started writing down a few thoughts but then stopped. Practically every other newspaper or newsmagazine that covered this region did the same outsiders impacting-the-locals story, and who was I to inflict another such story upon the long-suffering readers of Shoreline ?
The phone rang. "Hello?"
"Mr. Cole?"
"Yep."
"Mr. Cole, I'm calling from The New York Times ."
"Really?"
"Um, yes, I'm from The New York Times and I was wondering --"
"Well, thanks for calling, but I get the paper from across the way. At a local hotel. It seems I can't get a subscription to my residence. Why's that?"
"Ah, Mr. Cole, I'm not calling from the circulation department. My name is George Mulvey, I'm a reporter from the Times , and ---"
"Oh, a reporter: I apologize. I thought you were trying to sell me a subscription. But I guess you want to talk to me about a news story."
"Yes, I do, and I'd like to know --"
"Sorry, not interested."
I hung up.
Before me was the screen, still very much blank.
Why not a story about the islands of the New England shoreline? Too often my columns had been about the actual coastline of New England, about the communities and fishing villages, and why not expand it a bit? Across the way was the Isles of Shoals --- All right, maybe not those islands, they'd been written about more than enough times. But there was Block Island down in Long Island ... nope, overwritten as well. Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard? Please. How many forests had to die to churn out copy about those two special places every year? Long Island sound again, but Plum Island had been claimed by a well-known and well-regarded novelist a few years back, and there were the islands off the coast of Maine, all one or two hundred of them, and how could I choose, and ---
The phone rang. "Mr. Cole?"
"The same."
"Mr. Cole, it's Chuck Bittner again, from the Tucker Grayson campaign. Look, I really think it would be in your interest to talk to me, so that your story can get the proper attention it deserves, about your relationship with the --"
"Mr. Bittner."
"Yes?"
I turned in my office chair. "You're an oppo researcher for the general's campaign, am I right?"
That seemed to make him pause. "Suppose ... suppose I say no?"
"Then I'm not going to talk to you for even a second."
There was a sigh. "All right ... yes, yes, I do perform opposition research for the general. But each campaign has such researchers, and I really need to talk to you, about you and the senator's wife. It's a story that really needs to be fleshed out, and ---"
"Nope."
"But you said you'd talk to me!"
"No, I said I wouldn't talk to you if you denied being an opposition researcher," I said. "But you know what? I'm still not going to talk to you, even if you did admit to being an oppo researcher."
Then I hung up the phone. I was getting pretty damn good at it.
All right, back to the patient and blank computer screen.
Maybe it was time to think outside the box. Maybe I could do a column about odd aspects of history that had happened along the New Hampshire coastline that not many people knew about. Like the evidence that Vikings had settled here more than a thousand years ago. Or the case of the German U-boats that had been interned at the end of World War II up at the Porter Naval Shipyard. Or ---
Or give it a rest, I thought. Who'd want to read offbeat stories like those two?
Another ring of the phone. "Hello?"
"Lewis? It's Annie. How's that sickness treating you?"
"Sickness seems to be bored with me and is leaving. How are you doing?"
There was pause, and I wondered if she hadn't heard me, and there was the briefest of Sighs. "Lewis ... I was talking to some senior staff here this morning. About you. And the shooting. And one other thing that somebody slipped out, a big-ass secret that only a few in the campaign know about."
"Yes?"
"Lewis ... I've come to know you're a man with secrets. You've not told me much about the scars you have. Or what you did at the
The phone rang. "Hello?"
"Mr. Cole?"
"Yep."
"Mr. Cole, I'm calling from The New York Times ."
"Really?"
"Um, yes, I'm from The New York Times and I was wondering --"
"Well, thanks for calling, but I get the paper from across the way. At a local hotel. It seems I can't get a subscription to my residence. Why's that?"
"Ah, Mr. Cole, I'm not calling from the circulation department. My name is George Mulvey, I'm a reporter from the Times , and ---"
"Oh, a reporter: I apologize. I thought you were trying to sell me a subscription. But I guess you want to talk to me about a news story."
"Yes, I do, and I'd like to know --"
"Sorry, not interested."
I hung up.
Before me was the screen, still very much blank.
Why not a story about the islands of the New England shoreline? Too often my columns had been about the actual coastline of New England, about the communities and fishing villages, and why not expand it a bit? Across the way was the Isles of Shoals --- All right, maybe not those islands, they'd been written about more than enough times. But there was Block Island down in Long Island ... nope, overwritten as well. Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard? Please. How many forests had to die to churn out copy about those two special places every year? Long Island sound again, but Plum Island had been claimed by a well-known and well-regarded novelist a few years back, and there were the islands off the coast of Maine, all one or two hundred of them, and how could I choose, and ---
The phone rang. "Mr. Cole?"
"The same."
"Mr. Cole, it's Chuck Bittner again, from the Tucker Grayson campaign. Look, I really think it would be in your interest to talk to me, so that your story can get the proper attention it deserves, about your relationship with the --"
"Mr. Bittner."
"Yes?"
I turned in my office chair. "You're an oppo researcher for the general's campaign, am I right?"
That seemed to make him pause. "Suppose ... suppose I say no?"
"Then I'm not going to talk to you for even a second."
There was a sigh. "All right ... yes, yes, I do perform opposition research for the general. But each campaign has such researchers, and I really need to talk to you, about you and the senator's wife. It's a story that really needs to be fleshed out, and ---"
"Nope."
"But you said you'd talk to me!"
"No, I said I wouldn't talk to you if you denied being an opposition researcher," I said. "But you know what? I'm still not going to talk to you, even if you did admit to being an oppo researcher."
Then I hung up the phone. I was getting pretty damn good at it.
All right, back to the patient and blank computer screen.
Maybe it was time to think outside the box. Maybe I could do a column about odd aspects of history that had happened along the New Hampshire coastline that not many people knew about. Like the evidence that Vikings had settled here more than a thousand years ago. Or the case of the German U-boats that had been interned at the end of World War II up at the Porter Naval Shipyard. Or ---
Or give it a rest, I thought. Who'd want to read offbeat stories like those two?
Another ring of the phone. "Hello?"
"Lewis? It's Annie. How's that sickness treating you?"
"Sickness seems to be bored with me and is leaving. How are you doing?"
There was pause, and I wondered if she hadn't heard me, and there was the briefest of Sighs. "Lewis ... I was talking to some senior staff here this morning. About you. And the shooting. And one other thing that somebody slipped out, a big-ass secret that only a few in the campaign know about."
"Yes?"
"Lewis ... I've come to know you're a man with secrets. You've not told me much about the scars you have. Or what you did at the
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