A Safe House

45

Harley Quince tromped through the woods, up and down the hill, until finally he found his motorcycle, concealed by piled-up brush. The sun was low in the sky, and he scrambled to get it back on the drive before darkness arrived. The machine started immediately, when asked. He drove over to the main road and tried to figure out which way the village was. He chose a right turn and drove to the top of a hill, where there stood a white Congregationalist church. He stopped and gave thought again to his direction.

With darkness looming, Stone ordered a dozen pizzas from the shop in the village, then hung up and beckoned the detail leader. “Will you send one of your guys to the pizza shop in the village? Down the hill, left immediately after the bridge. He’ll see it.” He handed the agent some cash, then took a newspaper from the dozing Eggers’s lap and sat down in the living room to read it. His eye was immediately caught by the name, Slade, on the front page:

“Anybody know where Hearthrug, Connecticut, is?” he asked the room. An agent looked up from his magazine. “I saw the name on a road sign when we were driving up here, but I can’t remember where that was.”

Harley Quince was coasting down the hill toward what looked like a small business district, when he caught a whiff of his favorite thing: pizza. He hit the brakes and turned left toward the scent. A moment later he saw the sign pizza, which was a tipoff. He glided past the restaurant, looking for a parking spot. As he did, a man came out of the place with a stack of at least a dozen pizzas in his arms.

Now, he thought, who would need a dozen pizzas? Perhaps a crowd of security guards? And who, in this lovely village, would need security guards? He turned around and followed the man’s pizza-laden car back up the hill, then right at the church. Then he pulled over and watched the car as it pulled into a driveway. He turned around and returned to the restaurant for a pizza of his very own.

Stone dealt the pizza boxes onto the kitchen counter and placed a stack of plates and napkins alongside, then found a jug of wine and unscrewed the top. He found a box of paper cups, too. “Dinner is served,” he announced, and he didn’t have to say it twice. The agents swarmed around the counter.

“Do I smell pizza?” a female voice asked.

Stone looked up from his plate as he devoured a slice of all-meat. “You do,” he said through the pizza. “Go grab a plate.” Apparently, the smell of pizza was enough to overwhelm a sleeping pill. Jenna did as she was told, unusual for her. The Power of Pizza.

Harley Quince finished a small pizza and washed it down with a bottle of beer, then took a deep breath. What he needed was some fresh air. He left some money on the table and went outside, sucking in the cool evening air. What he needed was moving air, he thought. He cranked up his bike and moved some air, heading back up the hill and driving slowly past the house of pizza. He parked in an empty driveway a few doors down the street, and walked back toward the house, keeping close to the hedge that bordered the street. He expected the sounds of eating and drinking from the house, but it was eerily quiet. He crept around the house and peered through a kitchen window. There were a lot of men inside, and at least half of them were asleep. Having ingested a pizza and a beer himself, he could understand that. A TV came on inside, and the sounds of football could be discerned. He found a woodshed behind the house, which contained a large kindling box, and he laid down on top of it and pulled a burlap bag over his feet. Soon, he was asleep, too.