The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4

by Robertson Jr, Michael

  Compared to walking along for miles in the whipping snow and freezing cold, the motel’s office might have been paradise.

  “Is it you?”

  A woman’s voice, soft and full of wonder.

  “Is it really you?”

  Lance spun back toward the counter and saw that the PRIVATE door was cracked open, enough for half a face to stare back at him from behind it. As soon as he turned, the door opened fully and quickly, and a small older woman walked out and greeted him.

  “Hello there, and welcome. Can I help you?”

  She was short and thin, with long gray hair that hung down to the middle of her back. She wore faded blue jeans and a heavy sweater and snow boots that clopped loudly on the floor as she made her way to the counter. Up close, her face showed her age more so than the rest of her, for while she moved quickly on her feet, her skin was wrinkled and liver-spotted. Her eyes were squinting against the light of the banker’s lamp, and the red from the neon OFFICE sign in the window illuminated her right side, giving her an almost two-faced glow. She smiled at him, a small grin that Lance thought was meant to be friendly, but seemed a bit disappointed, as well.

  “Hi,” Lance said, smiling back. “What is it you asked me?”

  “Can I help you?”

  Lance shook his head. “No, before that. I thought I heard you ask something else. Just before you came out from the door.”

  The woman smiled a bigger grin, raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think so. Must have been the ghosts.”

  Lance’s face fell, and the woman noticed, immediately backpedaling with her words. “Goodness, I’m only fooling. Forgive me. Just a joke. Wouldn’t be very good for business if I went around telling customers we had ghosts around here, now would it? Trust me. Been there, done that.”

  Lance said nothing. A strong gust of wind slammed into the motel, rattling the window. Lance and the woman both turned and looked out the glass as snow danced through the air.

  “Let me try again,” the woman started. “My name is Meriam. Welcome to my motel. Would you like a room for the night, or are you here to sell something?” She eyed him up and down, then added, “I’m guessing a room, right? You don’t seem quite the traveling salesman type, and if you were, you’d be bad at your job, because any half-witted fool can look at this place and know I ain’t the kind to be spending money on things we don’t need.”

  Lance’s brain worked to try and figure out what was happening. He had clearly heard the woman speak before she’d come out from the door. Is it really you? she’d asked. But now she was obviously trying to ignore the question and push on to change the subject.

  Or maybe it was the ghosts, Lance thought. But that didn’t feel right. Not this time.

  Maybe she’s just old and senile.

  Okay, now that’s just rude, he scolded himself. Mom would be very disappointed.

  The memory of his mother took him away for a second, his mind floating back to his hometown. When he snapped out of it, Meriam was waiting patiently, but Lance could see something else in her eyes. Something akin to suspicion … or maybe it was plain curiosity.

  “A room, please,” Lance said. “I was trying to make it to town but got caught in the snow.”

  “Seemed to come out of nowhere, didn’t it?” Meriam said, flipping open the ledger book and writing the day’s date on the next blank line. “Wasn’t even in the forecast. But since when do those weather fools ever get it right?”

  Lance said nothing.

  “Name?” Meriam asked.

  “Lance Brody.”

  In very careful and deliberate penmanship, she wrote his name next to the date in the ledger book and then looked it over, as if checking for typos. “Rate’s thirty-five a night,” she said, looking up. “You got cash?”

  Lance nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay. I prefer that, so I don’t have to pay the flippin’ fees for the charge cards. Every dollar counts these days, don’t you know? And everybody wants to try and take it from you.”

  Lance nodded again, pulling the cash from his pocket and laying two twenties on the counter. Meriam scooped them up and stuffed them in the pocket of her own pants—which Lance thought odd but was too confused to worry much about—and didn’t offer him any change. Then she turned and reached up to the pegboard and grabbed key number one from its hook. “Room one okay? It’s right next door.”

  And while Lance’s eyes had watched her reach for the key, it was then that he’d noticed something else about the pegboard that he’d not seen from farther away when he’d first entered the office. All the keys were identical, as were all the hooks, but at the far-right end, on the very last hook, the key to room six stood out. The printed black 6 on the plastic key chain was much darker and more legible than the rest of the numbers on the other keys. Lance could maybe have assumed the key chain had been replaced more recently than the others, but the tangle of cobwebs that were just visible in the dim light cast across the wall, visible only on key number six, looping and twisting around it and its key chain and hook, told a different story.

  Given the location of the motel and the quality of the accommodations, Lance would wager that none of the rooms here got much traffic, but it was obvious that room six had not been used for a very long time.

  “Actually,” Lance said, just as Meriam was sliding the key to room one across the counter to him, “would it be possible to have room six? I like being on the end.”

  Meriam stopped moving and looked up to him, her eyes meeting his and staying there, imploring him for something more. She looked … hopeful?

  Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head slowly to the side, her long gray hair splaying out in a fan. “Who are you?”

  Lance had no idea what was happening, which was not exactly out of the ordinary. But one thing he tried not to allow himself to do was to speak without knowing what he was saying, or who he was saying it to.

  “You know, I get that a lot,” he said. “I must look like a movie star or a famous athlete or something like that.” He offered a small chuckle and then shrugged. “But I’m just Lance. Sorry.”

  Whatever place the woman’s mind had gone to, she reeled herself back quickly, just as she’d done earlier. “Room six is not available, I’m afraid.”

  And that was all.

  Lance smiled and took the key to room one from the counter. “No worries. This’ll be fine, I’m sure. Thank you very much.”

  “If you need anything,” Meriam said, just as Lance’s hand had found the door to head back outside, “just dial zero on the phone. It’ll ring me up here.”

  Lance nodded and said another thank-you and then pulled open the door and stepped back into the snow.

  What I really need is some answers.

  4

  Stepping back outside was a bit like getting hit by a bus. As soon as Lance’s sneakers touched the ground and the office door closed behind him, a steamroller of a gust of wind rushed at him like a defensive tackle and hit him full force, nearly knocking him off his feet. Lance grunted, slipped slightly in the snow, and then turned and shuffled the short way down the sidewalk to the door to room one.

  But not before glancing over his shoulder and seeing Meriam still behind the counter, watching him as he went.

  Even through the snow that peppered Lance’s vision, even though the panes of glass, even at such a distance, the look she was giving him was unmistakable. She’d worked to hide it while he’d been directly in front of her, covering it with different, less apparent emotions. But now, Lance thought he recognized the look on Meriam’s face for what it truly was.

  The look of somebody who’d just seen a ghost.

  Lance fumbled with the key chain, which was nearly snatched from his hand by the wind, and finally slid the brass key into its home. There was a satisfying click of the tumblers in the lock and Lance turned the knob and pushed the door open, thinking about what Meriam had said to him earlier—Must have bee
n the ghosts.

  Not the best thought for a normal person to have as they entered a dark motel room off a stretch of desolate road. But for Lance, it was more of an irritant. Because if there were ghosts at the motel, he wished they’d go ahead and show themselves so he could get started with whatever it was he was meant to do here.

  Lance figured there was more going on in Meriam’s head than she wanted to admit to him, and rightfully so, Lance being a complete stranger and all. But her words—the words Lance knew he had heard her ask before she’d slipped out from the door behind the counter—were what made him most curious.

  Is it really you?

  It was as if she’d been waiting for somebody. Waiting for him?

  But why the quick change, the sudden dismissiveness?

  Lance sighed. Closed the motel room’s door, shutting out the wind and the cold, and felt along the wall for a light switch.

  He found one, switched it on.

  Nothing happened.

  He flipped it up and down a few times and then gave up, sighing even heavier. For the room to be as pitch black as it was, there must be curtains drawn shut across the window, he reasoned, so he took a careful step sideways and reached out with his hand and felt the rough, almost sticky fabric of drapes that were likely older than he was. He gripped a handful of the stuff and tried to push it away from him along its track, but it didn’t budge. It needed to slide in the opposite direction.

  Lance took a step forward, meaning to follow the curtain fabric until he found the other end, and his knee connected with something low and hard. A table, presumably, connected with what must have been a chair, causing a clattering of wood as the things wobbled back into place. Lance, rubbing his knee with one hand, swung his backpack off his shoulder and set it gently where he thought the tabletop should be. Then he unzipped a small front pouch and felt around inside until he found the tiny flashlight. He pulled it out and clicked it on.

  There was a dead woman hanging from a bedsheet at the back of the room.

  Lance jumped, surprise rocking him back, his left arm and shoulder getting tangled in the drapes. He fought to get it free, and when he did, he shined the flashlight directly on the body. The woman’s face was puffy and swollen, her skin purple, deep bruising along the bottom of her jawline and neck where the bedsheet wrapped tight and had dug in. She wore flannel pajamas, her bare feet sticking out, toes pointed down, swaying ever so gently, as if she’d only recently ended her life.

  When her eyes shot open, Lance actually let out a small grunt.

  Then she spoke, her voice raspy and low, but clear all the same, as if she were whispering directly into Lance’s ear.

  “He’ll be waiting,” she said.

  And then the lights turned on and she was gone.

  * * *

  Must have been the ghosts.

  Meriam’s words echoed in Lance’s head as he stood by the small wooden table by the window and looked across the motel room to where the woman had been.

  No, he thought, she’d only been joking. A nervous cover-up because she didn’t want to admit to me that she’d really said something else.

  It was simply a gut feeling he had. A feeling he could trust. There were ghosts at the motel—at least one, that was—but Meriam had not seen them. Lance had picked up no trace of any sort of vibe coming off the woman, no sensation that she possessed any type of gifts other than hospitality management, and that was generous, if he was being honest.

  But still … there’d been something in her eyes. That much he couldn’t deny.

  And now the dead woman in his room.

  Lance was beginning to think that his default state of mind was permanently set to confused.

  His stomach growled. He’d not eaten since the fast-food drive-thru Neil had stopped at for lunch several hours ago. Lance unzipped a side pouch of his backpack and pulled out a pack of peanut butter crackers. Opened them, popped the first cracker into his mouth whole, and then surveyed the room.

  Small wooden table with a chair on either side (painful to bump your knee on). Two full-size beds with forest-green comforters and chipped wooden headboards, nightstand in between them with two reading lamps and a beige plastic telephone. A long dresser opposite the beds with a big boxy television set centered on it. Framed photographs on the walls showing scenes of mountains and forests and rivers, probably local.

  Everything was old and worn, but it looked clean enough—even the brown carpet didn’t have too many stains—and Lance would even go so far as to call it cozy. You know, if you could overlook the occasional dead person.

  Lance tossed another cracker into his mouth and walked past the front of the beds toward the rear of the room, where he’d seen her. There was a wide alcove cut out from the main living space that held a long vanity with two sinks and a mirror. It was darkened, and Lance reached just inside and found a light switch on the wall by a door that led to the toilet and shower. A row of fluorescents sputtered to life above him. He looked up and saw the decorative wooden latticework that protruded from the ceiling, helping to separate the two spaces. It was through this that the woman had tied her sheet. It was right here, right where Lance was standing, that she had decided to die.

  But for now, all looked normal.

  Lance reached up with a long arm and touched the wood where the sheet had been tied, disturbed dust floating down into his eyes. He waited a beat, but the dust was all he was going to get. No visions, no feelings, just wood and dust and the dead woman’s words lingering in his head.

  After a quick peek into the little room with the shower and toilet, Lance left the fluorescents burning and made his way back to the table. He sat in one of the wooden chairs and quickly took care of the rest of his crackers, washing them down with a bottle of water. Considering the storm and his current location, he was very glad he’d stocked up on a few supplies at the little roadside store when he’d met Neil. He’d bought the supplies right before Leah had called him.

  Remembering the phone call, Lance pulled his phone from his pocket and then his charger from his backpack. He found an outlet on the wall behind the table and plugged it in, hoping the old wiring was sound. He still felt responsible for one motel burning down. He didn’t want to add another to the list.

  After a few minutes, the little screen on the front of the phone lit up and Lance quickly snatched it from the table and flipped it open. Scrolled to Leah’s contact and called her. But when he pressed the phone to his ear, nothing happened.

  Silence.

  Not even any tone or beep or recording letting him know his call could not be completed.

  He pulled the phone away from his head and looked at the reception bars, and of course, there were none. Not even the little mocking one.

  Frustrated, he tossed the phone onto the table harder than he’d meant to, and the battery popped off the back. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself before reassembling his flip phone. He was letting his emotions get the best of him too frequently these days. He couldn’t go and break his only lifeline to the outside world. His only connection to Leah and Marcus Johnston and…

  They were all. The only people left who he was close to. He knew his mother would always be with him—the memory of her and her wisdom and guidance. But in terms of human beings who were alive that he could reach out and touch and feel and smell and speak to and laugh with and share an experience with … he did not like being so alone.

  One step at a time, Lance.

  His mother was the most patient person he’d ever known. He would do his best to be more like her now.

  With nowhere to go and nobody to talk to and no idea what to do, Lance found the brick-sized remote to the television and turned it on. Found a syndicated episode of Full House and started to watch, his eyes occasionally glancing over toward the alcove, waiting to see if the dead woman would come back.

  He fell asleep thinking about what it must be like to live in a house full of so many people to care about you
.

  5

  A thunderous pounding on the motel room door woke him.

  Three powerful knocks that shook the door on its hinges and rattled the windows struck home directly in Lance’s skull.

  His eyes shot open and he jumped up. Ready to spring into action and…

  And what?

  He didn’t know. But what he did know was that nobody knocks that hard unless there’s trouble. Unless something bad is about to happen or about to be said.

  Three more knocks. This time loud enough to make him reach up and cover his ears. Forceful enough that he nearly fell backward, back onto the bed.

  Wait, he thought. Impossible that somebody knocking could…

  But he stopped himself. Lance knew better than to use the word impossible. It shouldn’t exist in his vocabulary.

  He lowered his hands from his ears and stood still, the room all at once silent. Slowly, he stepped forward and found the edge of the curtain and eased it back just enough to look out the—

  There was no window behind the drapes. Only a solid wall of the same wood paneling as the rest of the room. Lance ripped the curtain all the way aside and stood back, staring at the wall. His mind working to make sense of it.

  Then another knock sent his heart into overdrive and jumpstarted his body. He walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Saw only blackness.

  Somebody’s covering it.

  Not good.

  Lance glanced to the phone on the nightstand. Meriam had told him to dial zero if he needed anything. He wondered how much time he had. How long would it be before the person (or thing?) outside the door grew impatient and simply entered of their own accord. Did he have time to get to the phone and make the call? And if he did, what could Meriam really do? Call the police? They’d never make it in time.

  So it was then that Lance Brody made the decision to do what he usually found himself doing: trusting the Universe, trusting himself, being brave, and facing the problem head-on.