The Lance Brody Series
Books 3 and 4
Michael Robertson, Jr.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarities to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and should be recognized as such. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, etc.) without the prior written consent and permission of the author.
Dark Shore Copyright © 2018 Michael Robertson, Jr.
Cover Design Copyright © 2018 Jason Collins
Dark Vacancy Copyright © 2019 Michael Robertson, Jr.
Cover Design Copyright © 2019 Jason Collins
Contents
Dark Shore
THEM (I)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
HER (I)
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
THEM (II)
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
HER (II)
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
HER (III)
Chapter 23
THEM (III)
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
THEM (IV)
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
HER (IV)
Chapter 32
Dark Vacancy
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author’s note
Also by Michael Robertson, Jr.
Dark Shore
(Lance Brody Series, Book 3)
THEM
(I)
Pete Simpson was flipping through a Playboy magazine—yes, an actual magazine, circa 1996, with faded, heavily creased pages, but fortunately none stuck together by suspicious means—and casting repeated glances at the clock on the wall, waiting impatiently for seven o’clock.
Simpson’s Garage and Used Auto closed at seven on the weekdays and four on Saturday, and it was closed on Sunday, praise Jesus. Pete wasn’t the Simpson the ancient sign out front referred to. That would be his father, Marvin Simpson—Marv, to most everyone in town. But ole Marv, who’d be seventy-one next spring, liked to check out around three most days now, leaving the garage, and the auto sales, in the charge of his only son, Pete. Not because he really trusted him, Pete suspected, but because Marv was just too damned old and tired to care that much anymore.
Pete, who would turn thirty-seven the day after Marvin turned seventy-one, leaned back in the squeaky, stained office chair in the long-outdated front office space of Simpson’s Garage and Used Auto, with a half-hard penis—thanks in part to the centerfold of Miss June, 1996—and zero ambition to do anything else in his life except lock the door come closing time, climb into his pickup truck and drive home to his one-bedroom on Spruce Street—a whole four blocks from his childhood home—and down a couple cold ones while he watched ESPN before falling asleep on the couch, only to wake up in the morning and drive back to the garage for another day of oil changes, spark plugs, tire rotations, and disappointed glances from his father.
At ten till seven, Pete had just decided to reach his hand down his pants and finish the job that Miss June had started. That was when the door to the office opened slowly, the tarnished bell mounted above the door frame giving off a ring that startled Pete so badly he jumped from the chair, pulling his grease-stained hand free from the waistband of his workpants and flinging the magazine to the floor in front of him, hidden from view behind a chipped wooden desk.
“We’re closed!” was all he could manage to say, flustered and with cheeks burning. “We’re closed, dammit!”
The man who’d come through the door turned and gently closed it. He was fairly tall and dressed just like Father Abrams down at Holy Name of Mary. An establishment Pete hadn’t stepped foot in since his old sleepover days with Jimmy May, when Jimmy’s parents would wake the two of them up after a night of playing Nintendo and drag them down the street to say, “Peace be with you,” and do funny things with their hands across their chests.
“The sign on the door says you close at seven o’clock,” the Reverend said. “Trust me, that’s more time than I need.”
As the Reverend walked across the office toward him, Pete Simpson used the toe of his work boot to slowly slide the magazine under the desk in a manner he hoped was inconspicuous. Apparently, he failed, because as the man approached, he said, “Partaking in a little sin of the flesh this evening, Peter?”
Pete crinkled his brow and cocked his head to the side. Nobody had called him Peter since his grandmother had passed. And how in the hell did this man know his name? He wasn’t from here, no way. Town this small, Pete would have seen him before. Maybe he was new? Maybe Father Abrams had finally decided to move on from his flock, move to Miami or somewhere else in Florida to sit on beaches and contemplate committing his own sins of the flesh?
It was possible, sure. But if there was one thing that was true about Simpson’s Garage and Used Auto, it was that, much like at the local barbershop, it was a place men would gather around cups of coffee while their cars were getting worked on, or while they decided to hang out for a spell when they came to pick up the parts they’d special-ordered, and they’d gossip just as readily as any group of women you could come across. Pete suspected this constant chatter and slipstream of local information and misinformation was the only thing that kept his pop coming in every day. If Father Abrams was leaving the church, Pete would have heard about it.
The Reverend said, “Don’t worry, Peter. I’m not here to judge you.”
And when the man did not stop in front of the desk, but instead came around the side and stepped toward him, Pete felt a sudden compulsion to take a step back. No, it was more than a compulsion. When the man had taken that last step in his direction, Pete had felt as if some invisible force, like a strong gust of wind, had physically moved his body backward. He stumbled and landed in the old office chair, which caught him gracefully and wheeled backward a foot before coming to rest against the wall.
The Reverend stooped with a deftness that seemed to defy his age and appearance and plucked the Playboy from the floor, using the back of one hand to brush off the dust and dirt that had adhered to the cover. He held it out in front of him for a moment, eyes flitting over the image and the taglines
for articles nobody would ever read, and then flipped through the pages until he found the centerfold. He gave the picture of Miss June a long stare, allowing himself this momentary pleasure, and then turned the magazine around and held it up so Pete could see.
Pete’s eyes instantly locked onto the woman in the magazine.
“Do you like her, Peter?” the Reverend asked, taking a small step closer.
Pete nodded his head. Found himself sinking deeper into the magazine picture, unable to avert his gaze.
“What is it you like about her, Peter?”
Pete felt his vision narrow, as if the office was closing in around him. Things began to fade away, a blackness creeping in from the sides. His body felt slack, a calm washing over him the way it used to when he’d gotten slightly addicted to Xanax, before his pop had figured out what was going on and threatened his life. He tried to answer, tried to form words and found he could only utter a low grunt.
The Reverend took another step closer and held the magazine out. “I think she likes you, too, Peter.”
The blackness was creeping in closer now. The only color left in the world was the picture of the naked woman in front of him. And boy, did he want her. Wanted her bad. His mind filled with wild fantasies of the two of them, and he felt his penis grow again in his pants.
“You can have her, Peter.” The man’s voice invaded his thoughts, carved its way through his mind. “She’s all yours.”
On the page, Pete would swear the woman’s face came alive. That she winked at him, and then bit her lower lip in a way that suggested she wanted him just as badly as he was lusting after her.
“But first,” the Reverend said, looming over his prey, “tell me where you keep the keys to the cars you’re selling.”
* * *
The Reverend stepped outside, gently closing the door to Simpson’s Garage and Used Auto behind him and tossing a small key ring with two silver keys attached to it to the Surfer, who was sitting on the hood of a beaten-down Ford Taurus for sale, with his flip-flop-clad feet up on the bumper and his palms flat on the hood at his sides.
In the cone of yellow light falling across him from the overhead parking lot lamp, the Surfer looked like a model for some vintage beach advertisement. Board shorts to go along with the flip-flops, cutoff t-shirt exposing well-muscled and deeply tanned skin, and shoulder-length blond hair to round out the appearance. He looked ready for the sand and the waves. No matter that winter was fast approaching and the temperature was currently somewhere in the midforties. The Reverend didn’t understand everything about the Surfer—not even close, he sometimes hated to admit to himself. But of all the burning questions, the fact that the Surfer never seemed to be affected by the weather was perhaps one of the most puzzling.
The Surfer snatched the keys from the air and jumped off the hood. “You get it?”
“Read the tag,” the Reverend said, nodding to the key ring.
The Surfer held the key ring up and examined a small plastic tag attached along with the keys. He nodded. “Righteous.”
It was something they should have done sooner, dumping the Volkswagen bus. The Reverend knew this, but he’d taken a calculated risk. They’d gotten so close to obtaining the boy that he hadn’t wanted to waste time trying to figure out other suitable transportation. He’d wanted to stay after the boy while the trail might still be fresh.
So close, he thought, a quick pang of anger suddenly surfacing.
They’d finally tracked the boy down to Hillston, Virginia, and the first time the Reverend had laid eyes on him, he had seen the power and the energy and the … aura that the boy put out, and he couldn’t help but smile. He’s the one, the Reverend had thought that day. He’s the one who will finally make it possible.
But then, on the night they’d attempted to obtain the boy, everything had gone wrong in one single act of unexpected, unforeseen defiance by the boy’s mother that was so profound the Reverend still had a hard time bringing himself to believe it had happened the way it had.
Love was a dreadfully powerful emotion. One he’d never understand.
Because of what had happened that night in Hillston, each day they continued driving the orange-and-white Volkswagen bus was a day they were inviting trouble. Surely the vehicle was on the state police’s list of vehicles to be on the lookout for, and it wasn’t exactly nondescript. But the Surfer had loved that vehicle, and while the Reverend wasn’t the sentimental type, he did feel that good work deserved rewarding. And the Surfer had definitely done good work over the years. Strange, mystifying work, but good all the same.
But it had to be done. It was a risk to the overall goal, and after very little coaxing, the Surfer had been in agreement.
They’d removed the license plates and tossed them into two separate dumpsters at two different fast-food restaurants along the interstate. Then, an hour ago, after the sun had completely set, they’d driven it to a campsite near the river they’d seen advertised on billboards as they’d driven north, parked it, and simply walked away.
It had taken half an hour to walk along a winding mountain road to get back to the outskirts of this little town, and as their good luck would have it, only another five minutes before they’d come across Simpson’s Garage and Used Auto.
They’d both stopped along the sidewalk, turned to look out at all the clunkers and tossed-away cars in the crushed gravel lot. The Surfer had pointed and said, “That one.”
The Reverend had looked to where he was pointing and rolled his eyes. Then he’d spied Peter Simpson through the blinds of the office building. He studied the man for a moment, reaching out to get a sense of him, and then said, “Let’s see if I can strike us a good deal.”
Which he had. And Pete Simpson wouldn’t remember a thing, except a very vivid dream involving Miss June, 1996, and a sudden urge to go to the Holy Name of Mary Catholic Church and confess his sins to Father Abrams.
* * *
A moment later, a Honda Element in better-than-expected condition pulled out of the Simpson’s Garage and Used Auto sales lot and drove north through town, turning onto the rural route that would eventually lead to the interstate onramp. Its driver and passenger both sat quietly, eyes focused straight ahead, their mission resumed.
In the moonlight, the car’s bluish-green color appeared almost metallic.
It might remind you of the ocean.
1
As the bus slowed to make the turn, allowing Lance Brody to catch a long glimpse of the wooden sign posted at the city limits welcoming visitors to Sugar Beach, all he could think was, I am in desperate need of coffee. This thought was followed by a funny image of a shoreline where the sand was replaced by actual sugar, full of kids shoving fistfuls of the stuff into their mouths while they built towering sugar castles, and teenagers riding chocolate sauce waves on surfboard-shaped lollipops. The seagulls flying overhead raining down dollops of frosting instead of … well, you know.
Lance was quickly pulled away from this happy if not ridiculous image by an all-too-familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. An ever-so-faint tingling at the base of his skull. Just like migraine sufferers who could often feel the early warning signs of an oncoming attack, Lance Brody was developing a much stronger sense of awareness as well.
He was starting to more easily detect when and where he was needed.
He often didn’t fully understand it, nor necessarily agree with it. But he could not deny it, nor could he ignore it.
Not after the sacrifice his mother had made for him. Not after she’d ended her life in the effort to make sure Lance got out into the world to use his gifts and his talents and his abilities for good. Too help stave off the Evil that lurked beyond the veil and snaked its way out into our realm.
And sadly, there was plenty of Evil to go around. Of both the otherworldly and the human variety. Lance often wondered whether, if human beings knew how many threats and how much darkness surrounded them, hunted them, fed on them, if they would still be
so terrible to each other. Cause so much pain amongst themselves and hurt each other so badly, in such grotesque ways.
He was confident the answer was yes. Yes, they would. Which was a thought that made him so sad he had to quickly push it away whenever it decided to surface.
Lance was good at pushing thoughts away. You could almost go ahead and label it as one of his gifts. It was part of his survival instinct, part of what allowed him to go on each and every day, carrying the burden of abilities he’d been born with.
Growing up, once he’d reached a certain age, he had begun pushing away thoughts of any type of future outside his hometown. He’d turned down the basketball scholarships, to the tune of many grumbling voices from coaches on the other end of the phone. At the time, he’d deemed moving on too risky. His abilities kept him busy enough at home, and there, he was comfortable—at least as comfortable as he could be—with managing them. The thought of going out into the great big unknown world had seemed overwhelming. Plus, he didn’t think he could ever bring himself to leave his mother. Not after all she’d done for him. Though Lance knew what he was born with was not necessarily his fault, he still often felt the twinge of guilt. Guilt that, because of what he was, he’d kept his mother from living a fuller life, going out and seeing the world, or dating again.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 1