The Hike

by Landon Beach

  Brad started to walk away again.

  “Listen, I need some assurance that you’re going to look at it on Monday. I don’t want to have to— “

  Brad pivoted and closed the gap between them in seconds, his Teva sandals kicking up dust and sending small stones flying. “Don’t want to have to do what, Jerry?” He was eyeball to eyeball with Preston now.

  “I need something to go back in there with, Brad,” he said, motioning to the building with his eyes.

  Retreat. Don’t lose your job over a stupid cover—there will be plenty more of them. “I’ll take a look on Monday,” Brad said.

  “You know I’m a bulldog,” Preston said.

  No, you’re not. “Of course,” Brad said.

  Preston relaxed and put his hand on Brad’s right shoulder. “Sounds good, boss,” he said, which was what he said any time he got his way. “Gotchya, boss,” “You got it, boss,” “Agreed, boss.” Enough already. Preston lowered his arm. “Have a good weekend,” he said and headed back toward the fifty-year-old press building.

  ✽✽✽

  The drive north along US-23 helped Brad calm down as the majestic blue hues of Lake Huron, and bright green lawns ruled the landscape outside of his truck’s passenger window. Perhaps his only win in the divorce proceedings was the beach cottage that he had retained ownership of. Three miles north of Shelter Harbor and tucked away on a point of land that was perhaps a quarter of a mile from 23, his 1,200-square foot cottage was the fifth in line down Fathom Point Road. He knew Ivy hated the drive up to the cottage from their home in Alpena, but he was certain that she would want to sell it and split the money. However, her lawyer had surprised his lawyer when she had stated that Ivy would give Brad full ownership of the cottage if she could get 75% of the money from the sale of their main house. In terms of numbers, she got the better deal. In terms of peace of mind, he was happy to offload the 3,500-square foot house in the uppity, gated neighborhood where he’d never been comfortable to begin with. The family home was Ivy’s identity: modern, flashy, and expensive. The cottage was his: old-school, functional, and quiet. Well, last he had heard, she was living with some Hollywood producer in his mansion in Pacific Palisades—introduced to the mogul by her one and only daughter after he had turned one of her screenplays into an Oscar contender.

  Snap out of it, he thought. You’re thinking about this because you just had your job threatened, and you need the income. The truck was paid off, and so was the cottage, but the roof needed to be replaced next year—at the latest. He also had no pension, the condition brought on by yet another string of mistakes in his twenties—the decade where fortunes aren’t necessarily made, but they sure as shit are lost. Mistake one: entering Central Michigan’s Pre-Law program, a program he had no desire to be in. Mistake two: dropping out. Mistake three: moving back home to Alpena, a small town south of Shelter Harbor. The following flow of milestones weren’t necessarily mistakes, but they certainly had set him on his current path: attend Alpena Community College and achieve a degree in Fine Arts, find employment at North East Michigan Pottery and Paint and teach art classes while also being a cashier, somehow marry Ivy Dawn Tanner, whose family was loaded, help to conceive Noelle Rene Cranston and be a decent father, live a quiet life in Alpena, send your daughter off to college in California, arrive home one day from work to find your wife sitting at the dining room table with a glass of wine and divorce papers, then find out that the pottery and paint store, where you have worked for almost twenty years, is closing its doors, then, by a miracle, have your artwork get discovered by the previous owner of Sunrise-Side Press and get offered a job as a cover design artist. And, mistake four: buying a brand-new F-150, draining most of your savings in the process.

  Brad ran his right hand over the smooth leather steering wheel and then turned on his blinker and slowed Rusty as the sign for Fathom Point Road appeared. The quarter-mile stretch of paved road ran perpendicular to US-23 and cut through the middle of a quiet patch of woods. Then, the road curved and ran parallel to Lake Huron, with only the lakefront lots separating the road from the beach and water. Beyond Brad’s cottage, Fathom Point Road continued on another mile and a half and ended in a cul-de-sac. His daily morning run was from the driveway down to the cul-de-sac and back. He didn’t touch any weights but did one hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, a minute-long plank, and one hundred squats before each run. Again, ordinary. Six-foot-zero and 175 pounds ordinary. Brown hair, brown eyes ordinary. Teva sandals, cut-off jean shorts, white Hanes t-shirt with a pocket ordinary. Detroit Tigers home baseball cap...semi-ordinary.

  His mailbox, black plastic labeled with the gold stickers 1715, came into view on the right-hand side of the road. He slowed but then turned into his long gravel driveway. He’d walk down to check the mail later. Needed to get his steps in. The grocery bags on his passenger seat contained his provisions for the weekend: enough spaghetti for two nights, grapes, crackers, cheese, and bread to snack on, eggs and bacon for breakfast, a new tin of Maxwell House that would last a month, and one bottle of Merlot to spread out over two nights with the spaghetti. On Monday, he’d pick up the groceries for the week. Two trips. That was it. That was his system.

  The trees opened up, and his unattached garage emerged on the left. When parked, Rusty barely fit on the concrete pad in front of the garage. He’d considered expanding the pad, but that would cost money that he didn’t have. To the right of the garage was a concrete sidewalk that led to the front door, perhaps twenty yards away from the back corner of the garage. The garage’s siding and trim matched the cottage’s exactly. This was one of the upgrades that Ivy had made when they bought the place. She wanted it to resemble a Nantucket beach house: cedar shake siding, white trim, and black shingles. The crimson-colored door was her own touch, as were the navy curtains inside, the wicker chairs on the back deck—for some reason, she had left them—and the Tahiti breeze fans mounted on the deck’s ceiling. Inside, she had removed the expensive furniture and décor when they had split, and he had been forced to start over. Now, the inside was the definition of minimalism: a small back bedroom with a twin bed, used dresser and nightstand; a kitchen with a round wooden table and four chairs, a living room with a wooden-framed couch and a Morris Chair with its accompanying footstool—two barrels serving as end tables—and underneath the windows that provided a spectacular view of the lake was a long desk with his art supplies scattered on top of it; a laundry room; and the master bedroom that had a queen bed, rocking chair, and dresser. The only bathroom was down the hallway—toilet, sink, shower, no tub.

  He parked the truck and took the groceries inside.

  When the food and drinks were put away, he poured himself a glass of ice water and sat on the couch. The wind had picked up, and whitecaps were rolling in toward the beach. About to take a sip from his glass, he spotted the blinking red ‘1’ on his cordless phone’s display. When was the last time anyone had left him a message on the house phone? He had forgotten his cell phone when he had left for work this morning; sitting at his desk, trying to avoid any conversation about The King of Weed, he had felt his pockets and then remembered that he left his cell plugged into the charging cord on his nightstand. He didn’t miss it, just felt weird without it in his pocket.

  Brad slid over and picked up the phone. This had better not be Jerry Preston wanting him to come back in. Suddenly, he felt powerless. If Preston wanted him back in, he’d have to go. Stop overthinking everything. Maybe Larry wants to grab a beer and commiserate.

  He accessed his voicemail and listened.

  “Hey, Brad. It’s Conrad.”

  It was his younger brother, and he sounded out of breath and nervous.

  “Look, man, I’m in deep here. They’re on their way. I’m at a campsite at Sterling State Park in Monr—um, yeah, I think it’s Monroe. They’ll take or destroy my cell if I have it on me, so I’m putting it in a plastic bag and leaving it in the tank of the left-most toilet stall in the men’s restroom,
code’s my birthday—month then year. Look at the pict—"

  There was a loud blast from what he thought was a car’s horn followed by silence. Then, Conrad’s voice again:

  “I think that’s them. Shit, I hope she got away. Look, just bring a boat. They might be taking me back to—"

  This time his brother was interrupted by the sound of car doors slamming. Conrad got out:

  “God, I hope this is still your home number. Don’t involve the police. Bigtime money.”

  Brad’s breathing almost came to a stop, and he felt drops of sweat slip down his back as he squeezed the cordless phone.

  What in the hell?

  2

  Shelter Harbor, Michigan

  Present Day

  The voicemail message ended, and Brad put the phone back on the receiver. He looked at his Ironman watch. 5:47 p.m. When did Conrad call? He checked the phone. 4:03 p.m. Had he left another message on Brad’s cell phone? He dashed into his bedroom and unplugged his cell. One missed call at 4:02 p.m. but no voice message. He thought he knew why. He had opted for the robotic message that said the phone number followed by “is not available right now. Please leave a message.” Perhaps Conrad heard that and didn’t know if it was Brad’s cell phone number anymore. He didn’t know.

  Brad left the bedroom and went into the living room, where he started to pace. What kind of trouble was Conrad in? Who was she? Why did he want him to bring a boat? Why in the hell was he at Sterling State Park? Don’t call the police. Why? Taking him where? And who were they?

  He pulled out his laptop from a backpack leaning against the far end of the couch. He Googled ‘Sterling State Park Monroe,’ hoping to God that it was a park in Michigan and not in Alaska. The search results posted, and he saw that Sterling State Park was indeed a park located in Monroe, Michigan, right on Lake Erie. In fact, the only Michigan State Park located on Lake Erie. Next, he checked the distance. It would be around a six-hour drive. If he left soon, he could be there by midnight.

  Anything else? Yeah, a boat. What kind? He had his twelve-foot aluminum utility boat with a small outboard on a trailer in the garage. But Conrad didn’t know about it. That’s what happens when you cut yourself off from your family for the past six years, like Conrad had. However, sadly, his family wasn’t complaining. Even if Brad called his parents or younger sister, they’d say, “Conrad who?” “He’s a forty-six-year-old delinquent who already sucked up a quarter of our retirement in rehab fees,” were his father’s latest words on the subject. A tortured, misguided soul would be Brad’s way to describe his brother, but he just could not bring himself to cut ties.

  No time for those thoughts now.

  Brad presumed that he would be putting the boat in Lake Erie, but how far out or how far down the coastline would he be traveling? He couldn’t sail, so a sailboat was out of the question. Leave it to Conrad to not disclose vital pieces of information even when his life was apparently on the line. Okay, how to play this safe? His mind scrolled through the friends he had who owned boats. The list was short, and they had all put their boats in at Hanratty’s Marina before Memorial Day Weekend. Even though the water was still cooler, the Michigander boating crowd put their boats in at that time and left them in until at least late September. He frowned. It looked like he would be hauling his small all-purpose craft. Wait a minute. He snapped his fingers. Larry hadn’t put in his twenty-five-foot Stingray, Reminiscing, yet. He had been out of state at a wedding in Florida last weekend—someplace called Steinhatchee—and was going wine tasting over in Traverse City tomorrow and Sunday. That’s right. He needed Brad’s help putting the boat in next weekend. It was still on the trailer in Larry’s driveway, which was starting to annoy Larry’s wife.

  He gave him a call, explained what he could of the situation, and Larry told him to swing by his place and hook up the trailer to his truck. No questions asked. The man was a saint, and, like Brad, had a soft spot for Conrad. “Just don’t get my boat shot up,” Larry had joked. “Remember, I know where you live and work.” Brad had laughed. The whole thing was ridiculous; his brother was probably tripped out somewhere. Perhaps this would be the final straw. But, on the slight chance that the situation was real, he proceeded.

  Next, law enforcement. Conrad had said to not contact the police. Well, his brother had said a lot of things over the years. Still, maybe he should wait. He tapped the keyboard as he thought. What about a private investigator? There were two that he knew of in Shelter Harbor, but what good would that do? They weren’t going to travel to Monroe with him, and he wasn’t going to pay them to. He searched private investigators in Monroe and started to scroll through the five that it listed: Scully Services, Private “I” Inc., Shadow Security, LLC, Cozy Mitten Private Investigations & Consulting Firm, LLC, and Finding Secrets Investigations Inc.

  You have got to be kidding me, he thought. He went back to the fourth one, Cozy Mitten Private Investigations & Consulting Firm, LLC. The artist in him imagined a hand-made mitten representing Michigan’s Lower Peninsula being placed on a child’s hand before sending her out to play in the snow. Catchy. He clicked on the link.

  On the screen was a two-story home—tan siding, crimson shutters, large windows, brick chimney, and a big front porch. Below the picture was a phone number. He dialed it.

  “Good evening, Cozy Mitten P.I. and Consulting,” a woman’s voice answered.

  What in the hell am I doing? “Um, yeah. Hi. My name is—”

  Hmmm. Should I give her my real name?

  She answered for him. “You don’t have to give me your name right now if you don’t want to,” she said in a calming tone. “Tell me how we can help you, and I’ll let you know if it is a service that we offer. Deal?”

  He relaxed. “Deal,” said Brad. “I’m heading your way from about five hours north of you. My brother,” he paused to search for the right words, “may be missing, and I need some help finding him.”

  “How long has he been missing, sir?”

  “Maybe just a few hours. He left me a voice message saying that he was in danger.” Christ, he sounded like an idiot.

  “So, is he missing or in danger?” The woman said evenly.

  “I think both,” Brad said. “He may have been kidnapped.”

  “Now he’s kidnapped too? Sir, if this is a prank call, then—”

  “It’s not, dammit!” he said. “Look, he left a message for me and said that his phone is in a toilet’s water tank in Sterling State Park.”

  The woman laughed. “His phone is in a toilet tank? Sir, I’m going to have to let you—”

  His voice became desperate. “Please, don’t hang up. My name is Brad Cranston, and my brother’s name is Conrad. He left me a message earlier today, and it sounds like he’s in real trouble. I’m leaving my home in five minutes to travel down to the park.” He thought for a moment. “How far is the park from your office?”

  There were a few beats of silence followed by, “About twenty minutes.”

  “Fine. Twenty minutes. Tell you what, have one of your investigators go over there, check the tank, and call me back. If the phone is there, then I will hire one of your P.I.s, and you’ll get my business. If the phone isn’t there, then I’ll pay you for one day of services at your daily rate when I arrive and apologize for wasting your time.”

  He gave her his cell phone number and home address. She gave him her name: Larissa.

  “Okay, Mr. Cranston,” she said. “I’ll send someone over to the park, and then we’ll call you.”

  “I’m sorry this is so weird,” he said. “I—”

  “Honey, you don’t even know what weird is until you’ve sat in this chair for a year. Something tells me that you aren’t full of it, and I just ran a check of your name and address. Book cover illustrator, huh?”

  That was quick, he thought. “That’s me,” he said.

  “I’ve never heard of any of these books, though.”

  He imagined her scrolling through the absolutely rid
iculous titles that he had illustrated covers for over the years: Smackdown, Double Lips: Double Trouble, The Lost Chronicles of Reginald Loomis, M.D., Treasure Palace, Predictably Ironic, The Grayling Secret, and, of course, the cannabis volumes by Jody DeWaters. “Well, now you know who I am. Just give me a call when you find the phone. I’m heading out.”

  She agreed, and the call ended. Then, he realized that he hadn’t told her about the ‘she’ mentioned in Conrad’s voicemail or the boat or ‘bigtime money.’ He thought about calling her back but decided against it.

  Let’s see if there even is a phone at Sterling State Park.

  He went into his bedroom and pulled out his twenty-year-old Kelty backpack from underneath the bed. He threw in underwear, a swimsuit, two pair of jean shorts, two white t-shirts, a pair of trousers, and a hooded sweatshirt with the Shelter Harbor Lighthouse on the front. From the bottom drawer of his dresser, he took out a flashlight, binoculars, and a leather pouch that held his Swiss Army knife. He put the flashlight and binoculars in his bag and threaded his belt through the openings in the back of the leather pouch, securing the knife to his waist. After a trip to the bathroom to collect his toiletries, he grabbed his phone charger and a pad of paper and pen from the drawer in his nightstand and put them in the bag.

  In the living room, he took a recording of Conrad’s voicemail on his cell phone and placed his laptop and charger in the backpack, then snapped the bag shut. He set it on the kitchen counter and then ran to the garage and back. In his hand was a small Igloo cooler. He grabbed both trays of ice cubes from the freezer and emptied the cubes into the cooler. Then, he placed the cheese and grapes inside along with a knife from the knife block. From the laundry room’s recycling bin, he brought in a paper grocery bag and placed the bottle of wine, crackers, and bread in it. Lastly, he filled up his Yeti water bottle. Placing the backpack over his shoulder, he put on his Detroit Tigers baseball cap and sunglasses, and then picked up the cooler and grocery bag and headed out.