Into the Aether_Part One(14)

Aaron rubbed the back of his head, the pain still persisting, albeit lessening.

“Say, Phillip, have you ever heard of a company called Alric and Associates?”

“I would have no need for a brokerage firm,” Phillip replied, not meeting Aaron’s gaze this time.

“So, you have heard of them?”

“In passing. Do you have dealings with them?”

“No. I met one of their, well, she said she manages the company,” Aaron replied, looking out the window again.

“You mean Ms. Ness?” Phillip asked. Aaron's gaze shot to the back of the driver's head.

“Ness?” he said, leaning forward in his seat. That was Jordan’s last name. Phillip moved his eyes swiftly from the road to Aaron, and then back again. Aaron thought if he had blinked, he would have missed that look. He continued staring at the back of Phillip’s head. You're being paranoid, he told himself. How many people in this area share that name? Aaron looked downward and was churning over this information in his mind when his headache flared. Stroking the back of his head, he leaned back in his seat.

Aaron looked through the window again. The streets were dotted with people; it was Thursday night and Aaron guessed most of them were out to unwind. Cars were parked on either side of the road, almost bumper to bumper. The sedan turned a corner, its rear sliding slightly.

“Sorry about that,” Phillip said. “It is a bit slushy today.”

“It's fine,” Aaron replied absently. He was still looking out the window. The people on the streets diminished in number; the cars that had lined them earlier were nowhere to be found.

“Phillip?” he called.

“Yes?”

“I realize I'm a bit tired, but shouldn't there be more people around?”

Phillip looked to the sidewalks on either side of the road. “I am not sure,” he replied flatly.

Aaron's headache flared again, although now as just a dull ache. This is getting frustrating, he thought. As soon as I get to my room, I'm finding my Advil and taking three of them.

The car slowed, then stopped in front of a large brown building. Aaron glanced up at a large green canopy with ‘The Loyalist Hotel’ in a bold, cursive typeset. The tagline below it read: ‘With our level of service, you’ll never want to go home!’ Aaron rolled his eyes.

Phillip opened the door, letting in a gust of snowy wind. Aaron quickly stowed his cell phone into his pants pocket and got out, closing the door behind him. Phillip was looking slowly up and down the street.

He broke off from his inspection and walked to the trunk. “How long will you be in town?” asked Phillip, taking the suitcase out of the back.

“Just a couple days,” Aaron responded somewhat sullenly.

“First time in Hamilton?”

“First time in this country,” he stated, pulling out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?” Phillip gave him a price. “Thanks for the drive, keep the change.” Phillip nodded and flashed his toothy grin as Aaron handed him a wad of multi-colored bills. He turned and padded toward the driver’s side door of the sedan, his footfalls making gentle squishing sounds in the snow.

Aaron walked to the front entrance of the hotel, his joints stiff from his journey. The footfalls stopped, but he didn't hear the car door open. He turned to see Phillip staring up at the roof of a grey building across the street. He followed Phillip’s gaze, but all he could see was blowing snow and darkness.

Aaron carried on over the threshold of the hotel, one wheel of his suitcase squeaking. He had meant to put some WD-40 on it, but that had been low on his list of priorities. He walked into a large lobby with polished white floors. A large table occupied the center of the room, and had an even larger fake plant on it. Two gaudy armchairs sat on an area rug behind the table, and an older man in a dark suit sat in one, reading a newspaper. To Aaron’s right was a dimly lit bar; a sign hanging above it had the words ‘The Imperial’ emblazoned in gold leaf.

To his left was a large mahogany front desk, and behind it stood a very large man, in both height and girth, whom Aaron assumed was the front desk clerk. He had dark hair and a ruddy complexion, and his eyes were firmly set on something behind the desk—a computer, judging by the tapping sounds.

Aaron walked toward the desk and stood in front of the hotel clerk. “Welcome to the Loyalist, how can I help you?” the clerk asked in a monotone, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

“I’m Aaron Alcott, I have a room booked for the next few nights.” More tapping.

“Mr. Alcott, I see you are in our Kingly Suite. I will need to have a credit card on file for incidentals,” he continued in the same flat tone. Aaron pulled out his wallet, followed by his credit card. As he handed the clerk his card, a strong smell assaulted him.

“Do you smell that?” Aaron asked.

“No, sir, I do not,” he replied, sliding a keycard across the desk.

Well, aren’t you Mr. Personality? Aaron took the keycard and placed it in his wallet.

The smell was overpowering and somehow familiar. “It smells like ozone. What a photocopier gives off after it prints a lot of documents.”

“We have a photocopier in the back. Perhaps sir is sensitive to it.”

Aaron thought of several great profanities he had learned from his students to use on the irritating man, but held back. Movement caught the corner of his eye, and looking to his left, he thought he saw a streak of red light.