20
The last time a girl had taken Lance by the hand and led him to her bedroom, they’d done a lot more than just look at pictures.
But Lance was always careful. His mother’s words, which had followed him when she was alive and now haunted him in her death, always echoed in his head during those certain “moments of indiscretion.” There’d been no talk of birds and bees; thankfully his mother had allowed him to grasp those concepts on his own, along with the help of the public education system’s health classes. But there had been a warning, one spoken with grave seriousness.
A child will only make you vulnerable, Lance. You carry enough of a burden as it is. Don’t add to that load, not until you’re good and ready and fully understand what you are.
Lance was unsure he’d ever fully understand what he was, so children seemed like a far-off dream he might one day catch up with. But … he was a human male, after all. He had urges just like everyone else. He could never be too careful.
Leah left the bedroom door open and pointed to her bed. Lance sat, holding back a joke about not even getting dinner first. Leah pulled one of the dresser’s bottom drawers open and took out a small stack of books—all of them were Westhaven High School yearbooks. She spread them out on the floor, checking the years on the front covers, and then selected one and joined Lance on the bed. He got another whiff of her shampoo and tried not to be obvious that he was inhaling deeply, enjoying the scent. Leah flipped through the yearbook’s pages, the faces and smiles and scattered collages of hundreds of students flashing by, and then stopped, smoothing the pages open and holding it out for Lance to see more clearly.
“Here,” she said, pointing at one of the small squares on the page. “That’s Samuel.” She laughed softly. “What a dork.”
Lance watched Leah’s face as the smile grew large and held, her eyes locked onto the eyes of her brother’s picture. He wondered what memories she was visiting in her head, which of the best moments of her and Samuel’s childhood was replaying and causing that grin on her face.
Lance looked down at the picture. Leaned in closer just to be sure.
Samuel was well built, broad shoulders and chest. His grin was forced, like somebody who didn’t like to smile on cue. On his head was a mop of sandy-blond hair. The resemblance between the boy and his father was there, as well a small resemblance to Leah.
But one thing was for sure. Samuel was the dead boy Lance had seen in Leah’s bathroom mirror, and again in the fuzzy television screen.
Lance tried not to let it show that he’d discovered this disturbing fact, so he quickly blurted, “Chuck Goodman in this yearbook, too?”
Leah thought for a moment. “Um, yeah, should be.” She flipped through some pages, going to a different class. Her finger traced the list of names and then followed a row of pictures. “Yep, here he is. God, I’d forgotten how big he was.”
Lance looked down at the picture. Leah was right. Chuck Goodman was a large boy, nearly filling in the entire square allotted for his picture, and Lance understood what Susan had meant about her brother being “hard to move.” But the real reason Lance had asked to see Chuck Goodman’s picture was to see if he’d been the burnt boy who’d appeared at the diner earlier that morning. He wasn’t. It didn’t mean Chuck wasn’t dead—Lance now assumed all the boys were deceased. It just meant he’d yet to show himself.
Lance had just started to consider the differences between Samuel’s appearance in the mirror and television screen, and the burnt boy in the diner, when Leah asked, “Why’d you want to see their pictures?”
Lance tried to be quick. Shrugged. “Just wanted faces for the names.” He left it at that.
Leah wasn’t buying it. “Bullshit.”
Lance stayed quiet. Kept his eyes on Chuck Goodman’s faded yearbook picture.
“You know something,” Leah said. Then her eyes drifted toward to the corner where the TV sat on its cart. “When we first came in here and the TV was on, you made me wait before turning it off. You were just staring at it … like you were …” She trailed off. “Lance … what did you see?”
He couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t bring himself to expose his secret just yet, couldn’t break this girl’s heart with the finality of her brother’s death. Whether she’d already accepted the idea or not, Lance didn’t yet want to deliver the final blow.
“Nothing,” he said, and he couldn’t meet her eyes.
“You’re lying. Aren’t you?”
Lance said nothing. Hated himself on the inside.
Leah nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She stood up and tossed the book into Lance’s lap. He caught it, and as she stormed out of the bedroom, he called after her and she ignored him. He threw the yearbook onto the bed and followed her into the office. Leah was already behind the check-in counter, absentmindedly sorting papers and checking things on a laptop. She didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow in Lance’s direction.
Lance leaned against the counter and waited to see if she’d acknowledge him. After a couple minutes of cold-shoulder action, he finally said, “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Great,” she said.
“No, really.”
“Really. Great.”
Lance sighed. “Would you just—”
“Do you have any idea how much I’m risking for you?” Her words shot like darts from her mouth.
Lance stepped back. “For me?”
“Yes, you!” Leah pushed a strand of hair out of her eye. “Since you’ve walked into my life, I’ve lied to Daddy, twice. If he takes this job away from me, I don’t know what my next step is, Lance. I’ve been here my whole life. This is all I know. I’ve got a high school diploma from the middle of nowhere and I’ve managed a roach motel. And now—now!—I’m harboring somebody the police are probably out looking for right now. I could be arrested, Lance. I’m not positive about that, but even the possibility scares me.” She was on the verge of tears now. “Look … I don’t have a lot, and I don’t mean much to hardly anybody, and even though you say we’re doing all this to try and find out what happened to my brother—and, yes, I know I sort of pushed your hand to help—I think we all know Samuel and the rest of the boys are already dead and nothing we do is going to change that and … and…”
The tears came now, spilling down her cheeks, and Lance did the only thing in the entire world he could think to do—the only thing in the entire world he wanted to do. He leaned his tall frame over the counter, grabbed the front of Leah’s shirt and pulled her forward, kissing her hard on the mouth.
His heart pounded.
There was the smallest moment of resistance.
And then she kissed him back.
He tasted her tears, salty and wonderful, and drowned in her scent. The kiss flooded him with a warmth, melted the tension he’d built up, and he felt the same process occurring in Leah, watched her body relax and loosen.
When they finally pulled apart, staring at each other with faces more full of surprise than any sort of regret, Lance spoke first. “I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “But you just have to follow blindly a little longer. Just until I get a better understanding of what I think I know.”
She stared at him, breathing hard after the kiss. Her tears had stopped, dried streaks on her cheeks.
“Neither of us can solve this alone,” Lance said. “I need you. And I need you to trust me.”
Leah was quiet for a long time, and Lance started to think she wasn’t going to go along with it. Whatever damage had been done, the kiss, the new naked truth between them, couldn’t repair it.
Finally, she said, “What do we do next?”
Lance felt the relief wash over him. “There’s a football game tonight. Will you be my date?”
21
Whatever drugs Susan Goodman had given Lance, they were starting to wear off. For nearly an hour after the kiss, he’d sat on the couch in the office while Leah did some work behind the counter. She would occasionally run outside to t
his room or that and return a short time later, always first glancing at him on the couch, as if she were concerned he might have run off.
His head was starting to throb behind his cut, and the pain in his wrist, while not unbearable, was irritating. He stood up, stretched, and told Leah he was going to go lie down to try and take a nap. And really, what else was there for him to do? He wasn’t going to go risk walking into town again by his lonesome. He’d learned enough to know he wasn’t going to learn much else today. The town’s citizens answered his questions vaguely at best, and usually acted like he was off his rocker for even bringing the topic of the missing boys up at all.
But he was looking forward to the football game. Not because of the competition, but because of who all might be in attendance.
Leah told him she’d wake him if he wasn’t back by the time they had to leave. “As long as you don’t mind me slipping into your room,” she said with a grin. “But in all fairness, you’ve spent a lot of time in mine already.”
Lance thought about covering the short distance between the couch and check-in counter and kissing her, but he restrained himself. Keep it organic, he thought. Then, And by the way, you know this is a bad idea. What’s your plan with her?
He told his subconscious to shut up and headed outside. But as he stepped through the door, he took one last look back at her, suddenly wondering if it was a good idea to leave Leah alone. How guilty was she, now that she was tied in with him? Could the evil that had come after Lance sense the feelings between him and Leah? With the one kiss, had Lance instantly transformed Leah into a vulnerability? The phrase “collateral damage” lit up in his mind like a Vegas strip marquee. He could almost hear his mother’s disapproving sigh, see the subtle shake of her head.
Lance stepped out through the door. Again, what could he really do?
The clouds were still dark, but any rain was still holding off. The smoke plume continued to rise up to the sky, and Lance stood on the cracked concrete walkway and stared at it, wondering if the blackness of the smoke symbolized a hidden threat somehow tied to the paper mill, tied to Glenn Strang.
He started to pull at this thread for just a minute before the burning pain of his cut forced him to turn away and enter his room and lie down on the bed.
He shifted restlessly atop the covers, careful not to put any weight on his injured wrist. When he closed his eyes, he saw Deputy Miller’s kind eyes, heard the Southern hospitality in his voice. And then he saw the slack and broken body twisted in the front of the cruiser. He saw a mother and child
(Ben and Jen!)
standing over a closed casket being lowered into the earth, saw them returning to a home that would forever feel emptier than it should. An empty spot at the kitchen table, an empty half of a bed, an unfinished bedtime story bookmarked at a page that would never be read.
It’s my fault.
He tossed, rolled over onto his side. Took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind.
It’s my fault…
He forced himself to think of Leah, relive the kiss, that only-the-first-time heat of excitement that had accompanied it. And as he finally started to drift off—sure he’d be met by nothing by nightmares—he could almost taste her tears again, almost smell her shampoo.
But it wasn’t Leah who he last saw in his mind before he fell asleep. Instead, he saw Susan Goodman, the way she’d gently and thoughtfully tended to his injuries, the way she’d laughed thinking about Chuckie, the tears that had come despite her best efforts to fight them off as she spoke.
Too many good people were getting hurt in Westhaven. He had to put a stop to it.
22
Lance woke on his own from a sleep that was deep, dreamless. He stretched, pulled his flip phone from his pocket and checked the time. He had time to shower, he assumed. He sauntered to the bathroom, his head feeling heavy, but mostly pain-free. He undressed himself and carefully unwrapped his wrist, trying to remember how to redo it after he had showered. As the water ran hot, he stood in front of the sink and checked himself in the mirror. He looked weary, but considering he’d been in a full-on auto accident that had resulted in a fatality earlier, he figured he could look a heck of a lot worse.
The water scalded his body, stung the cut on his head, but the pain and heat rejuvenated him. Cleared his mind. Helped him find his second wind for the day—both physically and mentally. He stepped out and dried off. Brushed his teeth. He dressed in more of his new clothes and, again, stuffed all his belongings into this backpack. He couldn’t bring himself not to prepare for a rapid departure. For whatever reason. If he was forced to leave quickly, as he’d been from his home just two short days ago, he didn’t want to be completely helpless and empty-handed.
With his backpack on his shoulders and his mind and body ready, Lance checked the time on his phone one more time before he would head over to the office and see what Leah was up to and when they were going to be leaving.
But there was something on his phone. A missed call. A voicemail.
He recognized the number, had had it memorized for years, though it wasn’t stored in his phone’s memory.
Marcus Johnston had just started out with Lance’s hometown sheriff’s department the first time Lance had met him. Marcus and Lance’s mother had attended high school together, and Lance’s mother had been able to urge Marcus to help her and Lance out during a particularly sticky situation they’d gotten into. The first of many.
Over time, as Lance had gotten older and his gifts had increased, he had been able to put them to better use—willingly, or not—and Marcus had continued to play a role in Lance’s life. Eventually, Lance’s secrets had been spilled to the man, sometimes one drop at a time, other times in great gushes of new information. Why Lance’s mother had ever trusted Marcus Johnston enough to tell him what Lance really was, Lance would never know. Maybe she too had possessed a small bit of what empowered Lance, just enough to be able to see the truly great ones, the ones who she knew wouldn’t let them down.
As Lance had grown and developed, so had Marcus Johnston’s career, though the two ascensions were unrelated as far as Lance could tell. Marcus had climbed the sheriff’s office ladder until, when Lance was a freshman in high school, he had become the actual sheriff. He’d held the position through Lance’s senior year, and then a few more years just for good measure. And then, one year before Lance was forced to flee, Marcus Johnston had become mayor.
(Do you, a person with your gifts, honestly believe things could be so random?)
Lance had been lifelong friends with a man who’d eventually become the highest-ranking person in the city. A man who’d helped Lance and his mother in more ways than Lance could ever count. A man who’d helped protect Lance.
A man who was there that night.
A man who knew the truth.
Guiltily, Lance shoved the phone back into his pocket. He couldn’t bring himself to listen to the message right now. Good news, bad news, it didn’t matter. Whichever, it would only prove a distraction. Right now, he had more important things at hand.
Lance walked out of his room and went one door down to the office. The Honda Civic was back, and when Lance opened the office door he was immediately greeted by the sounds of laughing children. There were two small boys, no more than five or six, either of them, sitting on the couch, staring intently at the television screen. A brightly colored cartoon was displayed on the screen, and the volume was turned up too loud. Lance looked left and saw Renee and Leah standing behind the counter. Leah smiled at him. Renee looked apprehensive, but not all together displeased.
Leah gave the woman a small hug. “Thanks again, Renee. I owe you big-time.”
Renee waved her off and said it was better than sitting at home and that the kids would have a great time. That it was almost like going to the movies.
Leah said goodbye to the boys, who didn’t even twitch their eyes toward the sound of her voice, and then looped her arm around Lance’s and pulled him ou
t the door.
“I feel terrible, having to ask her to come back in like that,” Leah said as the door closed behind them. “But she’s right. The kids look like they’re having a good time. I’ve only ever seen the outside of Renee’s trailer, but that alone is enough to make me think the kids feel like they're in a castle right now.”
Lance asked, “What did you tell her the reason you needed her back was?”
“I didn’t really. Just said I had some things I had to take care of that couldn’t wait, and she’d be doing me a huge favor and I would owe her one.”
“The kids?”
Leah sighed. “Different fathers, both long gone. Like I said, I feel bad for the woman.” Then Leah pulled a single key from her pocket and said, “Oh, and she’s letting us borrow her car.”
Lance crammed himself into the passenger seat, trying not to step on the debris on the floorboard—the book from earlier, as well as a children’s picture book, an empty McDonald’s bag, a tennis ball, a phone charger, unplugged and loosely coiled. This was a family car. A family that was constantly on the go. It smelled of apple juice and coffee and sweat. There was something sticky on the center console, and Lance made a note not to rest any part of himself there.
Leah started the engine—which began as a sputter before coughing to life with a whine—and backed the car out of the parking spot. Through the cracks in the cloudy sky, the sun had faded to orange and had dipped nearly below the tree line. “Calling for rain?” Lance asked.
Leah shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
She turned right out of the motel’s parking lot and headed first toward town before shooting off down a side road Lance had yet to travel. “We’re going to get dinner first,” she said. “I hope that’s okay.”
Lance realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which felt like two days ago, and the hunger complaints from his stomach broke loose and were on him furiously. He knew things were serious when he forgot to eat. “Sounds great,” he said.
Lance Brody Omnibus Page 21
