Pensacola, Florida
Peter Gregory felt refreshed and energized. Driving over Pensacola Bay with the water shimmering in the moonlight always had this effect on him ever since he was a boy. He kept the driver’s window open a couple of inches just to suck in the cool sea air. Yes, he needed this. And he definitely needed to get away from the snow and cold.
The trip itself had managed to restore some mental clarity. Something about the isolation and security of his own private bedroom suite onboard the train allowed him to relax like no other place. For fourteen hours, all he had to worry about was eating and sleeping. The suite also included a private bathroom. No interruptions. No outside stimulations or irritations. The motion of the train never failed to lull him into a deep and restful sleep.
Even the five-hour drive in the dark felt liberating, including the slight detour. The heavy-duty cargo liner that he’d used to wrap the oversized sports duffle had worked perfectly. Not a hint of smell had leaked through.
The Mercedes was his one constant, not just a home on wheels, but a safe haven. Like an old friend, they’d been through a lot together. He took good care of it and the car returned the favor. He certainly didn’t want it to smell with even a hint of a dead body.
Before he parked it, he took it for a deep cleaning: inside and out.
When he got to the house on the beach, the horizon started to take light. It took him three trips up and down the stairs to bring in his supplies. Each time, he stopped to stare out the wall of windows at the glistening water of the Gulf of Mexico.
He calculated that he had the house for two weeks if he wanted. This time on the digital schedule, he’d crossed out the dates, making it look like the house was occupied, not just vacant. No more surprises like what happened back in D.C. No one questioned or paid attention to where he stayed. It was one of the perks his investment funds provided.
As a result, he had no need for a long-term address for over five years. Honestly, it didn’t feel like a vagabond life. Instead, it allowed him a good deal of freedom, along with a furnished luxury home whenever he wanted.
He tried to remember how long ago it’d been since he’d been in this part of Florida. Seven years? Maybe eight. He’d spent only a few days. That’s all that was necessary for a funeral.
Less than an hour, and he was back on the road. The old blue pickup still ran great. It certainly fit in better on these back roads and would draw less attention. So much had changed across the bridge in Santa Rosa County. Housing developments had cut deep into the wooded areas. Concrete replaced clay. Businesses dotted along the way. At least the Waffle House and the Red Roof Inn were both still there.
Gregory checked his map and continued into unfamiliar territory. It figured that his mother would build her mansion some place entirely new. She’d want to be the first. She’d expect to set the standard.
Just as he slowed to search for street or road markers, he saw the huge brick and wrought iron sign for Linden Estates. He turned into the entrance but pulled aside and let the realization sweep over him. He didn’t know whether to smile or scream. Why was he surprised? Of course, his mother named the frickin’ development after her favorite son. Linden was Mickey’s middle name.
He shook his head and glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, as if expecting to witness his head finally exploding. That’s when he noticed a little boy. Was it another hallucination? Like the image he had seen the other night sitting in the backseat of his car.
This boy stood tucked between the trees on the other side of the highway. There wasn’t much traffic, and he seemed to be hiding but trying to watch Gregory’s pickup.
He turned the vehicle around as if he was leaving. But when he pulled back onto the road, he drove up on the shoulder in front of where the boy was. Gregory rolled down his window, and the boy peered out at him.
He got a closer look at his face. A jolt of recognition hit him. Gregory became speechless. He stared. His fingers clutched the steering wheel.
How was this possible?
He was looking into the face of a ghost.