Death's Pace, Page Two
He was up in Maine, studying the architecture and design of these
forts guarding where the Kennebec River meets the Atlantic Ocean, although he still
looked and felt like any other tourist. The forts had been manned during the wars
of the late Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries, but they had never been attacked.
The state of Maine had taken good care of them since then.
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| He had arranged a place to stay, an old friend of his
ran an organic farm, making a living selling fresh eggs and goat milk
and cheese. The farm life's charms were quickly lost on him, the isolation,
mind-numbing schedule, animals and insects quickly removed any romantic illusions.
Still, they was something familiar about it all, he didn't believe in tribal conscious
or racial memory, but the familiarity was there. At least the scenery and the friendly
dog were a welcome change from the city.
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