The Apostles - 1. The Apostles

The Apostles

By Cole Matthews

I watched as the ferry’s ramp ascended to vertical, squealing with metallic protest, blocking off any view of the pier. Around me, I took stock of several cars and SUVs full of people parked on the boat’s deck. All were heading to Madeline Island for some hiking, saltwater taffy, cave exploring, and munching on their famous double crunch French fries sold out of a food truck. I felt like I was observing their behaviors from afar, though they were only yards away from me.

I wasn’t going to do any of those recreational activities. I was working, finding a subject, serving him some papers, and then heading back to the mainland and my solitary existence in Minneapolis.

As I looked over the cars, I saw a small group gathered just outside a large, shimmering black Excursion. Like me, they were outside their vehicle enjoying the boat ride.

The tallest in the group was a man, well-built, with wire-rimmed glasses and a thinning dirty blond head of hair. There was a woman standing next to him, must be his wife. I noticed she had an indifferently coiffed mousey brown hair style with a kind of page-boy cut. They swayed gently, without noticing as the ferry rocked back and forth moving across the water.

The children were all slim and kinetic, with the same dirty blond hair color as the man, presumably their father. The mother looked around nervously, watching her brood while chewing on her lower lip. The man was speaking emphatically, as though holding court to his little assembled family. The tone of his voice was sharp and pedantic.

“The Apostle Islands were all remnants of the glacial movements that created Lake Superior and the other Great Lakes. The bedrock of these islands was left because their outcroppings resisted the power of the receding ice flow.”

I realized I’d heard the snippet only because now I was paying attention to him, and I wondered why exactly. He was an ordinary, thirty-something man who had a pleasing face and looked proportional. His stance was confident, yet relaxed, as though he was in absolute control of everything around him. Maybe that’s what was raising my temperature.

The guy was unintentionally hot, like seriously sexually inviting, all the more because he didn’t even know it. Under the cotton T-shirt and hoodie, there was a man who worked out, not incessantly or obsessively, but regularly. His muscles didn’t seem like the knotted cords of a man who exercised at a gym. His broad, bulging biceps and full triceps suggested a man who worked out at his home gym when the kids were asleep and his mousey little wife was playing Sweet Smash or organizing her Pinterest tiles.

His face was open and sunny as he lectured his family on the size of the Lake Superior basin and the kinds of fish living in the waters. However, that same face wasn’t freshly shaven, it was stubbly with at least a day’s growth, and I felt my stomach tickle with my growing excitement. He looked a bit wild, unkempt, and maybe someone who’d . . . enough of that. I was working.

I adjusted myself discreetly in my jeans.

The man was pointing off into the distance, toward the island that was nearing on the port side as the ferry sailed. That’s when I heard the buzz of my phone and felt the twitter of the vibrations in my pocket.

I pulled it out of my pants and hit enter after checking to see if it was my boss. “Jason here,” I answered, still watching the man as he gestured in a sweeping motion at the pier looming ahead, the water shrinking as we neared the shore.

“Whitlock, when do you anticipate being done?” Shep asked me. Shepherd Fox was the head of the agency, and this was an important job for him. It was personal. He’d specifically asked me to do this. Me, even though I usually didn’t do this kind of work.

“We’re just landing on Madeline Island now. After I get off the boat, I’ll run out to his house and check back with you,” I answered, pulling my gaze away from Suburban Daddy, as I had now named him. “It should be done this morning, if nothing goes wrong.”

“Call me as soon as you get to the house. I want this one to go by the book, got it? None of your fucking around.”

“None of my fucking around,” I repeated back to him. “Neat and clean as a pin.”

“Good. Call me in a few,” he ordered, and the phone went dead.

The man was right. This was a simple job. Make contact. Make the drop. Finish the job, and go right back to Minneapolis. Easy as pie. Nothing complicated. Just hop out to the guy’s house and take care of business.

The ramp was now descending, lowering as the attendants on the ferry grabbed ropes and looped and tied them to various things I couldn’t see and wouldn’t be able to identify even if I did. The world felt like a giant machine that mimicked this idea; levers and pulleys within levers and pulleys that controlled us. I hated that part of the world; its measured control and compulsive order.

I shook my head and dismissed my ponderings.

The boat swayed from the large, swelling waves pushing it to and fro. A single burp of bile rose from my gut into my mouth. I swallowed hard and looked back over at the little family unit a few feet away.

Suburban Daddy was now patting the tallest girl on the top of her head and smiling. Mommy was pulling back the other girl’s hair and twisting the strands into a horsetail. The boy was staring off into the distance, his hands clutching the railing as his dirty blond locks stirred from tendrils of the gusty breezes.

I looked down into my car, a sad, rusty old Saturn, and looked at the brown case sitting on the passenger seat. Within it was my laptop, a couple of phones, and a sheaf of papers I needed to serve. This was a unique job, because I rarely worked as a process server. I usually only did the skip trace work, finding the person, pinpointing their location and their basic schedules, and then someone more senior would do the actual service. In this case it was sensitive, and my boss was relying on me to complete the job “quickly and quietly” as he put it.

I really didn’t care that much in the first place. It was a job. It paid the bills. I sometimes encountered an interesting puzzle, though most of the time it was too easy.

This one had been complicated.

It had taken a couple of days, some serious cold calling, and several trips to computer chatrooms to find him ensconced on an island off the coast of Wisconsin, embedded in a distant relative’s mobile home. This guy really didn’t want to be found. He’d carefully hidden away, but I was good at finding lost puppies, shadowing shady operators, and eventually I found the right key to the conundrum.

My boss didn’t need to know just exactly how I found him. He’d have balked at my methods in this particular case.

I drove slowly off the ferry, two cars behind hunky Excursion dude and his little nuclear family. I wiped him from my mind as I turned on Google Maps for the route to the trailer.

The town was cute, very small, maybe ten blocks in three directions, but well taken care of. There were pots of flowers and planters of climbing plants around store windows and placed around glass doors. Most of the houses in the downtown area were old Victorian A-frames with broad front porches and tucked in with large, mature evergreen shrubs. Large sprays of grass, drying and filled with feathery seeds, graced the sides of houses and accented the fall mums emblazoned with rust and burgundy flowers.

It was so domestic and tranquil looking, but I knew that was all façade. Inside those houses there were corners and closets filled with shadows and secrets. The more a house looked like a happy home, the more dirt collected in the hidden spaces within. Machines within machines. Pulleys and levers, but with rusty chains fouling up the works. I smiled at the thought of the disorder it created, these dark hidden things.

Was I a rusty chain?

Leaving the town, I was surrounded by trees decked with purple and gold, red and amber leaves, with sprigs of evergreens peeking through with a sparkling emerald glint. The forest was thick, without much undergrowth, and so the light streamed through the leaves from all sides, almost appearing to glow with autumnal warmth.

I was awed by the beauty, then I remembered my reason for being in this place. I patted the bag next to me and sighed. I watched for the signs I needed to thread my way through this foreign place.

The trees continued to crowd and overhang the road, so much in fact, I almost missed my turnoff. The Lazy Daisy Recreational Park was about three miles into the island. As the sign flashed before me, I quickly slowed and took the turn tightly. The narrow gravel road was rutted, and my car bounced and jolted as it rolled down the entranceway. I could see dust and leaves spit from behind my spinning wheels.

After a sharp left-hand turn and another few yards of gravel road, I saw the small assemblage of trailers and RVs, in two semicircles. The left-hand one had three campers, and the right-hand group had five. I slowly stopped before getting too close to either grouping, parking alongside a thicker copse of trees that shadowed the area, allowing me to surveil unnoticed.

On the southern end was an old-fashioned silver bullet trailer, unhitched to anything. It angled to the ground with windows that looked empty and forlorn. This was the camper registered to John Sloan, who was dead, but whose granddaughter once dated the subject’s business partner. It was a very tenuous relationship, which was perfect for someone who was trying to stay hidden. However, I’d unraveled the tangled skein of his whereabouts, which had earned me this trip and five crisp hundred dollar bills.

Pulling out the leather folder and opening it, I retrieved the tablet with the attached pen and the manila envelope. Breathing in and out three times in succession, to ready myself, I climbed out of my car, careful to close it quietly so the dome light went off but not so the door latched.

Sometimes these little tricks helped keep me from getting a baseball bat blow to the head.

I stepped lightly and quickly at a trot towards the Airstream, which now I could see was pitted with dents and rusting at the bottom. The windows weren’t empty; they were cloaked in a dark material that blocked all light. I felt my heart beat harder as I approached. This was it. This would either go smoothly or roughly, regardless, it would happen. My scouting information promised that he would be here now, and so I could serve the papers and leave.

Something caught my eye as I neared the trailer. I turned and saw a woman standing in the glass doorway of the camper fifty feet away. She was red-haired with pasty skin, wearing a tie-dyed shirt. Almost as soon as I looked her way, she jerked the frilly curtain closed on the door, blocking her from view.

I swore under my breath as I closed in on the trailer. It was only a few steps away now, and yet something felt off. I breathed in deeply again and strode the last couple of yards up to the closed silver door. I lifted my hand to knock, but then I tilted my head and listened.

At first, I heard nothing, which was normal, except when someone is around. There are sounds that simply occur when a human occupies a space. There is breathing, of course, and steps if the person is moving around. However, there are other sounds as well. Music, television, a game, clicks on a computer or other electronic device, even the sound of a pan moving on the stove or the pages of a magazine or book being turned.

I didn’t hear any of those things.

I knew the emptiness meant he was away. He’d left, but was he gone?

I stepped back and looked around, noticing the ground was freshly churned. The dirt where a tire created a mark was still dark and moist. I looked over next to the hitch and saw a couple of divots, where the heels of boots would have been. Those also looked fresh.

There was a slight sound, and I turned. The woman in the tie-dye shirt had once again opened the curtain on her glass door and peered out at me. She was obviously anxious about my presence, so I did the most logical thing I could think of. I waved and smiled.

Now, I’m not one of those guys whose looks grabs the attention of people. I’m average height, weight, and build, with a bit of a paunch, because I like my beer and I’m not afraid to have a couple. My face isn’t remarkable, with stunning symmetrical features or swarthy pleasing features.

My smile is something that is special, or so I’ve been told. I don’t know how or why, but it works for me, and so I use it as often as I need to. In this case, the woman in question may have information I need, so I would try turning on the old Jason Whitlock charm.

My grin must have done the trick, because the woman moved the curtain just a fraction to the side, opening up the space. I took that as a welcoming gesture and stepped towards her, still waving. She stood stock still for a moment, then she smiled a bit in return.

“Do you know the guy who lives here? Tom?” I said, keeping my hands palm up and open in a kind of open embrace. This was the kind of gesture you use with animals and skittish humans.

It worked.

She nodded and moved the curtain slightly more open. The door remained closed, but she was opening up now, smiling and nodding.

“Did he just head out for a few minutes? Because I was supposed to meet him here and I’m early.” I lied without compunction.

“He went to town,” she said, but it almost sounded like a question at the end. “He never said anything about visitors?” That was a question, and it meant the floodgates would open.

“I’m his cousin,” I said, using a joke Tom and Rich had shared, “And I’m a couple of hours early because I didn’t know how often the ferry ran. I chanced it, and so I’m here now.” I was now presenting my ‘aw shucks’ to my voice and my ‘ain’t I an idiot’ look on my face. “Didn’t Tom tell you about our job hauling some stock from Superior to Texas?”

That did the trick. A look of relief washed over her tired face, and she opened up the door and stepped outside.

“So, you’re Rich?”

I nodded in response.

“He’s told me all about you. He’s very excited to make some serious cash from just one job.” She was practically a waterfall of information now. The sources had worked out all the details, and boy was it worth using some shady tactics to catch this prey. “He can’t say enough nice things about all you’re doing for him.”

“Tom’s had it rough,” I said, shaking my head and grinning more broadly. “I figured this would help him out of a bad patch.”

“It sure will,” she said. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or even a beer if it’s not too early for you?”

“Naw,” I said quickly, waving a hand at her. “I couldn’t impose. I’ll just trundle off for a bit and then come back later. Like I said, I am early.”

“He’ll be back in about an hour,” she said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“You do that, and I’ll see you again in a few,” I said, waving her off and walking back to my Saturn.

‘Rich’ would return shortly, and I could finish the job.

I smiled as I drove out of the little meadow and back onto the main road.

With an hour to kill, I drove down the road and looked at the glorious ambers and red, mauves and golden yellows. It was spectacular, and I was enjoying the sights more than I’d have imagined.

I was a truck-stop-dive, living-in-the-margins, slinking in dark corners kind of guy, not given to wide open country and camping types of pleasures. I didn’t like the open air and the ‘healthy’ lifestyle crap that it suggested.

I’d never hiked in the woods in my life, and yet these sights were enrapturing me. I could feel my heart lift and my skin tingle. And I wondered if the place Tom described could be hidden here. I’d love to find it if I could.

There was a dead-end sign, and right behind it was another pointing towards a park. I turned left and drove into it without thinking. Maybe I should try hiking through these beautiful woods with the color and light. I wondered what the lakeshore looked like. I’d taken the ferry but didn’t really look at the water.

After paying for a day pass, I parked in the little parking lot and locked my doors. I slid into a light coat and began wandering over to the park map posted on a wooden placard at the start of a cement trail that snaked into a stand of trees.

The park was large, at least 160 acres, and throughout were meandering walkways and marked lookouts. You could hike as far or as little as you’d like. There were trails only a quarter of a mile long and another that was at least four miles long, winding through trees, bogs, and along the lake.

One trail was about a mile long and went close to Superior at a place called ‘Point Promise’. It sounded doable in the hour I had to kill.

I noted the direction and headed into the forested area.

The first thing that struck me was the smell. It was earthy and musky, an odor I like. There was a crisp tang to it, and the air was cool under the trees. Plenty of shadows and shaded areas filled the spots between where golden sunlight caressed the pathways. I was transfixed, and when I saw a glint of the water, I headed over towards it.

I passed a middle-aged couple, a man and woman peering over another placard. She smiled; he snorted. I ignored them and continued on.

A younger woman with a girl was pointing upwards. I looked and they were watching a bird on a tree limb. I just smiled at them and continued.

The sparse glimpse of the water was growing into a larger picture. There were waves, big ones, crashing onto rocks and fallen tree limbs. I was still a bit away, but it was coming clearer.

I stepped lively up a ridge, and then looked down. Below me was the full view of the powerful waves smashing into rocks and wood. The power was so vital and immediate, I gasped, and caught my breath. The water was menacing, ripping at the shoreline, and yet it couldn’t get a hold. It was just grasping to no avail.

It was nature at its finest. And then I heard voices. Children’s voices.

Looking behind me, I saw a small group of people approach.

It was the woman and three kids I’d seen back on the ferry. Mommy was chattering at them, but they weren’t listening. The boy kept darting off the path. The younger girl was pulling at her mother. The older girl was fingering her phone and oblivious.

Suburban Daddy wasn’t in sight, which was too bad because some eye candy wouldn’t have been too bad right now.

I turned and adjusted at the thought.

After watching the waves for a while and looking out at the water reaching so far to another island, I stepped back down the path. It was chilly, and while I had enjoyed the scene, I’d had enough. Besides, I needed to take a leak.

Checking my watch, I saw that I only had about twenty minutes left before Tom would return to his trailer. I hiked back towards the parking lot, still filled with wonder at the falling leaves and the moving shadows.

I was about to get into my Saturn, when I saw a small building to one side of the parking lot. The outline of a woman in a skirt in blue was posted on a small white door. Bingo. That meant the other side would have a door with a blue outline in pants.

I hit the locks and trotted over. Sure enough, there was a men’s room located opposite. I pulled the handle and stepped inside.

The smell was overwhelming. It reeked of urine laced with disinfectant and filled in with that earthy scent I’d experienced earlier. My sinuses filled with the acrid odor, and I breathed in deeply.

Stepping up to the urinal, I pulled out and let loose. As I pissed, I looked around at not much except another urinal, a single stall, and a puddle of dirty water on the floor in front of a cracked toilet. As I finished, I took another deep breath of the air and tucked myself back in my pants. I hit the handle on the urinal, and stepped back.

The door opened, and I looked over. I could feel my face redden.

There was a short man, older than me, wearing a jean jacket and a ball cap with a Peterbilt logo on it. He nodded to me.

I nodded back, and walked over to the sink. I turned on the water and listened to the other man at the urinal, the sound of his pee hitting the back of the porcelain, ringing throughout the small room.

I washed and, wiping my hands on my pants, headed out the door. I could feel my heart racing. The man was Tom.

I raced over to my car and unlocking the doors, jumped inside. I picked up my tablet and quickly opened my chatroom profiles. Scanning through it, I quickly poured over the pics of Tom. Yes, it was him.

The short man exited the restroom and wandered over to a big red truck, with an extended cab, but rusty and dented as shit. He climbed into the cab and sat.

I watched as he didn’t make a move. He was waiting for something.

Or someone.

I sat in my car waiting. He sat in his truck waiting. I thought about driving away, but this could be the place he’d suggested in their chats; a place with dark corners where men could meet. If so, I felt welded to the spot. My job was to get these papers served to this very man, but my excitement and knowledge of him enticed me to linger and see what would happen next.

Five minutes later, he started his truck, and took off.

I followed.

In the end, it was even simpler than I’d imagined. I walked up to his silver bullet, he acknowledged to ‘Rich Hiscock’ that he was indeed, Tom Boulder. I handed him the papers serving him his notice of legal action, and walked back to the Saturn. He stood there, bewildered, staring at the papers, a dumbfounded look on his face.

Meanwhile, I called my boss as I headed back to the little restroom. He was pleased, and I could feel my heart pound as I raced to the tea room.

I didn’t have to wait long. A tall man wearing a ball cap on backwards wandered in from the park. After pausing at the men’s room, he stepped alongside a large black Excursion. His hands were stuck deep in his pockets. He was trying not to look suspicious, which of course is exactly how to look incredibly guilty.

I climbed out of my car, making as much noise as possible. I coughed and stretched. I coughed again, and then strolled over to the men’s room. I paused, looked over at ball cap man, and pulling open the door, I stepped inside.

Now I knew why the place had so electrified me. The smell was of pure masculinity. It was sex without the conventions of bedroom, sheets, and cultural appropriate behaviors. I opened the stall door and went in. There were no machines and rules here, only dark, secret corners.

Leaving the door open, I sat on the toilet and extended my legs until my foot was outside the panel. My heart was in my throat.

I didn’t have to wait long. The door creaked as it opened. I heard a lock click.

Then silence.

Steps. Hesitant at first, then surer.

Suburban Daddy appeared in the stall doorway, chewing nervously on his lip.

I waved him in.

He stood before me.

I started it all. He finished.

In the end, I watched his eyes as they were riveted to mine. His need was as great as mine. In fact, I thought I saw the expression on his face was more urgent, with less restraint.

I owned him at that moment. He was on his knees in filthy water begging me for relief. He was pleading with me to help him cure his need.

I zipped and buckled back up and left the stall. I could only guess his humiliation as he tried explaining to his wife why his pants were wet. I wondered if he’d notice the mark I’d left on his shirt, and if she’d find it the next day and wonder. Would she know? Did she know of his wants and desires?

I didn’t really care anymore. I’d gotten my satisfaction, and as I drove back through Wisconsin hopping on I-35 South towards the Twin Cities, I felt a bit fulfilled. It hadn’t been much, but at least it was something. I pondered the lengths I’d go to find that flash of something.

When my boss first told me about his cousin, I figured out his secret. It hadn’t taken long to find Tom Boulder fishing for tail. In this day and age, the tea rooms where men met other men for anonymous sex were usually virtual. You cruised men on the Internet, not bathhouses. You trolled for tricks on apps, not alleys.

So, I found Boulder and from there it wasn’t difficult to find his haunts, his favorite places to visit. I’d been delighted to discover we had the same taste in venues. In fact, we had the same taste in men and the pleasures we enjoyed. We both liked dominating, and that meant we weren’t terribly attractive to one another, but we shared tips and tricks to finding the prey we so enjoyed using. The pool of submissive men may be large, but it’s still hard to find in the right mood and place.

When Tom Boulder told me about the tea room, the bathroom used for sex, it hadn’t been too hard to locate him. Once the field narrows, the options become more limited and therefore obvious.

I’d never met Boulder. But I knew him like I knew me and our chats were illuminative.

So, he’d been served the papers granting him his inheritance from his grandmother, the last of their family. My boss didn’t understand men like Tom Boulder, or me for that matter. We don’t want to be found. We don’t want the light exposing us. We live in shadows for a reason. That’s our home, and nobody understands that.

We are the people who throw sand in gears and wreck the machines within machines. We don’t want to be tamed by things. Things have rules and limits. They are cages for men like us. Like Tom and me.