Impact

39

"You have arrived at your destination," said the smooth female voice from the GPS. Wyman Ford parked the car in the apron of dirt in front of the country store and got out, looking around. The field opposite the store was swaying with lupines ready to burst into flower. At the top of the hill behind him were two churches flanking the street, one a brown Congregationalist church and the other a white Methodist "house of worship." A dozen clapboard houses lined the road and a small grocery occupied a listing, shingled building.

That was the extent of the town.

Ford consulted his notebook. The towns of New Harbor, Pemaquid, Chamberlain, and Muscongus had been crossed out, leaving one left.

Round Pond.

The road ran past the store and dead-ended at the harbor. He could just see, beyond a cluster of pine trees, a harbor full of fishing boats and a small sliver of ocean beyond.

He went into the country store and found it noisy with kids buying penny candy. He walked around, looking at the items for sale: the candy, postcards, knives, boat models, toys, puppets, kites, CDs of local musical groups, calendars, jams and jellies, and a stack of newspapers. It was like walking back in time to his own childhood.

He picked up the newspaper, called The Lincoln County News, and got in line with the kids. A few minutes later they had banged out the door with their brown paper bags of candy. A high school girl was manning the counter. He laid down the paper on the counter and smiled. "I think I'd like some candy."

She nodded.

"I'll take a . . . let's see . . . a fireball--haven't had one of those in years--some malted milk balls, a rope of licorice, and a peppermint stick."

She collected the candy in a bag, laid it on the paper. "Two dollars ten cents."

He fished in his pocket, took out his wallet. "I heard a meteor came over here a few months back."

"That's right," the girl said.

He thumbed through the bills in the wallet. "You see it?"

"I saw the light out the window. Everybody did. And then there was a sound like thunder. When we went outside there was a glowing trail in the sky."

"Did anyone find the meteorite?"

"Oh no, it hit out to sea."

"How do they know?"

"That's what all the papers said."

Ford nodded, finally getting the money out.

"Is the harbor down there?"

She nodded. "Take the right past the store--dead-ends at the wharves."

"Any place to buy live lobster?"

"The co-op."

He took the bag of candy and the paper and went back to his car. Popping the fireball in his mouth, he looked at the front page of The Lincoln County News. Plastered at the top was a headline:

Body, Gun Recovered from Sunken Boat

There was a blurry photograph of a Coast Guard vessel at sea hauling a body on board with grappling hooks. Ford read the article, his interest piqued. Turning to the inside, he saw a picture of the two girls who'd been attacked, a high school yearbook picture of the dead attacker, and several photographs of the ruined boat hauled into dry dock. This was big news in Round Pond--a high-seas robbery attempt, complete with a boarding, attempted murder, and a sunken boat. Something to do with a legendary treasure. It aroused his investigative instincts: the story had gaps, inconsistencies, which cried out for explanation.

He turned the page, read about the bean supper at the Seaside Grange, complaints about a new traffic light, an article about a soldier returning from the Middle East. He scanned the police notes, read a scolding editorial about a poorly attended school board meeting, looked through the real estate and employment ads, read the letters to the editor.

Finally he folded up the paper, charmed by the picture he had acquired of the town. A quiet little New England fishing village, impossibly picturesque, economically stagnant. Someday the real estate developers would get their hooks in a town like this and it would be all over. He hoped that someday never arrived.

He started the car and drove down the road toward the harbor. Almost immediately it came into view--lobsterman's co-op on his right, piers, a dockside restaurant, a harbor full of fishing boats, the heady smell of salted fishing bait.

He parked and went over to the co-op, a wooden shack sitting above a pier, wooden flaps opened, tanks of water brimming with lobsters. A chalkboard gave the day's prices. A bald man in orange waders came to the window.

"What can I do for you?"

"Do you lobster these waters?"

"No, but my daughter does. I just sell 'em."

Ford could see a young woman in the back, manning the lobster cookers.

"You see the meteor?"

"No. I'd gone to bed."

"Did she? I'm interested in it."

He turned. "Martha, fellow here wants to know if you saw the meteor."

She came over, drying her hands. "Sure did. Came right over us. I saw it through the window while I was washing dishes."

"Where'd it go?"

"Straight past Louds Island and out to sea."

Ford held out his hand. "Wyman Ford."

The woman took it. "Martha Malone."

"I'm hoping to find that meteorite. I'm a scientist."

"They say it fell in the ocean."

"You're a lobsterwoman?"

She laughed. "You must be from out of town. I'm a lobster fisherman."

"Here's the problem." Ford decided to get right to the point. "That night, the ocean was dead calm. The GoMOOS weather buoy out there didn't register even the slightest ripple at the time of the impact. How do you explain that?"

"There's a lot of sea out there, Mr. Ford. It could have landed a hundred miles offshore."

"You haven't heard of anyone around here talking about finding a crater or seeing any evidence of blown-down trees?"

A shake of the head.

Ford thanked her and walked back to his car. He popped a malted milk ball in his mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully. Once in the car, he flipped open the glove compartment, removed the notebook, and crossed out "Round Pond."

And that was it. It had been the wildest of wild-goose chases.