Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr.

  Leah had one too—a kind soul—but hers had been tarnished, scarred. The loss of her brother, the situation with her father, and the town’s tragedy had whittled away some of the purity and replaced it with a strong contempt. A deep sense of caution and skepticism. She glowed outwardly, but inside she was complicated. Lance found the combination intoxicating.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Lance focused his gaze, found Allison Strang still standing by the door. She tightened the belt of her robe and then fussed with her hair, as if suddenly aware she was in the presence of company. Her feet were bare. French pedicure. The small lamp on the table cast its warm glow, and Lance’s shadow looked like a monster on the wall behind Allison Strang. He looked at her, and she smiled back at him. Her teeth were white and perfect, the result of expensive dental work or a lifetime of personal hygiene.

  Lance seesawed between the idea of having being completely wrong about Allison Strang and the notion that he was currently walking into a well-laid, well-executed trap. He didn’t know if it was possible for something—it—to be powerful enough to pull a mask over its true self, to blot out the evil and replace it with the purity Lance felt from Allison Strang. Deceiving normal people was easy, but deceiving somebody with Lance’s gifts would be much harder. Lance figured as much, anyway. Though he always admitted he didn’t fully understand his own gifts.

  “I’m missing something.”

  He said it out loud without meaning to, and Allison Strang cocked her head to the side, interpreting his words. “You’ve lost something?” she asked. She crinkled her brow. “And you think it’s here?”

  Lance searched for a response. Was at a complete loss as to how to proceed. Well, you see, ma’am, I came here because I thought you were in cahoots with an evil spirit, riding your son in his own bed, and murdering innocent high school football players. But clearly I was mistaken. Sorry to bother you. I’ll see myself out. Lovely home, by the way.

  Allison Strang took three steps forward and then sidestepped Lance. She entered the hallway behind him, and as she did so, the recessed lighting turned on and followed her as she walked.

  Motion sensors, Lance thought. Not supernatural powers.

  When she reached the end of the hall, a much brighter light lit up, and Lance saw an expansive kitchen behind her. She turned and said, “I don’t know why you’re here, but you seem troubled. And … a friend of Leah’s is a friend of the Strangs. Such a lovely young girl she is. I called the hospital to check on her and they assured me she’d be fine. I was so relieved. That family’s gone through so much, you know.”

  She turned and walked deeper into the kitchen, disappearing from sight. She called out, “I’m going to make some tea. Why don’t you join me, and we’ll see if we can figure out why you’re here? Unless you’d prefer coffee. I don’t like the stuff, but Glenn’s got one of those Keurig things.”

  Lance walked slowly down the hall over expensive wood flooring and glanced at the framed art on the walls. Modern stuff you’d find in a gallery exhibit in a large city. Not the type of thing you’d pick up in town along with your groceries.

  As he got closer to the kitchen, the feel of his concealed weapon against his skin seemed to grow with each step. Allison Strang had been kind and polite—too kind and polite to live on the same planet Lance did—and Lance was nearly convinced she wasn’t putting on an act. He’d nearly accepted he’d been completely wrong about her. But, whether genuine small-town hospitality or an enemy lying in wait, a glimpse of Lance’s gun—a gun he didn’t even want to be carrying—would surely escalate the situation in a direction Lance didn’t want.

  He entered the kitchen and marveled at the size of it. There was a sea of granite countertops and commercial-sized stainless-steel appliances that looked like they belonged more in an upscale restaurant or on one of those cooking shows on TV. Allison Strang turned on a large gas burner and set a teakettle atop it. Then she reached over along the counter and powered on the Keurig for Lance. “You look like a coffee guy,” she said. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Again, a flash of the perfect teeth. Another brush of hair out of her eyes. A slight adjustment of the robe across her chest. Lance hated the term MILF, but he could definitely admit when it was applicable. Up close, Lance could see the woman’s face appeared older than the rest of her, despite any work or makeup, but she was still an attractive older woman. Lance found himself wondering how she and Glenn Strang had met. Was it during his days playing football, or was it after, or…?

  And then it struck Lance that there was something terribly wrong about his situation. He glanced at the Keurig on the counter, its blue lights aglow and waiting for somebody to feed it a pod. Glenn’s got one of those Keurig things.

  “Mrs. Strang,” Lance said, trying to find his voice. “Where is your husband?”

  Because of the surprise Lance had been blasted with when Allison Strang had opened the door and greeted him, because of the sudden table flip of his non-plan of attack when he’d quickly had to come to terms with the possibility that Allison Strang was not the monster he’d come here to accuse her of being, Lance had taken entirely too long to stop and wonder why, at what had to be approaching two in the morning, the woman of the house would be the one to answer a stranger’s nighttime knock at their door. That was the man’s job. The odd noise after bed, the sudden recollection that maybe the oven had been left on, and definitely a knock or ring at the door well past midnight, these were things that fell on the husband’s shoulders to take care of. Call it protection, call it pride, call it simple husband duty, Glenn Strang should have been the one to answer the door when Lance arrived.

  Allison Strang laughed and pulled a box of tea bags down from a cabinet. She had to stretch up on her tiptoes to reach them, and Lance couldn’t help watching her silky-smooth calves flex as she did so. “Oh, you know. Glenn’s over at his boyfriend’s house, doing boy things.” She giggled at her own joke. Lance didn’t follow.

  She saw his confusion and said, “Glenn goes over to the McGuires’ almost every night after a home game. They drink a couple beers and watch the local news stations talk about the game, then they camp out in Ken’s man cave and do whatever two middle-aged guys do to entertain themselves on a Friday night. Sometimes they analyze the game film—Ken has always valued Glenn’s opinion. But, I like to pretend they eat Doritos and play Xbox games.” She shrugged. “He usually just spends the night there on their sleeper couch. He and Ken are so close I’m almost jealous. I don't even have a girlfriend that close.”

  “Why don’t you go with him? To the McGuires’ house. I mean… you and Mrs. McGuire are close, right? I saw you sitting together at the game tonight.”

  Allison Strang smiled. Nodded her head. “Melissa and I get along, and she really is a lovely woman, but our friendship is really just a byproduct of our husbands’ relationship. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” Lance said. For what felt like the first time since he’d stepped off the bus into Westhaven, he had somebody—a live human being—answering questions and talking to him without raising an eyebrow or giving him the cold shoulder. He figured it was time to make himself comfortable, act like this wasn’t as strange of an event as it was. He found a row of tall barstools along an island counter and sat down, making sure to keep his back facing away from Allison Strang. Didn't want a slip of his shirt to show he was packing heat. “You’re saying you and Mrs. McGuire wouldn’t have sought each other out organically. You get along, but you don’t have that much in common.”

  Allison Strang said, “Exactly,” and then pulled open a small metal drawer next to the Keurig, plucked a coffee pod from it and stuck it in the machine. Then she grabbed a ceramic mug from another cabinet and pressed a button, and in thirty seconds, Lance had a steaming-hot cup of black coffee in front of him.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  Lance shook his head. “Black is perfect.”

  The teakettle boiled, and Allison Strang fi
lled her mug and dipped the tea bag and then joined Lance at the island, resting her elbows on the opposite side of the counter instead of taking a stool. Lance turned to face her. Took a sip of his coffee. It was okay. He’d never really cared for those little coffee pods. But the caffeine would be useful, would help him think.

  “I actually didn’t believe it, at first,” Allison Strang said. She dipped her tea bag again and then raised her mug for a sip. Lance watched the way her lips curled over the edge of cup.

  “Didn’t believe what?”

  She grinned and gave off an embarrassed sort of laugh. “I was just being silly, is all. I mean, it was hard when Glenn was playing ball, always traveling and always having women at the hotels. It wasn’t like it is for players today, don’t get me wrong, but the temptation was always there for him. It was hard to trust him. But …” She smiled and took another sip of tea. “I did. And he always came home happy to see me, and he’d swoop me up in his arms and kiss me and tell me how much he missed me and … well, it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing he could fake. Glenn might have been a decent football player, but he’s a terrible actor.”

  Lance said nothing.

  “But after a few weeks of these late-night McGuire house sleepovers, I noticed that sometimes when he’d come home, he’d act a little off. A little distant. After all these years of marriage, you become pretty in tune with your spouse. You learn their tics and their quirks, and you can instantly tell when they aren’t themselves.” She was quiet for a moment. “And then one day, when I was doing his laundry, I noticed that his clothes smelled of perfume.”

  Lance sat up straight, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and his ears prickling.

  “Perfume?”

  She nodded. “I passed it off as a fluke the first time, just somebody he’d maybe hugged at the football game, or something stupid, you know? But then the next week when he got back from the McGuires’—he hadn’t spent the night that night, I do remember that—I waited till he fell asleep and then went to the hamper, and sure enough, the same perfume smell was on his shirt.”

  Lance instantly remembered Susan Goodman’s story about her brother smelling like perfume when he’d come home late one night, shortly before he’d gone missing. His heart pumped quicker in his chest. He took another swig of the mediocre coffee and asked, “Did you ask him about it?”

  Off to the right of the kitchen was a breakfast nook with a small four-top table. A pair of French doors stood behind it, and outside, bright lights suddenly flashed on and illuminated an elegant outdoor patio set, complete with industrial-sized grill and smoker. Allison Strang’s eyes flitted to the doors and said, “Deer. Sometimes they get close enough to trigger the lights. Had a bear one time. Boy, what a sight that was.”

  Lance looked from the woman and then back to the doors. When they’d flashed on, in that instant millisecond between full dark and full light, he could have sworn he had seen something. And it hadn’t been a deer. It had been black, like a shadow, and it had had a tail.

  He drank more coffee, his nerves beginning to feel on edge. He was getting close.

  “So … the perfume?”

  Allison Strang laughed and then reached out and gently grabbed his wrist. “Why am I telling you all this? I don’t even know you.”

  Lance smiled and shrugged and prayed to any god that would listen that she wouldn’t stop the story now, not when he might actually gain a shred of actual information. “People have always said I’m a good listener.”

  She laughed again and said, “Fine. But then it’s your turn. You have to tell me what you’re doing here and explain why I haven’t already called the police to tell them that the man they’ve been looking for, the suspicious boy who's been walking all over town, is right here in my kitchen.”

  Lance’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. He nearly knocked his coffee mug over as he moved to leave.

  But Allison Strang gripped his wrist tighter and held her other hand up in a calm down gesture. “Relax,” she said. “I’m not calling them. I don’t think you’re any trouble. I hope not, anyway. The folks in this town, not to mention the police, they’re all just a little … wary. You know, especially since all the disappearances.”

  “And you’re not?” Lance said, willing himself to sit back down on the stool.

  “Oh, I am. It’s terrible what this town’s been through. Those young men, all missing, all probably dead—yes, I’m a realist, honey,” she said when Lance looked at her, surprised. “I suppose it’s possible they ran away, off to find a better life and escape whatever was haunting them here. But … I don’t buy it.”

  “So why aren’t you suspicious of me like everybody else?”

  Because she’s got some of it. Just a drop, but enough to know you’re one of the good ones.

  “Because I know you had breakfast with Leah at the diner, and I know you had dinner with her at Sonic, and I know you were with her at the football game. You two are obviously close—I don’t know in what capacity, but you are—and that girl is probably the best judge of character in this entire town. Headstrong, no-nonsense, rational, and the last person on earth who would fall in with the wrong crowd. If she’s cool with you, I’m cool with you.”

  Leah, you are amazing. You’re saving my butt and you’re not even here. Lance reminded himself to kiss her extra long when he saw her again.

  “Well, I appreciate your support,” Lance said, sounding like a politician on the campaign trail.

  She waved him off. “Anyway, no, I didn’t ask Glenn about the perfume.” Lance felt his disappointment creep up. “I decided to—and I’m not proud of this—I decided to spy a bit. The next home game after he dropped me back here at home, I waited fifteen minutes and then jumped in my car and drove over to the McGuires’. And sure enough, Glenn’s car was right there in the driveway. I turned around and drove home, but the next morning when I checked his clothes, there was that scent again.”

  “And then you asked him about it?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Instead, I forced his hand a bit. Next home game, I asked Melissa if she’d maybe want some girl company while the boys did their thing. She agreed, and I rode with Glenn to their house right after the game. I was only there ten minutes before I realized what was going on.”

  “Which was?” Lance was practically standing up in his seat.

  “It wasn’t perfume,” Allison Strang said. “It was definitely a womanly, floral-type scent I kept smelling on Glenn’s clothes, but it wasn’t perfume.” She laughed, clearly amused by her own mistake and mistrust. “It was incense! Turns out Melissa McGuire burns the stuff in the evenings to help her relax. She’s big into herbs and holistic-type remedies. You should see her den. She’s got all sorts of fragrances and little burners and candles and”—she chuckled again—“I told her that her setup looked like some sort of witch’s supply closet.” The chuckle became a full-on belly laugh. “I asked her if she had eye of newt!”

  Lance froze. His mind raced.

  (My dad calls her the Voodoo Bitch Doctor.)

  He pulled up the image of Melissa McGuire from earlier at the school, and then again at the football game later that evening. Her hair was in a bun! I thought it was Allison Strang because the hair was longer, but Melissa’s been wearing hers in a bun!

  Lance replayed the vision he’d gotten from Bobby Strang when he’d attacked him in the garage. Watched the woman arching her back as she rode the boy on the bed beneath her, her hair sweaty and splayed across her shoulders.

  The hair.

  I was wrong, he thought. Darn it, Leah, I was completely wrong. It’s not Allison Strang who’s behind the boys’ disappearances, it’s Melissa McGuire! It’s the coach’s wife!

  Lance shouted, “I’ve got to go!” as he stood from the counter and turned to head down the hall, and he couldn’t help but think that maybe he wasn’t being baited to the Strangs’ house to confront the monster, but maybe whatever goodness there was le
ft in the town—Annabelle Winters and whatever forces she rolled with—maybe whatever was on his side was pushing him toward Allison Strang so he’d be able to uncover the truth.

  He heard Allison Strang scramble after him as he fled down the hall and out into the foyer. He nearly collided with the door as she called out, “Whatever you’re doing, be careful!”

  Lance fumbled with the deadbolt and ripped open the heavy door.

  He took two steps onto the porch before something hard and heavy slammed into the back of his head, and everything went dark.

  39

  Lance’s eyes flickered, couldn’t stay open. His body jostled, and he could hear and feel the rumbling of tires over road beneath him. He strained, trying to open his eyes again, but it was like trying to wake yourself from a dream. It was as if his eyelids had been glued shut. His head pounded and pulsed.

  I’ve had enough head injuries for the week, thank you.

  He tried to speak, to force any words from his mouth, just to reaffirm he was still alive. He couldn’t, but that was only because there was something over his mouth. Tape, probably. He tried to reach up and pull it away, but his hands wouldn’t obey. They were bound together behind his back. More tape. The tape had gotten to him after all.

  A man’s voice up ahead of him, sounding very far away, yet perfectly clear, said, “Yes, I’ve got him. I’m on the way.”

  A pause.

  “She won’t say anything.”

  A pause.

  “Because she’s my wife and we can trust her. I’ll … look, I’ll figure it out.”

  There was another pause and a heavy sigh and then, “This has to end tonight. You see that, right? No more. It’s done.”

  A pause.

  “You know what? Maybe I don’t care anymore.”

  There was a large bump in the road, and Lance heard the man mumble a curse word under his breath before Lance went under again, swallowed by the darkness. Taken back into the dream.