Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr

  Bobby Strang lived in a two-story brick home with an attached two-car garage. Nothing special architecturally, a big brick box with the standard window placement and roof slants, but way more house than a single man in his early twenties needed. Lance again wondered at just how deep Glenn Strang’s wallet was. The front porch lights were on, and Lance could see a sparse but well-kept flowerbed lining a stone walkway leading from the driveway to the front door. The yard was empty otherwise. No trees or bushes or gazebos or anything decorative. No basketball hoop out front. Of course not. The Strangs were a football family.

  Lance drove down the street and found it to be a dead end. A cul de sac that had a house to its left and right sides, but nothing straight ahead at the end. Lance killed the headlights and carefully pulled the car into the soft, grassy shoulder, the passenger-side mirror maybe two feet away from a tree line, dense and dark. He could have just pulled into the driveway—he was only there to talk, after all. But, as Lance had learned throughout his life, as well as during his brief time spent in Westhaven, things had a way of not always going as well, or as regularly, as you often planned. If things got out of hand and he had to make a quick exit, he didn’t want potential witnesses to remember seeing the car parked in Bobby Strang’s driveway. In a town like Westhaven, eventually the information would point back to Renee, which might lead to the motel, which might lead to Leah. It was a risk Lance wanted to avoid.

  He waited five minutes after parking. He wanted to let Bobby Strang take care of whatever small things most people did as soon as they got home—kick off the shoes, toss the keys in the bowl by the door, check the day’s mail, grab a drink. After waiting, Lance got out and walked back up the street. The night air had grown warmer and had mixed with the moisture, causing Lance’s shirt to feel as though it were sticking to him. The front porch lights were still on outside Bobby’s front door, and as Lance walked up the driveway, glancing over his shoulder at the houses across the street to see if any prying eyes might be peering out behind pulled-back curtains (the neighborhood watch sign flashed across his memory), he realized that what he was about to do seemed pretty crazy. Oh well, he’d never been one for normalcy.

  He followed the stone walkway and stepped up onto the stoop, debated between knocking and ringing the bell, and then decided and pressed his finger to the button, hearing a soft melody of chimes from inside the home.

  The door opened almost immediately, Bobby Strang appearing and standing with the door fully open. Sure enough, there was an open beer bottle in his hand, and behind him Lance could see the flickering blue reflection of a television screen.

  “Who are you?” Bobby asked. Not so much with malice or mistrust, but genuine confusion, as if maybe he’d been expecting somebody else.

  Somebody who has no idea what he’s doing, that’s who I am, Lance thought.

  “My name’s Lance. I’m a friend of Leah’s.”

  Bobby’s brow crinkled, further confusion sweeping across his face. “Leah?”

  “From the motel,” Lance said. “She, uh, she asked me to stop by and see you.” Lance figured maybe playing the friend angle would help him out, if only to offer an opening to really get to his point without a confrontation.

  “Leah?”

  I did say that, didn’t I? Or is my head injury acting up?

  “From the motel,” Lance said again.

  “The motel,” Bobby said slowly, as if the puzzle pieces were slowly sliding together, but not quite interlocking.

  “Samuel’s sister,” Lance said, hoping the new name would jump-start Bobby’s brain.

  It did more than that. At the mention of Samuel, the color literally drained from Bobby’s face. He recovered quickly, taking a swig from his bottle to help hide his brief change in emotion, but Lance saw it all the same. “Right, Leah,” Bobby said. “She’s a great girl, love her to pieces, that one.” Then, slowly, more cautiously: “Why did she send you to see me? Oh, and hey! Wasn’t it her who got hurt tonight at the game, when the scoreboard fell? Man, that was insane! Oh man, is she okay? Is that why you’re here? Oh God, does she want to sue the school or something, because look, I don’t really have any—”

  Lance held up his hand. Bobby looked at it, stopped talking.

  Lance was getting tired, and his head was beginning to hurt again, and honestly, for some reason he found himself not liking Bobby Strang very much, though he couldn’t quite say why. Just one of those vibes he sometimes got with people.

  “Look, Bobby, I’m here because Leah’s asked me to help figure out what happened to her brother, and as far as anyone knows, you’re the last person to have seen Samuel alive before he disappeared. So I was hoping you could tell me exactly what happened that day, answer any questions I might have, and then I’ll be out of your way and let you get back to your television.”

  Bobby said nothing. Took another sip from his bottle, eyes never leaving Lance’s, narrowed to slits as he contemplated what Lance had said.

  “Leah wants me to tell you about that day with Samuel?” he asked.

  Is he going to make me repeat everything?

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  Bobby nodded. “Why? That was years ago.”

  Lance didn’t like that answer. “Does that make it any less important?”

  Bobby didn’t say anything to this, and Lance hoped the guy was kicking himself for coming off so nonchalant about a missing person—a former teammate and friend, for goodness sake.

  “Look,” Lance tried again, still waiting for his invitation to come inside and make his attempt to get to the meat and potatoes of the conversation, “Leah told me you and Samuel were good friends, and she told me what a great guy you are, and how wonderful your family was to hers after her brother went missing.” Then he laid it on a little thick, hoping a small ego stroke might get Bobby talking. “She told me that if anybody in Westhaven other than her and her father cared about figuring out what happened to Samuel, it’d be you, and that you’d do anything you could to help us out, because that was the kind of stand-up guy you were.”

  Bobby listened, rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I always liked Leah,” he said. “Hell, if she wasn’t Samuel’s sister, I might have made a move. Tried to, anyway.” He laughed the way guys laugh with each other when they talk about women, and Lance wanted to kick him in the teeth.

  Lance took a deep breath and said, “So, can we talk? Just for a few minutes?”

  Bobby Strang took one more long look at Lance and then his face changed. He offered a small smile and stepped aside, motioning for Lance to come in. “Sure,” he said. “If Leah thinks it’ll help.”

  Lance heard the rustling of the treetops behind the houses as a breeze blew through, the leaves dancing and branches swaying and sounding almost like a steady rainfall. Then there was an odd aroma in the air, something not unpleasant, but out of place. Sweet, but surprising. And then, as he stepped into Bobby Strang’s house, he heard the faintest of voices among the sounds, a whisper, calling to him from somewhere far away.

  It was the voice of Annabelle Winters.

  “Careful,” she said.

  Then he figured out what the aroma was. It was the mixture of cinnamon and sugar and fruit. Apple pie.

  Lance turned around as soon as he heard Bobby Strang close and lock the front door. Then Bobby reached behind his back, quickly, skillfully, and brought his hand back around, pointing the barrel of a pistol directly at Lance’s chest.

  Leah, Lance thought. Bobby is not such a nice guy.

  29

  Lance stared at the gun Bobby Strang was pointing at Lance’s chest. It was matte black in color, smooth and flawless and brand-new in appearance. Bobby Strang wasn’t into sport shooting—not with the weapon he was holding, that was for sure. No, Lance figured this gun had been purchased specifically for protection, for home intruders, which Lance didn’t technically think he was since Bobby had invited him inside. Which was a point that seemed irrelevant shoul
d Lance be shot dead. Hard to win a court case from the grave.

  Bobby Strang stood still, silently staring at Lance and keeping the gun trained directly at Lance’s center mass. He looked unsure, as if he were expecting Lance to make some sort of play for the weapon, some sort of attempt to fight back. He appeared hesitant, though not incapable of pulling the trigger.

  Lance replayed the moment in his head when Bobby had reached behind his back and pulled out the weapon, likely tucked into the waistband of his pants for easy access.

  No way he was carrying that at the school, Lance thought. He slid that into his pants when he got home.

  Which meant …

  “She said you might come,” Bobby Strang said, his voice suddenly full of contempt.

  Which meant he was expecting me.

  The gun wobbled a bit as Bobby spoke, but Lance saw him tighten his grip to get it under control.

  Bobby thrust the gun forward one time. “She told me you were here to ruin it all.”

  “Did she?” Lance asked. Bobby had unwittingly confirmed what Lance and Leah had grown to seriously suspect. There was a woman in Westhaven who was either directly or indirectly responsible for the football players’ disappearances.

  Bobby nodded. “She said you thought you were here to save them all,” he said, “but really you were just making it that much easier.”

  Lance nodded this time. “Of course. I like to do what I can to help.”

  Bobby Strang gave Lance a funny look, digesting the sarcasm. Once it hit, he jerked the gun forward again and spoke louder. “You think this is a joke? You think she’s just going to let you walk away from all this? Uh-uh. You’re toast pal. I hate to say it, but you’re a dead man.”

  Lance had no idea what exactly was going on, but he did know that the longer he could keep Bobby talking, the more time he would have to figure out what he was going to do in order not to die. Which seemed like a top priority at the moment.

  “How did she know I was here?” Lance asked.

  Bobby shrugged, laughed. “Fuck if I know, man. She just … how does she do any of the stuff she does? My dad calls her the Voodoo Bitch Doctor, but we don’t understand any of it. We just … she’s always—”

  There was a loud blast of music from Bobby’s pants pocket, startling both men. The tune was “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor, and Lance tapped his foot to the beat as Bobby cursed, nearly dropped the beer bottle to the floor to free up a hand, and struggled to pull the phone free from his pocket. The other hand made a point to keep the gun aimed at Lance. Lance had always liked the song.

  Bobby Strang’s iPhone screen was lit up bright when he pulled it from his pocket, but Lance didn’t get a chance to see the name or number on the screen. Bobby answered directly. No greeting, no small talk, just, “I’ve got him.”

  Bobby was quiet for a minute, listening to the voice on the other end, which Lance could not hear at all. At that point he wished Bobby had some sort of hearing impairment requiring the volume on the phone to be turned up much louder. Darn his youthfulness. While Lance waited, he considered something else Bobby Strang had told him—again, likely unwittingly—which was that his father, Glenn Strang, was also fully aware of what was happening in town. Maybe.

  (My dad calls her the Voodoo Bitch Doctor…)

  Which again confirmed another suspicion, though this one had been less certain, which was that Glenn Strang had had a hand in the boys’ disappearances as well. Again, either directly or indirectly.

  So far, two of the three Strang family members were guilty.

  And the third member of the family just happened to be an extremely attractive woman.

  Lance looked at Bobby Strang’s face, which had seemed to drain of most its color. He looked afraid; he looked worried. “Okay,” Bobby said. “Okay, yes, if you’re sure.”

  This time Lance did hear something from the phone’s speaker. A loud burst of noise that was a human voice but impossible to pick any words from. Bobby’s face reddened. “Yes, I know, I’m sorry.” There was a beat, and then Bobby pulled the phone from his face and stuffed it back into his pocket. He looked at Lance.

  “Wrong number?” Lance asked, wishing the ghost of Annabelle Winters would show up and drop the world’s largest apple pie on top of Bobby Strang’s head, crushing him to the floor and giving Lance the exit he needed. Lance figured the odds of that happening were slim.

  Bobby Strang didn’t even smile at the joke. Lance, realizing his soft and humorous attempts to disarm Bobby were falling short, decided to try a new offensive. A more aggressive one.

  “You realize she’s been trying to either kill me or scare me out of town from the moment I arrived, right?”

  Bobby said nothing.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Lance said. “Hard to believe I’m still here, right? I’ve already survived a hurricane gust of wind and a fatal car accident, and I didn’t tuck tail and run when she tried to murder Leah with that scoreboard tonight.”

  Bobby Strang’s eyes lit up then, and his face grew surprised. “Wait … that was—that was her that did that?”

  Lance rolled his eyes. “Come on, Bobby. You’re not that slow, are you? I thought you were on her team. How do you not see that was her threatening me? She went after Leah because she thought it would make me back off. You know, since Leah and I are … well …” He left it at that, would let Bobby’s imagination take care of the rest. “So, you’ve got to ask yourself a question here, Bobby. If she’s failed three times, why do you think you are going to be able to stop me?”

  Bobby Strang stared at Lance for a long time, long enough for Lance to get bored and begin to whistle “Eye of the Tiger.” But he’d only made it a few notes in when Bobby suddenly snapped, “Shut up! Shut up now!”

  Lance stopped whistling.

  Bobby said, “I’m not. She’ll finish you off. All I have to do is get you there.” He took a step forward, the gun still raised. “And the way I see it, right now I’ve got a pretty solid advantage. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Lance glanced to the gun, then back to Bobby’s eyes. “I would.”

  “Thought so. So do me a favor and turn around and walk forward, hands up, into the kitchen.”

  Lance waited a few more seconds, just in case the giant pie was going to fall, then resigned himself to being temporarily out of options and turned around. He put his hands up, as directed, and walked down a wide hallway past a living room with the television on and tuned to the local news, no doubt in anticipation of catching the local sports highlights from the night. After the living room was a closed door, behind which Lance assumed was some sort of coat closet or half bath, and then the hallway spilled into a large kitchen. Expansive, mostly empty countertops and expensive-looking stainless-steel appliances. Very nice. Lance reached a kitchen island, and Bobby said, “Okay, that’s far enough.”

  Lance stopped and waited, eyes flickering across the kitchen, looking for anything that might serve as some sort of weapon.

  There was, predictably, a butcher block full of knives sitting atop the counter next to the stove stop. Too far away to grab, and too ineffective against a firearm unless you were right on top of the person you were trying to attack. No good. There was a fancy coffeemaker with a stainless-steel carafe next to the sink, which might be good for slamming into a temple, or across the bridge of the nose, but again, the distance thing was a problem. Unfortunately for Lance, there was no spare pistol lying on a counter nearby. Nothing within reach at all, actually, except a stack of mail and some loose change and a bottle cap, presumably from the bottle Bobby had been holding on Lance’s arrival. Lance had his own fists to fight with, plus his large feet, but he wasn’t trained in the way of fighting techniques, and a bullet would easily go through his skin and muscle and tendons and bone if he was merely a second too slow.

  Guns sucked. Thanks, NRA.

  In Lance’s mind, he started to hear one of his mother’s anti-gun rants—a topic she was vehemently outspoken o
n, especially after every mass shooting that seemed to increasingly plague the United States of America—but Bobby Strang spoke from just behind him, bringing him back to his own ever-increasingly unfortunate situation.

  “Don’t move,” Bobby said.

  Lance didn’t move.

  Bobby slid in behind him and then sidestepped to the left. Lance turned his head and saw Bobby grab a key ring off a hook by a door that must lead to the garage. Bobby kept the gun trained on Lance and used his other hand to open the door, then reached inside and felt along the wall until Lance heard the click of a light switch, and then the interior of the garage lit up with bright overhead lighting. Bobby stepped backward through the door and down a small flight of two steps, then took another step back and motioned with the gun for Lance to come out. “This way,” he said. “We’re going for a ride.”

  Lance took a couple slow steps toward the door. It swung outward, into the garage, as opposed as inward toward the kitchen. Another unfortunate thing. Lance could have tried to quickly duck and slam the door shut and then race himself back out the house and maybe make it to Renee’s car, or possibly disappear into the woods for the second time in one day.

  “Would it be easier if I just followed you in my own car?” Lance asked, stepping out onto the first step. “Then I can just head on home after we’re finished.”

  For a moment, a brief, hilarious moment, it looked like Bobby Strang was actually weighing the option, deciding if what Lance had suggested might indeed make things simpler. Then his simple brain registered the sarcasm and he snapped, “Just get the fuck down here, would ya? Slowly.”

  Lance stepped down from the remaining step and stood on the large garage’s concrete floor. The right half of the garage—the half in which Lance was standing—had been converted into some sort of workshop. To Lance’s right, a large tool chest and workbench were pressed against the wall. Power tools and random unidentifiable bits and parts of machinery and wood and paint cans littered the benchtop and floor around it. A row of brooms and rakes and shovels hung from neatly aligned hooks along the wall directly behind Lance, and he suddenly remembered that scene at the end of the first Home Alone movie where the old guy knocks the Wet Bandits out with his snow shovel. It was something Lance would love to try and recreate at the moment, though, much like the knives in the kitchen, he knew he’d never pull off the maneuver in time if Bobby Strang did truly plan on using the gun to incapacitate him if need be.