“Right,” she said. “A real small town.”
DeBolt opened his eyes to light that was blinding. He squinted severely, trying to make sense of things. An open doorway, beyond that swathes of blue sky and trees. Remnants of last night came hurtling back. The storm, the killers, fighting for his life in the surf. He remembered Joan Chandler sprawled motionless on the ground. In the air and on the sea, DeBolt had faced more than his share of trials, and he took pride in his ability to stay calm under pressure. But after last night — jumping into the Arctic Ocean from a helicopter seemed like child’s play.
He struggled up to a sitting position, and the couch creaked beneath him. DeBolt felt a host of new pains. Looking at his bare feet, he saw cuts and bruises. A new gash on the outside of his calf was very possibly a gunshot wound — a personal first. His head ached in the vicinity of new scrapes and contusions, which was at least different from the generalized pain he’d been battling for weeks. The soreness in his shoulder was more familiar, an aggravation of the injury from the crash. After allowing a few moments to get his bearings, DeBolt looked around the room, seeing it for the first time. It was similar to the cottage where he’d spent the last month, only more dated and worn. He guessed the place hadn’t been lived in since summer. Maybe the summer before.
He stood and felt the grit of sand under his feet. DeBolt searched out the bathroom. He avoided the mirror at the washbasin, and turned on the tap. The faucet spit a stream of brown muck, but eventually ran clear — cold only. He cupped his hands under the faucet, girded himself, and plunged his face into the icy water.
DeBolt braved a quick shower, the cold reminding him of the Atlantic. In a cabinet he found shaving supplies and even a new toothbrush in its packaging. He cleaned his wounds, found bandages for a few, and then began foraging through the largest bedroom. At least one of the cabin’s owners was male, and roughly his size. A pair of boat shoes were two sizes too small and bit into his heels, but they were better than nothing at all. In a bedside table he found a twenty-dollar bill, and scrounged a few more dollars in loose change from a kitchen drawer. DeBolt kept a mental log of everything he took, in vague hope that he might someday repay the owner.
His stomach reminded him that he was due a meal, but the kitchen had been cleaned out save for a box of sugar packets and an old can of asparagus. As he drew a glass of water from the tap, DeBolt decided there were issues far more critical than breakfast.
Last night he had witnessed a murder, the only person he knew in Maine having been killed by a squad of armed men. He didn’t know who they were, but he recognized a military operation when he saw one. He’d worked regularly with components of the DOD and DEA on missions involving smuggling and drug interdiction, and DeBolt himself had been trained by the Coast Guard on small-unit boarding and assault tactics. Yet there was one glaring disconnect with what he’d witnessed last night: those men had killed without hesitation. There had been no warnings to their targets to stop or surrender. No rules of engagement or abiding of laws. They had only wanted him and Chandler dead. That wasn’t how legitimate military units operated.
His previous conclusion was more persistent than ever. They had come for him. Joan Chandler’s last words came back in a particularly haunting echo. The surgery you had … it wasn’t only to make you well. It was to make you different.
Different.
He remembered how he’d been saved last night, when he’d lost sight of land and was being swept seaward. The odd vision that had guided him to shore, a tiny arrow pointing west. Any connection seemed inconceivable, and DeBolt shook the idea away.
Of all the tragedies to find him in recent weeks, last night was singular in its cruelty. The crime had taken place only hours ago, and it occurred to him, given the remoteness of Chandler’s cabin, that it might not yet have been discovered. A pang of doubt set in. Could Joan Chandler possibly have survived? He recalled the agonizing scene, watching her collapse and fall still. Even so, no matter how slight the chance, DeBolt knew he would second-guess himself for the rest of his life if he didn’t put in a call for help. He searched the cottage. No phone, no radio, no computer. It left only one option.
He hurried outside into a cold wind, pulled the collar up on a jacket that wasn’t his, and set out to find a road.
Joan Chandler’s leveled cottage was discovered at 9:24 that morning. A reserve deputy, called into action under the auspices of the Washington County Emergency Preparedness Plan, drove his truck to within a hundred yards of the cabin before breaking clear of the trees and seeing the problem.
He instantly realized that the storm, severe as it had been, could in no way be responsible for the catastrophe in front of him. The cabin, which the deputy had seen often from the sea while fishing in nearby coves, was essentially gone. The only markers of where it had been were a charred slab of concrete, one section of wall, and a few pipes and conduit sleeves that rose up like the stumps of cut saplings. Even now, hours after the initial report of an explosion, a few wisps of smoke remained, and bits of debris dressed the nearby pines, turning them into so many postapocalyptic Christmas trees.
The deputy knew better than to get any closer. He suspected — correctly it would soon be proven — that he was looking at the aftermath of a gas explosion. There could be no survivors, and he wondered ruefully if the nurse, whom he’d once met but whose name escaped him, had been home last night. He put in a radio call to dispatch, requesting both sheriff’s department backup and a fire department response. As an afterthought, he mentioned to the duty officer that there was no particular hurry.
10
DeBolt set a brisk pace along the shoulder of the first road he came across. It was twenty minutes before he saw a sign announcing the nearest town: Jonesport, Maine, lay two miles ahead. He thought the name sounded familiar, although the reason escaped him. He kept a good pace along the two-lane road, and his body loosened up. At that point his main impediment became caution. Twice he scrambled into the woods to avoid being seen by oncoming vehicles. After the chaos of last night, at least some degree of paranoia seemed in order.
He tried to come up with a plan, and decided his first priority was to alert the authorities to what had happened at the cottage. Even if Chandler hadn’t survived, the sooner the police reached the scene, the sooner they would begin searching for the men responsible. DeBolt assumed the attackers were still in the area, and might be looking for him — the reason he dodged out of sight whenever a car appeared in the distance. As a secondary matter, he considered his AWOL status, and the madness of being declared dead weeks ago. He strongly suspected it was all connected. Unfortunately, the idea of walking into a police station with such a story was problematic to say the least.
A distant growl brought his eyes up, and he saw an eighteen-wheeler approaching from the opposite direction. He looked to his right and saw a broad ditch filled with water. Across the road, more of the same. DeBolt simply kept going, thinking it doubtful that such an obviously commercial vehicle could pose a threat. As if to validate his thinking, the truck thundered past, never slowing, and kicked up a swirl of dust in its wake.
He slowed and turned away from the cloud, but not before his face was misted with particles. He came to a stop, and rubbed his irritated left eye with a knuckle. As he did so, DeBolt noticed a distinct blank spot in his vision. When the irritant cleared, he kept his left eye closed and looked into the distance. It was definitely there — not dark, not light, but simply an off-center void in his field of view. He moved his head left and right, and distant objects vanished. He opened both eyes and the problem abated, bilateral vision compensating for the loss. Was it another complication from his head injury?