Driving the graded dirt road at sixty miles an hour she is thinking:
I know this road. The Concord winery back there-Bert knows the man who owns it. The bald man with the strange accent-Hungarian, Polish, whatever he is. We had dinner with him and his wife at that place on Lake Champlain, remember? They invited us to two or three wine tastings.
Think, now. This road comes out to the paved highway a couple of miles ahead, just beyond the mouth of the valley up there.
The intersection’s down at the foot of the hill. A Citgo station on the corner. Nice clean restroom. That road goes on up to Plattsburgh. Going the other way I think it comes out onto one of the main highways you take to get down to Albany.
They’ll probably have the intersection blocked.
Very matter of fact: All right, she thinks; then we’ll just have to get rid of the Jeep and get around the intersection on foot. And let the bastards sit there all night waiting for us to show up.