Chapter 12: Parcel Post

  Dan Parker was cold.  As a rural delivery driver, his office consisted of a thin-walled panel van built for packages, not people.  The tiny heater humming away under the front dash did little to warm the cavernous truck stacked high with boxes.  Still, he didn’t like to complain.  His company provided uniform, a heavy coat, work pants, and a wool hat, all colored the same deep brown, helped stave off some of the chill.  Plus, his route took him all over the county, which included one of the prettiest little villages around, with some of the best views for miles.

  Slowing his van to a stop in front of the old post office, he turned off the headlights.  The rising sun was sending pink streaks across the sky, and he took a quick photo with his phone to send to his wife.  On weekends they would sometimes drive out here and walk around, fantasizing about their retirement.  He always kept an eye out for properties, but houses for sale in this area were rare.  Most likely, it was because they were handed down from one generation to the next if the names on his packages were any indication.

  The bell above the post office door rang as Dan wheeled his dolly, stacked high with boxes, up and over the threshold.

  “If it isn’t the brown brigade,” Ben Titus chided, opening the half-door next to the customer counter so that Dan could back his way through.

  “Don’t think of us as the professionals, Ben,” Dan said with a smile and a wink.  “We’re lowly errand boys just like you.  Sure we happen to have better hours, don’t have to deal with the public. and make more money, but essentially we’re the same, compadre.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” Ben chuckled.  “I invested in Folgers.”

  “Folgers?” Dan asked, straightening the dolly and stacking the packages, one by one, against the wall.

  “Yeah, you know, the coffee company with the red cans?  I’ve been burying my money in those for years.  I used to be able to find them pretty easily with my metal detector, but then they switched to plastic.  Now I don’t know where the heck they are.”

  Dan laughed and handed Ben his clipboard and pen.

  “The usual?” asked Ben, counting the boxes in the pile.

  “Yup, all except for this last one,” said Dan, sliding the final box from his dolly.

  It looked heavy and, unlike the other cardboard packages, was constructed from a dark gnarled wood.  The square nails used to secure the top looked ancient, as did the two rope handles protruding from holes drilled into either end.

  “You don’t see many like these anymore,” Ben said, squatting down to have a better look.

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  “Nope,” said Dan.  “Came from some hotel.”

  “Is that so.”  Ben took a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket and peered at the box.

  “I didn’t recognize the recipient, though,” Dan said as he watched the old man scrutinizing the label.

  “No, you wouldn’t.  They’re new in town.”

  “Oh, yeah?  Well, you got any idea what this is?”  Dan swung the box around so Ben could see the back.  There, stretching across the length of the crate, a single word was branded into the wood.  NAUMKEAG.  

  Ben leaned forward and slowly ran his fingers over the charred letters.

  “Does that mean something to you?” asked Dan.

  “Nope,” Ben said, popping up and handing back the clipboard.  “Not a thing, my fellow delivery monkey.  Must be foreign.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”  Dan hooked the clipboard to his dolly and walked it to the door.

  Ben followed and held it open for him.  “Give my best to the commandant.”

  “Will do,” Dan called without looking back, his mind already on his next stop.  “See you tomorrow.”

  Ben watched the red taillights of the truck disappear into the brightening morning.  Then he closed and locked the door.  Back in the office, he walked past the strange crate to a gray metal desk in the corner, opened the bottom drawer, and removed a large hammer.

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