GRASS LAKE, MICHIGAN
Chapter 41
ON THE ROAD

Jake Barnes cruised down the highway half-asleep when he caught a whiff of something foul—like ripe roadkill. He was frustrated to realize he was the source of the smell. Movement on the passenger side of the car drew his attention. Blinking, he looked again. Margreth Willson sat there demurely, legs crossed. She was buck-naked.

“What are you doing here? You’re dead. Maybe that’s what I smell, honey.”

She smiled.

“It’s me? Shit, I’m having a tête-à-tête with a ghost. Do you know where the hell we are?”

She didn’t respond.

“Well, I’ll tell you then. We’re speeding along I-94 in lower Michigan. That was Toledo we passed a while back. A hub of higher learning and the arts.” He chuckled. “I was thinking of the Toledo that’s in Spain, I do beg your pardon.”

She smiled once more.

“This is the Land of the Great Lakes: Erie, Huron, Superior, Michigan. Shit, what’s the other one?”

“Ontario,” she supplied.

“Right, Ontario. Hey, you can’t talk. You’re dead.”

“Sorry,” she whispered, contrite. She tilted her head, silver hair swinging forward seductively. He was aroused, much like he’d been at the diner a few days ago.

“Don’t know where the hell I am. This place looks like a wall-to-wall farm, can’t find a shower let alone an outhouse,” he grumbled as he searched road signs for a rest area. “If I don’t stop soon, I won’t have to worry about death by torture. I’ll be wrapped around a tree.”

“Personally, I’d take the tree.” She smiled sweetly, her breasts sagging slightly— not bad for a middle-aged woman of substance.

“What did that bastard do to you, anyway?”

“Cut a little from this, a little from that. My nose was too big anyway.”

“Better off not dwelling, huh? I was a spy myself. I like to think on my feet. I’ve endured a few tough interrogations in my day—which left me a bit worse for wear. Still, I’d prefer a poke with a poison umbrella over torture. What the hell were we thinking? We should have just rented a room, made love, and let you take your problems elsewhere, huh?”

She smiled, crossed her legs again, revealing more of herself.

“It’s a little late for that line of thinking,” Margreth’s apparition wiggled its toes and frowned.

“I’ve got to find this Sanctuary place. I need cold, hard facts if I’m going to get out of this one. Tighter than a virgin’s—oops, sorry. You’re a real lady. I should watch my dirty mouth. Look,” he spotted a road sign. “There’s a campground at this exit. If I don’t take a shower soon, the fumes might ignite. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Little late for that, don’t you think?” Her voice was smooth as Scotch whiskey. “You’re talking to a dead person, after all.”

“Point taken.”

Jake took the exit for Grass Lake on the expressway, part of the Irish Hills of Michigan, a mix of farms with tall corn and cottages crowded with city folks around inland lakes.

An ancient sentinel wearing a fake ranger hat and no shirt guarded the campground; his post was an old ice shanty. Jake pulled the rental vehicle onto the shoulder and planned a sneak attack. He didn’t want a confrontation with the old fogy.

He got out of the car and stretched.

“You wait here.” He glanced toward Margreth’s ghost. The car’s interior was empty. He’d known that.

The ditches were filled with cattails and wildflowers. Even the mosquitoes left him alone, unable to penetrate the miasma surrounding him. He pushed his way through the wetlands and emerged from a cluster of white pines into an open camp dotted with a mix of RVs, pop-up campers, trailers, and tents.

Gaggled in groups around fire pits, the city slickers grilled all kinds of delicious breakfast treats. The smell hung thick in the air, and Jake’s mouth watered.

He ambled past the happy campers toward a building marked SHOWERS. Passing an abandoned skillet piled high with bacon, he grabbed several hot strips and poked them into his mouth. Grease streamed down his chin. The john in the bacon family’s camper flushed, and he scurried along.

Water splattering indicated others in the building. Piles of clothing and towels rested on a narrow bench. Jake quickly shopped for clothing that looked like his size. After a shower, he pulled on a white T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans with work boots.

He threw away the mechanic’s coveralls and jogged back through the park. He almost reached the driveway when a woman yelled.

“Hey, Bob, that’s your shirt.”

Bob was standing about 50 feet over there, bare-chested.

“Hey, asshole,” Bob yelled. “Stop right there. That’s my UAW shirt.”

Jake broke into a sprint and took a quick shortcut through the deep woodsy thatch to reach the road.

The old fogy at the entrance fired what sounded suspiciously like a muzzleloader. A lead ball whizzed past his ear. Jake scrambled up the bank and into his rental car.

He wasted no time starting it up and pulling away. A three-wheeler shot out from the camp’s driveway. Floor to the floor, Jake hammered the accelerator, sending a spray of dust and gravel at the ATV and its unfortunate driver.

Somewhere between the gravel road and the highway, he lost the man. An hour or so later, he reached Grand Rapids. Turning due north on the Alpine Highway.

Jake thought about his future—if he even had one. By now, his bank account was frozen by the CIA. If they had followed standard procedures, which they would have, all records of his existence, including his school records, would have been wiped out like he’d never existed at all.

“I’ve only got one shot at the uprights, it’s the fourth quarter, and the clock’s running out. If I can’t find enough dirt on Arthur Holmstead to take him down, I’m as good as dead, Margreth.”

He looked at his ghostly passenger. She was again sitting there, gazing out the window.

“Try Dan Urban,” she said.

“Dan Urban? He’s an FBI man.”

“Sometimes we just have to step out with faith,” she reached for him, then faded. The seat was empty.

“That’s just fine,” he grumbled. “Now that I’ve gotten used to you, you up and disappear.”

On the seat, he noticed the map she’d drawn for him at the restaurant. He pulled over to the shoulder and reviewed the instructions.

Six miles north of Newaygo, turn left onto the two-track right after you see a sign for Manistee National Forest. Continue west on the two-track for half a mile. Look for a hunting cabin.

He continued along the route, heading north past the Ranger Station. A rustic grocery store sat at the edge of the National Forest. Jake pulled into the rutted parking lot and looked around. After chugging down cold coffee, he went inside.

An old woman was making an ice cream cone for a overweight traveler. When she was available, he showed his small purchases: beer, beef jerky, and a bag of chips.

“By the way, ma’am, can you tell me what’s up the road? Are there any trails into the National Forest?”

You fixin’ to do some poaching?”

“Of course not. I’m a bird watcher. You don’t carry camping gear, do you?” He tried to look innocent and bird watcherish.

“Don’t stock those items. Got a used bedroll you can buy for ten bucks.”

“Deal.”

She grunted, “There’s an old logging camp, burned down years ago, ‘bout a mile or so north. After you watch the birds, you might want to make a trip to Baldwin and take in a service or two.”

“Church?” He thought about a unique missionary approach. “Thanks.”

The road north was empty except for a pickup truck loaded with carrots that drove past him. One mile later, he saw the overgrown logging trail called Haverkamp’s Mill. Beyond the chain stretched across to stop trespassers, the two-track was a winding path that vanished into the forest.

Jake hid his car deep in a cluster of bushes. He surveyed the terrain— it wasn’t too bad. The forest floor had little undergrowth. The air smelled fresh and clean—a nice change from the city. The pine carpet was littered with old beer cans and trash near the drive.

It was midday, and gnats formed annoying clouds. Mosquitoes flitted and hummed, searching for exposed skin.

After finishing one of his beers, Jake gathered his supplies and hiked into the deep woods. A quarter mile into the forest, he found the abandoned shack. The door swung open easily; the room was furnished with a cot and a card table. A dusty folding chair leaned against the wall, and the slop pail rested by the door. There were no cupboards and aside from the petrified potato, no food. A kerosene stove hunched in the corner.

Jake unfolded the sleeping bag, and a cloud of dust billowed out. Coughing, he imagined the hordes of bed bugs and fleas left behind to bite him during the night. He set the bedroll on the cot and then focused on food and drink.

He was finishing the last of his Sunday brunch when he heard footsteps outside. The door suddenly burst open, and two men in hunting gear rushed in.

“Who the hell are you?” the taller, very dark man asked, rifle leveled between Jake’s eyes. His accent was not American.

“What the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing, walking in on a guy?” Jake gave him a menacing look. “Why, I got half a mind to shoot you.”

“We’re looking for two kids,” the short, stocky man with the shotgun said.

“You see any kids?” Jake tore a piece of jerky free and munched it. He wanted to puke, but that would be a dead giveaway.

“Sorry,” the tall guy apologized. “We need to find our kids, and our wives are hysterical.”

“Yeah, well, knock next time, buddy,” Jake gulped his beer, but his bravado was fading. “Better yet, get out of here and stay out!”

They pulled their door shut behind them. He watched through a soot-covered window made from countless fires. There was only a small oval patch to see through.

The men headed south. Jake thought about the visit.

Those goons have never had consensual sex, much less shown concern for wives or kids. They could be G-men. Maybe they belong to Art the Fart Holmstead. That foreigner doesn’t belong in the game, that’s for sure. This could be a good thing—establish me as a hunter in the area. Maybe give me cover and save my hide. So why don’t I feel better about it?

Jake’s fear faded after the enemy retreated. He stretched out on the cot.

I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes. Then I’ll follow the same trail the goon squad took. I’ll bet my left nut it leads right to Sanctuary. Maybe the kids they’re looking for are the same ones in Margreth’s top-secret documents—some of those clone babies. Perhaps they escaped . . .”

Sleep overtook him. Forest sounds shifted to owl hoots and coyote howls as night fell. Thick clouds obscured the moon and stars. Jake Barnes snoozed on, dreaming of Margreth–her gorgeous eyes, sleek silver hair, and ivory skin.

When he woke up, Jake felt energized and refreshed. He poked his head out the door. Civilization seemed a long way off from the scent of pine needles and fresh air, unspoiled by the smells of industry.

A thought crossed his mind. Why not retire right here and now? Get a hunting license and have a wild vacation. Forget this nasty business and avoid the danger. I should just get the hell out of here. But he knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t.

The well was just a short walk from the outhouse. He primed the contraption with a few quick pumps and filled the bucket with icy cold water from beneath the floor.

Back in the cabin, Jake splashed water on his face. He didn’t hear the door open. They waited for him to turn, blocking the only exit.

“Oh, shit,” he boomed. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you face death. Jake thought back to the beginning, when he woke up on a magical Christmas morning and found a BB gun under the tree with a big red bow. And what he would have given to have that toy in his hands right now.
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The end is in sight. No Tour Guides in Hell is entering its final chapters.
The full novel remains free to read through March 31. After that, it vanishes—but the story continues. The paperback and ebook will be available on Amazon, alongside two additional books in the trilogy. Thanks for being part of the journey.

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