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WITH MICHELLE’S FOOT typically heavy on the gas the Ford raced along Interstate 95, past the towns of Yarmouth and Brunswick and on toward the state capital in Augusta. Once past Augusta, with the next big town coming up being Bangor, Michelle began eyeing the surroundings. There were dense evergreen trees on either side of the highway. A full moon gave the forests a silvery veneer that made Michelle think of wax paper over salad greens. They passed a warning sign for moose crossing the highway.
“Moose?” she said, glancing at Sean.
He didn’t open his eyes. “Maine’s state animal. You don’t want to hit one. They weigh more than this Ford. And they have nasty tempers. Kill you in a heartbeat.”
“How do you know? Have you ever encountered one?”
“No, but I’m a big fan of Animal Planet.”
They drove on for another hour. Michelle continually scanned the area, left to right and back the other way, like human radar. It was a habit so drilled into her that even after being out of the Secret Service all this time she couldn’t shake it. But as a private investigator maybe she didn’t want to shake it. Observations made you forewarned. And being forewarned was never a bad thing, particularly if someone was trying to kill you, which people often seemed to want to do to her and Sean.
“There’s something wrong here,” she said.
Sean opened his eyes. “Like what?” he asked, doing his own quick scan.
“We’re on Interstate 95. Runs from Florida to Maine. Long stretch of asphalt. Big travel route. Pipeline of East Coast vacationers.”
“Right, so?”
“So we’re the only fricking car on it in either direction, and have been for at least a half hour. What, was there a nuclear war and no one told us?” Her finger hit the scan button on the radio. “I need news. I need civilization. I need to know we’re not the only ones left alive.”
“Will you chill? It’s just isolated up here. Interstate or not. Lots of space, not lots of people. Most of the population lives near the coast, Portland, back where we came from. The rest of the state is big on land and pretty low on human beings. Hell, Aroostook County is bigger than Rhode Island and Connecticut combined. In fact, Maine is as large as all the other New England states put together. And once we get past Bangor and keep heading north, it gets even more isolated. The interstate stops near the town of Houlton. Then you take Route 1 the rest of the way up towards the northern tip of the Canadian border.”
“What’s up there?”
“Places like Presque Isle, Fort Kent, and Madawaska.”
“And moose?”
“I suppose. Lucky we’re not going there. It’s really far.”
“Couldn’t we have flown into Bangor? They have an airport, right? Or Augusta?”
“No direct flights. Most of the available flights had two or three stops. One took us all the way south to Orlando before heading north. We could have flown out of Baltimore, but we’d have to connect through LaGuardia and that’s always dicey. And we would have still had to drive to Baltimore, and 95 can be a nightmare. It’s faster and more certain this way.”
“You’re just a fountain of useful facts. You’ve been to Maine much?”
“One of the former presidents I protected has a summer place up here.”
“Bush Forty-One at Walker’s Point?”
“You got it.”
“But that’s southern coastal Maine. Kennebunkport. We flew over it going into Portland.”
“Beautiful area. We’d follow Bush in our chase boat. Could never keep up with him. Guy’s fearless. Has over eight hundred HP spread over three Mercury outboards on a thirty-two-footer named the Fidelity III. Man loved to go full throttle in the open Atlantic in pretty heavy chop. I rode in the Zodiac chase boat trying to keep up with him. Only time I’ve ever puked on duty.”
“But that area’s not as isolated as this,” said Michelle.
“No, lot more humanity down there.” He looked at his watch. “And it’s late. Most people up here probably rise at dawn to go to work. That means they’re probably already in bed.” He yawned. “Like I wish I was.”
Michelle checked the GPS. “Around Bangor we get off the interstate and head east to the coast.”
He nodded. “In between the towns of Machias and Eastport. Right on the water. Lot of back roads. Not easy to get to, which makes sense because then it’s not easy to get away from if a homicidal maniac has managed to escape.”
“Has anyone ever escaped from Cutter’s Rock?”
“Not to my knowledge. And if they ever did, they’d have two options: the wilderness or the chilly waters of the Gulf of Maine. Neither one is too palatable. And Mainers are hardy folk. Probably not even homicidal maniacs would want to cross them.”
