The bell above the door chimed as Lance stepped through, and he held the door open for Mrs. Vargas, who was in her sixties but looked as though she could be forty. A cougar if there ever was one, she was dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie, expensive running shoes on her feet. Cardboard cup of coffee—nonfat, no whip, no sugar, for sure—in one hand.
“Thanks, handsome,” she said as she passed by, touching Lance’s arm with her free hand. Lance was hit with a sudden image of Mrs. Vargas lying in her bed, naked, with Will Sanders fumbling in front of her, struggling to pull off his pants and join her.
Lance let the door close and laughed under his breath.
Will Sanders was only a year older than Lance and had been the basketball team’s second-best player. He was currently attending Virginia Tech. Lance had seen him in town last summer when he was home visiting. He wondered if that was when ol’ Will had decided to test the whole “with age comes experience” theory.
Cougar indeed, Lance thought, then wondered if the universe had shown him that image just to put a smile on his face. Boy did he wish he understood how any of this stuff worked. He needed a manual.
Downtown Joe smelled like heaven, if your idea of heaven was full of coffee grounds and pastries. The tabletops were clean, the floor had been freshly mopped, and the display cases full of freshly baked goods were so crystal-clear and smudge-free they were practically invisible. They whole interior had been outfitted for fall: scarecrows and pumpkins and wreaths made of orange and yellow leaves. The chalkboard menu’s largest item was the Pumpkin Spice Latte. “Better than Starbucks!” the sign proclaimed. Lance believed it.
Mary Jennings was behind the counter, reaching into one of the display cases with a gloved hand and pulling out a slice of banana bread, placing it in a small bag and handing it to the man at the register. “You know you’re making me fat, Mary,” the man said, taking the bag and handing over some cash.
Mary smiled. “And you know I take that as a compliment.”
The two shared a quick laugh together and the man took his banana bread and left, leaving Lance and Mary alone in the café, the music playing softly from the overhead speakers—country today—and a coffeemaker humming and buzzing as it brewed into a fancy new pot.
Mary saw Lance and smiled. “Morning, Lance. Be right with you, I need to grab a pan out of the oven. Back in a jiffy.” She twirled, the apron she wore puffing out around her waist, and then disappeared through a door that led back to the kitchen.
Lance stood, listening to Kenny Chesney strum a guitar and sing about summer love, and heard some clanging noises from the back as Mary did her work. Now that he was here, Lance was uncertain exactly how to proceed. He’d come seeking answers, but what was he going to ask? He wanted to know more about the Reverend. Anything. What his name was, where he was from, when he’d gotten into town, heck, what kind of coffee he’d had. Right now, the Reverend was a complete mystery, a stranger with at least one shared gift with Lance—the ability to get into other people’s minds. Though admittedly, the Reverend appeared to be more powerful than Lance in this regard.
Mary might suddenly think him crazy, coming into her store and asking after a customer from two days ago. But certainly she’d remember the man, right? He wasn’t a resident, that was a fact—small-town benefit, you know almost everybody—and his look had been quite distinctive. As Mary reemerged from the back, Lance tossed his self-consciousness aside. He knew he had to get whatever information he could out of her, even if she thought him rude or prying or strange.
“In a little early today, Lance. How’s Pamela?”
Lance smiled and stepped closer to the counter. “She’s great, thanks for asking.”
“Wonderful. I keep meaning to swing by the library and see what books she’s got to recommend for me—she’s so good at figuring out what I like to read—but it’s hard to get away from this place. You know?”
“Sure,” Lance said. “People love it here. You should be very proud.”
Mary’s face reddened. “Thank you for saying that, Lance. You’re always such a sweet young man. Now what can I get you today? The usual?”
“Yes, please. That would be great.”
Mary nodded and grabbed the fancy coffeepot, filling the largest cup Downtown Joe offered. She popped a lid on it and slid it across the counter to Lance. “On the house today, sweetie.”
Lance started to protest, but she cut him off. “Don’t even try, mister. You’re one of my best customers. Loyalty should be rewarded, right?”
This sounded very much like something Lance’s mother would say. He stopped his attempts to pay and simply said, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
When he didn’t turn to leave, Mary eyed him with a curious look. “Is there something else, Lance?”
Lance stood, feeling the warmth from the coffee cup in his hand and trying to find the right words to ask his questions. Mary’s look went from curious to concerned, and just before Lance could speak, the speakers overhead let off a sudden burst of static—a quick second of digital fuzz—before the music came back into focus.
Only it was no longer country. Kenny Chesney had been silenced.
Now the song playing was “Surfin’ U.S.A.” by the Beach Boys.
Mary’s brow crinkled, and she looked up to the speakers in the ceiling. “Well, that’s odd.”
The realization of what the song was sent ice washing through Lance’s veins just as the bell above the door to Downtown Joe chimed and Lance heard footsteps fall in line behind him. And not normal footsteps you’d expect to hear in the fall weather—not sneakers or boots, but the sticky slap of rubber against skin. Flip-flops.
Mary Jennings’s face lit up with a smile. “Well, hello again! I didn’t think you’d still be in town.”
“Can’t say I did either, babe,” a voice that sounded as if its owner had just finished smoking the world’s largest joint said from behind Lance. “But it seems we’ve got a bit of gnarly situation on our hands. The boss man is pretty sure we’ll get it taken care of soon, though, so no worries, right? We’ll be catching a wave out of here in no time.”
Lance turned around and stood face-to-face with the Surfer. The man who’d been driving the Creamsicle bus. He looked at Lance with eyes that were as blue as a pristine ocean. “How’s it goin’, bro?”
Lance took a step back. He was a good six inches taller than the Surfer but felt entirely too close, suddenly revolted by the man’s presence. A feeling as though the man were literally covered in some sort of slime, a sickly substance that radiated off him and affected anybody too close. There was something wrong with the Surfer. Something bad.
The man wore bright blue board shorts and a sleeveless yellow t-shirt, his hair now pulled back into a small ponytail. The flip-flops on his feet were grimy with dirt. He stared at Lance with a sort of dumb grin, waiting.
“I’m well,” Lance said.
The Surfer nodded. “Righteous.” Then he turned and asked for an iced latte.
Lance thanked Mary again for the coffee and left Downtown Joe. He made his way to work, locking the door behind him and keeping it that way until the very second the store was supposed to open.
Lance spent the following hours distracted. Customers came and went, each chime from the bell above the door caused Lance’s head to dart that direction, poised and ready to see the Reverend or the Surfer coming to fulfill their promise.
See you soon, Lance.
But each new arrival to the store proved to be no threat, just another regular Hillston visitor looking for new hiking boots or a new softball bat or a jockstrap. Lance mindlessly performed his duties, easily managing to smile and act like himself as the customers carried out their transactions. All the while, his thoughts were focused on what had happened with the Surfer this morning in Downtown Joe.
The music, for starters. There was no way that was a coincidence, the odds of the station that had been playing glitching like that, only to land on a channel that j
ust happened to be playing an oldie about surfing just as the Surfer had walked through the door. No way.
His mother’s words echoed in his head. “The universe is too smart, too calculated for us to accept the concept of a coincidence, Lance. Do you, a person with your gifts, honestly believe things could be so random?”
No, he couldn’t. His mother might have some quirky ideals and thoughts, but this one was a bit Lance tended to agree with.
And who was the Surfer, really? The darkness and pain and evil that had seemed to radiate off the man had been enough to cause Lance to stagger back, doing all he could not to run in revulsion. The Surfer was somebody bad. Someone who had done terrible things. And that trick with the music? He certainly had some sort of special ability. If there had been any doubt in Lance’s mind that the Reverend wasn’t here to pay him a friendly social visit, the Surfer had completely erased those doubts.
But why don’t they just come? Why are they slowly revealing themselves to me?
And that’s when two scenarios occurred to Lance. One, the Reverend and his Apostle Surfer were testing him, trying to see if Lance was really who they believed him to be. They were giving him clues, dropping breadcrumbs to lead him to their intentions, and when Lance confronted them, they’d be waiting.
Or two … and this scenario slammed into Lance’s gut with such a force his head felt dizzy and light with fear … they were misleading him. Distracting him.
Maybe the message didn’t imply they would arrive for him. Maybe he would come to them. And the only way Lance could think of that he would willingly go somewhere the Reverend and Surfer were waiting for him would be.…
His mother.
Lance quickly recalled his mother’s work schedule. She didn’t work today and wasn’t scheduled to volunteer at the YMCA either. She’d be at home. Alone. And because of Lance’s dishonesty, she was completely unprepared for anything or anyone bad to show up. Completely unaware there was a new evil in town, and it was coming after the Brodys.
They’d played him. They’d set him up and gotten him so worried about himself, he’d forgotten all about the people around him.
Lance bolted from behind the counter, calling out, “Is anybody still here?” When nobody answered, he rushed to the door, flipping the hanging sign from OPEN to CLOSED and rushing out onto the sidewalk, barely remembering to lock the door behind him.
He ran with everything he had, crossing streets without looking and ignoring the few blaring horns from the sparse morning traffic. His legs were still strong, but his lungs burned, his stamina not what it used to be during his playing days. His heart was pounding in his ears as he turned down the street into his neighborhood and kicked into another gear he wasn’t sure he still had. His head swiveled all around, eyes peeled for the Creamsicle orange.
He was close now, one more block. He could see his front yard, and at the sight of it, he had a very strange, yet very normal thought. I’ll need to cut the grass one more time this year. And then he almost laughed at having such a trivial thought during what could be such a pivotal moment in his life.
He ran through the grass and bounded up the porch steps, slowing just enough not to knock the front door off its hinges. He threw open the door and stopped.
His mother sat on their living room sofa, a mug of tea in one hand—Lance could smell the lavender and honey—and an open book on her lap. She saw his face and instantly asked, “Lance, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Lance scanned the room, saw no one but his mother. Felt a soothing relief.
“Lance?” she asked again. “Tell me.”
So he did.
They’d gone into the kitchen and Pamela had sliced Lance a piece of pie, pie he hadn’t thought he wanted yet somehow had managed to eat half of before he’d even begun to tell his mother what he’d been keeping from her. There was still coffee in the stainless-steel pot, and she poured him a cup and reheated it in the microwave, setting it beside the pie plate. He took a sip without thinking. It was too hot and had gone bitter, but he drank it all the same.
Finally, Pamela sat down at the table across from him, a fresh mug of tea cupped in her hands. “When you came home two days ago, I could tell something was wrong. You know me, Lance. I’ve never pushed you to tell me things you didn’t feel the need to, and I won’t change now. You’re the smartest boy I know, and I trust your judgment.”
Guilt.
The heaviest of guilt plowing through his gut.
He began with an apology—which his mother quickly and almost sternly dismissed—and then filled her in on the Reverend and the Surfer. All that had happened.
“Funny song to pick as entrance music, isn’t it? The Beach Boys? How old is this man?”
“That’s the part that bothers you?” Lance asked. “I picked up one of the worst vibes ever from this guy and you’re concerned about his taste in music?”
“It’s just peculiar, that’s all.”
Lance finished his pie. “That’s the whole story,” he said. “I don’t know when, and I don’t know why, but I know they’re going to come for me. They know what I am, and they want me.”
“For what, do you suppose?”
“Does it matter? Clearly nothing good. Otherwise, wouldn’t they have, I don’t know, just introduced themselves to me instead of quasi-stalking me around town and sending me telepathic messages with severe threatening undertones?”
Pamela nodded. “Fair point.”
Lance waited for her to say more. He was not rewarded. Finally, he asked, “So what should we do?”
His mother looked at him and smiled. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Pamela stood from the table and placed her empty mug in the sink, then turned to face him, leaning against the counter. “Lance, what do you suggest we do? Run? Flee our home, our lives?”
“Mom, I know they’re dangerous. Trust me.”
She nodded. “Maybe so, Lance. But that doesn’t change my question. Yes, they’re dangerous. Well, guess what, some might call you dangerous, too, given your gifts.” She held up a hand before he could protest. “Yes, I know, not a fair comparison. What I’m trying to tell you is you seem so sure this is a battle you’re going to lose. Why is that?”
“I … I don’t know.”
“A feeling? Your instinct?”
Lance closed his eyes and searched for that feeling he’d carried with him as he’d run home from work. Remembered the disgust he’d felt at the aura of evil that had oozed from the Surfer. Remembered the way the Reverend’s message had slammed into his head with zero resistance.
“It won’t end well,” he said finally. “I can’t explain it—”
“You never can.”
She smiled at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to return the favor. “I can’t explain it, but this is different, Mom.”
“How so? We’ve been through some whoppers over the years, Lance.”
“That’s the worst part. I honestly can’t tell. It’s like the picture is fuzzy, and all the pieces are scrambled. I just can’t help feeling—and this is the part that scares me the most—like this is the end of something.”
Pamela Brody had a heck of poker face. She only stared and nodded, her face unflinching at her son’s news.
“But also,” Lance said, “it might be just the beginning.”
They were quiet for a long time then, both trying to wrap their minds around everything they’d discussed. Finally, Pamela walked over and placed her hand on Lance’s shoulder, leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Maybe it’s both, Lance. Maybe it’s both. Either way, this is all part of it.”
“Part of what?”
She smiled at him. “Whatever it is you are. This is the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Even if they kill me?” He was starting to become irritated with her apparent ignorance to the true danger of the situation. Her reliance on fate or destiny or whatever master plan she believed his life was following.
&nb
sp; “You’re not the only one with an instinct, Lance,” she said, walking back into the living room. “You’ve got something they don’t fully understand yet.”
Lance and his mother spent the rest of Tuesday evening inside. Pamela made a chicken pot pie for dinner—one of Lance and his mother’s favorite diner-type foods—served with fresh rolls, and Lance couldn’t tell if she was simply trying to appear as though everything was normal between the two of them, of if she honestly, deep down, had no concern in regard to what Lance had revealed to her earlier over the tea and coffee and pie.
As he helped her clean up after dinner, he came within half a breath of telling her he thought they should leave. Not forever, but just for a few days. He had some cash saved up—not much, but enough—and they could go on a mini-vacation. Someplace a few hours away, where they could find things to do to take their minds off the Reverend and the Surfer, and maybe avoid whatever altercation was sure to be headed Lance’s way. He’d call the bus station and see what was available for the next day.
But would that work, really? They’d found him once, couldn’t they find him again? Could the Reverend track Lance with his mind, the way Lance sometimes found himself tracking down lost items, or walking in a certain direction without really meaning to, only to find himself exactly where he needed to be? If Lance had that kind of power, it was quite possible the Reverend had it at exponentially greater levels.
Lance just didn’t know. So he’d stayed quiet. Finished with the dishes and then excusing himself to his bedroom. Feeling sick and lost.
His mother called out after him, “Are you excited for Centerfest tomorrow?”
They went together every year. Lance, of course, once he’d gotten to be about eleven or twelve, would always arrive with his mother but then drift off to walk around with his friends, trying to show off at the games to win pretty girls prizes, but he’d always find his way back to her. It was essentially a tradition.
Lance Brody Omnibus Page 5
