The Milk Wagon Read online

  The three of us were shocked into silence. We all realized it was Nate, but it took a bit of time for our brains to process what we had just seen. Try as we might, none of us could come to a satisfactory explanation. Hop banged the back of my seat. “D-did you, did you see that? Did you see that?” His voice squeaked like he was thirteen. “That was Nate right there. What the hell?”

  “I don’t know, man,” Mark said “What is going on? Was someone chasing him?” The three of us turned our heads and looked down the road to see if anyone was in pursuit. Other than the gnats, mosquitoes and the occasional moth flying in front of the headlights, we saw nothing – thank the Lord. If anyone had jumped out of the woods, we would have passed out right there. One thing was clear: we had to get out and get out quickly, so I slammed the Milk Wagon into reverse and started to turn around.

  “Where are you going?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t know. Anywhere but here. This creeps me out.”

  “Me too,” Hop said, still leaning over the front bench, his eyes peeled on the woods, “but we can’t leave. Not yet.”

  “Oh, we most certainly can,” I said. “We are done.”

  “Right on,” Mark said. “Punch it.”

  “No, we can’t,” Hop said. “We have to check on Nate.”

  “But –”

  “C’mon Matt, what if it was you?” Hop asked, his voice returning to a more normal level, although his eyes were still wild. He was talking a mile a minute. “Or me or Mark? Wouldn’t we want – or expect – our friends to at least try to catch up with us? What if he was running for his life – which is not outside the realm of possibility, odd as it seems? You have a vehicle. There are three of us. At a minimum, we have to make a few passes.”

  Hop was often the voice of reason, and to some extent the moral compass of the group, so long as we weren’t talking about girls, and as much as I wanted to disagree with him, I couldn’t. The fact that Hop was sticking his neck out for Nate, of all people, spoke volumes; of the three of us, Hop was the most reluctant to bring Nate into the fold. Even so, Mark was also spot on when he said earlier it felt like we were in a horror movie. Seeing Nate like that in the middle of the woods late at night with no discernible light source in any direction made me weigh Hop’s concerns against Mark’s observation. If it was a movie, now would be about the time Jason or Freddy would rip through the roof and pull one of us out for a stabbing or a lopping off of an extremity. Upon reflection, though, it couldn’t have been a horror movie, at least not a good one, because none of us had ever had sex, much less got naked with a girl, and the best slasher flicks begin with some kind of hanky panky before the first kill. Mark didn’t say anything, and I figured he agreed with Hop in principle, but if I voted to go home, he would totally be on board with that as well.

  “Okay, guys, here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “First, we have to get out of this general area. If there is someone else out here, odds are they are watching us, and I want to get as much pavement between them and us as possible. We do our best to check things out and then get back home.”

  “Fine. Let’s just get this done and get out of here.”

  “I hear you. Now did anyone see where Nate went?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nah.”

  “Great. Helpful as usual. Best we can do then, is follow this road in the direction he was running until it ends or we go too far. If we see any side roads or turns, we can double back and explore them as well. And if we don’t see Nate, we’re done. Fair enough?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  I turned the Milk Wagon down the road and clicked the brights back on. A summer fog steamed up the ground, mirroring the lights and increasing the creep factor tenfold. The radio was off, and all of us had our eyes peeled – me looking straight, Hop looking to the left and Mark to the right. We drove at least three miles without seeing anything other than an old mama possum that hissed at us before scooting out of the way. Hop and Mark pointed out side roads and turns, and we spent another twenty minutes running those down, but didn’t see Nate – or anyone – for that matter. We did see some signs of civilization when we came on some neighborhoods and a few cars on the road, but other than that, nothing. The adrenaline we were running on when we first started had worn off, and the initial fear was transitioning into fatigue, if not boredom.

  “Zilch,” Hop said after we dead-ended on our fifth side road.

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  “Uh, I think there’s one more up here,” Mark said. “You see it?”

  “Yeah. If this isn’t the one, I say we head home.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Yep.”

  I headed in the direction Mark pointed out and started to slow down after a mile of not seeing anything. I hated to admit it, but I was a bit turned around, and I thought we might need the extra time to find our way back to Highway 49. I was about to throw in the towel when Hop popped up.

  “Look! There!”

  “What?”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Matt turn a hair right.”

  I did as Hop suggested and sure enough, the edge of a brick column peeked around a magnolia trunk. I drove another ten yards and parked right in front of the gate leading to Nate’s house. Of course, it was closed.

  “Did we ride by this before?” I asked.

  “Probably three times. Any of y’all see anything up at the house? Lights? Anything?”

  We squinted down the canopy of trees, and all we saw was a murky black.

  “Nothing,” I said, “but even if they had every light on at the manor, I’m not sure it would get through this thicket. Certainly not with all this fog.”

  “So, what do we do?” Hop asked.

  I pulled up a few more feet and rolled up next to a post with a keypad on it. On top of the keypad was a circular metal screen and a call button.

  “Here we go, fellas. Looks like they do have an intercom. So, do we check in or not?”

  “I hate this place,” Mark said. “Why don’t we just throw the wallet over the fence and haul ass?”

  “I would agree with you on any other day, but considering we saw Nate outside the compound, we should at least check in. Hop, what do you think?”

  “I’m no fan of staying, either, but we should probably give them a buzz. His dad’s a total asshole, but asshole or not, if Nate’s in danger, we need to let him know. You’re driving, Matt, so I vote you do the talking.”

  “Second.”

  “Hold on, guys. What do I say? Hello, sir, have you seen your son tonight because we have and he didn’t quite look himself, you see he was running down – ”

  The box squawked, and a tinny voice cut through the air, causing us all to jump. “Can I help you?”

  Mark mouthed an exaggerated ‘what?’ and pointed to the speaker.

  Sounded like Nate’s stepmom to me. How did she know we were out here?

  “Hello, can I help you?” the voice said again. Mousy voice with a bitchy edge to it. Definitely Vicky.

  “Uh, yes, uh, sorry to bother you Ms., uh Maye – Vicky is it?” I wasn’t doing too well.

  “I asked you a question. Can I help you with something? I don’t know who this is, and if you don’t identify yourself, you’re going to be in trouble.”

  She swallowed the last word and it came out “trubbah.” Vicky had been drinking.

  “Yes ma’am, my apologies, this is Matt Frazier, and I’m here with Hop – Jason Hopkins – and Mark Ragone.”

  Not a word.

  “We’re Nate’s friends. We –”

  “Nate’s not available right now.”

  “N-not available?” I turned and looked at Mark and Hop, and they shrugged their shoulders. “Is he there, because, we, uh, we saw –”

  “Did you hear me? He can’t
come out right now. He’s asleep. Do you even know what time it is?” For Vicky, alcohol was neither a mellowing agent nor a mood lifter. She sounded like a mean drunk. She was a mean sober, too. Not a good combination.

  “Are you sure he’s there, because –”

  “Dammit, how many times do I have to tell you? Nate is not available, Nate is asleep. Why are you here at this hour? Go home.” Lovely lady. Her tone reminded me of Mr. Mayes, which made me wonder why he wasn’t joining in this colloquial exercise.

  Hop tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at Nate’s wallet on the dash. He mouthed ‘ask her about the wallet.’ I nodded my head and cleared my throat.

  “Yes ma’am, but the reason I came by is I have Nate’s wallet. He left it in my truck, and I recall him saying he needed it first thing in the morning, so, that’s – that’s why we’re here.” It got quiet for a few seconds and then Vicky muttered a few things under her breath I couldn’t hear, but it sounded like cursing. I don’t think she meant to leave her hand on the microphone. The weird thing was, when she did get back on the horn, she sounded cool, and not nearly as dizzy as earlier.

  “Why thank you, boys,” she said. “When he got home this evening Nate mentioned to us that he lost his wallet, and he will be glad to know you retrieved it. He was . . . most upset.”

  “Do you want us to come up and drop it off, or . . . what?” That didn’t come off as smooth as I had hoped, either. Of course, none of us wanted to drive up to the house, but all three of us kind of wanted to see Nate to confirm that he was, in fact, back home. The veracity of the shrew’s testimonial regarding Nate’s current whereabouts was not exactly reliable.

  “No. There is a drop box built into the column on the right – just next to the mail slot. Just slide it in there.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Of course you don’t. Look to the right, I said. It’s behind those bushes.”

  “Got it. Listen, can I holler at Nate real quick? I need to ask him –”

  “That will be all, gentlemen. Thank you. Good night.”

  “That’s it?” Mark said. “Thank you and good night? What a crazy-ass bitch.”

  “Shhhh.” I said to Mark, and pointed over at the receiver. Hop was giving the slice throat signal as well. For all we knew she was still listening. He tossed me the wallet, and I slowly crept toward the post. I fully expected some type of serial killer to jump out of the bushes, and each step felt like my last. When I finally got there, I was a twig break away from dropping a load.

  I found a brass slot big enough for several magazines, and I pushed the wallet through. Once it was in, I planned on making a dash for the Milk Wagon, but when the wallet thunked its way to the bottom of the box, something caught my periphery that sent a ripple of goose bumps from my shoulder blades to my fingers. Just a few feet away in the bushes was the yardman. I don’t think he expected me to see him, but he gave his position away when he jumped after I dropped the wallet in.

  I stepped back, foot over foot, until I could feel the Milk Wagon’s bumper, then guided myself around the truck and into the driver’s side door, never taking my eyes off the man. The blood pounded through my temples, and I struggled to keep from hyperventilating as I slid into the seat. Hop was confused about my behavior, but when he followed my line of sight, I heard his breath jerk to a stop as the angle of the headlights illuminated the man’s profile. Mark saw it too and pointed towards the gate, too shocked to even curse.

  We were being watched the entire time.

  Chapter 24

  Back when she was a college student, Kathryn Cooper considered herself a bit of a free thinker, and even pondered majoring in art studies during her younger, idealistic days at Tulane.

  It took only one summer interning at a painters’ colony in the French Quarter, however, for her to realize that washing her hair, regular baths and a reliable source of income were legitimate life goals. She came to this crossroads at about the same time a female FBI recruiter approached her during a job fair on campus. As a teenager, she hated being an Air Force brat, and swore she would never join the military, but her father’s influence was strong, and something about the opportunity to serve called her. She switched majors, and shortly after graduation, found herself at the FBI Academy in Virginia. She loved Quantico, hit the field running, and other than the dark year after her father’s death, never looked back – which was good and bad in her eyes. She was happy to have an occupation with real opportunities to advance, but missed those days when she was able to exercise the left side of her brain.

  She tried to make up for her creative dearth by volunteering at the Holden Gallery on 27th Avenue in downtown Gulfport. She liked the gallery because it offered a good mix of local and national artists, and on Second Saturdays, the gallery brought in live music, set up a cash bar, and turned the place into a laid-back, funky lounge. As a volunteer, she helped with painting, exhibits, and occasionally worked the bar. Eventually, someone recognized her artsy side, which led to her consulting with visiting artists to plan their shows. Over time she was elevated to a staffer, which paid a small (very small) stipend for her work, did two rotations on the board, and eventually was asked to serve as chairman.

  One of her pet projects was a student outreach endeavor called Campus Creatives, where high school volunteers came in to help with shows, exhibits, or parties that the gallery hosted. She always had a large contingent of kids from St. John High School because they had to get ten mandatory service hours per semester.

  Kat scheduled the first meeting with the new group to discuss the fall events, and to start planning for the big Marty Deen exhibit, which was to kick off in December and culminate in a big party on New Year’s Eve. She got off work early, and after taking a quick shower to freshen up, arrived in time to set up chairs and put out cookies and lemonade. The kids eventually filed in, and by six o’clock, twelve of the fifteen had arrived, which was par for the course. She absolutely had to be done by seven, so she went ahead started without the others.

  “Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming out,” she said, adjusting her seat so she could see better. “There are some faces out there I recognize, and some I don’t, so I’ll introduce myself so we can get started. My name is Kathryn Cooper, and I serve as chairman of the board here at Holden Gallery.” She continued with a brief history – her education, the FBI, and how she got to the gallery, then handed out a sheet listing upcoming events and assignments. She also passed around a legal pad to get the attendees’ personal information, and had them fill out name tags for the first meeting.

  “Okay,” Kathryn said, looking down at her notes, “looks like we have a pretty good mix.” Kathryn enjoyed this part because she used it as a litmus test to see if her analytical skills were on point. Right or wrong, she made snap judgments of every kid based solely upon first impression and documented her thoughts. At the end of the year, she would look back over it to see if her instincts had proven true.

  By the time she reached the end, she had four from Gulfport High, one from Long Beach, two from Harrison Central, and five from St. John. Of these she noted about one: ‘bored stiff/ate nearly all the cookies,’ two: ‘slouchy disinterested types,’ two: ‘great potentials,’ one: ‘hilarious and loud,’ and one: ‘shy but engaging.’ Just as she turned to address the group, the door chimed, and two latecomers walked in. She could tell by the crowd’s response that they were from St. John.

  “Glad you could make it. Please have a seat. Eagles, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. My name is Kathryn Cooper, and I’ll be working with you two throughout the year.” She turned to the girl. “Now let me hear about you. Your name?”

  “Emily Miller. Nice to meet you.”

  “You too, Emily. And what brings you here?”

  “Well, I needed to get my hours somewhere, and like to paint. I’ve known Marty Deen sin
ce I was a little girl, so working with him should be fun.” She looked up at the tall boy next to her. “Plus, he wanted me to come with him.” He halfway smiled. “So here I am.”

  “Certainly glad you are here and I look forward to hearing your thoughts about Marty.”

  Pretty. Confident.

  “You’re the last one. Tell me your name.”

  “Nate.”

  He carried himself differently from the others. Strapping kid; athletic type – potentially good with the girls at school, but carried himself like he was dragging something. She could see he was intelligent, but had something else going on in his head. She wrote timid then scratched it out when she noticed his leg bouncing up and down a mile a minute, which wasn’t totally unusual for a teenager in a crowd of strangers. Then she saw a look of panic come over his face, as if a terrible thought popped up, and then in a flash of self-awareness, his eyes darted around the room to see if anyone noticed. His gaze landed on Kathryn and she looked down at her pad.

  Cagey.

  “Okay, great. Again, thanks for coming. We really couldn’t do this without you. As you may know, the gallery’s next big event is in a few months, where we will be showcasing the work of Marty Deen. Who in here besides Emily has heard of Marty?”

  Most of the kids raised their hands. “Fantastic. We are very excited to be exhibiting Marty. In addition to the drawings we already have on hand – which are fabulous, by the way – Marty is doing a few more. I may recruit some of you to go through these with me to help pick out the best ones.” Kathryn winked at Emily and got a thumbs-up. She gave a short spiel on Marty’s background and informed the students his exhibit could provide a lot of exposure for the gallery. There was an outside chance of it being covered by the New York Times for a Sunday feature, and to make the night even more extraordinary, a string quartet led by a member of the first violin section at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra would be performing. It was an easy deal since the musician would be home for the holidays to visit her parents nearby in Ocean Springs.

  “It will be black tie, so we will need a lot of help sprucing this space up. Because of all the work ahead, we will begin the Saturday after next.”