Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr

  Lance chose to smile, pushing away the sorrow that could have crept in just then, the fact he’d never taste another of his mother’s pies beaten away by the knowledge that she’d want him to enjoy life without her to the fullest. Even if that meant eating another woman’s desserts.

  Lance checked for traffic and crossed the street in no hurry, heading toward Mama’s bright lights as though they were a lighthouse and he a ship lost at sea. Halfway across the parking lot, he saw the solid black Crown Vic, its two antennas standing at attention on the trunk, waving ever so slightly in the wind. Lance slowed his pace, suddenly cautious. The car was parked close to the restaurant, its nose facing those brightly lit windows. Lance changed directions and walked along the side of the car, not stopping, but quickly stealing a peek inside the vehicle. Saw the expected clutter of equipment near the console—sturdy laptop, mounted facing the driver, radio equipment, radar device. All the usual cop fare.

  He wasn’t afraid of cops, had committed no major crimes that would suggest a statewide manhunt in an attempt to bring him in, but recent events had surely more than made him a person that local law enforcement would like to have a chat with. And if they did, there would be questions that Lance could not answer. Well … he could answer them, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be believed. Never understood. They’d find him crazy, mentally unstable. Or worse … they would believe him, his secret out and exposed and vulnerable. Ready for the world to pounce on and pick apart and analyze and destroy.

  He’d be labeled a freak. Degraded to a test subject, a number. An experiment.

  They’d forget he was human.

  Lance’s stomach grumbled again, almost yelling at him to stop screwing around and send some of that meatloaf down the pipe.

  Lance took one last glance at the Crown Vic before pulling open the restaurant’s door and stepping inside.

  Something about that car, he thought. Or maybe the person driving it.

  Unlike the florist, at Mama’s there was no bell above the door, but the squeak from the hinges was loud enough for all eyes to instantly look up from their food and away from their conversations and stare at Lance as he entered. He stood there for a moment, the feeling of being put on display nearly toppling him over. After what might have only been two or three seconds—which felt like something closer to a full minute to Lance—Mama’s patrons returned their attention to their tables, but Lance figured the hushed whispers were certainly at his expense. Who is that? Why is he here? What size shoe does he wear? His feet are huge!

  Okay, probably not the last part, but it was a question Lance had heard more times than he cared for in his life.

  He closed his umbrella and the door shut behind him, another long screech as the hinges whined some more. There was a coatrack standing in the corner to his right, and Lance rested his dripping umbrella on the floor beside it along with two others that looked exactly the same, probably sold at every shop in Ripton’s Grove.

  Lance turned and nearly collided with a young woman who’d appeared behind him.

  “Whoops, sorry!” she said, taking a quick step back. She was fairly tall for a girl—five-seven or five-eight—and had jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her skin was pale, and the only trace of makeup was around her eyes—some dark green eyeshadow and a bit of liner. Nothing fancy. She wore black jeans and a white t-shirt tucked in. Lance figured she was still in high school. A year or two out at best.

  Lance apologized for the near-collision, and when he said no more, the girl offered, “Can I help you?”

  Before Lance could answer, his stomach gave off another low grumble that caused the girl’s eyes to look down at it before quickly bouncing back up to meet his eyes. Lance smiled and shrugged. “I was told you have the best meatloaf in the state.”

  The girl nodded. “It’s true,” she said, then, after a shrug of her own, “Best I’ve ever had, at least.”

  “Good enough for me.”

  She smiled and pulled a single menu from a stack on a small wooden table by the coatrack that also held a bowl of individually wrapped peppermint hard candies, a cordless telephone with its numbers all but worn off, and small plastic toothpick dispenser. “Table or booth?” the girl asked.

  It was then that Lance got his first good look at the place.

  The house’s interior had been renovated to essentially divide the downstairs into a large dining area and a kitchen at the rear, a metal swinging door allowing employees to pass back and forth between the two. The décor was old, yet comfortable, like a grandma’s house. The walls were adorned with faded wallpaper with a flowery print, the carpet a dingy pea-soup-green that Lance supposed did well to hide stains. A cuckoo clock tick-ticked off the seconds from the wall next to the swinging kitchen door. Lance imagined waitresses glancing at that clock incessantly as they passed to and fro from kitchen to dining room, pleading for the minutes to move and their shift to end.

  There were twelve tables in total. Small two-tops along three of the walls, and larger four-tops scattered through the center of the open room. Old wooden things with plastic white tablecloths. On the outer wall by the windows were three booths, one in line with each of the front-facing windows. The windows that had appeared to burn so brightly from across the street. The upholstery was lime green and the tabletops were a dark, scuffed and scratched wood.

  Lance smiled. This was exactly the type of place his mother would love. A diner meets the touch of home.

  Groups of people were seated around four of the tables, plates of food and the hushed murmur of conversation keeping them busy. Somewhere unseen, a radio was playing softly. Country music. Fitting for the scene. There was the occasional clatter of pots and pans, the familiar noise of an oven door opening and closing, coming from beyond the swinging kitchen door. Somebody back there asked what time Henry was delivering tomorrow. Somebody else said they’d guess the same time as always.

  Lance saw and heard all these things, but focused on none of it. What drew his attention was the man seated at the corner booth, furthest from the door. His back against the wall. Able to look up and see everything if need be.

  It was the driver of the black Crown Vic. There was no question about it.

  He was in plain clothes—tan tactical pants, work boots, black sweater, and a black rain jacket—but Lance didn’t have to ask if beneath that jacket there was a holster with a pistol. A badge clipped to a belt, maybe. The man was staring down at the table, his head hanging tired on his shoulders. He wore his hair shaggy, but it was thinning on top from where Lance could see. Still damp from the rain. The man was clearly not the owner of one of the other umbrellas by the door.

  “Booth,” Lance said. “Please.”

  The girl nodded and led him away from the door, taking just a few steps to the first booth in the row, intentionally leaving the open table between Lance and the man in the corner. Common courtesy, Lance supposed. Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe this was the Universe keeping Lance from getting too close, as if the man in the corner—clearly a police officer—might pick up Lance’s scent and know he was trouble. Know he was hiding something.

  Stop it, Lance scolded himself. Stop being so paranoid. You’re just here to eat. That guy doesn’t know you from Adam.

  And he almost believed himself. But as he slid into the booth, keeping his own back to the door, facing toward the man in the corner, he thought back to the sign he’d seen just below the Ripton’s Grove welcome sign as he’d walked into town from the bus station—Eat at Mama’s.

  He thought about how his hunger had subsided long enough for him to do his business with Richard Bellows, and how the local real estate agent had also encouraged Lance to come to the restaurant, Lance’s hunger pangs returning as they’d finished up in Rich’s office.

  No, Lance thought. It’s just a coincidence. I was supposed to go to the real estate office because of the house. The house is why I’m here. Who better to live in a haunted house than me? Maybe it’ll be like ha
ving roommates.

  “What would you like to drink?” the girl asked.

  Lance realized he’d been staring at the man in the far booth, staring right at the top of his head since he’d sat down. He quickly looked over to the girl who was standing beside him, waiting. “Coffee, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Be right back.”

  Sir? When did I get so old? He sighed and leaned back in the booth, adjusting his backpack beside him. Truth was, he felt like he’d aged ten years in the past month. His mother’s death had taken a toll on him mentally, the stress and the pain and the sadness wearing away at his strength. Things in Westhaven hadn’t helped much—nearly dying had done little to improve his mood.

  But he had met Leah. That was something. Something special.

  He missed her.

  He felt another sudden urge to pull out his cell phone and send Leah a text, but the girl returned with his coffee and he pushed the thought away again, tried to bury it deeper down.

  The coffee was in a thick plastic mug, and Lance told the waitress she could keep the packets of creamer she was about to set down next to it. She nodded and asked if he was ready to order. Lance hadn’t even glanced at the menu. “The meatloaf, of course.” He smiled. “It’s why I’ve come all this way, after all.”

  The girl cocked her head to the side, looking at him with a grin and narrowed eyes. “Really?”

  Lance shrugged.

  The girl smiled and shook her head and then walked over to the man in the corner. “Refill on the coffee, Sheriff?”

  The man lifted his head for the first time that Lance had seen, and his face told a story of somebody who’d seen hard times and come out the other side for the worse. Maybe forty or forty-five, with a heavily creased brow and circles under his eyes so deep and dark he might not have slept in a week. He had a couple days’ worth of stubble, spotty and with patches of gray. He offered the waitress a smile that almost seemed to pain him. “Sure, Susan. A refill would be great.” He spoke, and after Susan refilled his coffee and walked away, the sheriff’s head went right back down, as if he were staring into the blackness of his coffee.

  Sheriff, Lance thought. Wonderful.

  But even from across the space of the empty booth, Lance could feel the cold sense of emptiness the man in the corner carried with him. It was a feeling Lance had recently known all too well. It smelled of the same scent of his own coldness he’d experienced when he’d lost his mother.

  The man in the corner—the sheriff of this small and quiet place—had suffered. Had lost something, a part of him that could not be replaced. And at once, Lance no longer feared the man in the corner but felt an odd sense of connection. Two men trying to figure out what life held next. Coping in their own ways. Like eating meatloaf and drinking coffee and watching out the window as the rain continued to fall and the sky turned even darker.

  Two of the other tables emptied, and Lance watched absentmindedly as Susan cleared away the finished meals and wiped down the tablecloth, preparing for the next guests. On the wall by the swinging kitchen door, the cuckoo shot out of its clock and clucked off the five o’clock hour. The sound was muted, not altogether pleasant, but not obnoxiously loud as to intrude into a patron’s meal.

  Lance continued to steal glances at the sheriff. Watched as the man would lift his coffee mug to his lips and take small, deliberate sips. Then he’d set the mug back down and continue to stare down at the table. He never looked up at the room around him, never looked out the window toward the parking lot and the rain and his town.

  Never looked at Lance.

  Susan delivered Lance’s meatloaf, and while he was no official Virginia authority on the subject, and could make no claim on whether it was the best in the state, he was quick to tell Susan that it was indeed delicious, and honestly the best meatloaf he’d ever eaten. The mashed potatoes on the side were excellent as well. Full of butter and fluffy. No lumps.

  When he finished his dinner, Susan offered pie. Which, of course, Lance accepted. He chose cherry.

  While Susan was preparing his slice of pie, the other two tables’ guests finished up and left, leaving only Lance and the sheriff and an odd, somewhat uncomfortable silence hanging in the air along with the soft-playing country tunes.

  Still, the man did not look up, his coffee the most interesting thing in the world.

  Susan brought the pie—a huge, heaping slice with a perfectly golden crust—and refilled his coffee. While Lance ate, Susan worked to clean her tables and then reappeared, standing next to Lance as he took his last bite.

  “Anything else I can get you?”

  Lance contemplated another slice of pie, then toyed with the idea of getting a slice to go instead. In the end, he settled on another idea.

  He pushed his empty plate aside and then fumbled inside his backpack until he found the lease he’d signed at R.G Homes. He pointed to the address that Rich had circled in red pen and asked, “Is this close enough for me to walk? And if not, is there a taxi service I can call?”

  Susan smiled politely and leaned forward to read the address. As her eyes took in the numbers and words, the smile faltered. She looked up, first to Lance—a puzzled, unsure glance—and then back to the lease, as if to make sure she’d read correctly.

  Then, oddly, she glanced toward the booth in the corner, toward the sheriff. His head was still down, staring at nothing.

  She leaned in and whispered, “Are you serious? Why do you want to go there?”

  Lance whispered too, following her lead only because it seemed right. “I’ve rented the place for a while.” When this didn’t seem to be enough, he continued with, “I needed a place to stay, and it was cheap.”

  Susan scoffed and her face turned sour. “Did Rich do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Offer this place to you.”

  “Yes,” Lance said. And then, “He seemed very nice.”

  Susan sighed. “Oh, he’s very nice. One of the nicest guys in town. But nice or not, he should know better than to let you move in there.”

  “Is there a problem with the place?”

  Susan did another quick glance toward the sheriff and then slid into the seat opposite Lance. She leaned forward, her voice more hushed than before. “Rich didn’t tell you what happened, did he?”

  Lance shook his head. “No. He just said some folks say the place is haunted.”

  Susan didn’t seem fazed by this news. Lance got no sense of disbelief from her. “And that didn’t make you think maybe you should find another place to stay.”

  Lance shrugged. Answered honestly. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  Susan was quiet for a beat. Sat back in the booth and looked at Lance as though he were suddenly a riddle she’d been tasked with solving.

  “What happened?” Lance asked. “Can you tell me?”

  As soon as the words had left Lance’s mouth, the sheriff stood from the booth in the corner, using one hand to quickly down the rest of his coffee and the other to pick up his Kindle e-book reader off the table and tuck it into his jacket pocket.

  So that’s why he kept staring at the table. He was reading.

  But this fact didn’t change the cold feeling that only grew in intensity as the sheriff approached the booth and stopped. Lance’s heart suddenly picked up its pace. He looked up at the man and smiled. The man paid him no attention. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Susan. “Thanks, Suze. Have a good evening.”

  Susan took the money and forced a smile, mumbling a flustered thanks as the sheriff walked out the door and got in the Crown Vic.

  Lance watched the car pull out of the lot and head down the street. Then he turned back to Susan but found she’d gotten out of the booth and was heading toward the sheriff’s table. She picked up his coffee cup and started toward the kitchen, then turned and said over her shoulder, “You could probably walk, but it’s a few miles, and you won’t want to do it in the rain. I’m out of her
e as soon as Joan shows up for the dinner shift. I can give you a ride.”

  And then she pushed through the swinging kitchen door and left Lance alone in the dining room, wondering what had just happened.

  5

  Ten minutes later, a pair of headlights turned into Mama’s parking lot and a woman made a mad dash from the car to the door, bursting through it in a spray of water and expletives. She cursed the rain and the wet and the fact her shoes were now soaked and how she probably wouldn’t make any money tonight because nobody would feel like going out to eat with weather as nasty as it was. She said all these things to nobody, a rapid-fire round of complaining as she hung up her raincoat and tried to straighten her blouse, which had come slightly untucked from her black pants. She was middle-aged, short, plump—round might have been the more appropriate word—and had short frizzy red hair in unkempt curls. She somewhat reminded Lance of a more vulgar version of Mrs. Potts from the Beauty and the Beast cartoon. She turned around from the coatrack and saw Lance for the first time.

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t see you there. Susan taking care of you?”

  Lance nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman huffed and nodded once and then quickly waddled across the dining room floor and disappeared into the kitchen. No apology for the foul language or her outburst. No change in personality once she realized Mama’s had a customer. Nothing.

  Lance smiled. He liked her.

  He sat another five minutes, staring out the window at the post office across the street as the rain refused to let up, and just as another pair of headlights began to turn into Mama’s lot, Susan came through the kitchen door, laughing. “Joan, you’re terrible! See you tomorrow!”

  Lance stood, ready to go. Susan looked at him and, as if suddenly remembering her offer of a ride, hesitated just a moment before saying, “Give me just a sec, okay? I gotta make sure Luke’s cool with it.”

  Lance could only nod. No idea who Luke was.

  Susan snatched the only other remaining umbrella next to Lance’s, pulled up the hood of her jacket, and then headed through the door toward the set of waiting headlights. Lance stood and watched out the window as she opened the passenger door and leaned down, talking to an unseen driver. After a moment, she looked up, back toward the restaurant. Saw Lance watching through the window and waved for him to come out. Lance gave a thumbs-up, regretted it, and then grabbed his own umbrella and hid under it the best he could, heading toward Susan and the car.