Lightning in a BottleChapter 43 Something To Talk About
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After interminable waits to board, make connections, and go through passport control, Hunter finally touched down in Ohio. From one narrow perspective, the first world cities can be reduced to a sameness with their strip malls, grocery stores, apartment buildings and streets upon streets of houses. Despite the constant whining over who has the better or most unique society, Europeans and North Americans shared far more in common in their suburbs than not.
The need to blend in meant that he drove the same POS car that most everyone else drove. Besides, one passenger with one suitcase just does not need that much horsepower, Hunter concluded with a sigh. He stared at the row of sports cars in the rental lot for a moment and then made his way to the subcompacts.
His brother had moved up in the world from accounting clerk for a small company to accountant for a medium-sized corporation based in Dayton, of all places. Hunter passed soccer fields next to elementary schools and baseball diamonds in parks. He thought that Dayton would be a swell place to raise your kids, in a 1950's sort of way. The stores were brightly lit. Drivers obeyed stop signs. He wondered how many minivans there were per capita in this city. It had to be high.
There were no signs of the children of Typhon about, as he had decided to rename his prey. Children of Typhon had a more dramatic ring to it than monsters. The police blotters were quiet and murders had been mostly domestic violence the preceding week. He hadn't bothered to print out the FBI updates before boarding in Paris. His habits were well ingrained though. He had already stopped at a quiet store on the outskirts of town and replaced the weapons he had had to leave in Paris.
Hunter rubbed his arm. The last of the scabs had fallen off. His stomach muscles felt tighter as well, which was strange because he hadn't had a six-pack since college. Eating good French, Italian, Spanish, German and Greek cooking had consequences despite daily exercise.
The GPS unit gave him one last instruction to turn and then announced, "Address. Just ahead. On left." His brother had a two story house with a lawn, a couple of trees and a two-car garage. A basketball hoop hung on a pole next to the driveway.
Someone must of have been waiting at the window because by the time he had closed the trunk, the front door was open and his brother was on the front stoop. He had gone completely bald.
"Lil' Bro!" he called out.
"Burt!" he called back.
Hunter used to call him fartface and his brother would call him shithead, which drove their mother crazy. Burt's daughter was eight years old and his son was six. Hunter guessed that kind of language wasn't appropriate anymore.
He met Hunter halfway and gave him a hug.
"You're still a shithead in my book," he whispered. "But not in the house."
"A fartface to the end," Hunter said in a matching tone. "What are your kids' names?"
"Jessica and Randolph," he said, rolling his eyes at his brother's lack for memory. Hunter sent gifts once a year when his calendar program reminded him. His niece and nephew weren't important details in his life.
"Please don't tell me you call him 'Randolph'"? Hunter whispered.
"He's Randy and she is Jessica, not Jess," his brother said. "You owe me a 'thank you' for shooing Penny's parents out of the house a few hours ago. My in-laws were curious to meet you and damn hard to get out the door."
Before Hunter could reply, they reached the open front door. His sister-in-law, Penny, stepped out the door looking rather plump but quite primped to greet him. He returned her hug with brotherly gusto. Hunter's brother was eleven years older than him and had gotten married while Hunter was still in high school. Penny had made a point to seek Hunter out in his teenaged, acne-filled doldrums and strike up a friendship with him. Two kids had ruined her figure but she still felt great his arms.
"You look great, Penny," he declared to everyone.
"I look fat, but thank you," she said.
"No, you like a woman who has become a mother and it looks good on you," Hunter said. France was a good place for learning flattery.
He looked behind Penny and caught his niece and nephew staring at him. They had never seen him face to face because he had been in college when they were born and then he had gone overseas.
"You look like daddy with hair," Jessica said.
"You look like your mother, thankfully," Hunter said.
Penny swatted his arm. "Jessica, Randy, this is your Uncle Cole. Mind your manners and say hello."
"Hello," they said in unison.
Hunter registered their reply but his mind had already boomeranged in another direction. His name was Cole, she had said. He hadn't heard anyone use his given name in three years and he found it disconcerting. Somewhere deep inside he knew he wasn't Cole anymore. Worse, he was afraid he wasn't just Hunter anymore either. He tamped down the thought and returned to his family.
He smiled at them. "Do you guys like presents?"
In the family room, with customary couch, two recliners and a coffee table, Hunter opened his suitcase on the fake oriental rug, which was powder blue. Randy scurried off with the Italian reprints of "Fantastic Journeys" from the 1920's with their cartoon adventures through jungles and dungeons and the evil lairs of powerful genies. Jessica cooed over the brightly colored scarves and dresses from somewhere in Central Africa. When he had bought the dresses, Hunter had not been able to understand the woman's accent at the flea market in the north suburbs of Paris despite his nearly fully-fluent French.
Uncle Cole was a hero. As the kids disappeared, Penny came back from the kitchen with a pie and six pack of beer.
"Screw the coffee, Burt," she said. "I've wanted a drink since my parents left."
Her sentiment warmed Hunter to the bone, which was kind of chilly at the moment. Now that he thought about it, all his bones felt like they were radiating cold and his skin seemed hot. He ran his hand through his hair just to check if there had sweat beading on his forehead. No, all was dry.
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