They pulled into the parking lot of the motel near Portland, Maine, at about nine thirty that night, a little over halfway through their trip. While Jessie helped Helen check in, David busied himself with getting the bags onto the snow-covered walkway, and with thoughts of the work ahead of him trying to help clean up the mess that the last guy had left at the plant. He and Helen had decided that the best thing for them to do was spend the night in Maine, hit Quebec tomorrow and sleep in the hotel there until they got the housing situation under control. Olmstead had made a reservation for them at the Château Frontenac, a hotel that in his words was “very impressive.” Any and all fees would, of course, be taken care of by the company. Someone named Hank (with an almost unintelligible Down East accent) had called just before they left, said he had been contacted by Hydro Development and that he had some information on a “place to settle down in” that was only about three miles from the hydro plant and had just been vacated. “Lucky for you too,” he’d said. “There ain’t many houses ‘round that area.” David didn’t doubt that was true, but he wasn’t sure that made them so lucky. Not that there are any dentists within a hundred miles. Somehow, the idea of leaving a suburban neighborhood near Rochester and moving to the great outdoors was more than a little frightening. But without a job, they weren’t going to be able to afford suburbia anyway. They would get a little money when the house sold, but there were bills to pay already. So here they were.

After the bags were on the walk, and Jessie and Helen still had not returned, he decided to wander around a bit. The motel was your classic Motel Six setup. Not much of a place for a vacation. And we’re still three hundred miles from the hydro plant, he thought grimly, at least by road. Of course, the last part of the drive had been at night, so they hadn’t seen much of the country. If it was as beautiful as Mike Olmstead had claimed, perhaps it was worth the isolation. At least his first meeting was being held near Quebec City, which was over two hours away from the plant according to Olmstead, but much more populated, of course. Evidently there wasn’t a motel anywhere near Jackson. There wasn’t even a general store; the closest to Jackson was at least five miles away in St. Boudin.