"Only two things wrong with that," I said. "First, we don't yet have the means to find it, which reduces the size of said boat, and second, they are willing to kill for it. That puts us in the middle of the ocean with floaties on."

Sabrina chuckled. "I'm sorry I ever brought up the analogy." Then she turned serious, but with a wild look in her eyes. "But Del, doesn't all this spark a sense of excitement in you? Doesn't the danger kind of drive you?"

There was definitely something to what she was saying. Besides, I didn't want to appear the wimp.

"It does." But hey, if I'm a wimp, I'm a wimp. Call it as you see it. "The curiosity factor is what gives me the adrenalin rush. I'm hoping that the danger factor will keep me thinking clearly."

While there was no direct road to Fairfield, there were three logical choices from Davenport. We took the fourth. The first three all had us entering Fairfield from the East. The route I decided on took us West on Interstate 80, way past Fairfield, then coming down through Oskaloosa and Ottumwa, entering Fairfield from the West. It wouldn't make any sense for us to do that, so if they were watching for us, the odds were that they would be waiting near the East entrance of town. All part of my caution campaign. Sabrina didn't sound an objection.

The long way got us into Fairfield mid-evening. We stopped at a nondescript chain hotel and parked around back. They had a sign out front: Riblets $8.95. Toast Buffet, 6am-10am. What the heck was a riblet? A little rib? A toast buffet? You had to be kidding me. We decided we'd be better off having a pizza delivered. We asked the front desk clerk who had the best pizza. When the answer came back Pizza Hut, I found myself seriously missing Boston. What would Seymour say about our predicament? Yeah, sometimes he ate crappy pizza, but at least he knew the difference.

Riblets and Pizza Hut. Was this Iowa cuisine? We ordered Chinese instead, knowing full well that whatever we ended up with would be a disappointment. It was.

We were both exhausted, so we laid in bed—our separate beds, of course—talking baseball. That's right, baseball. Over the years and all the dates I went on, I didn't once find a woman who liked baseball. That's actually odd for Boston. Everyone likes sports in Boston. Everyone, that is, except the women I dated. How exciting it was for me to find someone to intelligently talk baseball with. There were only two problems: 1) She was a Yankees fan, and 2) We weren't dating. The first I could live with, I suppose. She had probably been brainwashed at an early age to support the Evil Empire. So sad. The second … well, the second was beginning to have possibilities. The sexual tension we felt in Chicago was still there, and had even increased a notch. Was baseball an aphrodisiac? Or maybe it was the unspoken danger that we might be heading into. Whatever, I felt like saying, "Oh, let's just get it over with," but that seemed a bit crass. Then again, maybe she was just waiting for me to make the first move. God, I felt like a teenager.