Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

more.” He waved a hand toward his legs, “My knees. Listen, I gotta’ go, I’m starting to get cold.”
    “If you see him, would you ask him to call me?” Malloy handed him a card.
    “Sure thing.” He tucked the card into his pocket.
    “Thanks,” said Malloy as he watched him peddle off.
    “ You’d never catch me wearing an outfit like that, let alone trekking out in this kind of weather on a bike, ” he thought to himself as he pulled his car door open and climbed in.
    He started the engine and waited for the heat to come up, before driving off.

CHAPTER 68
    WEDNESDAY MORNING ALFRED WAS up before dawn. The night before he had decided that today he would return to Ben’s. He planned to talk with Max again and explain his interest in the quilt that was in her possession. He imagined that she would understand and give it to him. Even if he had to buy it from her, he was sure she would give him the quilt and he would be another step closer to fulfilling his destiny.
    By 8:00 he was on the road heading for Rye Harbor. Rejecting the turn for the interstate, which certainly would have made the ride faster, he decided to take old Route 1, which carried mostly local business traffic as it passed through town after town, each with its own complement of stop signs and traffic lights.
    Alfred had been so intent on hitting the road, he hadn’t eaten anything. It wasn’t long before his stomach told him he needed food.
    He considered his choices. Along the way there were many fast-food restaurants, most with drive-thrus. That would give him the option of eating while he drove, or he could stop at any one of the countless donut shops that followed Route 1 north. He made up his mind when the Agawam Diner came into sight. This well-known, historical New England diner was a popular local place and had become a type of pilgrimage for visitors to the area.
    As he waited for a gap to develop in the traffic so he could turn in, he watched as an elderly couple exited the diner and got into their car. Carefully they backed out of their parking spot, leaving an empty space. At that same moment, a gap opened up in the traffic flow. As they departed, Alfred turned in and took their place. He smiled as he turned off the truck’s engine. It seemed like a sign of good luck. Confidence in his eventual success was growing.
    As anxious as he was to get on with his mission, he didn’t hurry. Instead, he took his time, alternately watching the hustle and bustle of the waitresses as they moved the crowd in and out and thinking about his destiny. As he finished eating, he checked his watch. It was nearly 10:00. Almost two hours had passed since he started his adventure, and he was only one town away from his store. It was time to move.
    The ride north on Route 1 went better than he had expected. There were no accidents and little construction. He even hit most of the green lights. By the time he reached North Hampton, New Hampshire, he was sure this would be his lucky day. So much was going right. At the intersection of Route 111 he decided to turn right toward the ocean and follow the shore road the rest of the way.
    The drive down Route 111 toward the ocean illustrated the economic impact that proximity to the coastline has. The closer he got, the nicer and more expensive the houses became. After he drove past the horse farm and read the billboard that proclaimed its successes breeding racehorses, there was one more short hill before the ocean came into view. As he crested the hill, before him, as far as his eyes could see, was the Atlantic Ocean in full glory. The day was so clear that to the south he could just make out Cape Ann, where he had started his day. Maine was to the north, and the Isles of Shoals stood guard only a short six miles offshore. He turned north onto Route 1-A and immediately pulled off onto the side of the road. He looked down over the edge of the cliff and saw a lone lobsterman just off shore tending his traps.
    On a day as calm and clear as this, it was easy to forget that this kind of day was the exception in November rather than the rule. Most lobstermen had begun taking their gear in, and only a very small number were still actively working their traps.
    A white fleck on the horizon caught his eye. “ Probably a late-season departure of some sailboat heading for warmer climes, ” he thought to himself. Then, as he stared at that small white fleck, his thoughts drifted and images―mostly imagined but