Two Days Until Sunset

The phone rang early that morning. It wasn't the timing of the call that was strange, but the fact the phone rang at all. I had been certain the line didn't work. Until now.

I picked up, not saying a word. A coarse scratching pilfered through the receiver. After a few seconds, a distant "Hello?"

"Hello," I responded.

"Oh, umm..." My point-blank response had apparently confused the caller. "Hi, hello. This is... With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?

"With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" I replied, again point-blank.

His voice was older, almost vintage; an unsure laugh echoed through the line. "Oh! This is Esquire Jerald Elder. I am the estate-holder for a Mr. Willem Prescott. I am calling in regards to an urgent personal matter. May I assume I have the pleasure of speaking with Ms. Elisabeth Prescott?"

My grip turned to ice as I clutched my rapidly cooling coffee. "It's Ms. Elisabeth David, but yes. The person you are calling for is me." My father had always refused to acknowledge my abandonment of his surname.

"Wonderful, wonderful! Well, maybe not so wonderful..." He chuckled with an innocent discord. "Wonderful that I found you. But not wonderful, entirely, for the news I must give you. Are you sitting down?"

I was.

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"Ms. David? Are you still there?"

I had forgotten to respond. "Yes," I gulped the rest of my coffee down. "I'm still here."

"Good," a strong sigh reverbed toward me. "I didn't mean to give you a fright. I called to inform you, however, that your father, Mr. Prescott, has passed on." He waited, then continued quickly in my silence. "And although your relationship was estranged, he wished you all the best. And left something for you."

My father and I had not spoken in years. I assumed that he was already dead, and with no one left to inform me, that I would never know either way. This cabin was the last piece that we held in common.

"Oh." The single word I could manage.

"Yes, I know, it's tragic. And I am deeply sorry for your loss. But you must come to town immediately. The estate sale will commence in 24 hours, and you must collect your property before then." What could even be left? Anything of value was squandered into my father's addictions, whether it be gambling or debts.

Mr. Elder’s friendly, pleasant tone quickly turned to harsh criticism. "It is a fast turnaround, but the cabin is not that far, and you will be able to make it. I am emailing you the address now."

"Mr. Elder, I really don't-"

He cut me off before I could say how little I cared about any property left behind. "The address is in your inbox, Ms. David, and I look forward to meeting you in person."

The line went dead. There was no cell service to check my email, but the message had been received.

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Packing up took less time than I thought. The fridge was near empty, save a stick of butter and jar of pickles. A quarter bag of coffee beans lay wrapped on the counter. I didn't bother to fully clean as I expected to be back within a day.

What could I expect from this? Never knew with Dad, but that's why I was so curious. The one thing I had been able to rely on was his incessant use of little black notebooks. He always had one, no matter where he went. "The gilded past of Hemingway and our shining future lie in here, my girl." His violent taps would leave indentations in the leather cover as he beat the Moleskine binding like his Bible. "Not even God could know." That last sentence usually followed a few heavy drinks. Sometimes he'd pass me a sip. But he never passed me one of those notebooks.

With one last look, I shut the front door, turning the key until I heard the familiar click.

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The road was silent, dark. There were no streetlights for miles - the one thing I prized about this area. Not a single car for the first hundred miles. Dad liked his solitude - the main reason he built the cabin, I think. Second to avoiding the feds.

I didn't go there often. My chance of being there for the call was a fluke. I needed to get out of the city for a few days, and while the cabin was not my first choice, it was free. And no one knew about it. Or so I thought.

I neared the two-hundred-mile mark within two hours. This part of Texas was unfamiliar to me. I knew it was risky driving alone this far to the west, especially at night, but I wasn't alone anyway. I tapped the pistol under my seat for comfort. Just a few more hours according to the map.

Blasting old CD's of Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline kept me awake through the drive, along with shitty, cold gas station coffee. It was better than nothing. I passed the Lobo, Texas town sign at daybreak. I had arrived.

The short drive from one side of town to the other reiterated its stark abandonment. I had filled my tank several towns before but felt the familiar gnawing in my stomach. It would have to wait. Two turns later I pulled up to the address.

The house, like the town, was decrepit. Not a fucking ghost in sight. "Goddamnit!" I punched the steering wheel. Against my better judgment, I decided to look around. I had made it this far, and I would not go back empty-handed.

One glance at the porch told me it was a deathtrap waiting to happen. I did a quick 360 around the outside, using my phone as a flashlight. This was rattlesnake territory, and it would be the icing on the cake to die out here on one of Dad's moronic treasure hunts. As I rounded the last corner, a tiny glimpse of yellow emerged behind what was once a decorative bush.

I shined the light around searching for anything that might bite - rattlesnake or otherwise - and grabbed a thick, weathered brown envelope. For Ms. Prescott. Very discrete. I ripped open the envelope, finding nothing other than one of Dad's signature notebooks. I closed my eyes and fought the urge to scream.

I got back in the car. Luckily, my rage would keep me awake on the drive back. I pulled out the notebook, deciding it was better to double-check before I drove off. A small letter was folded on the inside of the cover.

"Ms. Prescott,

The remainder of your father's estate lies in these pages. His last wish was to pass this along. Best,

Esq. Elder"

I flipped through the pages. Mostly meandering thoughts and travel notations. A lot of random numbers, which I assumed were calculated debts or payoffs; none said to whom or what they were for. I started the car, contemplating throwing it out the window along the desert highway but decided better to not attract any unwanted attention.

I blasted the music once again and drove straight back.

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My one stop along the way was a gas station/cafe combo. I made it to the cabin just after lunch. I unlocked the door, a wave of fatigue hitting me. I looked around. Something was not right.

Nothing was obviously out of place, but the air felt different. Not the typical dusty stale, normal even after being out for an hour or two. It felt like someone had been here. I pulled out my gun, just in case, my ears straining to hear even the slightest noise. Nothing. I cleared each room - all three of them - before retiring to the bedroom. Maybe I was just paranoid.

I threw my bag in the corner and tossed the notebook on the bed. As I collapsed next to it, a loose piece of paper fluttered out. I grabbed it, shaking the notebook upside down to see if anything else was there. Just the one sheet.

"Elisabeth.

Two down and three right, behind the elephant that is white."

Another hunt. My father, even in death, had not given up. This had always been his favorite game. I laid there, note clutched in one hand, drifting off. White elephant. White elephant. What white elephant? We had never had a white elephant anything, not a stuffed animal, picture, statue, or figurine. This was just like him. Pull some obscure reference out to prove he knew more than you. Forget about it, Elisabeth. It's pointless. I tried to forget the note and lull myself to sleep. He didn't have anything when he left me behind and I doubt that would have changed. Just forget it.

My eyes snapped open. Running to the living room, I scanned the walls and floor. I knew something had been off. There in the corner, behind a tiny wooden chair, an imperceptible warp in one of the floorboards. The white elephant wasn't an object; it was a reference to our holiday tradition. Every year, with whatever motley crew Dad had around, we would have "white elephant". No one ever had any money for real gifts, so it was mostly stolen junk or wrapped items from the cabin. But the tiny chair, which I imagined a regal throne, was always mine. My Christmas gift.

Annoyed at my own interest in the situation, I reluctantly grabbed a screwdriver out of the kitchen drawer. Two forceful hacks later, and the board was up. A saran-wrapped bundle lay inside. Even through the marbled plastic, I knew what it was.

I tore the plastic open, feeling each stack between my fingers. My breathing slowed as I counted it out. Twenty-thousand dollars. Twenty stacks of ten hundred dollar bills to be exact. A note was pasted to the last one. "Meet. Two days at sunset. The magic cafe."

I stared in disbelief. The magic cafe - another reference to my childhood - was the one trip my father had taken me on out of the country. Venice, an unexpected delight. The cafe we frequented daily floated on the edge of the rising water. I called it magic. I was eight. I never knew if the impromptu trip was to disappear or to do a job. Either way, it was my best memory of us being together.

The reference was not the most shocking. He had always been nostalgic. The money was certainly an unexpected relief. The wrapping, however, was still fresh with static; the note's ink smeared across one of the bills.

My father was alive.

One of his favorite songs came to mind as I weighed the options. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." Whether I chose to meet him or not, the cabin was no longer safe. And with twenty thousand dollars, the alternatives were limitless.

I grabbed my still-packed bag out of the bedroom, burying the stack of cash under my clothes. I threw in boots and a jacket, leaving a few items in the closet to make it seem like I might still be around. Just in case.

I walked back through the living room and stomped the board back into place. With one last look, I shut the door. I didn't bother to lock it.

I had just two days to get to the Venice sunset.