Lance’s continued silence finally caused Rich’s smile to falter. His face quickly fell, and he looked taken aback, as if he’d made some grave mistake. Without a word, the man turned and dashed back into his office, returning a moment later with a notebook and pen. He opened to a blank page and quickly scribbled something on the paper and then held it up for Lance to see.
Lance read the words and then burst out laughing. Shaking his head he said, “No, I’m not deaf or mute.”
Rich’s face began to relax at the sound of Lance’s laughter and his first spoken words, and Lance apologized. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just—”
He was about to say he had no idea why he’d come into Richard Bellows’s office, when something familiar jerked his thoughts in a different direction. He looked back down to the notebook Rich was holding in his hand and examined the handwriting. He’d seen that writing before, and he remembered the handwritten sign on the door—Rentals Available.
Is that it? Am I supposed to rent a place and stay here awhile?
It wasn’t a crazy thought. He’d been hopping around from town to town for a month now, never staying more than a couple days in each, feeling no real sense of purpose or belonging. His gifts of perception and his nudging from the Universe had been all but nonexistent except for a continued urge to move on.
He felt no different today, felt no force telling him this was where he needed to be, felt no threat looming in Ripton’s Grove that he needed to attend to, but … but he wasn’t hungry. And he’d been starving.
“I was hoping you might have a place for me to rent,” Lance said.
The smile returned in full force on Rich’s face. “Of course! Just, um, when you didn’t say anything, I … well…”
Lance said nothing. What could he say?
“Right,” Rich said. “Follow me and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
Lance followed Rich through the door at the back of the room. It was a small, cramped office with similar furnishings as those in the reception area, except that instead of the outdated desktop, there was a modern Apple laptop on the desk connected to a large monitor. Richard Bellows squeezed behind the desk and sat, pointed for Lance to sit as well. Lance sat, resting his backpack on the floor against the desk. He looked around the room and saw that the walls were nearly wallpapered with framed photos of Richard Bellows and his family—nice-looking wife and three small children. Rich caught Lance looking and smiled even larger than before. “My pride and joy,” he said. “It’s what it’s all about, am I right?”
Lance forced a grin. “Sure is.”
Rich looked admiringly at the photos for another few seconds and then cleared his throat and turned his attention to his computer. “Okay, first question, Mister, uh…”
“Lance.”
“Right. First question, Mr. Lance. How long will you be renting?”
“Just Lance.”
“Sorry?”
“My name is Lance. Call me Lance.”
“Oh, right, sorry. Apologies. So how long will you be renting, Lance?”
Lance didn’t hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“Three months? Six? One year?”
“I don’t know.”
Richard Bellows took it in stride, though Lance could sense the apprehension. “Okay, then … we’ll just say indefinite.” He clicked a few things on the screen. “And what is your price range?”
Lance thought for a moment and then told Rich a dollar amount that caused the man to turn away from the computer and lean back in his chair. He gave Lance an appraising look, as if trying to figure out exactly what he was getting himself into.
Lance could feel the moment slipping away from him and knew he had to fix things before his opportunity was lost, along with whatever reason he’d come into R.G. Homes today.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been clearer. I can pay that weekly. Do you have anything I can rent by the week instead of a lengthier lease? With the business I’m in, I’m never sure how long a job will last.” Then he added, “And frankly, I’m sick of hotels.”
This answer seemed to make sense and placate Richard Bellows. He leaned forward again, and though his smile was back, he was clearly disappointed he wouldn’t be making much of a profit today. “Lance, I’ll be honest with you. We’re not a vacation town, nothing touristy for people to come and see or do, so we don’t have any weekly rentals…” He trailed off and leaned back in his chair, his brow crinkled as he thought about something.
Lance waited.
“Actually,” Rich said, leaning forward again and resting his elbows on the desk, “I might have a place, if you’re interested. It’s a little way outside of town, and it’s been mostly vacant these past few years.”
“Mostly?”
“A few folks have come and gone. None have stayed too long.”
“So, you’ve rented it short-term before?” Lance knew all at once that he was on the right track here. Something urged him to push Richard Bellows on.
Rich made a face that said not exactly. “The rentals have been short, yes.”
This was an omission, but Lance let it slide.
“So, I can rent it weekly?”
Rich actually stifled a laugh before turning his face back to business mode. “Lance, tell you what. I don’t know why, but I like you. You seem like a real straight shooter and all-around good guy. If you give me a small deposit. I’ll let you rent it by the day.”
Lance looked at the man and smiled. “Rich, I like you too. So why don’t you be a straight shooter with me and tell me what’s wrong with the place?”
Richard Bellows, his bluff called, could only nod his head and sigh. “The truth?”
“Please.”
“People say it’s haunted.”
And there it was. This time it was Lance’s turn to laugh. “I’ll take it.”
3
Richard Bellows had printed off a lease after a few clicks on the keyboard and then used a cheap ballpoint pen to fill in details with a rapid, almost robotic pace. He’d moved around to the other side of the desk and handed the pen to Lance, flipping through pages and showing him where to initial and sign. Lance didn’t sweat any efforts of entrapment from Rich, didn’t ask for any elaboration on what he was signing. He trusted the man … and his stomach was beginning to grumble again.
On the latest grumble, Richard Bellows had made a comical glance toward Lance’s stomach and smiled. “When we finish up here, head on over to Mama’s. Best food in town.”
Lance nodded. “I intend to. If only because of such an intriguing and creative name.”
Rich Bellows didn’t pick up on the sarcasm, or simply ignored it. He was too preoccupied with double-checking the freshly signed lease and announcing to Lance the grand total he would have to pay today. “That’s the small deposit we spoke of, plus two days’ rent.”
“I’m really fine paying you for the week.” It was clear to Lance at this point that this was where he was supposed to be, at least for a while. Somebody, or something, here needed him.
Rich nodded and said, “I appreciate that, Lance. I do, really. But if you decided to up and take off like the other few folks who’ve rented the place have, I’d hate for you to be so in a hurry you forget to come by here and settle up, get the rest of your money back.”
In that moment, Lance felt a sense of admiration for Richard Bellows. He looked around the small office again at the walls covered in family photos. Here was a man full of pride and joy, swelling with happiness and wanting to show it to anyone who’d happen by. And he was turning out to be an honest businessman as well.
Lance unzipped the front flap of his backpack and pulled out a checkbook—one that was only a few weeks old and had been used sparsely. Lance scribbled on a check and signed it, tearing it free and then handing it over to Rich. As Lance filled out the ledger, Rich examined the check. “PB Consulting?”
Lance nodded as he shoved the checkbook back into his
backpack. He offered no more information. Richard Bellows was a smart and polite enough man to take the hint.
During the events in Westhaven, only a blink of an eye after Lance’s mother’s death and Lance’s subsequent abandonment of his hometown, Marcus Johnston had called and left Lance a voicemail he wouldn’t be able to listen to until he was finally on a bus, heading out of town once again. Lance had been a little too preoccupied with things in Westhaven trying to kill him to find time to remember to check his phone messages. But as the bus had pulled away from the Westhaven bus station and Lance had played back Marcus Johnston’s message twice, he was astonished at what he’d heard.
Lance and his mother had always lived a very frugal life. Pamela Brody had worked at the local library a few days a week and occasionally picked up other part-time work until she grew bored or felt the need to move on—that was how she’d always put it. With Lance working at the local sporting goods store from the time he’d been about to enter high school, they’d always had enough money for what they needed, plus the occasional splurge. So when Marcus Johnston called and told Lance that his mother’s will had left him not only their house, but a savings account with enough money for Lance to live on for a while, Lance’s head had spun with confusion. Where had she gotten all that money? Had she been secretly saving it for all these years? Had she inherited it? Lance had so many questions—questions that would likely never be answered.
In Lance’s eyes, Marcus Johnston was practically his guardian angel. He’d been there from the beginning, helping Lance and his mother along the way as they’d all coped and learned to handle Lance’s particular skill set. Marcus had been there the night Lance’s mother had lain dying on the ground outside the Great Hillston Cemetery, and he’d never doubted Lance’s admission that Lance was in some new great danger. That these people chasing him were more dangerous than even Lance himself had understood. Lance’s track record spoke for itself.
“What do I do with the house?” Lance had asked once he’d finally gathered the resolve to call Marcus back. Marcus had launched straight into a barrage of questions about Lance’s well-being, where he was, where he was going.
“I’m fine,” Lance had said, fresh off nearly dying in Westhaven. “Probably best if you don’t know where I am.” Then asked again, “What do I do with the house?”
The house was not completely paid for, so the options were either to sell it or to rent it for enough to cover the mortgage. Lance had chosen to rent it, only because some part of him felt deep down, despite the circumstances, that one day he might return to Hillston. And if he did, he wanted to sleep under his own roof. Sleep in the home his mother and he had made together. But only once he was ready. Once his work was finished. Whatever that might be.
For Lance to start his own business was Marcus’s idea. “We’ll create an LLC,” he’d explained, “and put the money in a checking account for the company that we both have access to. That way, I can help you manage anything you might need help with, and as you’re out and spend money on … whatever it is you’re doing out there, nobody will be able to directly trace payments you make back to you. It’ll just be billed to the business.”
The level of trust Lance held for Marcus Johnston was only surpassed by the trust he’d had for his mother. If Marcus thought this was a good idea—and it did make a lot of sense to Lance—then Lance was fine with it. He didn’t need to worry about Marcus running off with any of his money.
“Plus,” Marcus had added, “if you have a job—even if it’s a fake one—maybe you won’t be so damn suspicious all the time.”
Another great point.
And so, PB Consulting LLC was born. The PB, of course, stood for Pamela Brody.
“Lance?” Marcus had started as the conversation began to wind down. “Are you sure you can’t come home? Let me help you with all this? You know I’ll do everything I can.”
And Lance did know this. But he also knew it was impossible. His journey, wherever he was headed, whatever he was to do, was just beginning.
And the next part had been the hardest. Lance, not one to cry, had nearly choked up as he’d asked, “Just take care of my mother’s body, Marcus. Take some of the money and do whatever you think is best to lay her to rest. Nothing extravagant. You and I both know she wouldn’t want anything like that. Just … simple. Peaceful.”
“Of course, Lance. Of course.”
Lance found himself surprised by how little he was bothered by not being able to be present for his mother’s burial. I knew her in life, he thought. And what is a funeral, a burial, if not a celebration of the life?
This thought had his mother written all over it, and Lance had smiled at how much he’d become like her.
The sound of a metal filing cabinet sliding on its track snapped Lance out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw Rich riffling through a row of hanging folders, his fingers dancing across their labels. “Ah, here we go,” he said, pulling one free and tossing it onto the desk. He flipped it open and retrieved a small key ring with two keys attached. He held it out to Lance, that large smile never leaving his face. Lance let the key ring fall into his palm.
“Now, the place is modestly furnished, so you don’t need to worry about furniture or anything like that, but I can’t get any cleaners there until tomorrow, I’m afraid. I did have it cleaned after the last tenants left, so…” Rich’s face faltered slightly. “Actually, that’s been several months. I apologize. Maybe you’d like to stay in a motel tonight?”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Lance said.
“Of course. Completely up to you.”
There was a silence between them then, their business concluded.
“If there’s anything wrong with the place, or if you have any issues at all, please,” Rich sighed, “let me know.” He said this with a tone that suggested he was fully expecting Lance to be back tomorrow morning white-faced, red-eyed, and wanting all his money back.
“I will,” Lance said.
“Good. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. You can give me the address.”
Rich Bellows’s face turned red and he quickly stood from the desk. “Of course! Ha! Silly me. Here, um…” He turned and placed the sheets of Lance’s signed rental agreement into the tray of a multifunction printer and made a copy. Lance was amused at how flustered Rich seemed. How distracted. Whatever was wrong with the home Lance was renting clearly had Richard Bellows’s mind wandering.
What am I getting into now?
Rich handed the copy of the lease to Lance after circling the address with a red pen. The two men shook hands and said their goodbyes, and Lance retrieved his umbrella from the trash can before pushing through the door and heading back into the rain.
4
With a freshly signed lease in his backpack and the keys to his new haunted home in his pocket, Lance walked down the sidewalk, past the florist with the window full of bouquets and teddy bears, and listened to his stomach grumble loud enough to be mistaken for thunder. He was starving. With his task now complete, the Universe had allowed him to return to his regularly scheduled program.
It was now a quarter after four, and the traffic in town had picked up. The parking spaces along the sidewalk filled up, and now three cars sat at the red light ahead, turn signals flashing through the gray, rain-soaked atmosphere.
But still, things were quiet. Calm. The few people he saw seemed to be in no hurry. The traffic was docile. Maybe it was because of the weather, but Lance figured he was simply witnessing the definition of a sleepy small town. His hometown of Hillston hadn’t been a metropolis by any means, and Westhaven had been even smaller, but this place … this was almost comical. Ripton’s Grove was the sort of place you drove through accidentally when taking a shortcut to your real destination. The sort of place where, as you looked out the windows when you passed through, you thought to yourself, Who would want to live here? What do they do?
This was the sort of place where—i
n theory—everybody might actually know your name.
Lance started humming the theme song to Cheers and listened to the rain continue its patter on his umbrella. He passed by a small law office, a hardware store, a coffee shop—which he was tempted to go into, but refrained, the thought of comfort food from Mama’s more appealing to his complaining stomach—and a small karate dojo, lights off and empty of students, before he reached the intersection with the stoplight. He turned left instinctively, allowed a red Ford pickup to pass beneath the green light, the driver raising a friendly hand in a wave, and then crossed the street. There were no pedestrian Walk/Don’t Walk signs, and the fear of jaywalking seemed about as insignificant as mismatched socks to Lance after everything he’d been through recently.
His sneakers splashed through puddles in the street, and the sound of water rushing into sidewalk drains echoed between the buildings. Headed perpendicular to the main street now, Lance continued down the sidewalk, passing a CPA’s office and a secondhand bookstore before finding the small Ripton’s Grove post office at the end of the block, sitting on the corner, back off the road like a child’s discarded toy. It was nearly dark now, the heavy rain clouds coupled with the early setting sun making it feel much later than half past four, and through the large front windows, Lance could see a small line of people standing patiently at the counter inside the well-lit post office. Waiting to send messages to the rest of the great big world that existed outside their tiny reality.
Across the street, on the opposite corner from Lance, was Mama’s.
The restaurant was an old two-story cottage that had been converted. Faded gray vinyl siding but a fresh-looking roof. All the lights in the front windows burned bright and seemed warm and welcoming. Instead of a front lawn, there was a crushed-gravel parking lot, half-full. A small marquee sign sat just off the road at the parking lot turn-in, the black plastic letters chipped and cracked but advertising, BEST MEATLOAF IN THE STATE, and beneath this, HOMEMADE PIES!
Lance Brody Omnibus Page 37
