Chapter Three

I gathered up the papers Mr. Jenkins gave me and used a pencil to scribble down the location of the radio station on to the corner of one sheet. Back at my desk, I was able to Google its whereabouts, and it seemed that Rw was now broadcasting from the old lighthouse at Dageway point. Bayside Cemetery where the boy was interred, a fifteen minute drive across town from the lighthouse. I figured I would look for a base somewhere in between to stay for a few days. Once again, Google came up, and I found a small motel with cheap pay rates midtown. By the time I drove to my apartment and gathered up a few things for my trip, it was 11:30am when I turned on to highway 87 out of Ruppia. The route was to straight along by the coast taking in Bover, then through Quartland onto Jurnit and Asevent then finally Maite. Without any delay, it should be close to 8:00 or 9:00 pm when I arrive depending on the traffic.

Before I had left my office desk, I had phoned ahead and pre-booked my room with a very courteous lady called Jasmine who was the manager for the reception desk at the Venetian Douper. Her patience was commendable even though I told her I was in a hurry and if she would please just give me the quietest room in the building. She continued on with her well honed sales pitch on how the motel was a sprawling, blue painted wood framed structure recently modernized and boasting free Wi-Fi, flat screen TV and comforting air conditioning. She took care to mention the fact that each newly bought king size bed had been fitted with hand picked by her as a neutral brown and cream bed linen. I thanked her, paid by Credit Card, but had felt exhausted by the whole transaction.

As I drove along, in the back of my mind I was concerned about how I would approach the story with Geline, it had been a very short period of time since the boy's death, and the circumstances of which Ms. Pottrott either decided to not extrapolate, or she had been asked not to. Either way, I was going to be very much in the dark, regarding my position, and I may have to tread lightly in order to gain everyone's confidence and approval. It had been a long time since I had done any in-depth journalism, so I expected it to be a tedious and short journey there and back.

About fifty miles along Ruppia Road, I stop at an Esso gas station to fill up and grab some Coke, smokes, and chips for the trip. After a quick washroom break in the only toilet I kept going until I hit Maite. Along with my phone call to secure a room for the night, I took time to speak to the radio stations who very kindly gave me Ms. Geline's cell number. I called and left her a voicemail explaining who I was and would she mind meeting up to discuss her story over a drink tonight. I hoped she could drop into the Douper's bar where I would be waiting at around 10pm, that should give me enough time to get there and check in.

The highway was surprisingly busy, but I made good time to Bover in just over an hour. As I passed through this quiet little town, I let my eyes take in its quaint and enjoyable atmosphere. Downtown Bover seemed to be made up of a reluctant moving Main Street, ambling pedestrians, and the smell of the Livana River. Red brick contemporary buildings mixed well with older seventeenth century structures that had lasted since the first settlers. My brochure from the gas station highlighted the Livana Mill, an enormous rustic construction that seems to take up much of the town. Surrounded by lush green trees, it felt like I had just enjoyed a good whiskey. Pellets of rain spittled across my windshield as I carried on through and back onto the 87.

Everyone who lived here knew about the most famous baseball team, The Woroling Sea Dogs. The fact I was heading there brought back some great memories of when dad used to bring me to see their games when I was a kid. At any other stage, I would have stopped but my tight traveling constraints left me little time for any sightseeing, so I hammered on through town and made it to Quartland by 2:28 in the afternoon. The rain had followed me all the way from Bover but had never become more to anything other than a drizzle. I had only ever made short trips in my old Ford, so by now I was suffering from it's less than comfortable, worn out seats, resulting in a dull ache in my left shoulder that began to irritate me, it was most likely brought on by my poor driving posture. While trying to ignore it, I wondered whether Wilbert had sent me on a wild goose chase when my cell phone rang. After checking my mirror to make sure the traffic cops weren't behind me, I picked up the phone and answered. It was Geline, and she seemed excited that I was interested in her story and on my way to discuss it. Her voice was pleasant and warm with a hint of New England and a drawl that sounds like they are singing each line.