Page 35

CALVIN BIGALOW

Midcoast Maine

C alvin Bigalow pulled into the parking lot of the Rusty Scupper Motor Lodge and killed the engine.

He scanned the parking lot for the pickup—he had memorized the Virginia plates.

Only four cars were in the spots lining the front of the exterior motel doors.

Thankfully, Shadow Man was nowhere to be seen.

The air smelled of the sea. Calvin had never been outside his mid-Atlantic bubble; he’d never been on a plane or left the country. This trip was his first adventure. Whatever misfortune awaited, it was worth it.

Calvin noted that his usual paranoia was absent as he walked to the glass-fronted cubby that served as a lobby. He guessed when there was something tangible to fear, all that other nonsense vanished.

The door buzzed, and Calvin entered. A surprisingly talkative bald man with a beard that touched his chest greeted him. “I tell ya, these fucking Patriots, I’m gonna lose my goddamn paycheck. They need to start deflating the balls again, am I right?”

Calvin had no idea what the guy was talking about but nodded in agreement.

“One night?”

Calvin considered the question. He needed to strategize and figure out how he was going to find Sofria. Time was of the essence, but he’d only delay his effort if he jumped the gun.

“It’s not a math problem, kid. How long you stayin’?”

“I’m not sure.” Calvin delivered the plausible excuse he had prepared. “I’m mapping out a hiking trip, and I don’t know how long it will take. Can I keep it open?”

“As long as you got a credit card, you can move in and open a souvenir shop for all I care.”

Calvin handed over his for-emergencies-only credit card, hoping the oil change hadn’t put him at his limit.

The bearded man must have noticed Calvin’s apprehension.

“My wife crosses her fingers behind her back.” His croaky laugh turned to a cough.

“Accepted. Hot damn.” He programmed a keycard as he continued, “I’ll give you the Presidential Suite at the end of the row. It has a minifridge and working cable.”

“Thanks.”

The proprietor handed over the key. “Only the best for this bargain price.”

Calvin walked back to the car, pleased with the interaction. For all the bearded man knew, Calvin was just an outdoorsman passing through. He hadn’t aroused suspicion or overshared. Maybe he really was meant for the spy game.

After retrieving the suitcase he had hastily stuffed with necessities, Calvin entered the timber and moss-green room and flopped onto the bed. After a brief regroup, he pulled out his laptop, connected to his hotspot, and got to work.

Calvin had made one big gamble. North of Portland, he had exited 95 and switched over to the coastal highway.

Most of his reasoning was hunch-based, but there was some logic involved.

First off, they were getting close to the Canadian border, and Calvin was confident Jameson wouldn’t risk an international crossing.

Calvin had also seen on Ren Jameson’s Bishop Security bio that he was a former Navy SEAL.

That was a man who was drawn to the sea.

Finally, the central part of the state had rough, inaccessible terrain.

A man on the run would need an escape route.

The string of small villages along the coastline was the wiser choice.

The other thing Calvin noticed was that Ren drove an electric car.

He didn’t know much about them because he’d been driving the same tan Camry since he got his license.

However, he knew they needed to be recharged.

Calvin had followed them for several hundred miles.

The Audi was going to need a charge. He searched charging stations along the route Calvin hoped Ren had taken.

A former SEAL would be a planner; he wouldn’t expect to happen across a station.

Ren would have mapped out the stops. Calvin found three that seemed like the most likely. Tomorrow, he’d go check them out.

With any luck, Calvin could confirm the direction Ren and Sofria were headed and narrow their location to between a charging station and the small fishing towns north of Portland. From there, he would search.

Sofria needed him. He wouldn’t let her down.