Steve theorized the route from Candice’s motel in Nebraska to Hecla, South Dakota was traveled by him before. For what other reason would a young man have ended up at run down motel in the middle of nowhere. He thought he may have stopped there on the way to or from Hecla at one other time in his life, but why?
Mathias Winthrop may hold the answer.
As Wilson drove he looked for clues along the highway, in fields, and in towns that might bring something to mind. There were only drips relinquished in its own time, own place, and its own pace.
Wilson slowly and methodically prepared himself that the recovery of his memory might be more painful than its remaining hidden. “I must have a good mind, it protects me from what will hurt me. A bad memory is not such a bad thing, that way there is little to regret.”
Hecla was in the middle of farm country. It was a town bypassed by the state highway and the last 40 or so years.
Wilson slowed as he drove beside the town. He observed the scattered homes and looked down the quiet streets. It was a typical rural community with streets having no curbs or sidewalks. Homes were functional and well-kept, but not meant to impress or be ostentatious. In towns like this everyone knows your business and who you are, there is no need to pretend to be anyone other than who you are.
Wilson spotted a sign that read, Main St. He turned on to it and drove slowly. He parked on the street in front of a bar in a brick building.
He walked in. It was quiet, no customers. He sat at the counter.
A voce from a room behind the back bar that appeared to be a kitchen called out, “Be right there.”
A short slender man in his 50s darted from the kitchen wiping his hands with a towel. “Menu ‘s on the board,” he said pointing to a blackboard.
“Burger, lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise,” Wilson said. “I’ll have coffee with it.”
“Like to have some pie with that?” the man said. “A lady around the corner bakes ’em fresh everyday.”
“If you got peach,” Wilson said.
“We can do that,” the man said.
Wilson was half way through the sandwich. The man was washing glasses in the sink behind the counter.
“I’m looking for a fella,” Wilson said. “Mathias Winthrop.”
“You must know him pretty good,” the man said. “Not too many people know his name is Mathias. Everybody just calls him Matt.”
“So you know him,” Wilson said.
“Everybody knows Matt,” the man said. “He’s the towns only electrician; that is besides his son.”
“Can you tell me where he lives,” Wilson said.
“Take Main west until it dead ends into the tracks, turn right and drive about two blocks; You’ll see the sign in front of his shop,” the man said.
“He’s an old army buddy,” Wilson said.
Wilson finished eating. He followed the directions to Winthrop Electrical.