Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Twenty-Six

The farm field, which was situated a few miles south of Troy, Illinois, was secluded but had easy access to the highway, and a short line of trees screened it from the road. Only one vehicle, a newer red SUV, was within sight when Tommy touched down there just before the dawn's first light stretched its fingers over the horizon. It'd been a quick and easy flight, and he'd only arrived that close to sunrise because of the two hours of darkness he'd lost travelling toward the rising sun.

You need to time that better, he scolded himself. There were no outsiders around to witness his arrival, but it never hurt to play it safe.

After hitting the ground, he stretched, undid his jacket, and sauntered through the tree line to where Sam sat in the front seat of the SUV, with the door open, doing a crossword in the glow of a pen-light.

"Twelve-letter word, first letter M, last letter R, 'someone who engages in coitus with a female parent,'" the old Chicagoan called without looking up.

"Motherfucker."

"Oh, yeah. How did I not know that one?" Sam grinned, stood, and greeted Tommy with a handshake. "Good flight?"

"Yeah, but I am starving."

"Ohhh ... Jeez. You could do with a shower, too."

Tommy pulled off his jacket, retrieved a stick of deodorant from the pocket, and applied it liberally. He usually didn't exude a strong odor, but Sam was right.

"That'll have to do for now. Any ideas on food?"

"You buying?"

"No. You are." He handed Sam the carry pouch with the money and tablets. "The tablets are gifts from Philly, who is spectacular, by the way." The two already had spoken about her on the phone, albeit briefly. "I'll show you how to work that after breakfast. I found the cash down behind the seat cushions of the couch."

"I need that kind of furniture," said Sam. "But, really, where'd you get it?" Sam was scrupulous about money.

"I'm an old guy, remember. I have money squirreled away all over the place." He explained about emptying the safety deposit box, cashing in the contents, and leaving money with Philly for any emergencies. "This is no time for me to be tight with cash. Let me know when that runs out. We're on a sacred mission. I'll get you more."

Sam nodded and expressed his gratitude. "Looks like I can finally get new soles on these boots," he said, raising a foot. The bottom leather was smooth and paper-thin. Then the old man took a stack of bills, rolled them, and placed them in his pocket. The rest he stuck in a bag and slid under the driver's seat.

The two men got in the SUV and headed north. After they drove about five minutes on various roads, a small diner came into view. It was sort of a mom-and-pop place near the Interstate. After an ample breakfast, they began to talk.

"I can't imagine where in St. Louis her SUV could be. I looked in her hotel's parking lot, other hotel lots around the area ... impound yards. I even searched airport long-term parking. Nothing. The police—who are sick of me, by the way—claim to have nothing. I don't like St. Louis."

"Let's get on I-70 and head east," Tommy suggested.

"That sounds like a good plan."

They finished eating, and Tommy dashed to the men's room while Sam paid. They met at the truck.

"What is it you don't like about St. Louis?" Tommy asked as Sam put it in gear and steered them toward the road. "Don't tell me ... the racists."

"They look at you, whenever you speak, like they're doing you a favor and you should be grateful they're even talking to you. I can tell their trigger fingers are itchy every time they look at me or hear my big mouth."