by John Sullins
“I made you some sandwiches to take with you. I hope you find a family member or two when you get there. I admire what you are doing Keith. Good luck and stay safe, there are some desperate people out there. Some are starving and will do anything to take what another has.”
He thought about the pistol he took for the two men’s truck at the store. “I’ll be careful, and thank you for your hospitality. You are making this trip a lot easier for me.”
She stepped close and gave him a hug. Dale shook his hand and gave him directions to the gas station and the highway.
There were already a half dozen cars waiting at the gas pumps when he pulled into the lot. When it was his turn at the pump he looked at the price on the pump, $61.99. He put the nozzle into the tank and watched the numbers spin so fast he had trouble distinguishing them. He eased off the handle to slow the flow, when the dial reached $600 he stopped it. He counted the money in his wallet again after paying for the gas. He had two twenties, one ten, one five and three ones remaining.
When he got back into the van he looked at the gas gauge, it read just under three quarters full. He hoped it would be enough to get him to Bangor.
He drove slowly, not completely trusting the old van, and fiddled with the heater knob and the dial that controlled the fan. The warm air felt good blowing across his legs. He thought about how much more comfortable he was driving north than standing along the edge of the road with his thumb out hoping for a ride. He told himself that if he saw any hitchhikers, he would stop to give them a lift.
The engine ran smoothly as he drove north on I-95. He was pleased that the surface was free of snow. He saw more cars and trucks than he expected during the first few hours but the further he got away from Boston, the fewer vehicles were on the highway. He checked the gas gage regularly hoping the van got better gas mileage than his estimate of twenty miles per gallon. Getting even a few extra miles per gallon could make a difference of reaching Bangor or not.
He was near an exit for Augusta Maine when he noticed a man standing at the end of the entrance ramp just past the overpass. He had an Army duffel bag on the ground at his feet and was holding out his right thumb to catch a ride.
Keith slowed the van and stopped a few feet past him. The smallish white man, with a scruffy beard and a filthy overcoat, picked up the bag, trotted to the passenger door, and opened it.
“Gimme a ride?”
“Sure, throw your duffel in the side door and get in.”
When he got in Keith offered his hand, “I’m Keith, where you headed?”
“I’m Betty, I am headed to Atlanta.”
Keith was not sure he heard him correctly. “What’s that?”
The man kept his eyes straight ahead, “I’m Betty, I am headed to Atlanta.”
Keith thought about the response a long minute.
“I am headed north, not south. Atlanta is south, you are going the wrong direction.”
“No I am headed the right direction, you’re the one headed the wrong direction.”
He turned to face Keith and shoved a large hunting knife in his direction, “Get out of the car.”
Keith reacted instantly by turning the key to shut off the engine and pulling it out with him as he got out of the van. The man swung the knife but was too slow. Keith took a step backwards and pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket.
“Unless you want to die you get out of my van right now.” He pointed the pistol at the man’s head.
The man smiled and kept the knife held forward with his arm straight, the knife pointed at Keith’s face.
“I’m not kidding Betty, get your ass out of my van!”
The man slid across the seat towards Keith and kept the knife pointed at him.
“I’m going to cut your guts out man,” he continued to smile.
Keith moved back three more steps and pushed the safety latch to the fire position.
“I mean it, you better stop or I’ll shoot you.”
The man got out, swinging the knife back and forth towards Keith, and moved his direction.
The bullet hit him in the center of the chest. His knees buckled and the knife dropped from his hands as he fell face first onto the concrete.
Keith stared down at blood oozing out of the hole in the man’s back. He staggered backwards a couple of steps struggling to catch his breath. He looked at the pistol and moved the latch back to the safe position. He looked towards the overpass, then north up the interstate and then south down the interstate. He saw no people or vehicles.
His mind was racing, he was unsure what he should do. His first reaction was to run up the ramp to find help but he saw no lights from any houses or businesses. He turned a circle looking again for people or vehicles. He saw nothing.
He stepped around the man’s body and started to get into the van to leave, but stopped. He moved back to the body, grabbed the collar of the jacket, and pulled the man around the van and down the embankment into the weeds where he searched the man’s pants and jacket pockets. His pants pockets were empty but he found a wallet in the left jacket pocket. He put the wallet into his pocket, got into the van and drove north.
His hands were still shaking on the steering wheel ten minutes later when he forced himself to ease off the gas pedal and slow down. He breathed in several deep breaths and swallowed hard to gain control of his breathing. When he calmed enough that his hands had stopped shaking, he turned on the dome light and opened the wallet. He found a wrinkled social security card with the name Barry Brockman, but no other identification.
He shook his head and spoke to the wallet, “I knew your name was not Betty.”
When he looked in the money slot, he was shocked to see several bills. He slowed the van and pulled onto the berm. He put the van in park and counted the money. He found nine twenty dollar bills, three tens, and two ones. As he re-counted the bills he noticed some were covered with what appeared to be dried blood.
“Damn, he must have robbed someone. That’s probably their blood!”
He checked for head lights again and re-counted the money for a third time. He folded the money and put it into his pants pocket, leaned around the side of the seat and opened his suitcase. He lifted out one of his shirts and used it to wipe his fingerprints from the wallet before dropping it onto the passenger seat. Then he did the same with the pistol before putting the van into gear and heading north again.
After going another thirty miles he pulled to the side of the highway along a section of isolated road where he saw no headlights in either direction and stopped. He got out and walked around to the passenger side of the van and opened the door. He used the same shirt to pick up the pistol and then throw it as hard as he could into the trees and brush down the slope beside the highway. Then he did the same with the wallet.
Chapter 22
He had never been so nervous or frightened his entire life as he was during the next hundred miles. Even during his fight for life while on the rooftop in Damascus, he was not as frightened as thinking the cops would pull up behind the van and arrest him. He watched the rear view mirror more than he watched the road ahead. But he did not get stopped by the police or even see a police car.
At mile marker 176, about ten miles from Bangor, he pulled into the roadside rest area to spend the night. There were no cars in the lot and none of the parking lot lights were illuminated. He parked at the far end of the lot and walked back to the building with the restrooms. He located a door, but It was so dark he could not find nor read the sign indicting if the door was for a men’s restroom. He put his hands out in front of him and shuffled his way into the darkness. When his hands felt a sink, he moved his hands left until he found a second and then a third sink before finding the handle on top of what he thought was a urinal. He ran his hands down the short water pipe and along the porcelain top and then down the side to be sure he was in the right spot.
He took care of business, moved back to the nearest sink and washed his hands.
He returned to the van and straighten the mattress and blankets before climbing inside for the night. But as comfortable as the mattress was, he could not go to sleep. The image of Barry coming at him with the knife, the sound of the gun firing, and seeing the blood oozing out his back, would not leave his mind.
The only thing he could think to do to get it out of his mind was to recite the names of his relatives.
He spoke softly, “Mother Joan Warren Hunter, father Forest Hunter, grandmother Mary Todd Hunter, grandfather Brandon Hunter, great-grandmother Sue Davis Lang, great-grandfather Ralph Hunter.
Then the thought crossed his mind if any of his relatives had ever killed anyone.
“Surely not……………”
Chapter 23
He woke up when a large truck shifted gears and it rolled past his van. He saw his breath in the cold air as he sat up and looked at the rear of the truck leaving the lot. His stomach growled under the blankets, he needed food. He pushed off the blankets and made another trip to the men’s room before getting back in the van. He ate one of the sandwiches Deanna had given him as he headed north to Bangor.
Bangor’s city hall building was in the middle of a triangle formed by Park Street, Center Street and Harlow Street. He parked the van by backing into a spot as close to the building as possible so any passing police officers would have a tough time seeing the expired Massachusetts license plates.
He went through the front double glass doors and looked at the office directory hanging on the wall of the lobby. There were no electric lights on in the lobby so he had to get directly under the directory to read it. He read down the list of offices and decided to first try the tax office.
There were only two of the ceiling lights on in the tax office, one over the small counter near the door, and one over a desk in the middle of the office. A woman with short grey hair, in her early sixties, got up from her chair when he entered.
“May I help you young man?”
“I hope so. I may not be in the right place, but I am searching for relatives from this area.”
“Relatives?”
“Well, I’ll try to make a long story short. I grew up in foster homes and an orphanage and knew nothing about my family until recently. I learned that my relatives are from this area.”
“Names?”
He recited the names from memory, ““My mother was Joan Warren Hunter, father Forest Hunter, grandmother Mary Todd Hunter, grandfather Brandon Hunter, great-grandmother Sue Davis Lang, great-grandfather Ralph Hunter.”
“If you were adopted, I can’t give out any information.”
“I was never adopted. My parents both died when I was young. My father died in the Army and my mother died in a traffic accident, I think.”
The woman moved to her right and stood in front of a computer screen on the counter. She typed on the keyboard but frowned as she looked at the screen.
“Nothing listed for Joan Warren, Joan Warren Hunter or Forest Hunter.”
She typed again on the keyboard.
“Nothing for Mary Todd or Mary Todd Hunter.”
She continued typing, “Same result for Brandon Hunter too.”
She typed again, “Nothing for Sue Davis or Sue Davis Lang.”
She typed again, “I’m sorry, I have nothing for Ralph Hunter either.”
“Did they live in Bangor?”
“I don’t know. All I was told is that they lived in Maine.”
“Oh my goodness. This is a very large state. My records are only for the city. Do you know anything else about them?”
Keith let out a slow sigh, “I was told my great grandmother was a Sheriff for a while.”
“Do you know what county?”
“No idea.”
The woman stood silent for a minute and kept her eyes on Keith. “If I were you I would go to the Penobscot County Sheriff’s office. It’s a couple of blocks east, across the river on Hammond Street. I would think they could research names of former sheriffs in the state.”
He thanked the woman and left the office. To avoid any problem over the van’s license plates he left the van stay where it was and walked the two blocks across the bridge.
The lighting in the lobby of the Sheriff’s office was the same as the city building, dark. He stepped up to a sliding glass window on the left side of the lobby and waited for a cute young woman wearing a police uniform to come to the window. Her hair was short and light brown. He looked at her name tag, “S. Demario.”
“May I help you?”
He told her his name and the same facts he told the woman at the city building.
“When was she sheriff?”
“I am not sure, but I believe it was around 2004 to maybe 2024.”
S. Demario smiled, “That narrows it down, twenty years huh?”
Keith gave her his best smile. “I came up with those years by guessing at when she may have been born and her age. I don’t know how old she was when she became sheriff.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Keith Hunter.”
“Well Keith, I will be happy to try to help you, but I am working the dispatcher desk, answering phone calls and working the radio. They have our budget cut down pretty tight, so we multi-task here. I can see what I can find between calls. You can wait here but it could be a while.”
Keith’s stomach was still growling again, so he ask, “is there any place to get breakfast close by?”
She pointed to her left. “Out the door, one block east and one block south, it’s called “Moose’s Place.”
“When should I come back?”
“Give me at least an hour.”
Chapter 24
He enjoyed the meal at Moose’s Place but his head was at the sheriff’s office. He was anxious to see if Demario was able to find anything. He ate hurriedly and was standing at the counter looking at her before the hour was up.
She could see the anxiety on his face and spun in her chair away from the desk. She handed him a piece of paper with the words, “Sheriff Sue Davis Lang, Piscataquis County, November 2004 to December 31, 2005.”
Keith’s hands began shaking immediately as he held the paper. His voice quivered when he asked, “Ca………Ca…………Can you tell me where Piscataquis county is?”
She could see the anxiety had changed to very strong emotion.
“I think you should come in here and sit down before you fall down. I will get you information about the county.”
She moved to the right, held the office door open for him, and pointed to a chair, “Sit down.”
She moved to a large map of Maine on the wall to the right of the dispatcher’s desk and pointed to the north east portion of the map. The county seat is Dover-Foxcroft. It is a lightly populated county, less than 20,000 residents.”
She laughed, “There are as many lakes and ponds in the county as people.”
Keith looked up at the map, “About how far is that from here?”
“Not far, about forty miles.” She sat down at her desk and typed on the keyboard again.
“This is interesting, Dover-Foxcroft has been the county seat since back in the 1800s. But there are some who disliked the name and wanted it changed. A man named William Jasper, a wealthy banker, ran for mayor on the promise he would change the name if he were elected. He lost the election, but since that time, many people began calling the town Jasper. To this day, some still call it Jasper. One of the lakes near the town is Eagle Creek Lake.”
Keith looked at her, “You have no idea what this means to me. All my life I thought I had no relatives. Now, at least there is a possibility I might have a family and might be able to find them. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I can see it in your face Keith. I am happy to help. It makes my day.”
“He held out his hand offering to shake hers, but she stepped closer. “This deserves more than a handshake. She opened her arms for a hug.”
“As you enter the town, turn left onto Co
urt Street before you get to the river. You can’t miss the court house and sheriff’s office. It is a brick building with white frame windows.”
“Court Street, white wood frame windows, got it.”
He left the building and ran north back to the van.
Chapter 25
He found a gas station with gas before leaving town and put two gallons into the tank. He drove northeast on Route 15 through the small town of Kenduskeag. He was beginning to get nervous as he passed through East Corinth.
He saw the river as he entered Dover-Foxcroft and turned left onto Court. He drove past the courthouse and pulled to the curb in front of another parked car. He backed close to the other car’s front bumper so the van’s expired out of state license plate could not be seen by a passing police car.
He was not sure what to expect as he walked to the court house. He was not sure who would be best to ask for help. The court house was a very old but well maintained building. As in the buildings in Bangor, the lobby was dark, only one overhead light was functioning. He stopped in the lobby and was looking at an office directory when a very muscular young man in a faded white shirt and dark blue tie came down the hall.
The man noticed Keith and stopped, “Can I help you find someone?”
“Well, maybe. If I wanted to find information about a past sheriff, or more importantly that sheriff’s relatives, who might be able to help me?”
The man looked him up and down as if sizing him up for a fight. “Why would you want to do that?”
Keith realized the man was suspicious of his intentions. “My great grandmother was the sheriff here many years ago. Without going into all of the details, I am here to see if I have any relatives in the area.”
“What was her name? When was she sheriff?”
“2005, Sue Davis Lang.”
The man stood motionless and stared at him.
“Both of my parents died when I was very young and I grew up in an orphanage. Until a few months ago, I believed I had no relatives. But when I learned she was my great grandmother, I came hoping there may be other relatives.”
