“Howdy,” Jo said as she tipped her head and touched the brim of her hat.
“What do you want from us?” demanded a gruff man with a gray, tire-brush mustache.
Chapman sighed. “Oh, come on.” He grimaced as he addressed Reese and Jo. “Pardon my friend here—this is Mike Hatchell, he runs our police department.”
“It’s an honest question,” Hatchell responded defensively. “Especially in light of you admitting Ellsworth’s chief was attacked with a knife.”
Reese nodded. “Fair enough—”
“Oh, he was attacked with more’n that,” Jo supplied in her slow drawl. “The rabble-rousers had Molotovs, guns, knives—the only reason Chief Foster is alive today is because my friend was dumb enough to put his shoulder between that knife and Cal’s back.”
Reese put his good hand to his face and groaned.
Jo was on a roll. “Tell you what, that was some nasty business. We barely survived the waves on Mount Desert Island—he was on a boat that made it to shore just before they hit—“
Several people gasped. “You were on a boat?”
“Did you see it?” someone asked, and the flood gates opened. Questions flew at them from both sides of the street. People came out of boarded-up shops and surrounded them, all eager for answers and news.
Chapman climbed up on a car to see out over the crowd as it expanded. “Folks, folks—come on, now!” He hollered, both hands in the air to regain control. “This isn’t how we treat folks in Belfast, and you know it!” After a moment, the clamor died down and the mayor cleared his throat. “Sorry about that, some of my friends and neighbors are a little…excited…by recent events,” he said as he talked to Reese and chastised the crowd at the same time. He took a long look around the group, then returned his gaze to Reese and Jo.
“Don’t worry about it,” Reese replied with a genuine smile.
“I’m just happy y’all ain’t throwin’ knives at us,” Jo quipped. “People in Ellsworth are ornery.”
A few men chuckled. Reese closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened his eyes, the expression on the mayor’s face matched his own mood: exasperation and relief with a hint of amusement and irritation all rolled into one.
“All right, all right…” Chapman said, and raised his arms again. He hopped down off the car to part the seas and clear a path for Reese and Jo to move forward. “Let’s all get back to work—or are we finished with all the preparations?”
Hatchell scoffed. “Hardly.” He cradled his shotgun in one arm and circled his hand over his head. “You heard the man, folks! Get this roadblock secured. Next ones we stop might not be so…compliant.” He turned from Reese and Jo to organize the work parties.
“You’ll have to excuse Mike,” Mayor Chapman said in confidence as he personally ushered Reese and Jo through the dissipating crowd. “He’s not overly trusting in the best of times.”
“Makes him a good cop, then,” Jo said.
“It does at that,” Chapman replied with a tired smile. “But the man wears on me.” He led them down the street away from the road block and waved at several people they passed on the street who all seemed more curious than worried. Other than the men at the roadblock itself, no one seemed armed. Chapman directed them to a little cafe, complete with a decorative cast-iron fence around an outdoor seating area. He pulled out a thin metal chair under the striped awning and allowed Jo to sit first.
“Much obliged,” she said. She dropped her gear to the ground and rested the shotgun across her pack, then groaned as she collapsed into the seat. “My doggies are barkin’,” she said with a sigh.
Reese set his pack next to his chair and lowered himself gently. The last thing he needed was to aggravate his shoulder again. He leaned back and let the chair hold his weight. “Never thought sitting would be a religious experience,” he muttered, eyes closed in ecstasy.
“Hi, Chappy,” a cheerful voice sang. Reese opened his eyes to see a matronly woman appear from inside the restaurant, in shorts and a Grateful Dead t-shirt under a frilly white apron. She plucked a pencil from the salt-and-pepper bun on her head and winked at him. “Whatcha havin’?”
The mayor snorted. “Annabelle, would you bring us a pitcher of water, please—and three of those scone things Jerry makes?”
“Be right out,” she said, and flashed a smile at Jo.
When Annabelle left, the mayor leaned his elbows on the table. “Now that we’ve got a little privacy, I wonder if you two might indulge me with exactly what happened in Ellsworth? But I suppose you’d better start with how you found yourselves there—meaning no offense, of course, but you two aren’t Mainers.”
Reese and Jo looked at each other. “Go ahead,” she said, waving him on. “I can tell by that excited puppy look on your face you want to start.”
He told the mayor about the fishing trip sponsored by his company—with a few interruptions about what they caught and commiseration with the loss of his monster fish—and about a forced landing on Mount Desert Island.
“That’s where we met,” Jo interjected as Annabelle returned with the water. It wasn’t cold, but it was cool enough and went down like ambrosia.
“She was the park ranger on Cadillac Mountain,” offered Reese. He took a sip from his own glass and smiled. “Boy, that hits the spot.”
Jo nodded and continued the narrative. She told Mayor Chapman about the long hike from Mount Desert Island and how Reese pulled Ben through the mud on the make-shift travois they’d fashioned out of pine saplings.
Chapman remained silent, but Reese could tell by the look in his eyes he had questions but didn’t want to interrupt.
“So
