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Through the rest of Pennsylvania, up into New York, Massachusetts, onto 95 up the New England coast, into New Hampshire and then crossing the border into Maine, we stopped only for gas (the Jag gulped it) and to pee, and once to pick up a lobster sandwich at the McDonald’s drive-thru. I had no idea McDonald’s served lobster sandwiches. I kept looking behind us expecting to see a dozen cop cars bearing down on us—or more AODs, maybe on Harleys this time, sacrificing speed for muscle.
Twenty miles from the Canadian border, hitting 115 along State Road 9, I noticed we had the northbound lane practically to ourselves, but the southbound lane was backed up for miles.
“Something’s wrong,” I said. “Everybody’s fleeing Canada.” It was hard to imagine, though, Armageddon starting in Canada.
“Most likely the border has been closed.”
“What’ll we do?”
“We have no choice. We must cross.”
I pictured us flying through the barricades at 110 with the Royal Mounted Police racing after us. Right as I was picturing this, the first set of blue-and-reds shot out of the dark behind us. Soon there were three or four sets of them and I could hear the sirens from inside the car. Bennacio responded by speeding up, the needle hovering around 120. We roared past an electronic sign that was flashing: “Border Closed.”
“Look, this is bad, Bennacio,” I told him. “We gotta ditch the Jag and find a place to cross on foot.” It wasn’t the brightest suggestion, given we were being chased by half the patrol cars in Maine.
Bennacio didn’t answer. He kept our speed up until he saw the battalion of National Guardsmen with their assault rifles manning the crossing. The first line of soldiers had already gone to its knees and had taken aim at us.
He slammed on the brakes and we skidded about fifty feet to a stop. Then he said, “Get out of the car, Alfred. Make sure they can see your hands.”
I stepped out of the patrol car, my hands in the air, as somebody screamed into a bullhorn, “STEP OUT OF THE CAR—NOW! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
Behind us the cop cars rolled in, lights blazing, and a dozen brown uniforms took positions behind their open doors. I wondered how Bennacio was going to get out of this one.
“ON YOUR STOMACH WITH YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD, FINGERS LACED!”
Bennacio nodded to me and we lay on the ground, side by side. These last few feet of America were very cold. Somebody came and stood right over us, and I could see my reflection in the bright finish of his black shoe.
“Hi. This is the point where I ask what your business in Canada is tonight,” the wearer of the shiny shoe said.
“There is a card in my jacket pocket,” Bennacio said. “Before you do anything rash, I suggest you contact the person on that card.”
I couldn’t see if Mr. Shiny Shoes got the card or not, but he walked away and was gone for some time.
“What’s going on, Bennacio?” I whispered.
“I am calling in a favor.”
“I’m cold,” I said. Bennacio didn’t say anything.
Somebody grabbed me by the collar and hauled me up. A guy in a blue Windbreaker, the owner of the polished shoes, handed Bennacio the card and said, “This is your lucky day.”
“It isn’t luck,” Bennacio answered. “It is necessity.”
We climbed back into the Jag. The guy in the blue Windbreaker and the very nicely shined shoes waved to the border guard. He hit the code to open the gate. The guy in the Windbreaker stepped back and waved us through.
“Good luck!” he called, as we roared through the gate into Canada.
“Necessity,” Bennacio muttered.
26
I had never been to Canada, but I didn’t see much of it because it was dark and Bennacio took secondary two-lane roads. He drove through the night like the hounds of hell were after us. I knew Halifax was on the coast and probably he had a plane waiting there for him, but what good would it do if all flights were grounded? I tried to sleep, but you try sleeping in a Jaguar going 120 miles an hour in a strange country.
We crossed a long bridge at three a.m. and Bennacio told me we were in Nova Scotia. We may as well have been on the dark side of the moon for all I could tell. We drove in silence until a faint orange glow appeared on the horizon. At first I thought it was the sun rising, then remembered it was three a.m.
“We may be too late,” Bennacio said.
