But first he needed a place to sleep. He’d passed several inns and motels on Route 1, but unless he absolutely had to, he preferred to not stay overnight at a place where he had to use a credit card. He was being overly cautious, he knew, but so far in his life being overly cautious had worked out for him. He got back in his car, and drove further north, hitting side roads until he found a trailhead with no cars parked in its lot. He walked about a hundred yards down a dark narrow trail hemmed in by thick stands of pine until he came to a clearing just big enough for his one-man tent. He set it up, then went back to his car.
His plan was to go back into town and eat at the fancy-looking restaurant that had the oysters and the cod cheeks. He’d see if he could get a window seat so he could watch cars and people go by. Then he’d drive back to the trailhead, park the car, and go sleep in the tent, making sure that he was up and back on the road by dawn. That gave him a whole day tomorrow to hunt for a white Camry and for Jessica Winslow. She was somewhere here and he’d find her.
9
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 11:14 A.M.
For the first time since she’d arrived two days earlier, Jessica picked up the telephone that was secured to the kitchen wall of the cottage and checked for a dial tone. There was one, which surprised her, mostly because the phone itself was so old-fashioned. It was a pale green, the color of dated kitchens, and the handset was connected by a long, twisted cord.
The night before, she’d checked her messages; there was one from Aaron, congratulating her on giving her protective detail the slip, and also providing a phone number for Arthur Stearns Kruse, the father of Arthur Kruse. He’d told her to not call Kruse until the following day at the earliest, that he was set to be questioned by one of the agents in charge of the investigation.
Despite desperately wanting to speak with Art Kruse, to find out if he really did know her own father, she’d waited. Her first day in Maine had been spent almost entirely inside the cottage, although she’d taken an early morning walk, first down to a white lighthouse on the tip of a rocky peninsula. Because of a cold, impenetrable fog Jessica couldn’t even see the ocean that no doubt stretched beyond the lighthouse, its lamp rotating, its horn blasting in periodic bursts. It was as though a gray curtain had descended along the shoreline. No, that wasn’t quite it. It was like looking at nothing, as though the world simply ceased to exist beyond a certain point.
From the lighthouse she’d walked to the village of Port Clyde, a small cluster of docks and buildings along a busy harbor. There was one restaurant, one ice cream shop, one general store. Jessica went into the store and bought enough groceries and wine to last her a few days, then carried the heavy bags back up the hill to her cottage.
For the rest of the day, Jessica tried to acclimate to her new, temporary life. The book she’d started was good—all about life after a devastating plague—but in between bouts of reading she was nervous and restless, pacing through the house. At dinnertime she made herself pasta with clams and drank half a bottle of Chardonnay. Then she turned on the television, spent thirty minutes trying to figure out the three separate remotes, and finally settled in to watch Rio Bravo on TCM. She was familiar with the movie because it had been one of her father’s favorites, although she didn’t remember its being as funny as it was. It made her want to call him, even though that was impossible. He was in the memory wing of an assisted living facility, and, lately, he was having trouble recognizing family members when they stopped in to visit, let alone when they called.
I should call my mom, Jessica thought. At least to let her know that she was in the middle of a case and might be hard to reach for a while. She could also ask her mom about Art Kruse, although she doubted that her mother would know anything about him. Still, she supposed she could ask her mom to ask her dad about Art Kruse. Even though his condition was getting worse, he still had moments of lucidity, especially when it came to the distant past.
So the first call she made, the following morning at half past eleven, was to her mom’s cell phone number, and received a chirpy “Hello.”
“Mom, it’s Jessica.”
“Oh, my phone didn’t recognize your number. I wonder why not?”
“I’m calling from a different number. That’s why I’m calling you. I’m swamped with work and I’m off of my cell for a few days.”
“What’s going on? No, don’t tell me. I’ll only worry. Are you at home? Can I call you at your home number?”