Tunnel Vision (41 page)

When he finished pumping, Zack handed him $60. The guy inspected the twenties as if suspecting counterfeits. When satisfied, he pulled out a roll of bills, licked his thumb and forefinger, and slowly peeled off four singles. While the man went through the motions, Zack noticed two people inside the general store studying him.

“Is that where you’re planning on camping?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because there ain’t anywhere to lay down a tent, ’less you walk a fair distance. Thick as barbed wire. A pond or two deep inside, but nobody goes there anymore.”

“How come?”

The guy cocked his head again. “If you ain’t got business there, I’d move on.”

Zack felt the rat in his gut claw at something.

“Plenty of good campgrounds down Fryeburg way, Kezar Lake. Running water, and they’re safe.”

Just then Sarah walked out of the store with a bag of food and drinks.

“Got some maps of local campsites.” He looked at Sarah. “The lady who sold you those will be happy to assist.”

Sarah glanced at Zack. “What about motels?”

“Got those, too, and some nifty B and Bs made special for Massachusetts folks. Just ask Marianne.”

Sarah went back inside. Zack waited until she was out of earshot. “Are you saying there’s a problem at Magog?”

“Specially for the folks that went in.”

“What happened?”

“Never came out again.”

Zack nodded; it was all local rumor. “Any idea what became of them?”

“Hard to say. Maybe got lost. Maybe got hurt. Maybe fell into quickmud. Maybe worse.”

What could be worse than sinking in quickmud?
“You mean like animals?”

“Got lots of those about.” He bobbed his head as if running through an inventory of creature dangers. Then he added, “Could be something else.”

“Like what?” The rat began gnawing on something.

“Hard to say. But even the IFW agents don’t go in there, and they carry more guns than the state police.”

“IFW?”

“Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. They make sure wildlife is healthy, nobody poaches.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Problem is some folks up here aren’t like you Massachusetts people. They don’t have regular paying jobs and civ’lized lifestyles. Live in the woods, live off the land, don’t come out but once a year, if that. Eat what they kill. They jack a moose, the IFW looks the other way.” He pulled out a rag and began to wipe his hands. Then his nose.

“I still don’t see what the problem is.”

“Well, some would say they be a little light on top—maybe too much isolation, maybe too much livin’ in the wild. Whatever, we leave them alone, they leave us alone.”

“You’re saying there are dangerous people up there?”

“I’m saying drop your bags somewhere else.”

Sarah stepped out of the store with a small guidebook and some sheets with motels and B and Bs. She thanked the man and slipped back into the passenger seat.

The woman came out after her. “Here’s the rest of your change, ma’am.” And she handed Sarah some coins.

The woman was large and had her hair pulled back in a long ponytail. She had a wide mannish face and was wearing a bright pink sweatshirt that said, “Maineiac Momma.” When Sarah said to keep the change, the woman said, “Thanks, but we don’t take charity.” She moved beside the pump man and watched them leave.

Zack waved and buckled his seat belt while the two watched them without expression, looking like an overweight version of
American Gothic
. Just as Zack was about to pull away, the man made a gun with his fingers and aimed southward down 202. Sarah didn’t see him, and Zack turned the car northward. In the rearview mirror, the man stood there with his wife and watched them drive away, shaking his head.

When they were about a quarter mile up the road, Sarah handed Zack a tuna sandwich that had melted through the bread. “It’s all they had,” she said. “Guess there was a run on the good stuff.”

“Yeah, a foodie’s mecca.”

Zack put the sandwich in the hold between them. He had no appetite. He took a sip of the iced tea and drove on, feeling the rightness of his direction in spite of the guy back there making like one of the villagers in
Dracula. Surprised he didn’t offer me a crucifix,
he thought with grim bemusement.

“Your recall’s amazing,” Sarah said, biting into her sandwich. “I asked the lady, and she said Magog Woods is about fifteen miles up the road.”

Not recall.

“You must have been up here a few more times than you remember.”

Ever rational to the end,
Zack thought. “Maybe so,” he said to humor her. “Soon as we hit that center, it all came back.”

“Still, you have a great memory.”

“Or maybe I had no reason to remember, and now I do.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Not important.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn to him. “What’s not important?”

“Nothing.” Purple shadows of the setting sun made a pall over the road ahead.

“Zack, I don’t like this.”

“You don’t like what?”

“Being up here. The way you’re behaving. The way you’re talking. I’m getting creeped out.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“I want to go back, okay?”

No! She’s trying to lead you astray. Deflect you from your mission.
“Look, it’s only another ten miles or so. If we don’t find it, we’ll go back. I promise.”

“You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

“If you want, I can drop you back at the store and go myself.”

“Be serious.”

“Then trust me.”

“If you don’t find whatever it is, we turn back. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

But in the back of his mind, there was a flicker of guilt.

84

About a dozen miles beyond the gas station, Zack slowed the car. The thick wall of trees on either side made of the road an unbroken, darkening corridor. Since their stop, he had counted only one other vehicle on the road, coming from the opposite direction.

“Is this it?” Sarah asked, the fear audible in her voice.

He didn’t answer, but his chest was pounding so hard that his breath came short. After half a minute more, he pulled over. In the heavy scrub was an opening to an unmarked dirt road, nearly indistinguishable but for the narrow cut through towering pines, oaks, and dense brush. Zack pulled the car into the lane. No other cars were on the road, which faded into gloom in either direction.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re here.”

Zack turned on the headlights. The rutted dirt lane was one car wide, with weeds growing down the center line, some spilling into the tire troughs. It hadn’t been used much and brooded ahead of them as it disappeared into the depths. Zack checked that the doors were locked. “I just want to go in a little way, then we’ll come right out.”

“I don’t like this.”

“We’ll be fine.” His brain was humming like a hive of hornets. He inched his way down the lane as brush scratched against the car, and the overhang of trees made a tunnel of the path, closing down on them as they moved deeper. Something really weird was about to happen.

“Zack, please turn back. I want to get out of here.”

“Okay. We’ll find a clearing to turn around.”

“Just back out.”

But he paid her no attention and rolled a few more yards ahead until it was clear that they had reached the end, the headlights falling on a wall of trees with no opening wide enough to accommodate a car. “See?”

“See what? There’s no room to turn around.”

He had no idea how far they had come—maybe a hundred yards. But she was right. He had only two or three feet on either side of the car to turn around. And no easy way to back out with only the backup lights.

Sarah seethed to herself while he worked the shift from drive to reverse, advancing a foot or so each time. The sides were scraped, and he’d have a handsome bill to cover the scratches. But after several minutes, he had the car pointed the way they had come down. Sweat poured down his face and back.

“What’s that?” gasped Sarah.

He turned toward her, thinking she had spotted something in the woods. But she was staring straight ahead.

Through the windshield he could see nothing but the dirt road and wall of trees. Then he flicked on the high beams. Something flashed back at him, and his guts knotted. Maybe thirty yards ahead, filling the width of the road, was a black van.

“Who is that?” Sarah whispered.

“I don’t know.”

The van’s lights were off, and in the high beams Zack could see no one behind the windshield.

“We’re trapped.”

Whoever had followed them did so in scant light, because Zack had come down this road with one eye ahead and the other in the rearview mirror. Without lights, the driver had to have followed them in near total darkness. And given the time it took Zack to turn the car around, whoever it was either knew the way or could see in the dark.

If the van was empty, the driver could be anywhere watching them.

“We’re sitting ducks,” she said.

Zack undid his seat belt.

“No, don’t get out.”

“Just getting something in the back.”

“No.” She was beginning to panic and grabbed his arm. “Don’t get out, please.”

“Then come with me.” He got out, and she climbed over the center and got out beside him. He led her to the hatch, where he grabbed his backpack and pulled out two flashlights. He didn’t turn them on but handed one to Sarah. He slipped on his backpack, pulled up the carpet, and raised the false floor over the spare tire. In the repair pouch was a foot-long crowbar. It would have to do. He closed the hatch, gripping the black torch in one hand, the iron in the other. In a flash, his saw himself smashing Mitchell Gretch’s skull.

Sarah pulled him around the side to get back. “Let’s get inside.”

The woods were dark and full-throated with the chittering of bugs. What there was of sky had turned opaque, with a few stars blazing through the thick canopy. “What for?”

“Maybe we can push it off the road.”

“Too many trees.” They grew right up to the road, with no opening to shove the van.

Sarah was trembling. “What are we going to do?”

Zack had no idea who drove the van, no psychic familiarity. His heart was pounding, but he wasn’t afraid. He opened the driver’s door. “Okay, get in. Lock the doors and start the car.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say. Please.”

“No, Zack. Don’t.”

He nudged her inside, closed her door, and moved up the dirt path in the Murano’s high beams, gripping the crowbar in his right hand, the torch in his left. As he approached the van, he saw no one in the front seats but couldn’t see into the rear. He sprayed the surrounding trees with the torch but saw nobody.

He reached the van, an old beaten-up VW with no front license plate and a two-year-old Maine inspection sticker. The engine was warm. He held his breath and gripped the crowbar. Then he pressed the torch against the windshield. The van was empty. The doors were locked. No key in the ignition. Nothing in the front seat. In the rear he could make out some nondescript boxes and plastic jugs on their sides. Some piles of clothes or rags, he couldn’t tell which. But his heart made a little surge when his light fell on a gun rack mounted on the ceiling behind the driver. It was empty.

He flashed around, knowing he was being watched. As he started toward the van’s rear to look for markings, Sarah screamed.

He tore back to the Murano, barely registering his feet contacting the ground. He could see no one at the vehicle, just the whited face of Sarah inside. When he reached the driver’s door, she unlocked it.

“Someone’s out there,” she said, barely able to catch her breath. “I saw him.”

“Where?”

“My window.”

“Did you see his face?”

She shook her head. “Just a flash.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. It was too fast.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Just a dark shape.”

“He say anything?”

“No. What are we going to do?”

The engine was purring, and in the headlights they could just make out the van up ahead. “Probably locals out to spook Massachusetts folks.”

“The gas station guys?”

“Yeah. Backwoods version of Friday night fun.”

“It’s moving,” she said.

Zack flicked the lights. The van
was
moving, but not toward them. It was backing up. In a moment it receded without lights into the black as the trees closed around it like a drawn curtain.

“Get going,” she said.