She jogged away, leaving Lance standing in the hospital parking lot with no better idea of what he should do than he had before.
He turned and started to walk.
26
Lance had made it roughly a quarter mile from the hospital before his mind focused enough on the present to realize he had no solid idea where he was. He’d been unable to see from the back of the ambulance as it’d rushed from the football field to the hospital, and the hospital was something he hadn’t come across during his brief exploration of Westhaven. But he knew the ride had been short, and he knew the bright, expensive lights from the field were surely still illuminating the sky. He needed to locate the lights and use it as his North Star, let it guide him back to the car.
He followed the sidewalk from the hospital parking lot, stopping every so often to listen to what was around him. A half mile from the hospital, he stopped and swore he heard a faint echo from the PA announcer. Nothing he could make out, but a familiar sound. Through the darkness, the downtown buildings came into view, slowly growing shape the way a monster from a closet might in the middle of the night. He was approaching them from the south side, from the rear. A side he’d yet to see. He followed the sidewalk into town and then stopped, looked left and right, and then turned, headed down a now-familiar path.
The shops and stores were all closed, shut down and locked up and dark. The few small cafes and restaurants were the only signs of life, keeping things from looking quite like a ghost town, and probably hoping for some postgame customers to stop by and help the day’s profit.
Lance walked, ignoring everything but his thoughts. He reached the Route 19 intersection he’d found earlier that day and turned right, the lights from the field visible, but not needed now. He’d been this way before. Right before he’d caused a man to die.
And as he made the walk, the last leg of the trip before reaching the high school parking lot, he replayed the past thirty-six hours’ worth of events. He watched himself get off the bus, walk to Annabelle’s Apron. He recalled his conversation with the diner’s deceased owner. Her subtle plea for help. From there he watched himself stumble upon Bob’s Place, and then he remembered the first time he’d seen Leah. The thought filled him with a sudden warmth he’d not been expecting, despite his current affection for her.
You’re too close, Lance.
He had seen the face that he now knew to belong to Leah’s brother, Samuel, staring back at him from both the mirror and later the television. The face that he now felt wasn’t malicious or hostile in any way, merely that of a loving brother, trapped in some terrible in-between place—not living, not in whatever afterlife might exist—forced to stay near a sister he could no longer protect, no longer talk to. So close, but so, so far. Keeping a watchful eye, despite the limitation. Curious about Lance.
You’re too close, Lance.
He saw Susan Goodman’s large but gentle hands working to treat his wounds from the car accident.
BEN AND JEN!
Saw her tears fall as she fondly remembered the kid brother she used to pick on but had loved so deeply. Susan and Leah were just two of the people who’d had their lives destroyed by something selfish and uncaring and … something that needed to be stopped.
Lance had tasted Leah’s lips, her tears. Smelled the shampoo.
Seen the pictures of the state championship teams, their missing teammates not even mentioned.
Seen Glenn and Allison Strang, the town’s power couple, sitting side by side on the bleachers.
Seen Melissa McGuire, petite and unremarkable and almost out of place, beside the Strangs, half-watching her husband command his team.
Lance had heard the thunder roar and the lightning crack, had seen the scoreboard begin to fall.
Heard Leah scream.
The anger rose, and the bile in his throat was hot and bitter.
You’re too close, Lance.
He felt a chill at the memory of that odd sense of taunting he’d felt just before the scoreboard had fallen. It had been there, and it knew it was winning.
Lance pushed away the thoughts and turned into the high school’s parking lot. The announcer’s voice came back into focus over the PA, and Lance heard a whooping from the stands, followed by the announcement of a Westhaven touchdown. A collapsed scoreboard and an injured fan were not enough to stop a football game in this town.
Lance pulled the car keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and got in the driver’s side, sliding the seat as far back as it would go. Then he sat, waited, thought.
You’re too close, Lance.
He looked up at the bright lights and heard another cheer from the crowd and made his decision.
He had nobody. He was nobody. And he had nowhere to go.
But here, in Westhaven? There was a girl, and she’d shown him that
I don’t care if I’m too close. It doesn’t change anything.
a town needed him.
Lance sat back against the seat, his mind made up.
He would get to the bottom of this, even if he had to die in the process.
Lance waited for the game to end. He was going to talk to Bobby Strang, whether Bobby was willing or not.
27
Lance cracked the car’s window, letting both air and the PA announcer’s voice blow through the vehicle’s interior. The gentle breezes kept him cool and the announcer’s voice kept him updated. Westhaven was winning twenty-eight to seven. Not a blowout, but by Lance’s best guess the game had to be nearly over, so Westhaven would add another tally to the victory column.
Sure enough, five minutes later there was a barrage of horns and cheers, and the announcer shouted the final score with gusto and then thanked everybody for coming out and asked them to please drive safely.
And then the people came. They spilled from the too-small gate like a flood breaking through a dam, a densely packed group that seemed never to end, fanning out and widening and scattering loose once past the gate’s confines and into the parking lot in search of their vehicles. It was a chaotic scene, the type of thing where children get separated from parents, or an elderly woman falls down and gets trampled, like those disgusting videos they play every Black Friday on the news where somebody nearly dies to get a discounted television. Humanity at its absolute finest.
But while the parking lot was busy and fast-paced, the people were smiling, laughing, high-fiving and celebrating their team’s victory. And when the cars switched on their headlights and began the slow process of vacating the lot, they did so in courteous and cautious maneuvers, waving cars in, letting pedestrians through the seams. Lance didn’t hear a single horn blow or see a single fist shake from an opened window.
He turned around in his seat and watched cars fall into single-file and follow a path in front of the main office building. In the distance, he saw a police cruiser, lights spinning, parked near the exit and directing traffic in a well-organized manner. Apparently getting cars out of the school’s lot was too much a task for Mrs. Bellamy, the legendary civics teacher.
The lot was half-empty, but Lance wasn’t concerned about missing Bobby Strang. The team might just be finishing up their postgame coach’s speech, and then they’d be stripping off their uniforms and equipment. Some would shower, others would stuff their sweaty bodies into their normal clothes and head out. Eventually, the players would all be gone, but the coaches would stay behind, discussing the game with each other, putting away equipment, tidying things up. Aside from any janitorial staff, the football coaches would be some of the last folks to leave the high school tonight, and Lance had all the time to wait.
Most all the patrons had left the lot, and what remained was three densely packed rows of cars at the very front of the parking area—those who’d arrived first. Players … and coaches. Sure enough, a few large high school boys began to trickle from the rear of the school, all carrying duffle bags or having tossed light jackets over their shoulders. They wore the faces of winners, the taste of ano
ther victory still sweet on their tongues. They climbed into pickup trucks and battered SUVs and lowriders, even one minivan. Engines started and music blared from windows—a hodgepodge of country and rock and rap that mixed into an unruly mess of sound—and then the boys drove away one by one, leaving just Lance in Renee’s borrowed Honda, and five other cars parked side by side in the far right corner of the lot.
Twenty minutes later, as Lance was fighting his urge to doze off in the now quiet and still parking lot, Bobby Strang emerged from the school’s shadows.
Bobby had untucked his t-shirt, a creased line of sweat visible in the dimly lit parking lot, and he’d put on a Westhaven ball cap. He had a gym bag slung over one shoulder and was fumbling with his car keys as he crossed the lot, heading toward one of the remaining few cars parked in the front.
Lance sat up quickly, ready to make a decision. Ready to make a move.
But then Bobby Strang stopped midstride, maybe ten feet from the closest car, as if something had caught him off guard. He started to turn around, and for a brief moment Lance felt his stomach tighten, figuring somehow Bobby had caught him, knew he was watching. But Bobby’s turn continued past Lance’s direction, and then he stopped, looking back toward the school.
And then Lance heard a woman’s voice, faintly entering the Honda’s cab through the cracked windows. Lance couldn’t make out the words, but apparently Bobby could, because he suddenly shouted, “Tell him that play might have worked twenty years ago! Tell the old man to let the past go!” He said the words with a smile, and Lance heard laughter coming from the school. And then from the shadows came two figures.
Lance slouched down in the seat, his eyes just above the steering wheel, his knees nearly jammed to his chest. He watched as the figures came into focus, stepping into the cones of light cast by the parking lot’s lamps.
Allison Strang—Bobby’s mother—said, “You know your father is only trying to help.” Her voice was smooth as silk, carried on the night’s breeze. Behind her, the second woman came into view. Melissa McGuire entered the light and then put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder, gently. “Don’t feel bad. He gives Kenny play advice all the time.”
“Which I’m sure Kenny promptly and politely ignores,” Allison said, and again the group fell into a fit of laughter.
Lance sat up a bit, leaning closer and trying to hear as the laughter fell away and the group continued a conversation at what became a whisper. Too far away to make out well.
What are they talking about? Lance wondered, but then he thought, Nothing that’s going to help me, that’s for sure. Why would it?
There was a buzzing in his pocket and Lance started so fast he hit his head on the car’s ceiling. “Crap!” he mumbled, swallowing his heart back down. He clawed his cell phone from his pocket and checked the number on the display.
Leah.
His felt a jolt of happiness. Smiled.
He wanted so badly to answer but knew now was not the time.
He ignored the call and looked up.
Allison Strang was looking straight at him.
Lance froze. In the poor light it was tough to tell if she was actually looking directly at him—right at Lance’s body—or if she was simply looking in the direction of the car. Could she even see him through the windshield? Lance basically played dead, holding his breath, not blinking, not moving a single muscle or tendon. Not even sure why he was so concerned. So what if she saw him? He was nobody. Just a random guy who’d shown up to watch the state’s best team. Here to see what all the hype was about.
But still, he felt fear. He just didn’t know why.
Allison Strang looked away, and Lance allowed himself to breathe.
A minute later, Kenny McGuire and Glenn Strang joined the group in the lot, and a few more jokes were made and a few more laughs were had. They all just seemed like decent people having a good time after a great win.
Then they all got into their respective vehicles: the Strangs a BMW SUV, Kenny and Melissa McGuire a newer-model Ford Explorer. Lastly, Bobby got into a Toyota Tundra pickup that looked new and shiny and too flashy for the small town of Westhaven. Maybe a gift from Dad—apparently a bottomless wallet—or a company car, perk of being a VP.
Reverse lights came on and the cars drove out of the lot.
With no real choice, his task not yet completed, Lance started Renee’s Honda and followed the caravan.
Yep, he thought, I’m definitely winging it.
28
Lance crept up to the stop sign at the exit to the school. The police car and officer who’d been directing traffic were gone, and Lance idled the Honda for a moment, letting the line of vehicles he planned to follow get a little bit of a distance ahead. They’d turned right. The same direction Deputy Miller had turned earlier. But Lance couldn't think about that right now. He pushed the thoughts of his accident, of Miller’s … possession was the only word for it … away and focused on the present. He flipped open his cell phone and saw Leah had left a voicemail earlier when he’d been forced to ignore her call. He hit the button and listened to it.
“If you’re still here … call me, please.”
If I’m still here?
Leah’s voice had been soft, apprehensive. Almost timid, as though she was trying hard not to let her real emotions translate through the call.
Lance remembered his conversation with Susan Goodman in the hospital parking lot, right after they’d wheeled Leah inside. He’d been in a bad place then mentally and had fully expected to walk out of the parking lot and then out of town.
Yet here he was.
He scrolled to Leah’s number, pressed SEND, and then drove past the stop sign and followed the sets of taillights in the distance. Nothing but darkness on either side of his car.
Leah answered the phone on the first ring. “Are you on a bus?”
“No.”
“Are you waiting for a bus?”
“No.”
Silence. Then, “So, what are you doing?”
“I’m following Kenny and Melissa McGuire, and the entire Strang family. But really just Bobby.”
Silence again. Then, “So you’re still doing this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He tried to sound convincing.
Leah sighed. “Lance, don’t feed me bullshit, please.”
Lance kept his eyes locked on the taillights. He’d driven about a mile from the school. A battered speed limit sign said things should move forty-five miles per hour, but the caravan ahead seemed to be moving much faster. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I thought about leaving. Things are getting dangerous, and it’s because of me.” The truth was the only option right now. “Whatever’s happening in this town, it’s not … I know it’s not completely human. It’s something … worse. And it knows I’m here, and it knows I care about you, and therefore you and I and anybody we associate with from this point forward could be considered targets.”
There was more silence now. Longer than before. Finally, Leah spoke, slowly. “You … you think this—this thing is what caused the sign to fall on me?”
“I do,” Lance said. He had no doubt about it.
He was amazed at how accepting Leah was. She didn’t question him about what he’d just told her and didn’t sound dubious when she spoke, as if she wasn’t quite sure she could swallow that particular pill. She just went with it.
She trusted him. Completely.
“Well,” she said, “it missed.”
Despite himself, Lance chuckled. “Not completely. How bad is it, really?”
“Not terrible. No surgery needed, but it’s in a cast. Hurt like hell.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lance said, because he was. He truly was.
“Don’t worry about me right now. Why are you following Bobby?”
“I’m going to ask him what he knows.”
If Leah thought this was a bad idea, she didn’t say so. “I guess I’ll need to call Renee and tell her she can let the kids sleep in one o
f the motel rooms until you get back, since I’m sure it’ll be past their bedtime. You’ve got her car, don’t forget.”
Lance nodded. “And it’s coming very much in handy at the moment.”
Ahead, the McGuires and Bobby Strang both turned on their left turn signals and slowed. Glenn and Allison Strang kept driving, surely headed to their luxurious abode in a more secluded area.
Lance slowed as well, letting Bobby and the McGuires keep their distance. “How pissed was your dad?” he asked.
“Oh,” Leah said, as if she’d forgotten. “Very. I’m pretty sure you’re a dead man if he ever sees you again.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
“I tried to tell him you had nothing to do with what happened to me, but … well, it doesn’t matter. You’re a boy, I’m his girl. Enough said.”
Lance nodded again. “Well, I’ll try to keep my distance.”
“From him or from me?”
Lance smiled. “Him, ideally.”
Silence again. Then, “Good.”
Lance made the left turn and found himself in a cluttered suburban neighborhood. Modest, but nice. Middle-class and tidy. A neighborhood watch sign reflected in his headlights. The McGuires’ Explorer made a right turn a quarter mile up the road, heading deeper into the guts of the rows of houses, but Bobby Strang’s Tundra kept straight. Alone.
“I need to go,” Lance said. “Just me and Bobby now.”
“Okay. Be careful. And remember, Bobby’s a nice guy. Let me know what you find out. And I’ll text you when I get out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
“The motel, hopefully. But I think Daddy is hoping I’ll go home with him for the night.”
Lance said his goodbye and hung up the phone, following Bobby’s Tundra and wondering just how nice of a guy Bobby truly was.
Bobby Strang turned left down a side street, and then three houses later, the brake lights came on and the large truck slowed and flicked on a turn signal. Lance slowed, watched as Bobby drove into his driveway and an automatic garage door began to open, its chain and motor whirring in the still night. Lance drove past, taking note of the house, trying not to look too much like he was spying.
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