So he just walked away, crossing the residential street with a casualness that suggested he knew exactly where he was going, leaving Todd confused on the sidewalk. Halfway across the road, Lance heard footsteps behind him as Todd jogged to catch up.
The house was a two-story brick colonial with bright white trim. Sharp lines and crisp color. The yard was neat and tidy and looked healthy, taken care of. Flowerbeds ran along the front of the house, filled with white rock and looking just as fresh as spring. There was a white privacy fence protecting the backyard. A gate on the right side of the house, shut and likely locked. The driveway was the dark black of a recent seal job, feeding into an attached two-car garage. The garage door was closed, but Lance knew exactly what was behind it: a black Ford Excursion, engine still warm.
The house looked completely ordinary. Was, in fact, a picture-perfect suburban family home. If you closed your eyes, you’d be able to hear the squeals of children running through backyard sprinklers in the summer, smell the wafting aroma of meat cooking on a grill while music played from outdoor speakers and husband and wife gave each other a playful kiss and longing look and then laughed and marveled at this little slice of heaven they’d built.
The house looked completely ordinary, except for two things.
First, the cameras. They were small and unobtrusive and blended well if you weren’t looking for them, but Lance picked them out immediately. There was one near the front door, and two more on each corner of the house. Wide-angle lenses, more than likely, to capture the maximum amount of picture with the least amount of hardware. Lance suspected that with those three cameras alone, the owners had a clear view of the entire front and both sides of the home. Not unusual, if not a bit extreme. Home security was a big deal to a lot of people.
But the second thing that made the house less than ordinary to Lance, the thing that couldn’t be seen from the street or heard from the backyard, was the sadness he felt. The same feeling he’d gotten both times he’d approached the girls with the coolers. It was here, living, breathing, growing. This was the source. If not directly, it was housed here. A lot of it. Enough that, if Lance had not spent his life dealing with such things, it might have brought him to tears.
Lance stood silently on the corner and looked at the house for another few seconds before the unease began to creep in. “We should go,” he said.
“Yeah,” Todd agreed. “I need to get home. Gonna catch a few winks before work tonight. You good?”
Lance nodded, keeping his eyes on the house. “I’m good. Thanks again.”
Todd was halfway turned to leave when he stopped. “Hey, you got a phone?”
“I do.”
“Let me give you my number. You know, in case you need to … I don’t know, place a to-go order or something.” He made that noise through his nostrils again. Lance agreed and pulled out his phone, punching in Todd’s number.
“Cool, man. I’ll see you around. Take care,” Todd said, and then he was off, down to the end of the block and around the corner, disappearing down another street.
Getting what he’d come for, and with no other plan in mind, Lance took one last look at the house and then headed back to get his clothes from the laundromat.
As he walked, he thought about the cameras and the big privacy fence, coupled with the deep, undeniable feeling of sadness.
They’re not keeping people out, Lance thought. They’re keeping people in.
17
Nobody had stolen his clothes from the dryer, which was good. He liked his hoodie and his shorts, and so far they’d served him well. He could always buy more underwear and socks, but what an unnecessary hassle that would have been. The girls with the magazines had left by the time he returned, and in their place was an elderly woman who looked brittle enough to snap in two, but had lifted her overflowing clothes basket up onto the table with such ease that Lance figured she might have a future hustling people in arm-wrestling matches down at the Sand Crab.
She smiled at Lance as he left, and he wished her a good day.
He found a submarine sandwich shop on the strip and ordered a turkey on wheat, extra meat, loading it up with lots of vegetables and a single squirt of mayo for a little flavor. He got it to go, thinking he’d take it back to the little park across from the Boundary House and have a picnic with himself. The weather was still perfect, even warmer now that the sun had reached its peak, and considering it was only lunchtime, he’d done a lot and found himself with a lot to think about.
As he made his way, leaving the busiest of the traffic behind, he heard the sounds from the beach over the dunes. People shouting and laughing, the thud … thud … thud of what might have been a volleyball game, and of course, the waves crashing. An ever-present accompaniment to the sounds of life and fun on the sand.
He thought about the kids he’d seen on the beach the night before. Wondered if they were out there now, or if they only emerged at night to enjoy the fire.
Two of the enormous rental houses had cars in the driveways: crew-cab trucks and SUVs, people-moving vehicles. Families who’d set out to enjoy themselves and didn’t mind paying for it. Lance wondered what that feeling must be like, questioning whether it was something he’d ever get to experience. And for not the first time, he wondered just what future the Universe had planned for him. Was this it? Forever the servant, on the move helping to fix things here and there and everywhere until the day he died?
He thought of Leah.
I hope there’s more to me than that.
He thought of his mother. Her sacrifice.
But I’ll have to accept it if there isn’t.
Ahead, the Boundary House came into view and so did the little park opposite, which sat empty and waiting. He was maybe twenty yards away when Loraine Linklatter called to him, standing from one of the Boundary House’s porch swings and walking to the stoop.
“Oh good, I was hoping you’d make it back in time! I was just about to set out lunch.”
Lance smiled but cast a look to the park, feeling the weight of his sub in his backpack. “That’s very kind of you, but I was just going to eat a sandwich I bought.”
Loraine Linklatter didn’t like this. “Sandwich? Please. Get up here now. You won’t regret it.”
Lance sighed. He was technically paying for his room and board at the Boundary House, though he had been unaware that included lunch.
“Save the sandwich for dinner,” Loraine called out. “I made crab salad.”
Lance sighed and started walking toward the house. He had promised himself he was going to eat crabs while he was in Sugar Beach, though this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.
* * *
Loraine Linklatter had traded her yoga pants and tank top for a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a light cream sweater, the sleeves pushed up around her elbows, her feet still bare. Lance was beginning to wonder if she ever wore shoes, if this was some sort of beach lifestyle trait. She’d showered since the morning yoga, and her hair shined in the sunlight and curled naturally around her face. The tiniest bit of makeup, but nothing extravagant. Lance again found himself impressed with how her actual age seemed a mystery. Maybe I should start doing yoga, he thought.
“Did you do some sightseeing this morning?” Loraine asked, welcoming Lance up onto the porch and then inside the house.
“I did laundry,” Lance said.
Loraine whipped her head around as she walked down the hall toward the kitchen. “Laundry? You didn’t have to go out and do that. You certainly could have used the washer and dryer here. You should have asked me.”
Lance, while he was glad for his laundromat trip because it had led him to Todd and the location of the soda girls’ home, feigned his own ignorance about considering being able to wash his clothes here and nodded his head, saying that was very kind of her to offer. Looking back, he wondered why, in fact, he hadn’t considered asking. The obvious answer was the Universe hadn’t wanted him to. Lance sometimes hated moments lik
e this, the moments where it felt like he was nothing but a puppet. But it also added to the fact that he felt his meeting Todd and learning more about the girls were all part of whatever plan was at work here.
In the kitchen, all signs of breakfast were gone. Only sparkling clean countertops and an empty sink remained. Not even a single pot or pan in the drying rack. Loraine walked to the fancy refrigerator and swung the door open wide, removing a large stainless-steel bowl covered in plastic wrap. She pulled two small ceramic bowls down from a cabinet and, using a large spoon from one of the drawers, scooped a heaping pile of crab salad into one and handed it to Lance.
“Go,” she said, nodding toward the breakfast nook, “sit.”
Lance obeyed and watched as Loraine scooped her own helping into a bowl and then grabbed a box of crackers from the pantry and two forks from a drawer and brought it all over to the table, setting them down and asking, “Drink? I’ve got iced tea, lemonade, water…”
“Water is fine, thank you, ma’am.”
She pulled a filtered pitcher from the fridge and filled two glasses, returning to the table and sliding into the seat opposite Lance.
“Well, dig in,” she said, opening a sleeve of crackers and selecting one, using her fork to pile a scoop of crab salad onto it before popping it into her mouth. Lance, unfamiliar with what he was about to eat or how to go about doing so, followed her lead and tried the same thing.
It was delicious, and he quickly set to it, nearly polishing off an entire sleeve of crackers on his own. Loraine was eating much slower, and as Lance was finishing his bowl, he noticed her watching him, almost as if she were studying him.
He swallowed and said, “Do I have stuff on my face? It’s not donut, is it?”
Loraine smiled, all lips, no teeth, almost pitying. Lance sat back, meeting her stare. He tried to smile, too.
“Ma’am?” he asked.
Loraine Linklatter took a sip of water and set the glass back on the table. The way the light came through the window in the breakfast nook, her face was lit up like she was about to have her portrait taken, and in that warm bath of sunlight, Lance could see some of the years melt away from her face. What he saw there was jarring, because it was no longer Loraine Linklatter’s face he saw, but a teenaged version of herself. And that face, Lance thought, looked less like a young Loraine than it did an older Daisy.
Something about that girl, Lance had time to think, before Loraine asked, “So, Lance. What’s your story?”
Lance felt something coil inside him. Something protective and hesitant. It was a familiar feeling. One he’d experienced all his life. His story, if you will, was almost never one he could tell.
“Story?” he asked, grabbing another cracker and chewing it.
“Yes!” Loraine said cheerfully. “Who are you, where are you from, where are you going? I love hearing about my guests. At this point in my life, I tend to live vicariously through those I meet, if you know what I mean.”
Lance shrugged. “I’m Lance, and I’m just passing through.” He smiled as he said this, trying to imply that he was not trying to be a smart-ass, but simply asking that she respect his privacy. Surely not every guest of the Boundary House spilled their entire life story to a woman they didn’t know.
“Where are you passing through to?” Loraine asked, apparently not falling for Lance’s subterfuge. “Headed back home, or further away?”
Lance, thinking if he was vague enough, or maybe mysterious enough, Loraine might drop the subject, said, “Sometimes both. I never know, really.”
Loraine just pushed on, lifting her bowl and scooping up the last few bites of her crab salad. “Got a girlfriend somewhere? Wife? Partner?”
“No.” Despite what he and Leah might be, he would not be presumptuous, especially not with someone who was essentially a stranger. He felt the coil tighten more inside him.
“Surprising,” Loraine said. “Good-looking guy like yourself.” Then she added, “What about family? Mom, dad … siblings?”
Lance took a slow breath, steadying his nerve. “No,” he said coolly. Then, tired of the interrogation, he decided to flip things, ask his own question. “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend, husband, partner? Do you live here alone?”
And it was as if somebody had sucked the air out of the room. Loraine didn’t so much have a physical reaction to the question, as she had no reaction at all. They sat there across the table from each other for a few quiet seconds before Loraine grabbed both of their empty bowls and carried them to the sink.
“I hope you enjoyed lunch,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some things to do.”
Lance stood from the table. “Of course. Thank you.” Then, as he picked up his backpack, he asked, “Do you mind if I put my sub in the fridge?”
Loraine said nothing, but Lance saw a tiny nod as she began washing the bowls by hand.
“Thank you,” Lance said, pulling his sandwich from his backpack and finding a place for it inside the enormous refrigerator. Then he headed up the stairs, wanting to be anywhere except the kitchen.
* * *
Loraine Linklatter had made his bed, tucking the sheets tight and restacking the pile of pillows in the same artsy way they’d been the night before, but otherwise the room looked the same, including, Lance saw, the Harlan Coben novel still sitting on the nightstand.
Lance walked to the side of the bed and kicked off his shoes, lying down with his back propped against the army of pillows. Took a deep breath.
He felt a small bit of regret at using the question about Loraine Linklatter’s husband as his escape from her attempted inquisition into his life. It was a low blow, he told himself. He’d gotten frustrated and had started to shut down, as he sometimes found himself doing when he considered his past. His secrets were too big, and the wound left by the loss of his mother was still too fresh.
But he was better than that, he scolded himself. You hurt her on purpose to protect yourself.
When Lance had shaken Loraine Linklatter’s hand last night, he’d received one of his instant downloads, as he liked to call them: a heartbreaking montage of rapid-fire memories pulled from Loraine’s mind, her past. He’d seen Daisy, when she was alive and happy and full of life, and then had bounced along the timeline from the first day she’d told Lori she didn’t feel well, to the test and diagnosis, and then the end. There were holes in the timeline—days, weeks, and even months sometimes between scenes—but the final image, Loraine Linklatter standing graveside, watching as her little girl’s casket was lowered into the earth, was the only one Lance felt really mattered. It was the definitive moment. The one that Loraine herself could not seem to shake from her mind, as if it haunted her.
But in these images, there was another cast member in the film. Standing beside Loraine in the doctor’s office, at Daisy’s bedside, and also in the cemetery on that day, was a man. Lance did not know his name, but he knew his role: father and husband.
Loraine Linklatter had been married, and now, it seemed, she wasn’t.
Lance didn’t know what had happened to the man, but judging from Loraine’s reaction to his question in the kitchen, the circumstances had not been good.
And somehow, Lance had known this. He didn’t know the details, but he’d known when he’d formed the question on his lips and tossed it to Loraine across the table that it was going to hit her hard. And it had.
That’s not you, Lance. You’re better than that.
He sighed, needing to move on from the moment and put his mind to use for something else. He pulled his backpack up off the floor and onto the bed with him, unzipping it and retrieving the soda can he’d bought from the girl near the donut shop. He tossed his bag back onto the floor, held the can up into the light spilling through the window blinds behind him.
“Okay,” he said to the can, “let’s see if we can figure out what you really are.”
18
The outside of the soda can was … well, exactly li
ke the outside of soda can should be: aluminum, cylindrical, ripe with pressure from the carbonated liquid inside. The printing of the words and the logo for the generic brand of diet soda all looked normal, despite Lance’s best efforts at combing through each and every line of text—including all the ingredients!—in search of some sort of hidden message. He found nothing. He even tried to unscrew the bottom of the can, thinking of that guy in Jurassic Park smuggling the dinosaur DNA in the bottom of a can of shaving cream.
The bottom of the can did not twist off, nor did the top. There was no wrapper to peel off, potentially revealing something underneath. The can looked normal.
Which means whatever was so important must be on the inside.
Lance thought again about drugs, having to convince himself that having seen a police officer purchase a can of the stuff earlier did not necessarily negate any possible scenario.
Crooked cops were not unheard of. Cops with addictions either. Everyone gets down and out sometimes, and not everyone handles it in the best way.
Lance looked at the can in his hand and knew what he had to do. He got up from the bed and peeked his head out the door, seeing and hearing nobody. Then he padded down to the luxurious bathroom and closed and locked the door behind him. Standing over the sink, he popped the tab of the soda, that pshhhhh sound of the air escaping the can sounding very loud in the stillness of the room. He held the can to his ear and listened to the fizzing inside, sniffed the opening and smelled…
Soda. Nothing but diet soda.
He poured some out, into the sink. Watched it swirl down the drain. It didn’t look radioactive. It looked like soda.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 10
