Huh.
He climbed out of the car, walked to the back. California plates.
Who wandered away from a ninety-thousand dollar car and left the key in the glovebox? Where would they go in the middle of nowhere?
And the clothes. The shoes fit. The jeans felt familiar.
Calling yourself Daniel Hayes is a start. Try it on, just like the jeans.
Daniel got back in the car, put on his watch, then cranked the ignition and pulled away.
#
The two-track led to a dirt road. The dirt road led to a paved one only slightly less bumpy. Eventually that intersected two lanes of faded blacktop with a sign marking it US-1, north to Machias, south to Ellsworth.
He pulled to the shoulder and sat watching. A weather-beaten pickup passed heading south. A minute later came a northbound Civic.
"Life goes on," he said, and laughed a little hysterically. Had he always talked to himself?
Maybe. Maybe you chew bottle caps. Sodomize midgets. Kill people for a secret government—
He pulled onto the highway heading south.
The sky was clearing, the gray patchwork not lifting so much as coalescing into separate regions of dense cloud broken by vivid blue. The BMW reduced the outside world to a soft hum. His eyes felt grainy, his hands and head heavy. But he was pleased to note that the license plates read MAINE at the top.
So he hadn't lost his mind. Maybe just misplaced it a little.
Assuming that his first conscious act hadn't been to steal a car, and that the insurance was up to date, that meant that he'd driven three thousand miles. Three thousand miles followed by a swim in an ocean nearly cold enough to stop his heart. Why?
Daniel rubbed at his eyes. His hands were raw. He could barely keep his eyes open. He needed to find a motel, sleep for a week. When he woke up, this would all be better. He'd remember who—
Don't admit that. Madness lies that way.
—what he was doing here. It would come clear.
He passed a blink of a town, white clapboard and a sagging church. A girl pedaled a bicycle with streamers flowing from the handlebars. Sidewalks and town hall and a VFW with a Friday fish fry. A mile the other side, a roadside marquee announced vacancies at something called The Pines Motel, a low-slung cinderblock building huddled along the highway. Fine. Good. Perfect.
The lot was gravel that popped under the tires. He stepped out into birdsong and chilly sunlight, tramped past a handful of dusty pickup trucks sporting rifle racks and hand-painted camouflage.
The lobby was just an alcove off the main hall with a desk tucked into it. No one there. Hanging on the wall was a surprisingly good painting of a deer bounding over a fallen tree. The artist had caught the animal's panic, the brushstrokes menacing, the woods turned into the darkest sort of fairytale. He could sense the hunter beyond the border of the painting, the threat closer and more dangerous than the animal could know.
"Help you?"
Daniel whirled. A woman held a bead curtain half parted. He couldn't tell if she was a rugged thirty or an attractive fifty.
"Yeah, sorry. Just admiring the painting."
"My husband. Don't know why he bothers, myself. No use to the things. Keep trying to get him to paint over the old ones, but he likes to save them."
"He should," Daniel said. "He's got a lot of talent."
"A lot of time is what he's got. Don't know about talent."
And what a lucky man he is to have you for a wife. "I, ah, I need a room."
"Single or double?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Single's cheaper."
"Single, then. A single will be fine."
The woman sat behind the computer, began punching keys. "Forty dollars. How long?"
"I'm—I'm not sure. What day is today?"
She gave him a look that read city folk, but said, "Wednesday."
"Okay. Just tonight for now." Wednesday. Nope. Nothing. He set the bank envelope on the counter, made sure she got a look at it. "You said forty?"
She nodded, and he pulled out two twenties.
"Name?"
"Daniel Hayes."
"Credit card?"
"Huh?"
"For a deposit."
"You know, I lost my wallet. How about I just give you an extra forty as a deposit?"
Her eyes narrowed, but she took the money. "Check out is noon. No smoking. You're in seven."
"The room has cable, right?," he asked anxiously, and then did a double-take. Huh? The words had come out of his mouth unbidden. What did he care about—she was staring at him, so he said, "You know, television?"
"Television. The magic picture box?"
"Right. Sorry." He rubbed at his eyes. "I'm a little hazy."
She handed him a key on a heavy brass fob, pointed down the hall. "That way. Ice and vending at the end."