Jefferson National Forest, West Virginia
December 13
It was dark when Finn woke. The wind soughing through the trees and sounds of distant wildlife provided enough noise to quiet the perpetual ringing in his ears and unwelcome voices in his head. Rejuvenated, Finn grabbed his duffle and continued on through the humming woods, the forest alive but unthreatening. He walked through the night, his purpose and direction determined by his strides.
In the darkness, Finn hiked until he came to a narrow highway, following the winding road until pale dawn became morning, and morning became noon. In the distance, he spotted a throwback gas station and general store. With an attendant out by the single pump and a sign for homemade pies, the place seemed frozen in time.
The screen door banged behind him when he entered, and the clerk looked up from a worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The kid eyed Finn with disinterest and had no reaction at all to his scarred face.
“Help you?”
Finn poured coffee into a cardboard cup from a stack on the counter and grabbed two homemade granola bars from a plate. Setting the items in front of the clerk, he jerked his head toward the lot. “The truck with the For Sale sign in the windshield?”
“Six hundred. Cash only. As is.” The kid put a lid on the coffee and placed the granola bars in a brown lunch bag.
“Does it drive?” Finn asked, fishing out his wallet.
“For now. Needs gas and oil, though, and a trip to the mechanic. Alvin outside can take care of the first two.”
Finn fished seven one hundred dollar bills out of his wallet and passed them over. “Keep the change.”
The kid’s eyes widened at the money. He started to take it, then cautioned, “If you’re going much farther, you’ll need to get it serviced. Steer clear of Bud’s Auto. Place has gone downhill since Bud’s nephew took over. There’s a better repair shop in Paradise, Jake’s Auto.”
Finn snagged one of the granola bars out of the bag and took a bite. “Paradise?”
“That’s the town. Turn right at the T; it’s five miles up. If you go left, Devil’s Fork is about fifteen miles south. Don’t bother with the heaven and hell jokes; I’ve heard ‘em all.”
After filling the tank and adding oil, Finn drove toward town.
Finn McIntyre knew how to disappear. No buses, no planes, no trains, no rental cars. Never go to grandpa’s cabin thinking it’s safe because the property is still in the old man’s name. Don’t go anywhere you have a connection. Bus stations have security cameras. Relatives can be searched online. Friendships discovered.
He needed to go somewhere where he had no connection, somewhere no one would ever think to look. He came to the T the attendant had mentioned marked with a faded billboard advertising the Pitchfork Roadhouse and promising the devil’s coldest brew. As the truck sputtered along, he passed the sign indicating Paradise was three miles ahead. Then he noticed another sign across the highway at the turnoff to a county road where a single, unlit stoplight dangled at the intersection. It was covered in rust and buckshot divots, with one word printed across the length: Purgatory. Below hung an arrow; the front screw had come loose, so it pointed down at a forty-five-degree angle.
It was fitting, he supposed, a town called Purgatory in between Paradise and Devil’s Fork. Before he had made the conscious decision, the truck was turning onto the county road. What better place to drop off the map than a spot that most likely wasn’t on the map at all?
The road wound through the Appalachian foothills, a dusting of snow covering the barren trees and stately evergreens. At a final bend, a giant oak sat at the base of a driveway marked by a mailbox in the shape of a gingerbread house. Finn slowed the truck. The decorative mailbox was weather-worn, and the little door hung askew. The enormous tree had been struck by lightning, and part of the trunk was split and tarred over. Despite the profound damage, the oak looked healthy, branches stretching toward the sky.
As the road straightened out, Finn noted a sunny yellow cottage. A small sign dangled from two hooks under the mailbox: Maybelle Bloom Family Counseling. The fence needed some work, and the roof was missing shingles, but smoke puffed from the chimney, and the hedges were trimmed. At least someone was trying to maintain the little house—probably an older woman, Finn surmised, based on the yellow VW bug in the driveway and the overabundance of window boxes. Up ahead, he spied the town.
The truck smoked and sputtered and stopped with a loud backfire announcing his arrival. With the engine still ticking and clanking, Finn hopped out of the pickup and scanned the short street, hit with a wave of nostalgia. The place resembled one of the charming northern Pennsylvania towns he visited on field trips and family vacations as a kid. There was even a quilt store similar to the Amish shops his mother liked to browse. Some storefronts were dark, but the place was active. Pine roping and red ribbon encircled the Victorian streetlights. A wreath hung on every door and twinkle lights bordered every window. The combination of the charming scene and his throbbing head made Finn nauseous.
The main drag dead-ended at a building remarkable only in its position of prominence and the painted wooden sign denoting it as City Hall. There was a shoulder-high statue at the base of the front steps where one would expect to see a man on horseback or an intrepid explorer. Finn walked down to take a closer look. There, on the pedestal, was a carved granite Moses basket cradling a sleeping infant. The plaque beneath it read:
Virginia Dare: town founder and leader, 1579-1650.
Valiant and Loyal.
Donated by the Purgatory Civic Society
Philomena Moss Guilford, President
A cold December wind whipped around him. Finn returned to the truck and grabbed the battered leather jacket from his duffle.
The unmistakable smell of grilling hamburgers caught his nose, and Finn turned his attention up the street. Puck’s diner was by far the most active establishment on the block. When Finn’s entry prompted the little bell above the door to jingle, every head in the place turned to him, and the room fell silent. Even the chef in the back paused his diatribe, somehow sensing a disturbance in the air.
The place looked typical, and yet, not. It had the standard row of booths, the vintage movie posters, and a Formica counter punctuated with red vinyl stools.
Finn was used to stares. His ruined face elicited gasps and shudders. Children pointed. Drunks in bars called him Two-Face. Women were either fascinated or repulsed. No matter the reaction, the action was almost always the same: people trying to look like they weren’t looking. And failing.