The Box, Jeremy Brown [big ebook reader TXT] 📗

The breeze coming from the west nudged him along and he had to keep to the left of the sidewalk to avoid the full brunt of the wind generated by the traffic going into town, mostly big rigs pulling trailers. It was nearly impossible to look cool while getting buffeted around in the vortex, so he kept his head down and wished he’d opted for the motorcycle instead of the bus.

Bruder and Rison both thought the bike would be over the top—a guitar-wielding stranger rumbling into town would get too much attention—and when Connelly revealed he didn’t know jack shit about motorcycles, that was the end of it.

He crossed five side streets running north and south into quiet neighborhoods. From what he could see, and what they’d all seen from the satellite map view, the blocks nearest the main intersection had tall Victorian-style homes that took up a quarter or even half of a block. This, according to the town’s website, was considered the historical district.

As the grid of streets expanded away from the center of town the houses turned into small post-World War II homes with aluminum siding and square yards.

He walked in front of a large gas station with pump stations coming out of both sides like unbalanced wings, one side for civilian vehicles and the other for big rigs, then crossed the last side street and found the end of the sidewalk.

He had to walk along the shoulder of the four-lane highway, the jet wash unavoidable, until he came to the crushed rock driveway leading to the motel.

The motel was set about fifty yards back from the road with a horseshoe-shaped driveway sweeping in from both ends of the parking lot. The space in the middle of the horseshoe had a sign by the road with The Sleep Inn outlined in neon with a trail of Zs coming off the end of Inn, like the two Ns were sleeping eyes.

The sign also announced free cable and discounts for multiple nights and Connelly thought the Vacancy neon was lit, but as with the bar signs, it was impossible to tell in the full sun.

The rest of the horseshoe infield had at one time been a miniature golf course. Now it was a series of landscaping bricks and concrete curbs outlining the holes and speed-bump hills and ragged green turf. A central pile of fake rocks looked like it might have included a waterfall at one time and now had a summer’s worth of weeds sprouting around it.

Connelly felt regret.

If the course was operational, he would have made it his secondary goal—slightly behind getting his share of the fourteen million dollars—to get Bruder to play a round of miniature golf.

The motel office jutted out from the center of the complex with ten units each on the left and right, set further back with a covered walkway running the length of each wing.

The parking lot looked about half full with cars and trucks parked in front of the units where, Connelly presumed, the tenants were staying. They were spread evenly across both sides of the office.

He went inside and smelled coffee and wood paneling and some mashup of apples and cinnamon and cloves coming from a candle the size of his head burning on the counter.

A bald and slope-shouldered man wearing a pink golf shirt with a toothpaste stain on the chest sat behind the counter staring at an iPad. The device was in a protective case that could be configured to prop the screen up like a TV, and the man watched it for a few extra seconds while Connelly stood there, then he tapped the screen to pause it.

He turned to Connelly with a sheepish grin and confided, “Don’t tell my wife.”

Connelly played along. The man had a name tag that said Ed, with Owner/Manager underneath.

“I wouldn’t dare, Ed. But, uh, what shouldn’t I tell her?”

“We’re supposed to be watching this show together. But she always falls asleep and gets mad if I keep watching, so we only get fifteen, twenty minutes a night. So I have a secret account and I’ve been watching it by myself.”

“I hope you have a good divorce lawyer.”

Ed found that hilarious.

“Oh lord, she would too! She’d rake me over the coals! What can I do for you?”

“First, don’t give me any spoilers. I haven’t started watching it yet.”

“Oh, you have to. It’s so good! I don’t want to root for the bad guys, but, you know? The good guys are just as bad! Maybe worse!”

Connelly put his hands over his ears and Ed lifted his arms, relenting.

“Okay, okay, I’ll shut up now, I promise. I’m guessing you’d like a room?”

“Indeed, sir. I’m on foot, so as close to town as you can get me. Even a few feet can make a difference at the end of the day.”

“Don’t I know it. I keep telling Barbara—that’s my wife, Barbara—we need to get one of those anti-fatigue mats for behind the counter here. You know what she told me? Just wear thicker socks.”

Connelly sensed about thirty years of Barbara resentment simmering under the surface and wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing ended with a murder/suicide over who got to hold the TV remote.

Ed said, “I can’t put you all the way at the end, but number two is open. I try to spread folks out with an empty room in between, like a sound buffer, unless we’re too full up and can’t do it. Not that the walls are thin, mind you, it’s just that most people like a little elbow room. So if you don’t mind a neighbor…”

“Number two is fine,” Connelly said.

“There is an adjoining door between one and two, but it has two doors and they lock from both sides, so it’s completely safe.”

“Can you tell me there’s a bunch of bathing suit models staying in number one?”

Ed laughed again.

“Oh no, no no. But it’s great for families with younger kids, you know; naps. And every year