Tunnel Vision

83

It was a little after six when Zack turned off Route 5 and onto 202, a two-lane blacktop that cut through dense woodlands.

The indefinable instinct was like having a GPS system on the inside of his skull. They entered the center of Farrington, a strip of houses, a volunteer firehouse, and a small service station attached to a general store. Zack pulled up to a pump. Sarah got out to use the restroom and grab something to eat.

When nobody came out, Zack got out and removed the pump. As he did, a man in an orange top and black cap emerged from the store. “Second door to the left. No key needed,” he said to Sarah, who thanked him and walked to an outside entrance.

“I wasn’t sure if it was self-serve or not,” Zack said.

“Ayuh. This ain’t Massachusetts. We give you either option up here.”

It came out uhpeeyah. They really did talk that way. Ayuh. The guy had a salt-and-pepper beard, the mustache part curling over his lip. In a side pocket of his mind, Zack wondered why he didn’t trim it and tried not to think of him eating an egg-salad sandwich. He handed the pump to the man and asked him to fill it.

“Just wondering if you ever heard of Magog Woods.”

The guy cocked his head. “Ayuh.”

“Are we going in the right direction?”

“Depends on your direction.”

Because of the location of the pumps, their car was pointing west. “North.”

“Ayuh, ’cept the sign’s been down some years now.”

“Any landmarks?”

“Trees.”

“That’s all there is up here.”

“You got that right.”

Except for this minivillage, impenetrable woods girdled the roads. “How far would you say?”

“To what?”

“Magog Woods.” Zack was beginning to feel that the guy was either playing games with him or just slow.

“Fourteen, fifteen miles.”

“Is there an entrance of sorts?”

“Not of sorts.”

“How will I know I’m there?”

“Prob’ly won’t, ’less you know what you’re looking for. Just a cut in the trees, if it’s even there anymore. I don’t go up that way much myself.” Through the rear window, he glanced at the rolled sleeping bags and backpacks in the cargo space.

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.