Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (most inspirational books TXT) 📗

to order two double cheeseburgers, fries and a root beer. This was her first time out in days and it was great just to hear the sound of other peoples’ voices.

The counterman finally asked, “What can I get for you?”

She began to speak, but her reply came out garbled and made no sense.

The young man looked strangely at her asking, “Miss? Are you alright?”

She wanted to tell him what was wrong, but couldn’t. Suddenly, she grasped for her chest, as she was having difficulty breathing. From somewhere, a voice asked, “You feeling okay? You don’t look good! Do you need help?”

Why did he sound so far away? Why was she having trouble breathing? Heart attack? Not in my family? Suddenly, everything faded and she could no longer stand. Her knees buckled as everything in the room whirled about. With the full weight of her body behind it, she crashed headfirst into the chrome waiting line railing. She was on the floor and felt as though a hundred people were standing over her and looking down. She could hear them screaming something but couldn’t understand what. All she could feel was something warm spurting from her head. All the pain suddenly disappeared and she was spiraling toward the brightest and warmest light she had ever come in contact with.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Woody and Ingrid Montgomery were seated in their newly-renovated New Jersey ranch style home, in the living room done in contrasting hues of soft white, with both reading. The heavyset Ingrid shifted in her seat, put down her copy of the New York Times and spoke as she patted her swept back, dyed blond hair that attempted to convey a wind-blown look, but was so overdone it looked like she was inside a wind tunnel. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I dunno,” Woody exhaled noisily, shaking his head. He laid his copy of the NY Post on the coffee table. “I do know I’m done with flying, finished. With all the new security crap and alcohol testing it’s no fun any more. Plus, I don’t see any long-term future for Shuttle Air. Your brother, Billy told me how well our investment in his new company will do, so maybe I’ll work with him?” Woody paused, “Why don’t you invite him for dinner? Do you think he’d object if I ask about coming aboard?”

A knowing smile appeared on her face. “He’d probably be thrilled. You guys have always gotten along so well. If you think it’s secure, I’ll invite him.”

“That would be fine. Just make it an innocuous conversation in case of the phone thing that we discussed after the police were here the last time.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Dressed in blue jeans, black tee and old tennis shoes, after making certain of no tail, Erik drove into New Jersey via the Holland Tunnel. He checked into one of the grubby motels ringing Newark Airport or Sew-ark, as pilots regularly called it due to the nauseating stenches emanating from the countless refineries and other heavy industries that ringed it. The single-story fleabag with peeling paint he chose was situated near the always busy New Jersey turnpike interchange used by many eighteen wheelers.

The motel’s presence was announced by a huge red neon sign, with the last letter of the name The Newark Country Motel either broken or burned out, making it The Newark Country Mote. After ensuring it wasn’t surrounded by water, even with the misspelled word, he parked in the rear and walked into the closet-sized lobby. Judging by the scarcity of cars in the lot, it was mostly likely almost empty, meaning it was probably a cheaters joint. A skinny white guy in his twenties, with a pimply face and long, unwashed hair sat behind a bulletproof partition. Even through the divider he smelled like he hadn’t gone near a shower for days. It was a dismal place with fluorescent lights and a noisy Coke dispenser. Erik asked, “Can I pay cash?”

“Cash is always good here,” the dirtbag replied and handed Erik a registration card.

After sizing Erik up, the creep mentioned at least four times there were free X-rated movies in each room, with a new one every night. This meant the movies were probably changed more often than the sheets. After discovering no ID was requested or desired, he registered under the name John Smith and paid a hundred bucks cash for two nights. At one time this might have been a decent place, but the merciless march of time had left it far behind with no attempt to catch up.

His room had bars on the windows and smelled of chlorine disinfectant. Although he wasn’t expecting a robe on the bed and mints on the pillow, gloom hung over every corner just like outside, with the entire place glowing an off-shade of sulfurous yellow. Besides a twin-sized bed, the small room was adorned with a cigarette-scarred, scratched Formica nightstand with initials and phone numbers inviting a call etched everywhere. This décor matched a badly discolored dresser and streaked mirror. Stale cigarette stench was permanently suspended throughout and the plywood-walled closet was bare, except for rows upon rows of empty wire hangers hanging on an unpainted wooden pole. Erik didn’t unpack his clothing or toiletries, fearful of what might find its way into his underwear or worse yet, toothpaste. Trying to focus on the task at hand, he finally got up the courage to sit on the creaky bed that almost dipped to the floor and pore over a map providing directions to the Parsippany, New Jersey street address he’d found in the phone book for Mr. Howard Montgomery. The smoldering embers of hatred spread throughout his body screaming out only one word, revenge. He anxiously awaited the needed darkness, which seemed to never come as it was as though the light was working well past its normal quitting time. But when the blackness finally arrived, with it came an accompanying taste of promise.

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