Terrific. I quickly signed on and opened up my e-mail. I downloaded the financial report on Fresh Start. It was eighteen pages. There was an income statement, expense graphs, revenue graphs, profitability graphs, liquidity graphs, a graph on useful versus depreciated life of building and equipment, something about liability composition, a balance sheet, something called a comparables analysis . . .
I teach political science. I do not understand business or numbers.
Toward the back I found a history of the organization. It had indeed been founded twenty years ago by three people. Professor Malcolm Hume was listed as the academic adviser. Two students were listed as copresidents. One was Todd Sanderson. The other was Jedediah Drachman.
My blood chilled. What’s a common nickname for someone named Jedediah?
Jed.
I still had no idea what was going on, but it was all about Fresh Start.
“Time’s up, Pops.” It was Slacker Yah-Dude. “Another terminal will be open in fifteen.”
I shook my head. I paid the rental fee and stumbled back to my car. Was my mentor somehow involved in this? What kind of good works did Fresh Start do that involved trying to kill me? I didn’t know. It was time to head home and maybe discuss this all with Benedict. Maybe he’d have a clue.
I started up Benedict’s car and, still dazed, headed west on Northern Boulevard. I had programmed the address for the Franklin Funeral Home into the GPS, but for the ride back, I figured that I could just hit “Previous Destinations” and Benedict would have his home in there. So when I hit the next red light, I turned the knob and clicked on “Previous Destinations.” I was about to scan down for Benedict’s address in Lanford, Massachusetts, but my gaze stopped cold at the first address, the place Benedict had most recently visited. The address didn’t read Lanford, Massachusetts.
It read Kraftboro, Vermont.
Chapter 26
My world tilted, teetered, rocked, and flipped itself upside down.
I just stared at the GPS. The full address was listed as 260 VT-14, Kraftboro, Vermont. I knew the address. I had put it in my own GPS not long ago.
It was the address of the Creative Recharge Colony.
My best friend had visited the retreat where Natalie had stayed six years ago. He had visited the place where she married Todd. He had visited the place where, most recently, Jed and his gang had tried to kill me.
For several seconds, maybe longer, I could not move. I sat in the car. The car radio was on, but I couldn’t tell you what was playing. It felt as though the world had shut down. It took reality a while to get through my haze, but when it did, it hit me like a surprise left hook.
I was alone.
Even my best friend had lied—check that: was
Wait, I said to myself. There had to be a reasonable answer.
Like what? What possible explanation could there be for having that address in Benedict’s GPS? What the hell was going on? Who could I trust?
I only knew the answer to that last question: No one.
I’m a big guy. I consider myself pretty independent. But right here, right now, I didn’t think that I had ever felt so small or such gut-wrenching loneliness.
I shook my head. Okay, Jake, snap out of it. Enough with the self-pity. Time to act.
First I checked through the rest of the addresses in Benedict’s GPS. There was nothing of interest. I did find his home address, so I set it up to lead me home. I started on my way. I flipped stations on the radio, searching for that ever-elusive perfect song. Never found it. I whistled along with what crappy song came on. It didn’t help. The construction sites on Route 95 pounded the hell out of what was left of my psyche.
I spent most of the ride having imaginary conversations with Benedict. I actually rehearsed how I’d approach him, what I’d say, what he might answer, how I’d counter.
My grip on the wheel tightened when I pulled onto Benedict’s street. I checked the time. He had a seminar for another hour, so he wouldn’t be home. Good. I parked by the guest cottage and started toward his house. Again I debated what to do. The truth was, I needed more information. I wasn’t ready to interrogate him yet. I didn’t know enough. The simple Francis Bacon axiom, one we constantly stressed to our students, applied here: Knowledge is power.
Benedict hid a spare house key in a fake rock by his garbage can. One may wonder how I know this, so I will tell you: We are best friends. We have no secrets from each other.
Another voice in my head: Was it all a lie? Was our friendship never real?
I thought what Cookie had whispered to me in those dark woods:
It was not meant to be hyperbole and yet here I was, not stopping, risking in a way I could still not fathom “all” these lives. Who was “all”? Was I always, in a sense, risking them? Was Benedict supposed to, I don’t know, keep an eye on me or something?
Let’s not get completely paranoid here.
