Half a mile down the road, Leah turned into the lot of a Sonic Drive-In that looked startlingly out of place. While everything else Lance had seen in Westhaven was old, aged, and weathered, the Sonic appeared shiny and new. Bright signage and a freshly painted building and a recently paved parking lot. And they were busy. Leah nearly circled the entire lot before finding an open slot to pull into. The last one available.
“Place just opened about a month ago. So, yeah, Westhaven is sort of a big deal now, as you can see.”
Lance grinned, looked all around him at the folks eating in their cars. Even through the windshields and windows he could see a mass scattering of Westhaven-emblazoned shirts and hats. Everybody was having their pre-game meal.
Football was important around here.
Lance ordered three cheeseburgers, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Leah ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and looked at Lance like he was from Mars. “Where does it go?”
He shrugged. “Feet. I guess.”
She laughed and he leaned over the sticky center console and kissed her. She smiled at him and said, “You better be careful. Lots of wandering eyes around here.”
And he almost said it wouldn't matter, because he wouldn’t be around for long. And this truth stifled his mood for only a moment before he pushed it away. It sounded meaner than it really was, that thought. He wasn’t abandoning anybody, but he was fairly certain Westhaven was not where he was supposed to spend the rest of this life. He’d move on. Searching—even if he didn’t know what for.
Instead, Lance said, “What if your father shows up? Comes for a coney and ends up shoving it down my throat when he finds us together. I know statistically it happens a lot in the United States, but I really don’t want a hot dog to kill me.”
Leah stared out the windshield. Didn’t laugh at the joke. She sighed. “Daddy’s protective of me. I guess I understand why, but…” She snapped out of it and said, “I’ll just tell him it’s part of the job interview.” She smiled, and the food came and for a while they sat together blissfully eating. When Lance had finished his second burger, he took a long pull from his shake and said, “Tomorrow I want to try and talk to Bobby Strang. If he was the last person to see your brother alive, and they were such good friends, he really might know more about what happened than he thinks he does.”
Leah nodded, sipped her drink. “Maybe you can talk to him tonight.”
“How’s that?”
Leah smacked her forehead. “Geez, I forgot to tell you! Bobby’s the assistant football coach for Westhaven.”
Lance turned in his seat to fully see her. “You’re kidding.”
She shook her head.
“Why would he stick around? He graduated, right?”
“Yeah, of course he did. He just … I don’t know. When he finished high school, he went to work for his dad at the mill. Nothing manual, mind you, some VP of such and such I think. But by the time the next football season started up, he’d found a place on the coaching staff.”
“Nobody thought that was odd? That he didn’t head off to college or anything?”
Leah laughed. “Around here, that’s a lot more common than you’d think. No, I think if anything, people were surprised at him ending up coaching, considering he really wasn’t much of a player.” She shrugged. “But, with all Glenn Strang’s done for the team—and still does, by the way—I guess folks figured it was all part of the process, part of the deal. He seems to do a good enough job, anyway.”
Lance finished his last burger and again marveled at how much the Strang family had to do with the Westhaven football team.
His conversation with Bobby couldn’t come soon enough.
Somewhere, somebody was hiding something.
23
When the food was finished and the trash disposed of, Leah asked Lance if he was ready.
“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he said.
She started the car and headed back the way they’d come, crossing over Route 19 and heading toward Westhaven High School, the same route Lance had taken on foot earlier that day. Before he’d met Deputy Miller. Before somebody else had died.
The sun was gone now, and the headlights of Renee’s Civic did the job well enough to light the way. Above, there were no stars, only the thick blanket of clouds. But ahead, looming in the distance less than a mile away, was another cloud, a bright explosion of white that hung in the air and lit up the sky and created a dome of light that only grew in size the closer Lance and Leah got.
“Those are some serious lights,” Lance said, leaning down to peer up and get a better view through the windshield.
Leah stopped fifty yards from the turn-in for the high school, coming to a stop behind a line of brake lights as others waited their turn to enter the parking lot. “Glenn Strang had some connections, worked a few fundraisers. Those lights were installed the year after they won the first state title.”
An elderly woman in a bright orange vest and wielding a light-up orange plastic signal cone motioned the cars in, one by one. She wore a Westhaven baseball cap and smiled brightly at Leah as she waved the Civic into the lot.
“Know her?” Lance asked.
“Mrs. Bellamy. She taught civics for about a hundred years before I had her, and she’s still here.”
“She liked you. Could tell by her smile,” Lance said, feeling a pang of guilt as Leah drove by the exact spot where Lance had stood earlier when Deputy Miller had pulled his cruiser in behind him.
Leah shrugged, found a parking spot near the rear of the lot, and pulled in. Killed the lights and the engine. The engine ticked, something popped, and then all was quiet except for the murmur of the crowd noise and the booming godlike voice of the PA announcer from the field.
“Plan?” Leah asked, checking herself in the rearview mirror, adjusting her hair.
“You keep asking me if I have a plan. Did it ever occur to you I’m just winging this?”
“Are you?”
“Mostly.”
Leah sat back in her seat. “And so far you’ve been blown over by a phantom wind and gotten in a car accident that could have killed you. It’s not working out so well.”
“I’m not dead yet,” Lance said, opening the door and stepping out into the cool evening air.
“Not the most reassuring of statements.” Leah got out and motioned for him to follow her. “This way.”
Lance followed her, and they wove their way between an ocean of parked cars and finally fell in line with a mass of people who were being funneled from the parking lot and through a large gate that then funneled further toward a ticket booth window just outside the field’s main entrance. The marching band’s bass drum thumped along with the snapping of the snares. Trumpets and tubas tooted and honked. The crowd cheered randomly at whatever was happening on the field, though from what Lance could tell, the game hadn’t started yet. They’d stood in line for five minutes before things began to get quiet and the PA announcer asked that everybody stand and turn their attention to the flag for the playing of the national anthem. There was a great shuffling and scuffling from the massive bleachers, and everybody rose up and angled themselves toward a flag Lance couldn't see. A great many folks in the line, however, all turned and faced west, many putting their hands over their hearts. Lance followed suit, and Leah looked up at him and smiled.
There were a solid five seconds of what seemed like absolute silence before the band played the tune, finishing in a powerful barrage of sound that caused a great eruption of cheers from the stands and some muted clapping from the ticket line. The PA announcer did the usual pregame rigmarole, using the customary increased enthusiasm when announcing the home team, and then the game started.
Two minutes later, Lance bought two tickets and refrained from holding Leah’s hand as they walked through the gate.
Leah and Lance passed on all the offers to buy 50/50 raffle tickets and Westhaven t-shirts and Girl Scout cookies being offered by a line of enthusiastic
peddlers set up at tables just left of the main entrance. The tickets and t-shirt were an easy “no” for Lance, but the cookies didn’t seem like such a bad idea. But he needed to focus. Thin Mints would have to wait.
Leah led the way, navigating the mosh pit of people who filled the large square of gravel and grass bordered by the entrance, peddler’s row, restroom and concession stand, and the field itself. Lance smelled grilled hot dogs and nacho cheese. Leah was headed toward the fence that separated the viewing area from the field. Lance, a head above most people, scanned the crowd as he followed Leah, looking for any familiar faces, and, well … seeing if he picked up anything, any vibe or premonition or whatever the words were. He got nothing except a few curious stares and one baby who seemed to start crying as soon as it made eye contact with Lance. He’d never been great with kids.
The game had started, and by the time Lance rested his elbows atop the chain-link fence along the field, Westhaven had the ball on the opponents’ thirty-yard line and the running back took it straight up the gut through a hole big enough to park a bus, then dove into the end zone with outstretched arms as a defender wrapped up his legs. The referees blew their whistles and threw their arms in the air. Touchdown. An explosion of noise came from the bleachers, shouts and screams and air horns and cowbells and the band blasting a fight song. Lance ignored it all and stared at the Westhaven sideline.
Coach Kenny McGuire was smiling, but he wasn’t jumping and celebrating with the rest of the team and coaching staff. Instead, he turned away from the action and consulted his iPad, surely flipping through plays and notes and preparing for what came next. He acted like a man who’d done this all a million times. Which, with three state titles, he had. What was one more touchdown?
In person, he looked even smaller than he had in the photograph Lance had seen in the newspaper. Short and thin and almost feeble-looking, as if a strong wind might carry him away like a kite swept away from an unsuspecting child. The rimless glasses made him appear distinguished, but not altogether handsome. The air of dorkiness clung to Kenny McGuire, despite his coaching accolades. He looked like a guy who should be spending his Friday nights playing Dungeons & Dragons instead of even attending a sporting event, never mind coaching one.
“That’s Bobby Strang.” Leah pointed, and Lance followed her finger down the sideline until he saw the guy.
Bobby Strang was down on one knee, also immersed in an iPad and shouting instructions to a semicircle of players around him. The guy was average height and had a buzz cut, a small belly already forming along the line of his Westhaven t-shirt where it was tucked into his khaki pants—which seemed to be standard attire for the Westhaven coaching staff. His face was red, and sweat dripped from his brow. Coaching must be tough work. Lance stared at Bobby, tried to will his mind to focus on the guy, to pick up something, anything. But he got nothing. Maybe he was too far away, out of Lance’s reception area. Like Lance had told Leah earlier, he really didn't understand any of what he could and couldn’t do.
“Think we can talk to him?” Lance asked.
Leah was about to answer, then got distracted by a play on the field. A fumble, which Westhaven recovered. More cheers. More celebrating. More cowbell. She looked at Lance. “It would have to be after the game, obviously. But, yeah, I think so. I think…” She looked away sheepishly and said something that got drowned in the crowd noise.
“What?” Lance said, leaning in closer.
“I think he always feels guilted into talking to me when we see each other.”
“Because of Samuel?”
She nodded.
Lance wondered if the guilt was a general sort of thing, sympathy for a victim, or if there was more to it. If Bobby Strang felt guilty because he knew more than he was letting on.
Lance watched the game. The Westhaven quarterback—Anthony Mills, Lance remembered from the paper—heaved a long pass high in the air to a streaking receiver, and the entire crowd seemed to hold their breath as the ball flew. There was a collective “uggghhh” of disappointment when the ball ended up being overthrown by a good five yards. Kid’s got a good arm, Lance thought, and then he asked Leah, “Where’s Glenn Strang? I assume he still comes to all the games.”
Leah snapped her fingers. “Right. Yeah, he does. I think so, anyway. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”
This time she did take Lance’s hand in hers and led him away from the fence, two other people quickly sliding into their places to get a better view. They walked down the fence line, gravel crunching beneath their sneakers, and Lance saw a pair of sheriff’s deputies leaning against the bleachers, half-watching the game, half-watching everything else around them. Despite what were probably their best efforts, both men couldn’t quite contain a downcast look of sorrow, and Lance knew the news of their fallen comrade was hitting them hard.
My fault, Lance thought as he walked past them. I’m so sorry, guys. I was stupid and one of yours paid the price. And then a second thought struck him. He wondered if there was an active effort to find him—the other passenger in the wrecked cruiser who’d fled the scene. Lance’s description was pretty telltale, especially his height. But the two officers paid him no attention as Lance and Leah walked by. They were distracted.
The space between the fence and the bleachers was wide but still felt like a packed cattle chute with all the people walking either back to their seats or toward the restrooms and concessions. Lance purposely walked with a slight stoop, trying to make himself not appear so tall and stand out in the sea of people. Leah gripped his hand tightly, and he had to wonder how many folks were watching them from the bleachers and whispering to the person next to them, “Isn’t that Leah from the motel? Who’s that guy she’s with? New boyfriend? I wonder what her daddy thinks about that.”
Leah stopped right at the fifty-yard line and turned to face the field. Lance followed suit.
“He usually sits right here, about four or five rows up. I didn’t want to just stop and stare. Lean sideways against the fence and casually look around, up toward the bleachers. Like you’re just taking in the sights.”
“Those are very specific directions. Spy on people often, do you?”
“Maybe you’re not the only one with special talents.”
Lance didn’t know what to say to that, so he did as she asked. He turned sideways and propped himself up with his right elbow against the fence. He watched another play take place, a short run attempt by the opponent, which got them a gain of three or four yards. He checked the big, beautiful scoreboard behind the opposite end zone. It was now third down, four yards to go for a first down. Then he looked up to the sky, verified the clouds were still blacking out all the stars, and then—
“Okay, you’re making it obvious. Just look already,” Leah said, elbowing him.
Lance rubbed his rib where she’d hit him and looked toward the bleachers, counted four rows up, scanned the crowd. Went up to the fifth row and immediately found Glenn Strang.
The man looked exactly like he had in the photos Lance had seen at Sportsman’s earlier that day. He was tall, his head looming above the others in his row, and his graying hair was cut close, but still long enough to comb. His face was smooth, and again Lance thought the man’s face didn’t seem to add up to his age, but this could be attributed to a strict regimen of moisturizers and creams, he supposed. He still appeared to be in decent shape, his shoulders still broad, and his biceps snuggled nicely beneath the sleeves of the Westhaven polo shirt he was wearing beneath a black sweater-vest. Glenn Strang’s eyes were locked intently on the football game, darting from place to place along the field, his mouth constantly moving in bursts of cheers and unheard instructions he was mumbling to the players.
Here was a man who absolutely loved the game of football and would never let go.
Which wasn’t a crime, Lance conceded.
But … Glenn Strang was not what held Lance’s attention.
“Is that his wife?” Lance asked.
“What?” Leah said, turning from the game.
“The woman next to Strang—is that his wife?”
“Oh.” Leah looked over her shoulder, then turned back. “Yeah, that’s her. Tasty, right?”
“Did you just say ‘tasty’?”
“Come on, you know she’s hot. Even I know she’s hot. Though it’s probably all tummy tucks and face-lifts and hair dye.”
Women and jealousy. Lance was thankful he was a guy.
Leah sighed. “Her name’s Allison and she’s always been super nice, as far as I can tell. She brought me and Daddy dinner every day for a week when Samuel disappeared. And she brings me cookies sometimes at the motel.” And then, almost regrettably, “And they’re delicious.”
“You sound like that’s a bad thing.”
Leah shrugged, a motion Lance was becoming quite familiar with. “She just seems so perfect, is all. It’s sort of disgusting.”
Lance took another look at Allison Strang. Blond hair to her shoulders and high cheekbones and smooth skin. A pretty face. She was wearing blue jeans and a light sweater, and Lance felt embarrassed to find himself staring at her breasts, which seemed a little too firm and upright for a woman who had to be midforties at the youngest, bringing back Leah’s comments about enhancement surgeries. He hated the term MILF but couldn’t deny where its definition applied.
And then he realized that at some point between Lance looking from the woman’s face to her chest, Allison Strang had begun staring directly at him.
Their eyes met, briefly, and Allison gave him a small embarrassed smile, as if she was the one who’d been caught. Lance offered a quick, sheepish grin and then turned his gaze back to the field. “She just caught me staring.”
Leah laughed. “I think she’s used to young men gawking. Old men, too.”
Lance waited a beat and then risked another look back. Saw Allison Strang talking excitedly to a woman next to her, a woman Lance had failed to even notice before, drowned in the shadow of Allison Strang’s beauty. She was shorter and not quite as thin but still looked pretty good for a woman who might have been forty. Her face showed her age more than either of the Strangs’ did, and she sat somewhat hunched over, her blond hair done up in a tight bun, dark eyes looking out toward the field and then constantly glancing to the sideline. Homely wasn’t the word Lance would use, but maybe average. The woman listened and nodded as Allison Strang continued talking, but Lance got the impression she wasn’t really interested. Something tugged at the back of Lance’s brain, and it took him a minute, but he was finally able to firmly grasp it and pull it to the front. The woman next to Allison Strang was the woman Lance had seen escorting the boy out of the school’s office earlier that day. The boy with the yellow slip of paper and the downtrodden demeanor.
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