CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was a solid line of cars, bumper to bumper, on the northbound side of the highway. It ended against a roadblock consisting of two state troopers, one standing in the middle of the lane with a double-barreled shotgun over his arm, the other by the roadside where he could look into the cars. Their patrol car was pulled over on the soggy shoulder, its motor idling.
A new Lincoln with a middle-aged man at the wheel was next.
"Why do you want to get through, mister?" the trooper demanded. He had long ago given up the time-consuming request for registration and operator's permit.
The man was flustered. "I have some friends in Newtown," he said. "I thought maybe there was something I could do for them—"
The trooper glanced into the back of the car. Empty. "You haven't got anything they need," he said. "Turn around and go home."
Meekly the man U-turned around the trooper in the road and sped south.
The next car was a tired, top-down convertible with two young couples who might have been high-school seniors, college freshmen or young working stiffs. The driver explained, too glibly, indicating the girl by his side: "Her mother lives in Bradley, so she got me to drive her in. You know the railroads and buses aren't running, officer."
But the girl giggled.