Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr.

  Lance smiled. “Well, Sheriff, I hate that you had to waste the gas to come visit me this morning. Apparently we could have just waited a couple hours for our proper introductions.”

  Ray Kruger didn’t even so much as smirk.

  So much for that approach, Lance thought. Kruger appeared to be all business. Lance couldn’t say he was surprised.

  The sheriff walked to the table and sat down opposite Lance, his knees popping as he fell into the chair. Then he ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, still not saying a word.

  The silence sat heavy. Lance’s stomach gurgled, his digesting breakfast deciding to break the ice. Lance smiled again. “Mama’s,” he said. “So much good food.”

  “Can you tell me everything you did and everywhere you went after I left the farmhouse this morning, please?”

  Yep, Lance thought, all business.

  He straightened in his chair and took a deep breath. “Absolutely. After you left, I went upstairs to change my clothes and shave and brush my teeth. In the middle of shaving, the doorbell rang and I answered it. It was Victoria Bellows. Her husband mentioned to her that the farmhouse needed to be cleaned, and the cleaners apparently won’t come to the property out of fear of … well, you know. Victoria and I chatted briefly and then she started to clean. About that time, the doorbell rang again and it was Luke—one of the new friends I mentioned to you.” Lance hated dropping Luke’s name but understood the situation well enough to know it was going to be required one way or the other.

  Sheriff Kruger held up a hand to slow him down. “Luke who?”

  Lance shook his head. “I don’t know his last name, sir. He drives a Jeep.” Then, after a slight hesitation, “He’s dating Susan. The waitress from Mama’s.”

  Kruger nodded and motioned for Lance to continue.

  “Luke asked if I wanted a ride into town, and I accepted. He drove me straight to Mama’s and I had breakfast. After that, I left the restaurant and started walking. I hadn’t gotten far when your very pleasant and overly charming deputy picked me up and delivered me here, to this very room.”

  Again, not so much as a hint of a grin at the crack on his deputy. The sheriff was stone-faced. He was quiet for a moment, perhaps thinking through all that Lance had said. Then he nodded once, stood and said, “Be right back.”

  He walked out of the room, leaving Lance alone again.

  Except he wasn’t, really. As soon as Sheriff Kruger had left the room and closed the door, Lance swiveled his head back to the chair across from him and found the ghost of the deceased sheriff had returned.

  “Don’t worry about Deputy Payton,” the man said. “There’s always ones like him in every station in the country. Big badge, big attitude, small pecker. Literally, in Payton’s case. I’ve seen him in the locker room.”

  Lance wasn’t sure what to do with this information, so he asked a question of his own. “What’s your name, sir?”

  The man’s face did something funny, as if he wasn’t sure what Lance was asking him. Almost as if he had to dig deep, search for the answer. “Willard,” he finally said. “Sheriff Bill Willard.” Then he shook his head, as if to clear it. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long time since my name’s mattered.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sheriff Willard. I’m Lance.”

  Willard nodded. “I know, son. I know. Listen to me, okay? I may not be alive, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. I have a way of making things happen around here from time to time, if you catch my drift.”

  Lance didn’t catch anything, but he nodded all the same.

  “You need answers,” Willard continued. “And the only way you’re going to get them is to dig, to talk to folks. Learn things that these morons here didn’t.”

  Lance said nothing.

  “I know you’re special, son. I know you’ve got gifts beyond this world’s understanding. And maybe that’s all you need—your talents and whatever clues the other world you can see and hear lends you. But I think you might be surprised just how much you can still learn from the living. When you know how to listen, that is.

  “So when you get your bag back, maybe in the smaller front compartment, you’ll find a list of names. Maybe those names were all people of interest in the Benchley case. Not because they were suspects, necessarily, but because they were thought to maybe have information that could help in discovering the truth. Maybe,” Willard said, “you can call on a few of them and see what they remember. Maybe you’ll get more out of them than just their words.” At this, Sheriff Bill Willard winked, and the interview room door opened and Sheriff Ray Kruger appeared.

  Lance looked back to the chair and found it, expectedly, empty.

  Kruger walked over and resumed his position opposite Lance. “Where were you headed when my pleasant and overly charming deputy picked you up?”

  Something about the question made Lance feel uneasy, but he pressed on with his honesty. He knew he’d done nothing illegal. Today. “I was walking to Rich Bellows’s real estate office.”

  Kruger’s face was expressionless. “Why?” he asked.

  Lance decided not to lie, specifically, but not to offer up more information than was required either. “I had some questions about the house. Thought maybe he might be in for a few hours on a Saturday. He seems like that sort of guy.”

  Kruger nodded. Sighed again before saying, “Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t run across him this morning.”

  Lance took the bait. “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Because his wife was assaulted in the house you’re currently renting from him, and he’s convinced you were her attacker.”

  Lance felt a cold stone drop in his stomach. Not because he was fearing prosecution, but because he felt sorry for Victoria Bellows. She’d been so nice to him, friendly and energetic. He’d liked her. And once again, Lance had managed to get somebody hurt because of a situation he was involved in.

  How many times would this happen in his life? How many people would suffer because of him?

  “Anything to say, Lance?” Sheriff Ray Kruger asked. He didn’t look all that concerned.

  Lance looked the man in the eye. “I didn’t do it,” he said. He felt a new vibe coming off Kruger, and then slowly added, “But you already know that, don’t you?”

  Kruger leaned back and nodded. “I do. I just called over to the YMCA and got them to track down Luke—that’s the thing about small towns, right? Easy to learn people’s routines. He verified your story and also said that when the two of you left, he did see a woman matching the description of Mrs. Bellows in the house. Unharmed.”

  Lance was relieved, but only a little. “Is she okay? Mrs. Bellows?”

  Kruger nodded. “A nasty bump on the head, but she’ll be fine. The assailant struck her just above the temple and she blacked out temporarily. When she came to, she had the good sense to call an ambulance, and they took her over to Central Medical.”

  “Has she said anything about her attacker? Any idea who it might be?”

  “Like I said, her husband thinks it was you.” Kruger had a small smirk on his face as he said this.

  “But you know it wasn’t,” Lance said. Then, after a beat, “Are you planning on sharing that information with Mr. Bellows anytime soon.”

  “Of course. As soon as we’re done here.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Lance said, unsure what sort of game he was stuck playing with Sheriff Kruger. There seemed to be more the man wanted to say.

  “So am I free to go?” Lance asked, making a small move to stand up from the chair.

  Kruger held up a hand. “Not quite yet. If you’ll humor me for just another minute.”

  Lance had expected this. He sat. Tried to look uninterested.

  Sheriff Kruger cleared his throat and asked, “Do you have any idea who might have attacked Mrs. Bellows this morning?”

  Lance almost answered too quickly. Of course he didn’t know who’d attacked her. But then he thought back to the p
revious evening, the open back door, the movement behind the blinds when he’d arrived. Kruger picked up on his hesitation. “Well?”

  “To answer your question, no, I don’t have any idea who specifically might have attacked her.”

  “I feel like you’ve got a ‘but’ coming.”

  Lance nodded. He didn’t necessarily feel his back was against the wall, but now that folks were getting hurt, it was time to share the one bit of information he’d been keeping to himself. “When I got to the house last night, I thought I saw movement behind the blinds in one of the front windows, and then when I got inside, the back door was wide open. I didn’t see anybody, but I assumed somebody was in the house.”

  Kruger sat up straighter at this. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  Lance fibbed, but only a little. “With everything folks have been telling me—including yourself, sir—about the reputation the farmhouse has, I sort of, I don’t know, figured it was just one of those weirdos who wanted to come by and see the place or have a séance or whatever they do. I figured maybe the back door was left unlocked and they sneaked in and then fled the place when I got there.” Lance shrugged. “I locked the door and didn’t hear or see anything else the rest of the night. I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

  Kruger sat silently, appraising Lance enough to make him feel a bit uncomfortable. Finally, he said, “So you’re either very brave or very stupid.”

  Lance grinned. “Are they mutually exclusive?”

  At this, Sheriff Ray Kruger finally offered a small, yet very apparent smile. But he followed it with a question Lance was starting to get tired of. “Lance, be honest with me. Why are you here?”

  Lance was quiet for a long time, trying his best to get a better read on Kruger. There was kindness buried beneath the toughness and the sorrow. At last, Lance shrugged and said, “Right now, Sheriff, this is just where I’m supposed to be.”

  And that wasn’t a lie.

  16

  If Sheriff Ray Kruger thought Lance was being a smart-ass or simply evasive with his answer, he didn’t show it. Instead, he sighed, nodded, and then stood, telling Lance he was free to go, but that he’d better call the police the moment he suspected anybody trespassing on the farmhouse’s land.

  “I’m serious, son,” he said as he handed Lance his backpack on their way back through the office area. “You have no idea how tired I am of dealing with that place. No idea at all. Don’t give me a reason to bring you back down here again, okay?”

  Lance wanted to say he could make no promises in that regard, given his past experiences, but he decided to play it safe. He smiled, nodded, and said, “Yes, sir. Of course. I’m terribly sorry for all the trouble. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help further.”

  Lance thought the conversation was going to end at this point, but the sheriff surprised him with saying, “You can leave, if you really want to help.”

  “Sir?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Nothing good happens up there, son. It’s easier when the place just sits empty.”

  Lance gave Kruger the only answer he could. “I promise I won’t stay a minute longer than I need to.”

  With that, Kruger opened the door leading to the lobby, let Lance walk through it, and then closed it behind him, leaving Lance alone with just the outdated furniture and the same woman behind the glass partition, chewing gum and twirling her hair as she read her novel. “Have a nice day,” Lance said as he left.

  She didn’t respond.

  Outside, the sun was blinding and Lance raised a hand to his eyes and squinted as he looked across the parking lot. The cruiser he’d arrived in was gone, and the lot was empty except for a black pickup truck parked alone in the corner. A passenger bus drove slowly down the street, air brakes hissing as it slowed to make a turn, headed for the bus station. Lance stepped off the sidewalk and followed it back toward town, a strong breeze blowing at his back. The air felt alive and fresh compared to the stuffy interview room. Chilly, but not uncomfortable.

  He kicked pebbles down the sidewalk as he walked, not too concerned with where he was headed. Stopped briefly across the street from the bus station and contemplated going inside and buying a ticket. Moving on to somewhere else. Somewhere that made more sense. He couldn’t understand why he was in Ripton’s Grove. The tragedy at the farmhouse was a terrible thing, no question. But aside from the alternative theory that Mark Benchley hadn’t been the one to kill his family and himself that night, what was Lance’s purpose here? Was that his only task, to bring to justice a killer who’d flown under the radar for too long? Not that that was anything to shake your head at, but still … he felt there was more.

  The loud ringing of a bell startled Lance out of his thoughts, and he looked up, finding a bell tower off in the distance, ringing in the noon hour. He thought about lunch but then dismissed it. Not yet, he thought. You’ve obviously got work to do.

  He had so many questions, but the one he was interested in at the moment was, who had attacked Victoria Bellows? His gut told him that the attacker was the same person who’d been in the farmhouse the night before. He found the timing of two different home invasions at the same property within twelve hours of each other to be too coincidental, regardless of the home’s infamy.

  He kept walking, and as a short, balding man came out of a small hardware store to Lance’s left, Lance said, “Excuse me, sir—could you tell me how to get to Central Medical?”

  The man stopped and eyed Lance suspiciously. Lance wasn’t bothered by this, was in fact used to it. He remained still and smiled, trying to look pleasant.

  “Are you hurt?” the man asked.

  “No, sir. Need to visit a friend.”

  The man nodded slowly, as if Lance was trying to pull a fast one on him, then huffed and puffed and gave Lance the directions. Followed it up with, “It’s going to be a long walk.”

  Lance thanked the man and added, “It’s okay. I like to walk.” Then he walked across the street to Rich Bellows’s real estate office. The door was, unsurprisingly, locked and the lights off. Lance moved on and ducked inside the florist next door. Ten minutes later, he emerged carrying a small bouquet of flowers and headed off to find Central Medical.

  The man from outside the hardware store was correct. It had been a long walk to Central Medical. It took Lance half an hour to end up nearly two miles on the opposite end of town, well past the downtown section he’d become somewhat familiar with. He’d made a right turn at Mama’s, passing by the building with the bell tower, which turned out to be a courthouse, then followed the sidewalk along a rural route for nearly the entire way before the sidewalk eventually ended and Lance was forced to walk along the shoulder the remainder of the trip. Traffic was light, thankfully, and the weather was cool enough that the walk wasn’t that tiring. He’d glanced down every so often at the bouquet he was carrying, hoping the flowers remained presentable long enough to be delivered.

  And now he stood in a large, freshly paved, mostly empty parking lot, looking at a medium-sized two-story beige building sitting unassumingly in the corner of the lot. It was dull and plain and boring, darkened windows dotting the faded exterior. The words CENTRAL MEDICAL CENTER were positioned above a set of automatic doors in the center of the building’s front. On the left of the building, accessible by another, smaller entrance road, was a gray parking overhang with the word EMERGENCY advertised in red letters on all sides. An ambulance was parked beneath the overhang, its lights off and doors closed. It looked tired, almost as if it were napping in the quiet afternoon.

  Lance stood and stared at the building for a long time. Despite Central Medical’s lack of size and flash and energy, there was still no misunderstanding what the place was.

  A hospital.

  Lance did not like hospitals.

  This wasn’t an odd fear or phobia or general dislike to have as a human being. A lot of people didn’t like hospitals. Hospitals often brought to mind i
llness or injury—and for some, an acute awareness of their own mortality. Death walked the halls of hospitals. It stood in the corners of rooms and waited its turn to slip in and do its job, lurking in the shadows but hidden from no one. Hospitals were a relatively unhappy place if you were a guest, despite the cheerfulness exuded by friendly staff. Nobody went there to have fun.

  But for Lance, the dislike of hospitals extended beyond the common tropes of mortals. Because he could see into the shadows, beyond the veil. Lance could see newly appointed spirits lingering at the bedsides of their deceased bodies, watching as loved ones mourned and said final goodbyes. Lance walked hallways crowded not just by passing nurses and hustling doctors and concerned visitors, but also by the ghosts of those who’d not yet passed on to whatever lay on the other side. Sometimes they were peaceful, almost contemplative as they moved along and grasped their new situation with a sort of wonder, testing the waters of their new being. But others … others were completely distraught, frantic. And it was them—those for whom the idea of their death had stricken such fear into their souls—who disturbed Lance. They always seemed to sense what Lance was, and that he could see and hear them. They flung themselves at him and begged and pleaded for help, for answers he did not have. They wanted another chance, they wanted more time with their wives and husbands and sons and daughters. Some asked if they were going to hell … or to Heaven. They asked what they’d done wrong—both in life and in their own dying.

  Aside from his birth, Lance had only been inside the walls of a hospital twice. Once when he was only ten years old and had fractured his wrist after falling out of a tire swing at the park, and again when he was sixteen and had gone to visit a friend of his from high school who’d had to have an emergency appendectomy. Her name was Mariah and she played softball and volleyball, and Lance would never forget the look of hurt in her eyes when he’d been unable to stand in her room any longer and had nearly run down the hallway and down the stairs and out into the fresh air.