Dead Down East Read Online Free PDF Page B

fishing this morning like we
planned, Jesse?”
    “Unfortunately, Ty, something’s come up. I
just received an important call from a client, and I have to leave
right away.”
    “What kind of client?” Tyler asked.
    “It’s a long story. I’m sorry to say that it
is also confidential. I would love to talk about it, but I’ll have
to wait and see what develops before I can do that. I hate to sound
so secretive, but it’s something I am obliged to do at the moment.
I have to grab my things and dash off.”
    Kathleen had come out of the cabin while we
were talking, and was considerate enough not to press me for any
details. She said quite simply, “Gosh, Jesse. I’m sorry you’re
going. We love spending time with you.”
    “I’m sorry too,” I said, “but duty
calls.”
    “If you’re free in the next couple of days,
come on back. We’re only a stone’s throw from Augusta,” Kathleen
noted.
    “I’d love to, but that seems unlikely. I’ll
just get my things. And, Michael, would you mind keeping my Orvis
and tackle box with you for now. I’m in a hurry and won’t be
needing my fishing gear for a spell. In fact, Tyler, you can use my
rod if you like. I saw you eyeing it this morning. The reel is
loaded with some sharkskin fishing line. You’ll enjoy how easily it
slides through the guides.”
    With that, I slipped into the cabin, gathered
up my clothes and bathroom kit, and returned to the porch in less
than a minute. We said our farewells, and I walked quickly to my
bronze, 2006 Subaru Forester. Before starting the engine, I turned
on my Garmin and waited for it to pick up a signal. When it came
online, I entered the Cranberryhorn Cemetery on Cundys Harbor Road,
Harpswell. A map appeared displaying the road south of Brunswick. I
checked out the area on the map to get some idea of the roads on
Sebascodegan Island and then started the Forester. I backed out of
the driveway and headed up the hill toward the dining hall.
    As I neared the top of the hill, Becky said,
“In two hundred feet turn right on Jamaica Point Road.”
    I call my GPS, “Becky” after Becky Lawrence,
a quirky redhead I dated in Andover more than a decade ago. The
voice on the GPS reminded me so much of her that I couldn’t resist
giving it her name. The real Becky’s voice was her most peculiar
and unlikely feature. She spoke in a matter-of-fact, monotone sort
of way, while her body spoke a completely different dialect. It was
very curious, and I found it difficult to reconcile these two
features. I never completely sorted that out, but I still think of
her fondly. Nowadays she stays locked up in my Subaru, ready at my
beck and call. All I have to do is turn her on, and like most of
the other women in my life, she tells me where to go.
    I wouldn’t need directional advice until I
reached Brunswick, so I stopped at the top of the hill and turned
her off. “We’ll talk later, Becky,” I said.
    I sat there for just a moment and let the car
idle. I wanted to review my decision to rescue Cynthia. But really,
I had no choice. I hadn’t committed any crime, yet, and I’m sure
Cynthia hadn’t either. I didn’t know if it was the gentleman’s
thing to do, or sheer stupidity at work, when I agreed to pick her
up at the cemetery on Sebascodegan Island, but whatever it was, I
would soon be dealing with the consequences. God only knew what lay
ahead. Well, Cynthia Dumais might have had some idea about that as
well, but she wasn’t letting it out. That cat was still in the
bag.

 

4
     
Roadblock
     
     
     
    Leaving a trail of dust behind me, I drove up
Jamaica Point Road to the corner. I slowed down for the stop sign
and gazed for a moment at the old Richardson farm, minus the barn
that had recently been torn down. The Richardsons were related to
the original owners at Bear Spring Camps.
    If you take the time to trace the family
trees, you’ll discover that out here most everyone is related. Lots
of Mayflower folks drifted down east