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to Maine, long before it
became a tourist destination. French Canadians poured in from
Québec, especially as the 19 th Century gave way to the
20 th . The locals are largely the descendants of those
who stayed on and survived the winters. That’s why Mainers are so
hardy; winter weeds out the sickly and the weak. Global warming
might be upon us, but in this neck of the woods you still need an
overcoat and boots to get by. The tourists come and go, but true
Mainers stay, either by force of habit or lack of imagination. Most
of us love it here, and the rest are simply too stubborn to
leave.
    I made my way along the country roads heading
south. In a few minutes, Lake Messalonskee came into view on my
left, triggering a wave of entertaining memories. When I was a
teenager, the Belgrade Lakes came alive in late spring. Local girls
slipped out of the woodwork in droves, like bears emerging from
hibernation. Now, almost two decades later, a lingering collection
of faces, temperaments and inclinations drifted through my
attention. On any other day, I would have meandered easily below
the speed limit, keeping pace with my laid-back memoirs, but not
today. Just north of Augusta, I left the country road behind,
turned onto Interstate 95 and back into the matters at hand.
    I briefly considered swinging by the
farmhouse to pick up my .38 Special, but I decided against it.
Cynthia had been up all night, so I felt it was important to get to
her as quickly as possible. Something else had occurred to me; I
might have to drive through a police roadblock on Sebascodegan
Island. There’d be some explaining to do if they searched the car
and found a gun. At this point, I had no plausible explanation for
that possibility. In fact, as yet I had no plausible explanation to
offer the police for my being there. I’d use the twenty-five miles
of interstate and ten odd miles of country road that lay ahead to
craft my cover story.
    I traveled down a few blind alleys in my
otherwise fertile imagination until I finally settled upon a
working hypothesis. I rehearsed it for several minutes until it
sounded convincing.
    “Officer, I’m here to join my girlfriend on
the island. She’s been visiting friends for the week, and I finally
managed some time off from my construction job to join her. (If he
wanted to call my boss, that story line should hold up.) What’s
that? Where is she staying? … I don’t have the exact address, but I
know that it’s a house very near Cranberryhorn Cemetery on Cundys
Harbor Road. When I reach the cemetery, I’ll be calling her.”
    This should get me through the war zone, I
thought. As for getting off the island on our way back north, I’d
have to cross that bridge when I came to it. Literally.
    I sailed on down the highway and reached
Brunswick by eleven o’clock. When I found Highway 24, I fired up my
GPS. From here on out, I was on unfamiliar roads. As soon as she
booted up, Becky announced, “In four point three miles, turn left
on Cundys Harbor Road.”
    Four miles later I crossed a short bridge
onto Sebascodegan Island. There were beautiful coves on either
side. The area was thickly wooded, and the few houses along the
road were barely visible. I cut my speed, realizing my turn was
fast approaching. Then, up ahead, I saw a number of highway patrol
cars flanking the road. On the left side, there was a barricade
across what appeared to be my left turn. A uniformed officer stood
in the middle of the road holding up an arm. He wanted me to
stop.
    This jolted me quite literally into the
present. I hoped there was another turn further down the road that
would get me to the cemetery. I rolled to a stop next to the
officer. As I lowered the window, he stepped forward, peered in at
me, and said, “There are two FBI agents ahead who will be asking
you some questions. Please drive slowly and stop when you reach
them.”
    “Sure thing,” I replied.
    I eased forward. Just as I was coming to a
stop in front of the two