Freaks of Greenfield High

Freaks of Greenfield High (Chapter 15)

Freaks of Greenfield High

By Maree Anderson

Chapter Fifteen

The dust-smothered truck jolted over a wicked pothole, causing Michael to bounce off his seat and whack his head on the roof. He let loose with a vicious tirade that was completely out of proportion to the relatively minor pain. He swore when he was worried. And he was far more concerned about this little escapade than it warranted.

He rumbled to a halt outside one of Snapperton's two motels, this one on the very outskirts of the town. From habit, his gaze flickered about, gauging potential threats without seeming to show any undue interest in his surroundings. He forced himself to relax. This wasn't a retrieval. Hell, it wasn't even a sanctioned operation. No one knew he was here.

At least, Michael hoped no one knew.

He climbed down from the truck and paused to stretch out the kinks in his back before reaching in to grab his bags.

When he was halfway to the motel's reception area, reality smacked him so damned hard he rocked back on his heels.

It was just as he remembered. The sign still proclaimed "Snapp to M tel". The missing letters had been painted in at one stage, but the paint had soon flaked and peeled. The motel's frontage was still a listless blue, teetering on the edge of shabbiness and crying out for a decent lick of paint. The garden still needed a few more shrubs to fill in holes where plants had died off and been yanked out, but not replaced. Even the outside lights illuminating the reception area still buzzed like ravenous mosquitoes. Sure as eggs, the interior of each room would be clean and neat as a pin, though. And any guest with a hankering for some hearty home-style cooking, could still wander over to the on-site café and be served with the best damned pie they'd ever tasted.

And the worst damned coffee, too.

About ten years ago, he and Marissa had farmed the kids out to friends and stayed the night here. They'd been so hard up they hadn't been able to afford anywhere more fancy but they hadn't cared. And Marissa....

Michael smiled at the memory his wife picking up the phone and coercing I-don't-do-room-service-Earl into bringing them an entire apple pie, a carton of ice cream and two spoons. One kiss on the cheek and that sunny smile of hers, and she'd had the motel owner wrapped around her little finger. And after she'd shooed Earl out the door, they'd lounged in bed and scoffed the lot. It'd been one of the best nights of his life.

He shook his head in wonderment. He'd bet his next slice of apple pie when he walked inside, Earl would still be lounging with feet up on his desk, popping gum, one eye on the door and the other on his portable TV.

He pushed open the door.

Yep. Earl was still manning the desk. He looked just as Michael remembered, beer belly, comb-over and all. Seemed nothing in Snapperton had changed.

Except for him.

He doubted even Marissa or the kids would recognize him now. Amazing what a shaved head, fake glasses and a thick, droopy moustache could do for a man. And not necessarily in a good way.

Earl tore his gaze from the small television and wadded his gum into his cheek with his tongue. "Help ya?"

"I'd like a room, please."

"How long you staying?"

"Couple of days."

"Yeah?" Earl cut his beady little eyes from Michael's faded jeans and worn boots, to his laptop bag. "Got some important business in our fair town, huh?" He sniggered at his own pathetic joke.

"Didn't want to leave this in the truck," Michael said, brandishing the laptop bag in an embarrassed fashion. "Boss'll make me pay for it if it gets swiped. I'm just passing through on the way back from a sales conference. Figured I'd try and catch up with some old drinking buddies I haven't seen in a few years. Know any good places round here?"

Earl leaned forward and beckoned Michael closer. "Don't let the Missus hear me telling you this, but I might be able to direct you to a particular establishment that'd make your hair curl. Whoooweee!" He fanned his face.

Michael pretended to be mightily impressed by Earl's description of the "particular establishment". It was all part of building rapport. In the last five years, he'd perfected the art of being amiable and not too memorable. And the fictional "old drinking buddies" gave him an excuse to stay out half the night without Earl thinking anything of it.

By the time he'd signed in, paid the deposit, and pocketed the key, he knew his disguise would hold. Earl hadn't recognized him, didn't suspect a thing.

Michael was confident no one else would, either. Excepting perhaps his wife.

He checked his watch. It was nearly four. Marissa had recently started working Saturdays as cashier at the local Save-Mart. He'd been gutted to discover she'd taken another dead-end job to make ends meet. Ironically, he had money to burn but no way of getting it to her without raising suspicions—hers, and his employer's.

She'd be finishing her shift soon. It crossed his mind he could visit her workplace on the pretext of needing groceries, just to see her again. Just to confirm that she, too, hadn't changed a whit.

Too risky.

Like it was too risky to swing by his house and front up to the kids he hadn't seen or contacted since he'd upped and vanished from their lives. Not that he cared about risking his own hide, but he sure as hell cared about risking Marissa and the kids.

He wanted to see them, though. So damn bad it hurt.

Five years. They would both have changed. Grown up. Done so much without him. It wounded him to think of all the milestones he'd missed.

His already shaky composure was completely sunk when he opened the door to his motel room and realized it was the same room he and Marissa had been given ten years ago.

Michael threw his laptop on the table, slumped on the end of the bed and covered his face with his hands as he remembered... and was again forced to confront what he'd given up.

Eventually he got it together, and resigned himself to doing what he did best: hiding away in some darkened room and ferreting out information.

He was ninety-nine percent certain the "Jay Smith" who'd registered at Greenfield High and was currently residing in an apartment not far from here, was Cyborg Unit Gamma-Dash-One. But he told himself gathering information was the sole reason he'd come to Snapperton: He merely wanted to eyeball the target—be one hundred percent certain before he sent in an extraction team.

He told himself he was risking his employer's considerable wrath because it made sense to have all the facts. And having all the facts minimized the risk of casualties if the target set a trap for them—as she had done when they'd gone after her at Durham's house. She'd beaten them down good and proper that time. And, in the deepest darkest recesses of his heart, damned if he hadn't applauded. But this time the stakes were too high. This time, he couldn't afford to think of her as human. She was the target, nothing more.

Michael told himself again what he'd told his employer: Only the mission mattered. And when fear clawed through his belly at the thought of Marissa or Caro or Tyler coming to harm, he knew he was lying to himself. Like the man he worked for had lied to him all along.

~*~

Copyright 2011 Maree Anderson

www.mareeanderson.com