Spencerville

They drove a few more minutes, and Keith said to Marlon, "They might have roadblocks at the county line."

"Yeah, I know. But there's got to be fifty, sixty farm roads that leave this county. They can't put a roadblock at each of them."

"Right. Let's pick one."

"I know the one. Town Road 18 — mostly dirt and most of the time mud because of the bad drainage. Lots of cars get stuck, and Baxter's bozos got to keep their Baxter Motors lease cars lookin' good." He laughed. "Assholes."

Marlon turned west onto a paved farm road, then a minute later turned right and headed north on a rutted gravel road, Town Road 18.

Ten minutes later, the corn ended and they were in a low-lying area of marsh grass, a vestige of the ancient Black Swamp. The road became muddy, and the truck splattered through the black silty muck.

Five minutes later, Billy said, "We're out of Spencer County."

Keith hadn't seen a sign, but he figured that Billy was familiar with the area. He took an Ohio map out of the glove compartment and said, "Let's take back roads up to the Maumee, then maybe we'll pick up Route 127 to Michigan."

"Yeah, that's the way to go."

They continued on, heading west and north on a series of intersecting town and county roads, through the rich autumn farm country, the endless fields of corn and hay, the pastures and meadows. Now that he was leaving and perhaps never coming back, he made certain he noticed everything: the road signs, the family names on the barns and the mailboxes, the crops and the animals, the people, and the vehicles, and the houses, and the whole sense and feel of this land whose whole was indeed far greater than the sum of its parts... And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

* * *

They drove another half hour without much said that didn't pertain to the subject of land navigation and police.

Keith regarded the map and saw that most of the bridges across the Maumee River were located in the bigger towns on the river, and he didn't want to go through a town. He spotted a bridge near a tiny village called The Bend and asked Billy about it.

Billy replied, "Yeah, bridge is still there. Got some sort of weight limit, but if I gun it, we'll be across before it falls."

Keith wasn't sure about Billy's understanding of applied physics, but it was worth a look at the bridge.

They approached the small trestle bridge, and before Keith could see a weight limit sign or evaluate the structure, Billy was racing across the narrow span, and within ten seconds they'd crossed the Maumee. Keith said, "I think that bridge was closed to motor vehicle traffic."

"Yeah? Looked okay."

Keith shrugged.

They drove through The Bend, which took slightly less time than the river crossing and picked up U.S. Route 127 at a village called Sherwood. Keith noted it was two P.M., and it was about thirty-five miles to the Michigan state line, then another two hundred fifty miles or more to Grey Lake.

Route 127 went through Bryan, Ohio, but they skirted around the small city and returned to the highway some miles north of the town. That was the last major town in Ohio, and, in fact, after Lansing in southern Michigan, there were no major towns along Route 127 all the way up to the tip of the peninsula. Twenty minutes later, a sign welcomed them to Michigan, "The Land of Lakes." Keith was only interested in one of them.

There were no great differences in terrain or topography between northern Ohio and southern Michigan, Keith noted, but there were those subtle differences in signage, blacktop, and land surveys which, if you hadn't seen the Michigan sign, you might not notice. More important, Keith thought, whatever residual interest the state of Ohio had in him most probably didn't extend beyond that sign. This border crossing wasn't the heart-stopping equivalent of the old East to West border crossings in Europe, but he did feel a sense of relief, and he relaxed a bit.

They drove on for another half hour, and the terrain started to change from flat farmland to rolling green hills and small valleys. There were large stands of trees now, mostly oak, hickory, beech, and maple, and the autumn colors were further along than in Ohio. Keith hadn't been in Michigan since he and Annie used to drive up to see the Ohio State-Michigan game in Ann Arbor, or to see Bowling Green play Eastern Michigan in Ypsilanti. Those had been magic weekends, he recalled, a break not only from classes but from the war and the turmoil on the campus, a time-warp weekend without dissent or demonstrations, as if everyone agreed to dress, act, and look normal for a traditional Saturday afternoon football game.

He let his mind drift into thoughts about Annie, then realized this wasn't good or productive. The objective was Grey Lake, the mission was to settle the score with Cliff Baxter, not just for himself, but for Annie as well, and thinking about her meant he wasn't concentrating on the problem.