Wesley kept to the schedule. He had to. One of his lawyer’s assistants picked him up in front of the south entrance—Wesley immediately laid down in the back seat—and rode to the Royal Oak office. Once there, he threw his bag from the morning into the back seat of his latest acquisition, a used Jeep Grand Cherokee, and headed towards I75. His lawyer had even made sure there was hot tea—sugar and two squirts of cream—from Tim Hortons and a bag of various snacks for the drive. The lawyer missed nothing. He technically got paid to miss nothing, but exceeded all expectations by handling even the smallest details. It helped this particular lawyer sympathized with Wesley for everything he’d gone through and continued to face.
Nobody liked a bully. Nobody liked Wesley’s uncle. Nobody liked Wesley’s uncle’s lawyers, either.
The clock on the Jeep’s dashboard read 9:30 a.m. The men his uncle hired to tail him would be taking turns at this point, doing whatever it was they did when not watching him, and waiting for the work day to end so they could follow Wesley home.
Good luck with that.
Wesley used the turn signal and merged onto I75, heading north. The travel would be slow going. Early December snow had taken them all by surprise. White Christmases in Michigan had been a bit scarce the past couple of decades, certainly not anything like they used to get when he’d been a child. The fresh snow that had fallen overnight made travel a bit trickier, but rush hour was almost over, the salt trucks had been out for hours, and most of the accidents caused by impatient drivers were cleared.
North.
Past M59, past the road he’d driven from time to time to see a concert at Meadow Brook, past the road he’d used to head to Lakeside Mall and Partridge Creek Mall. Past the Christmas store his mother and grandmother enjoyed walking through during the summer months. No more. Like his family, nothing but memories now.
North.
Past Great Lakes Crossing, where he’d gone to see the occasional movie, or where he and Dad had a three-dimensional picture taken of them set in a glass heart to give Mom for Mother’s Day. Past the exit for Pine Knob, another concert venue.
North.
Past Flint, where he’d gone to see The Motels play a show at The Machine Shop.
Farther yet.
Wesley filled the gas tank in West Branch, then headed right back out onto the highway. He thought about stopping for a quick bite to eat, or at least going through a drive-thru, but didn’t. Still a ways to go yet.
Back on the road, past Gaylord where Mom and Dad loved stopping at Sugar Bowl for lunch or dinner, and past Wolverine where a co-worker of Dad’s let them use a cabin many, many times during the summers of Wesley’s youth. All memories now, things Wesley would tuck deep inside where no one else could ever take them, no matter how hard they’d try. No. No matter how hard he’d try. His uncle. The man wanted everything else, so why not memories, too?
So many hours driving. So many memories on such a long highway.
Another forty minutes ticked by before Wesley saw towers in the distance reaching for the sky. The Mackinac Bridge. Who in Michigan had never witnessed its splendor? Wesley used to pretend as a child that it signaled the edge of the world, and everything beyond was the vast unexplored regions few ever ventured into. And now? Now it represented something much more than his former prepubescent mind could ever have guessed.
He gassed up again in Mackinaw City—always a good idea to keep as close to a full tank of gas as possible during the frigid winter months—relieved himself, and bought a large hot chocolate to go. Accomplishing the tasks only took seven minutes. Not bad. He was back on the road shortly after and heading across the bridge doing the posted thirty-five miles an hour speed limit.
Wesley glanced out the window every so often, to the right and across the water. The light remained just enough and the conditions clear enough that he could see the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, one of the very visible landmarks tourists loved to look for and sometimes even visit or stay at if they could afford the cost. The hotel fascinated him as a child, mostly because he’d wondered if it was secretly a place like the Overlook Hotel in Stephen King’s The Shining. What if ghosts lived there? The only time he got a look at the inside of the place, however, was when he watched Somewhere in Time with his parents. No ghosts in that movie, though there probably could have been.
A woman in a small, enclosed glass booth collected his four-dollar fee on the other side of the bridge. She wore bright red gloves, a matching scarf around her neck and over her mouth, and handed him his change before closing the window and moving closer to the tiny heater inside.
Wesley continued on—now in the Upper Peninsula—drove past St. Ignace, and past wide open frozen tundra, bleak looking landscapes of snow and ice, trees whose branches appeared to struggle under the weight of the last blizzard’s remnants, past signs reminding drivers that deer crossed there, under overpasses, and past speed limit signs few probably dared exceed unless it was summer. Anyone who sped during the winter undoubtedly got exactly what they deserved.
He lawyer had mentioned to him that the GPS would try to take Wesley one exit farther than he needed to go. The better—and probably more scenic—route would be to take Rudyard Township exit, head west, then north all the way to Twenty-Eight Mile. Wesley followed those instructions to the letter and the GPS compensated.
Beautiful country, though. Secluded. If one played their cards right, the only dangers outside the warm car would be pissing off a bear. Or, if Mother Nature developed a grudge, she might tear the place apart with a twister. That, hopefully, wouldn’t happen. The area managed to avoid the worst ravages of COVID, so maybe the folks here remained on Mother Nature’s good side.
Wesley turned onto Twenty-Eight Mile and drove several miles down to Ranger Road. Not much farther now. Not many other cars out on the road. It was actually kind of nice, and something he could get used to. Not like home. Not like rush hour with every moron out there in a hurry to go nowhere as quickly as they could slam their foot on the pedal.
“Turn right in one half mile,” the GPS chimed.
He slowed down a bit just in case. No telling if there’d be ice on the road before he needed to turn. Just a decent rule of thumb. Ranger Road ended and Wesley chuckled. One of the locals had apparently erected and then continued to clean off a homemade sign that read “TRUMP”. The area might escape the worst of COVID, just not the worst of politics.
He turned right and continued for a couple miles. West Lakeshore Drive consisted mostly of residential homes scattered throughout, some closer to each other than others. Not much else out there, at least in terms of commercial buildings. Very few. Probably some in Brimley, past the casinos. But here? Most if not all of the stores he’d be buying anything from were located in the city of Sault Ste. Marie, often referred to by locals as the Soo. Travel to the Soo would take at least half an hour on a good day.
Wesley did pass one local point of interest, a restaurant; Wilcox Fish House. Considering its location and the buildings next to it, he surmised the owners probably caught their own fish and served it fresh. He made a mental note to stop in there at some point. It looked on the GPS to be easily within walking distance, so that was a perk.
Sure enough, he turned left a quarter mile past the restaurant and started down a recently plowed driveway. The lawyer had hired a snow removal company on his behalf and, by the looks of it, they’d started off on the right foot by already having it cleared prior to his arrival.
Wesley stopped in front of the large metal gate and pushed the button on the remote control clipped to his visor. The gate opened and he accelerated, though still going slow enough to make sure the gate closed behind him.
His watch buzzed. He glanced down to see an alert: Motion Detected at Front Gate.
So, that was working as it should. Part of the property’s security included a camera placed near the gate at the entrance, and a little push button box. If anyone wanted to come in, he’d know about it. And if someone wanted to come in without his knowledge, one of the other security cameras would catch them. Not bad. Not bad at all. He knew he’d sleep easier, especially since the place was new to him.
Wesley drove up the long driveway and parked in front of the garage. No sense in opening it tonight. He’d requested that specific boxes remain sealed and in the garage until such time as he could go through them. There’d been no reason to keep them stacked inside the house. No. He wanted to move around the place unhindered, learn it, feel it, and then go through the boxes one at a time.
It’s called settling in. Now, let’s go settle.
He opened the car door and took in a long, deep breath of crisp air. The sun would set soon, and night would be upon the area and envelop it in its chilly embrace. He grabbed his bag from the house that was no longer his, from the life he no longer lived, and headed inside.
* * * * *
The interior of the house appeared immaculate. Wesley’s lawyer had personally suggested the people who’d overseen the construction, decorated the place, and arranged everything prior to his arrival. Wesley wanted someone picky, someone who wouldn’t be shy about the smaller details, and it looked as though he’d gotten exactly that. They’d been worth every penny Wesley spent from his three inheritances. Dad, Grandma, and Mom would approve. The decorator had even personally collected Wesley’s main computer three days prior, and delivered it with enough time for someone else the lawyer hired to configure all the new systems. He need only change his passwords.
The temperature had been set at seventy degrees. Not too bad. No drafts, so he could probably lower it, certainly while he slept. Wesley set his bag down next to the front door, removed his shoes, and stepped into his slippers that had been left there as he’d requested.
He moved through the living room, past a couch and a couple of chairs—all from his mother’s and grandmother’s place—and into the dining room area. The kitchen table and chairs had arrived safe and sound from the house as well, and fit perfectly. One of the ways he’d cut down on some of the cost was to make use of everything he could from the prior two households, plus his own. That made three households to choose from, and he’d taken the best of the best from each place.
The woman who’d gotten the place ready for him left a stack of important paperwork for him on the table, including manuals and other pieces of information. He’d sift through those over the coming days, then file.
Wesley moved away from the table and into the kitchen area. He chuckled at the idea of referring to each area as though they were segregated. They weren’t. The living room, dining area, and kitchen were completely open. There wasn’t any reason to keep them separate since it was only himself, and so the place had been designed that way. He stopped at the stove, removed the top off the kettle and peeked inside. Full. Again, the smallest detail had been seen to.
He turned the knob, a small spark erupted, and the gas burner lit. Cheap hot chocolate coming up soon. He’d have preferred to make it with milk, only he was tired after the morning, the stress of leaving work, then the drive there. He would pour the hot water in, take a shower while it cooled, then enjoy the cup before bed. The organizer left a packet of Swiss Miss with marshmallows on the counter, clearly anticipating his needs. Again, worth every penny.
Something was missing, though. Right. Wesley stepped over to the computer desk, turned the computer on, and fired up the server. He logged in, then returned to the stove and turned it off.
Wesley opened one of the cabinets and found the small stack of teacups. More familiarity. He could choose the mug the Secret Service gave his father when they’d worked together during a presidential visit, his mother’s unicorn mug, or Grandma’s Golden Girls Shady Pines mug.
“The Secret Service it is.” He poured the nearly boiling water. The nearest Google hub finally synced to the server, came to life, and Wesley wondered for a moment what would be most relaxing to listen to. One of the fun things he’d done with his computer system was name her, and have her programed to respond to that name, especially through the hubs.
“Okay, Sylvia. Play Episodes by Florian Christian.”
Music soon played through the speaker and Wesley felt his body physically unclench. He had no idea he’d been this worked up. A bit stressed, sure. But to the point where his body clenched? No. The album was a recent favorite, and he needed that right now. The house felt foreign, so hearing something familiar helped settle his mood.
Wesley headed across the room and into the master bedroom. The organizer left a small nightlight on for him right next to his tablet, which appeared to have a full charge. Good. He could surf a little after his shower, and the two combined should knock him clean out for several hours.
The wind buffeted against the side of the house.
Not “the” house. My house. The wind isn’t going to get in. Nothing is going to get in. I’m safe now. Safe.
The word felt a relief to think, and Wesley desperately wanted so much to believe it. He even half expected to hear an ominous voice from outside whisper “Don’t get too comfortable, Oopsie Baby. I’m looking for you, and I will find you.”