The Launch

Chapter Nineteen

It's 10:00 by the time we get to Woodstock, a town named for a bird in a comic strip. You'd think there would be a bust of Sparky Schultz in the center of town, but nothing. I think the City Council here is way tight-fisted. But of course they have plenty of money to shell out for a major Community Center and Sports Complex in the new part of town with gymnasia, arenas, meeting rooms, a college and tons of free parking, which is where we drop off the Honda. It's a busy place with people coming and going at all hours. The south side of the arena is at the back with no entrances, so not much pedestrian traffic and there are no street lights over here. It will be a good quiet spot to park for the long term. Until we are long gone.

We walk across the parking lot. I'm glad I have the waterproof jacket for this weather, but this is still February in Canada and we're heading north. This jacket will be useless after tomorrow. The sky is gray, the snow is a dirty white and the street is covered with sand and salt.

We know enough not to use our cars or credit cards and to not phone our spouses from wherever we land. E-mail should be all right. It will be old-fashioned, like John Dillinger on the lam, sending love letters to his little woman. We grab our bags out of my trunk and then close and lock the car. I keep the keys just to have them. I can't figure any percentage in throwing them away versus being caught with them. Caught is caught, I figure. It is still drizzling and mild enough, but I zip up my Gore-Tex parka and pull up my hood. The slowly-dissolving snowbanks look sodden and forlorn. More water for the sewer system. I wonder how Massimo is making out at the shop. Donald has probably called him by now and got everything underway. What a responsible guy. He always knows what to do.

"It's cold," says JC. "This will all freeze into some nasty conditions."

"I'm sure everything will look different once we get north of Toronto," I say. "They probably haven't had any rain or melting and it's just winter as usual for them."

"Yeah. Great."

It's about a two kilometer trudge from the Community Center to the TA Travel Center, which is a truck stop out by the 401 and the Sweaburg Road Exit. We stay on Finkle Street all the way to the end, retracing the path we followed in the car, which didn't seem this long when we were driving it. Now that I'm carrying a heavy duffel bag and getting wet it seems like a very long walk indeed. Lots of houses under construction in this area. Guys swinging hammers and carting drywall around. A guy up on a roof laying out some roof shingles. I wonder if some of them take cash under the table and work under an assumed name and drink up their pay every night to try to dull the hurt and the mistakes and the regrets.

At the end of Finkle, we turn right on Athlone Avenue, which is named for a town in the center of Ireland that I've heard my parents talk about. It's on the road from Dublin to Galway. I wonder how they're getting along with the police and the FBI. I hope Mom doesn't tell them about the swearing. What's that you say, Mrs. Sinclair? We need to add a count of Felonious Imprecation on top of everything else? This guy's going up on the website. 'Canada's Most Wanted Kidnapper, Torturer and Potty Mouth.'

When we get to Mill Street, we turn left and we can see the TA sign, which is a relief because we can get ourselves inside and dry off. It also prompts a deep sigh because I am reminded this is just the first stop on a long and tiring journey with an uncertain outcome. That's its own kind of exhausting. JC's spirits must be as damp as the bottom of his wrinkle-free cotton Dockers because he isn't saying jack shit. I guess I don't know what to say either. Do we apologize to each other for coming up with and executing a monumentally stupid plan? I hope he doesn't think all this was more my idea than his.

It's almost 10:30 as we're walking in the front door of the truck stop. We stop to check the Greyhound schedule: the next bus to Toronto is at 11:30, which is perfect. We put our hoods down and shake off a bit. To our left is a buffet restaurant which smells like a lot of deep fried things facing off against a lot of fried meats to see who gets to stop a trucker's heart on the road to Tennessee. For some reason there are pay phones at every table. Weird. To our right is a variety store and straight ahead are the washrooms, but also, bizarrely, a sign saying there is a barber shop, travel service, a Chiropractor's office, a paralegal, movie theater, video arcade, some showers, full laundry and a chapel. I could totally live here. But for now, I need the bathroom most of all. I scan all the people, looking for uniforms. Luckily there is no donut shop here.