For once in his life, his calculations were incorrect. For a Saturday morning, Route 1 was strangely vacant. But as hard as it was to believe, it was only 6:06, so little time had actually passed, and it was far too early for the late sleepers to be out and about. He passed cars occasionally, but he could count the number on one hand and he still hadn't heard a police siren. For all intents and purposes, everything was peaceful.

It led him to wonder if any of the recently deceased had been discovered yet, and he found that strangely amusing. There had been so much death; more than he had intended. The thought of all those bodies just laying there in limbo, waiting to be found, and the people around completely unaware of their presence….so much goes unnoticed in these quiet, little towns.

Shaking his head, he continued heading north. The entrance to the Maine Turnpike wasn't far off and given the non existent traffic, he estimated he'd be in Stratham in less than twenty-five minutes. That was a good thing, a very good thing, because neither one of them was up for a long, drawn out ride in a compact car.

It was Elizabeth's car he had taken when they left the Odome Point Inn. One couldn't have asked for a less conspicuous vehicle, though he cursed the limited trunk space. The delicate scent of Renee's perfume lingered in the air, conjuring up memories of their tumultuous relationship. He wished, imagined that it was her in the passenger seat, smiling at him, those wide eyes regarding him with tenderness, maybe desire, as they had, just once, when their lips had touched for a fleeting second. He had hoped to remember anything but the fear, or worse yet, the blank stare she had given him before the end; the look that had rattled him.

He just needed to get away, he told himself. Once he made it to Stratham, things would proceed as they normally did. He would arrive at the safe house and his ritual would begin. He would rid himself of this unadorned Honda Civic, bone up on his latest assignment – get to know Lisa Reisert inside and out – and then he would put the plan together. The process, as always, took 48-72 hours; he was dependable like that.

When the time came, he would head to Pease Air Force Base and as was his custom whenever he flew, he would travel under his own name. There was no reason to do otherwise; the police weren't looking for Jackson Rippner.

And though the name might sound daunting it was only that…a name. Closed in 1991 by the Commission of Base Realignment and Closure, Pease was now home to an industrial park and a small airport. It was the airport in particular, that interested him.

Before he knew it, he would be home for the first time in ages; Miami. He hadn't set foot inside his humble abode in months, or maybe it had been a year, he honestly couldn't remember. Alterations would need to be made; equipment to aid in the surveillance would be required, and all necessary precautions would be taken. He would see to it all, because he lived for the details, and when it was done, he would finally relax and he would try to forget. He would try to disregard the sense of loss and the words that haunted him.

"Renee, I need to know if…"

It was fortunate that he had not finished that sentence. It would have changed everything.

What he had wanted, what he needed to hear from her was a guarantee that the defiance, should he choose disobey orders, would be worthwhile. The heat, the consequences of his actions; it wouldn't be worth it if she didn't feel the same, if she didn't, at the very least, feel something. But he had reached that decision on his own. Eventually he had decided it would be foolish. To disobey a direct order would be sheer madness.

Sitting there quietly, no music, no distractions, he took in the ambiance; pine trees all around, the Stonewall Kitchen outlet store to his right, the highway to his left. He felt horrible for many reasons – contemplating how his life was empty, spent running from one job to another, never going home, never having anyone to go home to. It was a selfish life, but the one he had chosen without ever looking back.

Could it all change now that he was alone? After he finished the Keefe assignment, his first solo job, his time to shine, would he find peace or would he at least have time? Probably not; thinking like that was also crazy.

Still, if possible, he would like to come back here someday. He would like the chance to sample the seafood, to walk the Marginal Way, to taste and see the things that everyone else took for granted because they lived normal lives. The calm, the quiet, the happiness; he wanted that. All he felt now was pain and though no one else could see it, he was mourning the loss.

It never should have ended this way.

At last, Jackson reached an intersection; watching the light, he waiting patiently for the green arrow that would allow him to turn left onto Rte 95.

When a black pick-up truck pulled up along side him, Jackson turned his head, his eyes setting upon an elderly gentleman with a thick, grey beard and a flannel shirt. So calm and relaxed; Jackson envied the man. Would that his life could be like that someday…

Then his eyes widened in alarm when he heard a thump. It was quiet. The man in the lane next to him, assuming he'd even heard it over his car radio, would think it was an unsecured object, rolling about in the trunk and in many ways that would be a correct assumption. But he had a feeling that the knocking would build in intensity.

When she woke in the dark and became aware of her surroundings, she would want to escape, and at the moment, there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.

"Turn green, damn you," he hissed, cursing the delay and the timing of the lights. This wasn't the morning commute; why the hell had he been forced to wait here for almost a full minute?

Time went on and he began to wonder, should he take the chance, should he run the red light? When the pounding became rhythmic and insistent, he felt he might have to.

It didn't come to that, thank goodness. Just as the driver beside him turned his head, giving Jackson a curious look, the light turned. Jackson looked at the man, 'foreign cars,' he mouthed as he rolled his eyes and then both drivers' went on their way, never to cross paths again.

As if she knew all hope of rescue was gone, Renee quieted down. The wordless grunts as she kicked and squirmed, no doubt trying to maneuver herself in the darkness, hoping she could pop the trunk though he'd made sure that it and her hands were greatly secured, came to an abrupt end. The clever way in which he had bound her wrists and ankles had left her more or less hog tied and the trunk was tied shut with that all too familiar piece of twine meaning that, once again, she was stuck with him.

But even with the present situation under control, there was a problem. One that brought to mind other concerns, because with his less than enthusiastic inamorata awake and alert, handing the toll booth attendant a one dollar bill went from being a mundane to an exceedingly complex task. To be honest, Jackson was amazed that she had regained consciousness so quickly. He had hoped she'd stay under until they reached the safe house, perhaps longer.

Salvation came in the form of an E-Z Pass stuck to the dashboard of her car. From his prior dealings on the East Coast, he was familiar with its purpose, knew how it worked. Fast and easy, designed for people on the go, he could sail right through the tolls without making a stop. A fee would automatically be deducted from her, or more properly, Elizabeth's account and Jackson would never come face-to-face with anyone.

At last, life had dealt him a break and not a moment too soon.

The whole job had been a mess, from start to finish and in the end, after a long series of blunders, he couldn't protect Elliot anymore. Even the great Jackson Ripnner could run out of excuses.

He didn't feel good about what had happened, but knew it had to be done. He had conceded to that and only offered protest when they called for Renee's death as well; he had dug his heels in, surprising even himself. A smart girl, he had meant it when he said her death would be a waste of good talent; he valued her feistiness as well as her insights. They had told him he was crazy and they were probably right, but he liked the challenge and he wanted her; it was as simple as that. They had also called it a needless impossibility, but during his years of faithful service, he had never asked them for anything. They took his brother; they owed him this.

As it was, things had been hard enough. When Elliot hit the floor, so did Renee though for her it was little more than an outpouring of emotion. He hated to put her through it, but she had to think it was real. Taking a chance, he had given her subtle clues throughout the night even if she had been too distraught to read them and he could give her nothing more than those vague reassurances. It was his way of sparring Elliot pain; the fear of impending death that he had been forced to transfer onto Renee. He had always known she could handle it.

When the time came, Jackson had sparred her, turning the weapon on his own brother who had no idea what was about to happen until the shot was fired. Elliot never knew what hit him.

When it came to death, Jackson always endeavored to be humane but in so doing he had been cruel to her and that was undeniable. Leading her on, ending her ordeal with a mock execution; he would never forget the look on her face when he pulled the pillowcase from her head. Frozen described it best; she didn't move, didn't speak, and didn't ask him why, though she was certainly entitled to an answer. She stayed there, not even turning her head when he rolled her over and the sun broke through the clouds, pouring light upon her face. For a moment, he wondered if he really had shot her, but as he untied her wrists and pulled that tape away, she gasped for breath. To him, it felt like her first breath because whether she was aware of it or not, her life had begun anew.

Pulling her to her feet, he shook her hard, "Come on," he said and still lost in that daze, she grabbed her backpack and Elizabeth's purse, both of which had been lying by the foot of the bed, and muttered something about her pictures, before they walked out the front door together.

With his arm around her shoulder and a quiet reminder that he still had the pistol if she dared take for granted the amnesty he'd given, they walked into the lobby where they were greeted by a clerk in his early twenties looking out the front doors as the sound of a battered car engine howled in the distance.

"I hope those punks didn't wake you," he said, turning to face Jackson and offering up his apologies. "A bunch of morons in a Pontiac P.O.S. doing wheelies in the parking lot…I almost called the cops."

"It's alright, we were already awake," Jackson explained.

"Well, enjoy your day. It's supposed to be a hot one."

Jackson thanked the man and as he opened the door, he placed a restrained, yet firm hand on Renee's back, guiding her outside. He remained focused on her the entire time, concerned by the way she kept looking back and forth between him and the clerk and he could see the wheels beginning to turn; only lingering shock kept her silent.

"Go,' Jackson whispered.

When her foot hit the pavement, she put it all together. Somehow she knew that when they stepped outside, it wouldn't be a matter of the two of them parting ways with a handshake and the agreement that they would let bygones be bygones. Once she figured out that he planned to take her with him, she lost it.

"No," he heard her whimper and before he could tell her to hold it together, she screamed. "I don't want to go with you!"

The clerk, who had gone behind the front desk to read a newspaper and eat a blueberry muffin, looked up in complete astonishment.

"Is there some kind of problem?" the young man asked.

For his part, Jackson wasn't sure what to do; laugh it off, try to convince this guy that his wife was a bit wacky, or take more extreme measures.

When she yelled, "He's taking me against my will," and the clerk picked up the phone, he knew his response would have to be swift.

Keeping one hand on Renee's shoulder, in a clawing grip, Jackson raised the gun, its silencer still in position, hitting his target square in the face; the truest shot he'd ever made. Blood splattered across the front desk and the young man was thrown against the back wall before he ultimately disappeared behind the counter.

Looking to Renee with fury in his eyes and no time to waste, he grabbed her head in his hands, bringing his forehead down on hers with such force that she fell limp in his arms. Throwing her over his shoulder he brought her to the car, breathing a sigh of relief when he opened the trunk and found it empty. Though it wasn't a large automobile, she was a small woman and she fit inside perfectly. After that he'd taken his place behind the wheel and calmly driven off.

He had left chaos in his wake; a riddle that he hoped would buy him time – a botched hotel reservation; four guests, two dead, two missing, and two more random murders just to make it interesting. Would they think Elliot and Elizabeth had been partners, maybe lovers? Could it have been a murder/suicide? What had happened to that unwearied gentleman with the striking eyes, surely he couldn't be involved in this? And Renee Ridgewater…who? Like Elliot, Elizabeth's striking looks and dynamic personality drew most of the attention, they were easily remembered. Jackson and Renee, less boisterous by nature, tended to go unnoticed if they so desired.

By the time they tracked down Renee's family and put a name with the face, she'd be on her way to Miami. Though he would be flying, she would be traveling by truck; comfortably hidden behind a wall of secured boxes in what many referred to as a state of 'Twilight Sleep', with one of his men at her side to monitor her slumber. It was more practical and made more sense that they not travel together and as he had told his boss, he needed two days in Stratham to make those arrangements.

After they cleared the toll booth, Jackson rolled down his window and stuck his hand outside. The clerk was right; it was going to be hot today, hot as hell and muggy. He worried about her, locked in that trunk with the heat and the exhaust. He was sorry about that as well, but if she gave him the chance, he would make it up to her.

"Hang on, Renee. It won't be long."

And when he spoke, she called out again. He couldn't make out the words exactly but he knew the tone; pleading, begging. It was appropriate. They were in New Hampshire now. The state where one was supposed to "Live Free or Die," but he would never release his new companion. Deep down, she had to know that as well.

Yes, the Pine Tree State was behind them and when he passed a large green sign with obtrusive, white lettering, he marveled at the words.

"Thank you for visiting Maine. The way life should be."

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Author's Note: Well, we've reached the end of the line. Who knows what the future holds for poor Renee. She's alive for now but we all know how the movie ends…I just might have to continue this one someday.

Thanks for staying with me throughout all of this and thank you for your constant words of encouragement.

As always, thanks to emptyvoices for being such a wonderful sounding board.