Lisa’s words washed over Nick like a particularly strong astringent, made all the more painful, because she was right, of course. His life so far resembled a connect-the-dots picture that formed no pattern anyone outside a sanitarium would recognize. Trouble was, he was no closer to figuring it out now than before he had met Lisa.
Sighing, Lisa took a deep breath before continuing. “Nick,” she began, and Nick knew what was coming next. Please, he prayed. Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say!
“Even though we aren’t together—you know—intimately like we used to be, I still want to be friends. Can we still be friends, Nick?”
There! She had said it! The cruelest words of all! The last words any dumped guy wants to hear! The words that took away any shred of dignity left! Why not, “I never want to see you again!” or even, “Stick it where the sun don’t shine!” Anything but, “Can we still be friends?”
Nick was in numb disbelief. Within the space of less than four hours, he had been beaten up by Carter Cannon, lost his job, and now, lost his girlfriend! Just when he believed his life couldn’t get any worse, the hole had been dug deeper. Something snapped inside Nick, and suddenly, all he wanted to do was get as far away from Lisa as possible.
“Sure, we can be friends,” he managed to say. “Look, I’ll see you, Lisa!” and with that, he got into the car, backed up, and drove away.
He didn’t notice Lisa waving sadly to him as he exited the apartment parking lot.
Chapter 6
Nick did not immediately go back home but instead drove around blindly for a while. At some point, he found himself turning on the dirt road leading to his trailer. Pulling up under the car awning, he turned off the car and just sat there listening to the hot engine tick as it cooled. Finally, he got out of the car, but rather than going into his trailer, he made a beeline for the large workshop. Pushing open the doors, Nick flipped a nearby light switch. Several banks of dirty fluorescent lights hung by chains from the ceiling flickered on.
The fluorescent lights revealed a poured concrete floor. Here and there, sheets and pieces of unfinished wood were piled haphazardly on the floor. A lathe, scroll saw, drill press, and other woodworking machines were interspersed between the stacks of pine, oak, and cherry. Other woodworking tools, such as a router, plane, adze, chisel, and sander, lay on a workbench. A false second floor was located toward the back of the shop, and it was accessed by a set of wooden steps. Plywood had been nailed in place to provide the flooring for this second floor, which was actually more of a platform of sorts, and a four-foot wooden railing encircled the platform. Hanging by metal hooks from the ceiling above the platform were wooden chairs in various stages of construction. Some of the chairs were rockers, and some were formal, high-back chairs, while others were durable chairs one would find around a kitchen table. Below the chairs and resting on the platform was an assortment of tables that, like the chairs, were unfinished.
Putting on a pair of goggles, Nick turned on the lathe and let it run while slipping on a pair of leather work gloves. He listened to the lathe’s hum as he took a piece of pine and expertly turned it on the lathe with the intention of forming a table leg from it. Working with wood was Nick’s refuge, and he found a certain peace and contentment whenever he was constructing a table, stool, or chair. He always came here whenever a crisis arose in his life—which meant he spent a lot of time in the workshop.
Nick’s father and grandfather had built the workshop, and almost all of the tools and machines in the workshop had been his grandfather’s. “Papa Bill” was Nick’s dad’s father, and he had worked as a carpenter from the age of fifteen until he had retired at almost seventy. A small man at barely five feet five inches, Papa Bill had possessed a quick wit and a ready smile. He had learned his trade at a time when quality and craftsmanship were valued commodities in a carpenter, and despite the rise of the mass-produced, cookie-cutter mentality and architecture of the latter twentieth century, he had never lacked for a job. Papa Bill loved to work with wood, and he built furniture as a sideline to his regular construction work. Every single stick of furniture in his grandparents’ house had been made by Papa Bill. When he had died at eighty-three, people had lined up a block long at the estate sale to buy Papa Bill’s handmade furniture, a fitting tribute if there ever was one to the quality of his work.
Nick’s grandmother had died shortly before he had been born, and with an empty house to come home to, Papa Bill had spent a great deal of his time with Nick and his family. The workshop had been built when Nick was seven, and shortly after that, Papa Bill had moved most of his woodworking equipment there. Unfortunately, fidelity, as well as a love for woodworking, were things Nick’s father had not inherited from Papa Bill. Undeterred, Papa Bill took Nick under his wing and taught him everything he knew about working with wood. Nick wasn’t sure why he had enjoyed it so much. He just knew he enjoyed the company of his grandfather immensely and that he loved him deeply. He had a gentle, patient nature when teaching Nick how to read the grain of wood or how to measure as many times as necessary to get the cut right the first time. Perhaps it was simply because since Papa Bill loved it, Nick loved it! At any rate, when most kids his age were off riding bikes, swimming, or going to the movies, Nick was working with his grandfather. When he got home after school, if he saw Papa Bill’s battered ‘66 Chevy pickup parked by the double-wide, he would throw his books on the bed in his room and run out to the workshop. There, they would work side by side for hours until it grew dark and his mother called them in to supper. Nick had been twelve when Papa Bill had died. Next to his parent’s divorce, it had been the darkest day of his life.
Nick continued to turn the wood piece on the lathe, but unlike all the other times he had fled here, he could not find the peace of mind he sought. The events of the day kept coming back to him like a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from. Abruptly, he turned off the lathe, ripped the goggles off his eyes, and took the gloves off his hands.
Gripping the partially finished wood so firmly in his bare hands that his knuckles turned white, he stood motionless as hot tears of anger and frustration welled in his eyes. Finally, he could stand it no longer, and screaming, he pounded the top of the lathe with the wood in his hand until it broke. Snarling, he flung the piece that remained in his hand at the prefab wall of the workshop, where it struck with a loud clunk. For long moments, Nick stood with his arms by his side, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he was finally able to gain some measure of self- control, he came to a decision.
He had to leave.
It didn’t really matter where, and it didn’t really matter how far. All that mattered was that he had to leave now. As in tonight. As in immediately.
It was as if all the bad experiences, all the failures, and all the screw ups he had been involved in down through the years had decided to come home to roost at once, and their accumulated weight threatened to suffocate him.
Nick hurried out of the workshop, pushing the two sliding doors together and locking them. Glancing up, he saw that the sun was on its downward arc in the sky. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was a little past six o’clock. Running to his car, Nick opened the passenger-side door and stacked the boxes of his things on the ground. Once the boxes were all out of the car, he picked them up and walked slowly toward the trailer. Arranged like building blocks, one on top of the other, the precariously balanced boxes swayed dangerously as Nick staggered toward the trailer. Once he reached the door, he managed to drop the boxes to the ground without any of them falling over. Then he unlocked the door and impatiently began tossing the boxes inside. Quickly, he entered the trailer and rummaged around until he found a duffel bag and began stuffing it with a change of clothes, toothpaste, and other toiletry items. Nick did a quick inventory, decided he had all he needed in the duffel bag, zipped it shut, and stood up with the bag slung across his shoulder. That’s when an obvious fact suddenly dawned on him.
He didn’t have any id
ea where he was going.
Dropping the bag, Nick dug around in some drawers until he found a dog-eared edition of a Rand-McNally Road Atlas. Opening the road atlas, he flipped through pages, scanning the names of each state listed. When he came across Mississippi, he suddenly stopped. He recalled a conversation he had had with a coworker at the distribution center. The guy’s name escaped him, but what Nick did remember was that he had gone on and on about Biloxi, about how the beaches were great, that there were floating gambling casinos there, and that the food and accommodations were cheap, since the casinos wanted to attract gamblers. Most people from around here went to the gambling boats in Shreveport if they sought such distractions, Nick knew, but this guy had sworn that Shreveport didn’t hold a candle compared to Biloxi!
Nick thought about it for just a few moments longer. He wasn’t much of a gambler, primarily because he never had much money to gamble with, but the idea of cheap accommodations appealed to him. Going to a place like Biloxi didn’t mean he necessarily had to gamble. He could just take advantage of the enticements meant to lure gamblers to the casinos there!
The decision made. Nick took a pen and quickly traced the most direct route to Biloxi on the road atlas. Grabbing his duffel bag and the road atlas, Nick exited the trailer, locked it, and made his way to his car. Tossing the duffel bag into the car, he started it and immediately made his way to a bank with a drive-through that stayed open until seven o’clock. He cashed his severance check there, placing the entire $350 in his wallet. Next, he stopped at a convenience store with gas pumps, filled the Sprint’s entire eight-gallon tank with gas, bought some snacks and a bottled water, and he was off.
Nick had a destination, even if he still didn’t know what he was going to do once he got there.
Chapter 7
Traveling east on I-20 through Shreveport, Nick’s chosen route would eventually take him to Vicksburg, Mississippi, and then to Jackson. From there, he would take State Highway 49 on a straight shot south to Biloxi. He drove without really thinking, just letting his mind drift. On those occasions when he had to change lanes or otherwise negotiate through the traffic on the interstate, he did so robotically, with as little conscious thought devoted to the task as possible.
The sun was setting when Nick crossed the grandfather of all North American rivers—the Mississippi. The last vestiges of the sun’s reddish-gold light glinted gently off the water of the wide river. From Nick’s vantage point on the bridge that spanned the Mississippi, the view should have been particularly spectacular. It was wasted on Nick, however, as still preoccupied, he barely noticed the river as he crossed it. A “Welcome to Mississippi” sign greeted him as he exited off the bridge and into the Magnolia State. Taking the loop that circled Vicksburg and led to S.H. 49, he had only traveled a few additional miles into Mississippi when his cell phone trilled, startling him.
Nick was unable to afford the monthly bill of a regular cell phone plan; so instead, he had bought a cheap phone at Walmart and purchased minutes. He fumbled for the cell in a frantic effort too remember how many minutes he had left and decided he had approximately an hour or so. There wasn’t a caller ID on the no- frills phone, so he was mystified as to who would be calling him.
“Hello?”
“Nick, where are you?” Mark’s concerned voice asked over the phone. “You weren’t at your place when Patti and I went by, and nobody has seen you since … since, well … since you left Lisa’s.” So that explains the phone call, Nick thought as he closed his eyes momentarily in dismay. Mark and Patti had somehow found out about Lisa kicking him out and were worried about him.
When they hadn’t found him at his trailer, their worry had only increased.
“What did he say?” Nick heard Patti’s concerned voice ask in the background.
Patti was Mark’s wife. They had been high school sweethearts, and with Nick serving as Mark’s best man, they had married at nineteen, despite both their parents’ protestations that they were too young. Mark and Patti’s parent’s fears had quickly proved unfounded, as their marriage had been rock solid ever since. In fact, the two were inseparable, and when you saw one, you usually saw the other. Although Mark was his best friend in the whole world, Nick considered Patti a close second. In his opinion, she was the nicest, kindest, most patient person he had ever met. Short, at only barely five feet tall, Patti tended to be on the plump side and was constantly dieting. She wore her dark brown hair short and curled in beneath her ears and had sparkling green eyes. Her smile was her best feature, however, and Nick knew it could light up a whole room. Thinking of his friends and how happy they were together compared to his own disastrous personal life brought a lump to Nick’s throat.
“Nick, answer me! Where are you?” Mark demanded.
“I’m … I’m on my way to … to Biloxi,” Nick managed to reply.
“What? Biloxi? As in Mississippi?” Mark asked in disbelief. “Why?” In the background, Nick heard Patti demanding details.
Nick didn’t know what to say. The fact was he wasn’t sure himself why he had gone on this impromptu road trip. All he knew was that he needed time alone to do some long, overdue soul-searching. Finally, he said, “I … I just had to get away, Mark. I … I can’t explain it any simpler.”
There was a long pause over the phone as Mark considered what Nick had said. Abruptly, Patti’s voice came over the phone. “Nick, listen, sweetie, we know you got laid off from your job and what happened to you and Lisa. I can only imagine how hurt and upset you are right now! The thing is, you don’t need to be alone, especially now! It’s not healthy! Why don’t you come stay with us for a while? I’ll make my famous chicken spaghetti you like so much! We can play cards, go to the movies, go bowling, anything you want!”
Patti’s warm, concerned voice caused Nick to smile despite himself. Not for the first time, he thought of what a lucky man Mark was.
“Thanks, Patti. I might take you up on that when I get back. But … but I really need to do this for … for myself. I hope you understand.”
Hearing the finality in Nick’s voice, Patti sighed. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish or impulsive then, okay? And promise you will call us the second you get back to Pleasant Mountain.”
“I promise,” Nick said, chuckling. “Besides, you know me Patti; I never do anything foolish or impulsive!” From the sound of Patti’s nervous laughter, Nick knew that was exactly what she and Mark were worried about!
Patti handed the phone back to Mark, and they talked a few moments more, with Nick promising to call again sometime after he got to Biloxi.
Saying good-bye, Nick clicked off his phone, and once more he was driving alone in the solitude of his car.
An hour later got Nick into Jackson, where he stopped to grab a bite to eat and fill up his car with gas. By the time he was on the road again, it was approaching eleven o’clock at night. The traffic was light as he left Jackson behind, and yawning, he concentrated on trying to stay awake. A half hour later, he slowed down as he entered a small hamlet. A sign announced the town’s name as “D’Lo,” and other than a blinking yellow traffic light and a post office with several other buildings clustered near it, Nick found scant evidence that a “town” existed there. Yawning repeatedly now, he sped up as he passed the D’Lo city limit sign.
Nick had traveled less than half a mile from D’Lo when a motel suddenly appeared alongside the road. A neon sign atop the motel identified it as the Poolside Motel, and Nick briefly considered stopping there for the night before discarding the idea. His funds were limited, and another hour would put him in Biloxi. Besides, he figured if he had made it this far, he could make it all the way. No sooner had he made this decision than he heard a loud pop, followed shortly by his car swerving.
Gripping the wheel hard, Nick fought to keep the car under control before finally slowing down and pulling to a stop by the side of the road. Leaning over, he pulled a flashlight out of the glove compartment, Nick got out of the car.<
br />
Shining the flashlight on the tires, Nick soon discovered the problem. His left rear tire had suffered a blowout. Cursing, he was in the process of opening the hatchback of the Sprint to retrieve the spare when sudden realization caused him to stop and pound the top of the little car in dismay. He had used the spare tire to replace a flat several months ago, and he had not replaced it. He had no spare tire! Slamming the trunk of the hatchback down in frustration, Nick looked up and down the road. A long black ribbon of highway stretched away in the murky dark in both directions without a single car’s headlights to be seen. In fact, he now realized there had been little traffic since shortly after he had left Jackson. Looking at his watch, he saw it was almost midnight, undoubtedly the reason why there was no one on the road.
Nick stood beside the car, fuming, while he considered his options. Finally, he sighed in resignation and got back in the car. Starting it back up, he turned it back around and, flat tire and all, limped slowly back to the motel. Five minutes later, he pulled into the cracked asphalt of the motel parking lot. A single light was on in the motel’s office. As Nick opened a glass door and entered the cramped office, he saw no one there.
An old, yellowed map of D’Lo and the surrounding county hung from the wall behind a counter with a cracked Formica top. An antiquated swivel chair sat on the floor behind the counter. Resting on top of the counter was a mason jar filled with small replicas of the Confederate battle flag. A handwritten sign taped to the jar said “50 cents each.” A swivel rack stood next to the counter, and it was filled with bumper stickers. One of the bumper stickers said, “I Love GRITS: Girls Raised In The South,” while another had a picture of the Confederate flag, which said, “Heritage, Not Hate!” Finally, a small brass bell was screwed to the wall right above the counter. A piece of nylon cord hung from the clapper inside of it. Nick was about to turn and search elsewhere for the night manager when he heard a snoring noise coming from behind a partially closed door just to the left and behind the counter. Reaching up, he tentatively pulled the cord a couple of times, the bell ringing loudly in the small confines of the office. Abruptly, the snoring stopped, and a thin, middle-aged man exited the door and into the office, sleepily rubbing his eyes as he did so. Mussed brown hair stood up from the top of his head, much like a rooster comb. Peering curiously at Nick, he asked, “Yes, suh. What can I do for ya?”
The Treasure Hunt Club Page 4