:
5:30: MR. H + NICHOLAS FIELDING + NO WILLIE.
No Willie was Hattemer’s safety code, meaning Nicholas Fielding, whoever he was, was no threat. As far as Hattemer knew. From the name Nicholas Fielding, however, three letters jumped up at Charlie:
H, E, and N.
Charlie fought to keep from gasping while Mort was in earshot. As soon as Mort was upstairs, Charlie showed Drummond the note, jabbed a finger at the pertinent characters, and said, “According to Belknapp, it was ‘HEN’ who ordered the hit at the battlefield.”
“Which one was Belknapp again?”
“The last one.”
“Yes, yes, I see.” Drummond appeared more interested in-and to have greater appreciation for the significance of-his sandwich.
Hoping to squeeze even a drop of information from him nevertheless, Charlie blocked his path to the plate. “What are the odds that this Hen isn’t that Hen?”
“Odds?”
“Higher than the sky, in my professional opinion. Plenty of names have H, E, and N in that order. Howard Beckman, the detective, for one. But how many Hens do you work with?”
Drummond put a hand on his chin to think.
Charlie decided not to bother waiting for the results. “In either case, we can’t just drive off now,” he said. He was surprised not to be panicking. Maybe his nerves were shot. “We’d just cross paths with them between here and Hickory Road.”
“All right then. Can we eat?”
“As soon as one of us works up an escape route.”