Chapter 73

Mike sat in the same position he had been in for the past hour, staring at the same spot on the carpet. Milky light from the window barely lit the grimy interior of the motel room as fluffy snow wafted down in the same silence as his thoughts.

Upon the mattress lay his dead cell phone. He had drained the battery listening to the same voice mails over and over. They still echoed in his head, a playback he could never shut off.

He finally raised his head. He ran his hand over three days of stubble. He felt no compulsion to clean himself up. He only had to get out of this place.

He snatched up the cell phone and threw together what few belongings he had. He stepped into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face to jolt him to a higher state of consciousness before he left the motel room.

He listened for a moment after closing the door. The silence was unnerving but expected. Only losers like him would be in a ratty motel on Christmas morning.

Halfway down the hall, Mike cursed himself for forgetting to call Harve. He did not want to go back into the room and be reminded of how low he had sunk. Instead, he used what little coin change he had to make a phone call from the lobby. Fortunately his call was short; it did not take long to say the words "I quit."

Mike stepped into the cold and pulled the collar of his coat up. He wrapped the handle of the plastic bag containing his meager belongings around a wrist and plunged both hands into his pockets.

He had no idea how long he had walked before he found an open convenience store. His time had been filled with self-recrimination and the struggle to understand what had happened to his son. He no longer sensed his Mr. Hyde self in his son's head, which was a relief but spawned more questions which demanded answers he did not have.

His mind landed on Richie's last message and stayed there while he sipped his coffee at the last intersection on the outskirts of a town whose name he did not know. He stared through the whirling flakes and could almost see his son in near tears as he spoke.

Mike heaved a slow, deep sigh. He felt very proud of his son. Richie had faced something which had driven his father out of town and owned up to his failure to defeat it.

Mike's eyes narrowed. He crushed the empty styrofoam cup and hurtled it into the air. The wind mocked his attempt to let off steam and tossed the cup almost straight back at him.

He had not been driven away. It was time he did the same as his son and own up to his failures. He had run away. He had fooled himself all this time. He had no business trying to create a new life. Perhaps the fact that he had failed miserably was telling him something.

He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, intending to call Betty, then cursed when he remembered the battery was dead and shoved it back in his pocket. That would have to wait. Perhaps forever.

He wandered along the road out of town. The snow stopped, and hazy sunlight played over the freshly fallen snow. The wind died, leaving him the crunching of his steps as the only sound. He held up his arm and outstretched thumb whenever a car approached.

After the third unsuccessful attempt, he heard the roar of a diesel engine as an eighteen wheeler came around the bend. He thrust his thumb into the air. The truck roared on past, then let out a sudden hiss of air brakes, and the beast shuddered to a stop some hundred feet up the road.

Mike started jogging towards it the moment it slowed, not believing his luck, which increased twofold as he climbed the stepping board and hauled his face to the window of the passenger side door.

"Holy shit, that you, Mike?!" cried a familiar face as the window lowered.

"Uh, if you mean Mike Hendon, that's me," Mike said. "Sorry, I don't--"

The burly driver flicked a thumb at his chest and gave him a crooked smile. "Larry Rellon! I shared a route with ya back about a year ago."

Mike remembered and grinned. He reached a hand inside and shook Larry's hand. "Hey, nice to see you again," Mike said.

"What the hell are ya doin' hitchin' a ride out in the middle of Bumblefuck, Iowa?"

"Long story, not really up to tellin' it right now. I quit this morning."

"Aw, shit, really? Yer a good driver, Mike."

"Got more important things to do. Can you give me a lift?"

"Depends. Where'ya headed?"

"Right now, west."

Larry nodded. "I can take ya as far as Des Moines, then I hafta turn south. Hop in."

Mike opened the door and climbed in. "Thanks, I owe you one."

"Don't sweat it." The engine roared back to life, and the cab shuddered as Larry eased it back onto the road. "So where ya eventually headed?"

Mike's fingers curled around the cell phone in his pocket, and he stared out the windshield as if trying to see across the hundreds of miles which lay between him and his destination.

"Home."

Harry did not find his employer in the carport, but this was expected. He would not have been summoned to the mansion on Christmas morning for mundane reasons. He was ushered into the lounge, where Robert Kendall sat before a bottle of twenty-one year old scotch and two glasses.

Harry kept it formal until told otherwise. He stood in the doorway, erect and proper, his hands folded before him. "Yes, Mr. Kendall?"

Robert gave him a somber look as he picked up the bottle. The neck clinked against the glass as he poured. "Close the door behind you, Harry, if you would."

Harry did as he was bid and sat opposite his employer. When Robert filled the second glass and gestured, Harry took it in hand and assumed his real identity as Robert's old friend. "I believe I know why I am here, Robert," he said in a heavy voice as he took a sip.

Robert cradled his glass in his hands as he leaned back, uttering a long sigh. "I'm sure you've seen it for yourself."

Harry nodded. "Your daughter's powers have fully awakened."

Robert stared into his glass for a long while before he finally took a sip. With his eyes still downcast, he said, "I feel I must apologize to you, Harry. I wish I did not have to inflict my wife upon you."

"It's simply another role for me to adopt. You know how good I was at that when we were in special ops together."

Robert looked up and gave him a faint smile. "You have done your job brilliantly, Harry. How you manage to enforce my wife's edicts concerning Cassandra's behavior yet allow her free rein with her friends is nothing short of amazing."

Harry took another sip of scotch but was not sure how much more he would have. He considered himself on duty twenty-four hours a day, and not just as the Kendall's chauffeur. "You can thank her friends' resourcefulness for that."

"And your selective application of Dorothy's wishes."

Dorothy had wanted Harry to do everything in his power to ensure that Cassie did not go near Richie. She had told him to escort Cassie to the door of Debby's house, check inside to see if Richie were present, and periodically make random checks during her stay.

"I am also thankful for the mental conditioning I went through while in ops or I would never have been able to hide the deception from her empathic sense," said Harry.

Robert shook his head. "I do not look forward to the day when Cassandra discovers you've been reporting her day to day activities to me rather than her mother."

"You only have her welfare in mind, Robert."

"Do I? Harry, sometimes I am just as frightened at her potential as Dorothy is! And now ... that doll house ... that damned doll house."