Chapter 5: Touring the South

I stayed in El Paso for a couple of days, just soaking in the Tex-Mex culture. Honestly, I could eat that food 24/7, 365 days a year—it was that good. Way more exciting than the plain stuff I grew up with in the Midwest. The mix of flavors and the heat really won me over. That said, I found my limit pretty quick—one run-in with something way too spicy, and I knew that kind of heat just wasn’t for me.

Heading southeast, I made my way through the big cities—Dallas-Fort Worth, San Antonio, Austin, Houston, and finally Brownsville. I totally got why native Texans hold the Alamo in such high regard. It honestly felt like visiting a religious shrine. I was overcome with the realization of the sacrifice those men made, facing impossible odds and knowing they probably wouldn’t survive.

Houston, on the other hand, was something else—the wealth in that city was on full display. But it reminded me a little too much of the city I had just left behind, so it didn’t really do much for me. The place I enjoyed the most was Brownsville. There were so many historic sites tied to Texas state history, and I ended up staying there for almost a week before heading on to Houston.

I followed the coastline from Brownsville to Houston, trying to stay close to the water. By late spring, the heat and humidity made riding tough, with highs pushing into the mid-nineties. To cope, I’d start early, ride until it got too hot, then stop at beaches to cool off in the Gulf breeze. Once the worst heat passed, I’d ride another hour or two before dark. A few times, I found shaded spots in community parks where I’d nap or read until it was bearable to get back on the road.

From Houston, I continued east through Louisiana, sticking to the coastline whenever I could. I planned to stay in New Orleans for a couple of days, but that changed quickly after my first night. I had picked a nice hotel with secure parking for my motorcycle—so I wouldn’t have to worry about it getting damaged or stolen—but the vibe of the city made me rethink staying longer.

That evening, I found out the New Orleans streetcar line ran near my hotel, and I could take it to the French Quarter. It sounded like a fun way to explore the city, so I gave it a try on my first night. I left early enough, caught the streetcar at the right stop, and rode it for about fifteen minutes—even with all the stops—until it dropped me off near the French Quarter, just as I’d been told.

I got off the streetcar at the Canal Street stop near Bourbon Street. The first thing I noticed was the sheer number of bars—seemed like every other place was either a bar or a shop aimed at tourists. Judging by the crowd, the place was definitely alive. I popped into one bar, ordered a mixed drink, and stood at the bar slowly sipping it while watching people come and go—both inside and out on the street, where folks either walked or stumbled past.

After fifteen minutes, I decided it was time to find something to eat. I was surprised at how much the crowd had grown in such a short time. A block down Bourbon Street, I came across a place advertising raw oysters and seafood. Raw oysters weren’t really my thing, but I figured I’d give the seafood a shot. I went in and ordered a sampler plate with five different entrees and a shrimp salad. Some of it I really liked, but a couple of the dishes were one-and-done for me.

I paid the bill and decided to walk down a cross street to see what it had to offer. I hadn’t gone more than twenty feet from the restaurant when I stumbled upon a heated confrontation between two drunks. They were shouting accusations at each other, but I couldn’t make out what the big issue was. Before I knew it, knives were drawn, and they started slashing at each other. Blood and spittle flew through the air, and I quickly jumped back to avoid getting any on me. One of the men took a slash to the side of his neck and collapsed, bleeding heavily.

Everyone around me just stood there, frozen in amazement, not moving to help stop the bleeding. I felt completely helpless, not sure what to do. Fortunately, a cop must’ve been patrolling nearby—he heard the shouts, saw the crowd, and came running. As soon as he arrived, he grabbed his radio, calling for EMS and extra officers for crowd control.

I panicked, worried about being questioned by the police about what I’d just witnessed. If they asked, they’d learn my identity, and everything I had set up would fall apart. As the crowd pushed forward for a better view, I quietly slipped away, moving out of the crowd. I walked the rest of the block, then turned onto a street parallel to Canal Street, hoping to find the streetcar line back to my hotel. I had to ask someone for directions, and she kindly pointed me in the right direction. It was just a short walk to the streetcar stop.

I waited about five minutes for the streetcar to show up and got on. My body was shaking so badly from what I’d just witnessed that I had to sit down for the 15-minute ride. When I reached my stop, I got off and walked the half-block back to my hotel. I went straight up to my room and stayed there for the rest of the night. Sleep was tough that night—the fight and the throat slashing kept replaying in my mind over and over. Eventually, I managed to fall asleep.

That night I had the worst nightmare: Abbie and Bobbie Bill took turns slashing at my neck, and I was frozen in fear. I woke up in a cold sweat with an upset stomach—definitely blaming that seafood sampler on the upset stomach.

By morning, I’d decided to check out and leave New Orleans. I packed up, headed to the front desk, and asked about an early checkout and a partial refund. The clerk fetched the manager, and I braced for a fight—but he was friendly. I explained that I needed to leave sooner than planned and would appreciate a refund for the unused nights. We negotiated an amount that worked for both of us, and I even told him I’d gladly stay there again next time I’m in town.

I left the hotel feeling pretty good about my New Orleans stay—apart from that knife fight. After a little circling, I found US 90 east and headed out of the city. The highway wound through low country—swampy bayou land dotted with houses raised on stilts, no doubt to ride out hurricane storm surges.

On my route, I passed Fort Pike, a historic site built in the 1800s to protect New Orleans. It was closed to visitors—whether due to hurricane damage, neglect, or lack of funding, I couldn’t say. Likely a mix of all three. States often don’t recognize the value of their treasures until they’re gone, and I had a feeling this one wouldn’t last much longer.

I followed US 90 for the rest of the day, passing through several Gulf Coast communities—Gulfport, Biloxi, and Mobile among them. The towns had some great beaches, but I wanted to put some distance between myself and New Orleans. The farther I went, the better I felt.

This late in the season, I was able to find a room at a nice hotel for a very reasonable rate. Instead of going out for dinner, I ate at the hotel’s restaurant. The food wasn’t bad, and I didn’t have to go far to find a meal. That evening, I stayed in and caught up on the sleep I’d been robbed of in New Orleans.

The next morning, I left Mobile, Alabama, and hugged the Gulf Coast as I made my way into Florida. I stayed close to the shoreline, taking in the charm of the beach communities I passed through—quiet, sun-washed places that seemed to breathe at a slower, easier pace.

By evening, I found myself in Apalachicola, a small town with a calm, end-of-the-road feel. Being the off-season, I had no trouble finding a reasonably priced place to stay and got a local recommendation for a quiet spot to eat. After wandering through the touristy part of town, just window-shopping and letting the day settle in my mind, I was back in my room before nine and asleep by ten. These days, I preferred peace over noise, rest over rush—my party animal days were well behind me, and I didn’t miss them.

Besides, I’d had enough excitement in my life dealing with Abbie and Bobby Bill. All I wanted now was to find a quiet place to live out my days in peace. I had enough assets tucked away to live comfortably, as long as I was careful. The whole ordeal—watching Abbie and Bobby Bill get hauled off to jail, sitting through endless police interrogations—felt like enough revenge for me. Maybe this motorcycle trip had been part of the healing process, slowly easing the need for some grand, final reckoning with the adulterous pair. Still, I wasn’t ready to head back just yet. I needed more time to think—more time to decide whether I was truly ready to return to the place I once called home.

Up again early the next morning, I was on the road before 6:30 a.m. I skipped breakfast, deciding instead to stop for an early lunch somewhere along the way. My journey hugged the coast for about an hour before I turned inland, following the most direct route to my destination: St. Augustine. I had been there once before, as a teenager on vacation with my parents. The thought of returning stirred up some pleasant memories, and I hoped that being there again might help me reconnect with those simpler, more peaceful times.

I stopped for lunch in the small community of Fanning Springs. Dining options were limited, but the meal was enough to keep me going. Afterward, I took a break to explore the nearby state park, home to one of Florida’s many natural springs. What amazed me was how clear and pure the water was—you could see straight down to the bottom of the spring pool. The spring feeds into the Suwannee River, adding to its quiet charm. I spent nearly an hour scanning the water, hoping to spot a manatee, only to find out I was there at the wrong time of year. They visit during the winter months, so if I wanted to see one, I’d have to come back.

It was 6 p.m. when I rolled into St. Augustine, Florida, but it took another hour to find a motel with a room available for a couple of nights. There was an event in town, so most places were fully booked. After registering and paying for my room, I unloaded my gear from the bike and set out to find a place to eat. Riding through town on the bike made it much easier to get around. I was tired of fast food and hotel meals and craved something different. On the other side of town, I found just what I was looking for—an ethnic Colombian restaurant on the north side of the street heading out of town. I decided to give it a try, and I’m glad I did. The dish I chose was a breaded pork entrée, whose name escapes me now, but it was absolutely delicious. I could’ve easily eaten a second helping if I’d had the appetite for it. I knew I’d be back before I left town.

The next morning, I was up early and grabbed breakfast at the golden arches since it was convenient to where I was staying. While I ate, I struck up a conversation with an older gentleman who had lived in St. Augustine most of his life. A retired life insurance agent, he now volunteered at one of the museums in town. Our conversation covered everything from life in Florida to living elsewhere. He had noticed the Ohio license plates on my motorcycle and asked where I was from. I fibbed a bit and told him I was from a small town near Dayton, Ohio.

He asked if I had heard about the disappearance of a financial planner from the Columbus area. I nearly choked on my breakfast when he brought it up. I quickly feigned ignorance, claiming I didn’t follow the news much. He explained that he knew about it because the financial planner’s father-in-law was affiliated with a company he used to sell for, and they had attended the same sales conferences over the years. The story had been published in a professional newsletter he subscribed to. According to the retired life insurance agent, the wife and her boyfriend were the ones who might have killed the unfortunate man.

I quickly covered my story, telling him I was a college professor of economics on a motorcycle trip to celebrate escaping an unhappy marriage. I also added that, although I was divorced, I held no ill feelings toward my ex-wife; we were simply better as friends than as husband and wife. He seemed to accept that, and by this time I had finished my breakfast, I stood up to leave. I wished him a good day and mentioned that I might stop by the place where he volunteered. Of course, I had no intention of doing so.

I spent my time in St. Augustine riding, walking, and taking the trolleys, admiring the town’s rich historical past. My favorite spots were the alligator farm and the touristy street lined with shops and old historic sites. Among the most interesting was the Ponce de Leon Hotel, now Flagler College. Once a luxury hotel, it was now a private liberal arts college. Another highlight was the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument, the old fort built by the Spanish and used by the American military until the late 19th century. It was fascinating to see something that old still standing, enduring the harsh Florida climate.

After a full day, I had seen everything I wanted to in St. Augustine and pointed my motorcycle toward Orlando. With the time and resources on my side, I figured, why not hide out in the Magic Kingdom and explore the other theme parks in the area? I wasn’t sure how long I would stay, but I knew a week wouldn’t be nearly long enough.

I ended up staying three and a half weeks in the greater Orlando area. It was the peak of summer, and some days, being in the theme parks was downright miserable. The hot sun and oppressive humidity were bad enough, but the crowds only made it worse. More than once, I saw people’s tempers flare, and several times, park employees had to step in to defuse situations between fathers, and even mothers, who came to blows. A great way to learn about human behavior is to observe people on a hot, humid day, standing in line with tired, whiny kids in tow.

During my second week in the Orlando area, I stayed at a hotel that had a guest computer. One day, I checked the Columbus news and stumbled across an opinion piece about the “disappearing financial planner.” The editor had practically convicted Abbie and Bobby Bill—helped along, of course, by my mother-in-law, the shrew. It made for an interesting read.

One detail I hadn’t been following stood out: the megachurch founded by Bobby Bill’s father had stopped airing its Sunday broadcasts. The station had pulled its support and replaced the time slot with syndicated programming. My plan for revenge had worked even better than I’d expected.

There was also a side note—Abbie and Bobby Bill were being tried together, with the trial set for the first week of September. That wasn’t far off.

Orlando had its theme parks, sure—but it also had a ton of outlet stores. I needed new riding boots, so I figured I’d check out a boot outlet. The place wasn’t crowded, and the air-conditioned quiet felt like a relief from the heat. I was browsing the racks when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone walking toward the door. It took a second for my brain to register, but when it did, my heart skipped a beat. It was a former client. She didn’t see me, not yet. But if she did, I’d have a lot of explaining to do—to her, and to the police.

I spun on my heel and made a quick dash back to my bike, my helmet on, my heart pounding in my chest. She passed within fifteen feet, heading to her car, completely unaware. I started the engine, revved it hard, and shot out of there fast—undetected, but shaken.

I couldn’t risk shopping for boots in town anymore—too likely I’d run into someone who’d recognize me. That scare shook me more than I cared to admit. It was a clear sign: I needed to get out of Orlando, fast. I also had to change how I looked. Staying the same made me an easily recognized, and I couldn’t afford to be found.

A couple of days later, I left the Orlando area and headed north toward Charleston. It was supposed to be a quick two-day trip, but mostly, I needed time to think. As the miles ticked by, my mind kept circling back to Abbie—what she did, and how easily she tossed me aside for Bobby Bill.

Was I wrong to want revenge? I didn’t think so. Justice hadn’t been served. If I hadn’t acted, they would’ve kept their little secret, turning me into a fool for everyone to laugh at. The dirty little secret no one spoke of, but everyone knew— the husband whose wife didn’t respect him, who carried on a secret relationship with her old boyfriend.

The real question was, how far was I willing to let this go before I decided enough was enough—that they had learned their lesson? And then, what would I do once I came out of hiding? I was sure I’d face some criminal penalty for my stunt. After all, I’d wasted police resources on the investigation. That had to count for something.

Maybe getting revenge the way I had planned and executed it wasn’t so smart after all. I’d likely face stiffer penalties. It was too late now to undo what had been done. I might as well prepare myself for whatever was ahead.

I took Interstate 95 out of Orlando on my way to Charleston. It was the most direct route, and I hadn’t ridden much on the interstate until then, so I figured it was a good chance to gain some experience.

Riding the interstate was more stressful than I expected. What was supposed to be a seven-hour ride turned into only four before I decided to call it a day. Brunswick, Georgia became my stop. It was only 1:30 p.m., and I knew motels wouldn’t be ready for check-ins yet, so I decided to ride around and see what Brunswick had to offer.

My initial impression was that Brunswick, Georgia, was like any southern town—there were good parts and bad parts. From what I saw, the good parts definitely outweighed the bad. The town had an impressive historic district that tempted me off my motorcycle, giving me an excuse to stretch my legs and work out the kinks from riding. I have to say, what I saw was well maintained.

I got back on my motorcycle and continued cruising through the business district. As I turned a corner, I spotted the town’s main library. On a whim, I decided to stop, parked the bike, and headed inside.

Inside, I was greeted by a friendly librarian who directed me to the public-use computers. I quickly figured out the layout and pulled up the latest news from home. What I saw on the screen almost caused me to fall off my chair.

In their investigation, the police had uncovered a plot where Bobby Bill, Abbie, and Abbie’s mother had conspired to have both me and my father-in-law killed. They had planned to hire a hitman to stage a robbery at our offices, making it look like a robbery gone wrong. The police speculated that I must have discovered the plot, and that Abbie had used her kitchen knife to end my life, disposing of my body using Bobby Bill’s Range Rover.

The police had also uncovered something I never saw coming—Abbie and Bobby Bill had been funneling church funds into an offshore account. This had been going on for over a year. Bobby Bill’s dad was completely caught off guard as well. They had even been looking into buying houses in the Caribbean. I just sat there, stunned, unable to process it. I didn’t know what to feel.

Abbie and I had gotten married right out of college, at twenty-two. I had just turned thirty—eight years together. Eight years. I thought I knew her. I really did.

And now, I couldn’t help but wonder: how long had she been lying to me? I knew she and Bobby Bill had a thing back in college, up until our senior year when she and I met. But were they ever really over? Or was I just the rebound after some temporary falling out? Did they pick up right where they left off?

The idea that they’d been plotting—not just behind my back, but possibly against me and her own father—it shattered something inside me. I felt hollow. I left the library in a daze, the weight of it all pressing down on my chest like a stone.

I began to wonder if Abbie had ever really loved me. Was I just a distraction until she and Bobby Bill worked out their differences? It hurt to think I might have been. The person I felt the worst for was Miles. Everything he had worked his entire life for was going down the drain—his career, his marriage, all of it. Maybe it was for the best that he’d been talking about retiring and moving to Arizona to play golf every day. After all, with everything that had happened, the firm’s clients would likely be going elsewhere.