They pulled up in front of Harry's place on Grand Isle and unloaded their gear and food. It was a weather-beaten building devoid of paint.
"You know, Harry, this is exactly what I needed I was beginning to go bonkers hanging around the house alone, talking to the walls ... getting no answers."
"I know the feeling. It took me awhile to adjust to being alone also after twenty-five years of being married to the same woman. When someone dies you don't lose them all at once ... you lose them bit by bit ... in small pieces."
Jack Collins couldn't be shaken out of his unchanging destiny nor the strange dreams accompanying him. He acquires a provocative insight into the death of his wife from cancer -- he comes to grips with death. He was seeing life in the extremes of human experience. It wasn't easy to live alone after the passing of a loved one.
Back east he was a veritable bigot, however, he mellows and becomes almost westernized the farther his travels take him. It was as though he were becoming one with the earth, driving into sunsets.
Perhaps he was seeking an unforgetable place to visit. In his quest for nirvana he manages to have trysts with two agreeable women. He was like an animal in rut. His virility went unchecked. And yet, a firm commitment was the farthest thing from his mind.
Could it be his fate was decided by witches, Indian skinwalkers and ghosts of ancient legends? The maps at hand may hold the answer as he drives westward, lacking a definate destination. Distance ruled as he ran his finger along the gray cartographic line to still another remarkable encounter.