Tourists, families, and couples were likely going to descend upon Sugar Beach on this, what might be one of the last nice days of the year before the cold really set in. Which would only complicate things for Lance. More people, more problems. He thought there might be a rap song about that.
After finishing off his donut and then gulping down the rest of his coffee in an astonishing chug-fest that brought to mind college fraternity hazing, Officer Tuttle looked as though he were about to stand from the booth. Lance, sensing his last moment to garner any additional information without having to flat out interrogate a police officer, lunged from the booth as casually as he could and took two quick strides forward, stopping in front of Officer Tuttle’s booth. “Uh, hi. Sorry to bother you, Officer, but, uh, do you happen to have the time?”
Lance was sometimes so brilliant on his feet he felt the need to stop and pat himself on the back.
Officer Tuttle looked up at Lance with those very tired eyes, and then did a quick survey of Lance from head to toe—no doubt using his cop’s intuition to assess what sort of person Lance might be and if there was an ulterior motive behind the question. Which there was, of course.
“Sure,” Officer Tuttle said and pressed the home button on his smartphone (Lance had been correct on that point—the man had been looking at his phone while he ate) to light up the screen and display the time. While he waited, Lance stood there smiling and surveyed the table, looking past the trash from the donut and coffee, his gaze landing on the soda can. It sat upright, just to the right of the tray, unopened and boring. A generic brand of diet soda. Cheap and probably full of enough artificial ingredients to make a nutritionist blush.
It was just a soda can. Sitting there, like soda cans tend to do.
Officer Tuttle held up the phone so Lance could see the clock, and Lance nodded and said thanks and then went back to his booth, hearing the grunt and groan of Officer Tuttle as he extracted himself from the booth and then pushed out the door. Lance watched from the window as he got into the police cruiser, still gripping the soda can in his sausage fingers. Officer Tuttle cranked the engine, checked his mirrors, and then backed out of the parking space and drove away, heading down Sand Dollar Road.
Lance sat and thought, nearly laughing to himself as he realized he was trying to unravel a great mystery that seemed to revolve around a soda can. A lousy piece of aluminum filled with water and chemicals and artificial sugar.
But it was more than that. Had to be. He kept remembering the fear he’d seen in the girl’s eyes the night before—those piercing blue eyes.
Drugs, Lance thought again. It has to be drugs. Though the thought definitely bothered him, considering he’d just seen a police officer purchase a can.
But with Officer Tuttle now out of the picture for the time being, Lance looked out the window at the girl on the cooler and knew what he had to do next.
14
Lance went back to the counter and waited his turn as a family with a toddler spent an excessive amount of time letting their child decide which type of donut it wanted. Common courtesy would have been to allow Lance to pass them while they debated, but they appeared to be too absorbed in the world of their child to notice other breathing humans around them.
The child finally decided on a plain glazed—Really? All that time for a plain jane glazed?—and the family moved on, carrying their food and drinks to the same booth Lance had sat in.
“Still hungry?” April asked. She seemed to have woken up some since Lance’s first venture through the line, her eyes more alive and her voice more energized.
Lance patted his stomach. “It’s tempting,” he said. “They were very good. Coffee, too. But no, this is to-go.” He placed his order, and April worked swiftly to fill a to-go cup with coffee and toss two donuts in a bag (one plain, one chocolate-covered glazed). Lance paid, thanked her, and then, just as he was about to turn and leave, he stopped.
“Hey,” he said. “I know this might be a weird question, but what do you know about this place being called Suicide Beach?”
April made a face that told Lance his question had caught her by surprise, and not in the best of ways. He held up his free hand and tried to force a chuckle. “I know, I know, strange question from a stranger. But”—he shrugged—“I’m just passing through, and everywhere I go people seem to think I’m at risk to kill myself. What’s up with that?” He tried to look relaxed, adjusting the straps of his backpack and then saying, “I just figured, you know, you’re younger, closer to my age, probably. People like us tend to have a better understanding of what’s really going on.”
The girl was quiet. Picked up a towel and started to wipe down the top of the glass display cases that housed the donuts. Lance waited, sensing she was mulling over what she wanted to say. The door to the donut shop opened and a young couple walked in, holding hands and dressed as though it were eighty degrees outside. Lance figured he’d get along with them pretty well.
“Be with you in a just a sec,” April greeted them and then turned to Lance, eyes pleading. “Promise me you’re not really planning on killing yourself and just looking for ideas.”
Lance, floored at the thought, again shocked at how serious Sugar Beach’s suicide problem must be, used his free hand to draw an imaginary X across his heart. “I swear,” he said. “In fact”—and here came the honesty—“I’d like to see if there’s anything I can do to stop it.”
He wasn’t sure why he offered this last part, as he tended to usually draw as little attention to himself and his purpose as possible, but something about April’s remark to him (Promise me you’re not really planning on killing yourself and just looking for ideas) showed him that she was genuinely concerned, not just about him, but about the situation as a whole.
She was one of the good ones.
April gave him one last hard stare, then shrugged, as if it were nothing, after all. “I don’t know much, but the rumor online is all these kids coming here, all these suicides, it’s not random. There’s more to it. It’s not just the location that draws them, but … there’s talk that there’s somebody here who’s helping them.”
Lance swallowed. “Helping them?”
April nodded. “Yeah, you know, like that doctor guy.”
Lance thought for a moment. “You mean Kevorkian?”
“Yes!” April said. Then, “Hey, I gotta get back to work.”
“Sure,” Lance said. “Thanks.”
April went to take the young couple’s order, and Lance left the store, off to deliver the donuts and coffee he’d purchased.
As he walked across the parking lot, he replayed what April had told him. If there really was somebody in Sugar Beach assisting people with suicide, while it might be morally wrong, Lance didn’t understand what role he was supposed to play in it.
Maybe I’ve got no role at all, he thought. Maybe it’s just a distraction.
Instead, he’d focus on the girls selling cold drinks.
* * *
Lance paused and waited for a break in the traffic, a healthy stream of cars driving by with windows cracked, letting in the cool beach air. Smiles on the passengers’ faces.
Because who didn’t love a nice day at the beach?
As Lance used the crosswalk when the light changed, he suspected the girl selling the drinks hadn’t had a nice day at the beach in quite some time.
He approached, slowly, and then waited while the blond girl in the baggy sweats worked the line of cars, walking down the sidewalk six or seven cars deep before turning back around and returning to the cooler. When she started the trip back, her eyes fell on Lance and he saw the quick passing of her being first startled, then concerned, then the recognition, and then wary curiosity.
You could tell a lot from a person’s eyes.
This girl’s eyes were not the vibrant blue Lance had seen the night before—that sapphire spark that had penetrated the darkness—but they were blue, still. A deep shade that reminded Lance of royalty. The
breeze blew her hair across her porcelainlike face, and she quickly whipped it out of the way and asked, “Cold drink?”
Again, that accent. Not as heavy here, but not quite hidden. She was younger than the girl from the night before, had to be. There was a youthfulness to her, an energy that hadn’t been present with the other girl. Lance stared at her, analyzing every curve and line of her face. He looked deep into her eyes, and right then he would have wagered good money that if this girl was eighteen, it was only by a matter of days.
And despite the youthfulness, despite the energy, the sadness was still there. The wave of despair and frustration and loneliness that had wafted from the girl the night before and struck Lance in his gut. It was here, too. Though not as strong.
“Cold drink?” she asked again, repeating the phrase with a robotic frequency that was not inviting of conversation.
Lance switched off his detective mode and tried to turn on the charm. He held up the coffee cup and bag of donuts. “No, thanks. I actually brought you breakfast. Oh, well, maybe you’ve already eaten, but still. It can be a snack, then, for later. But you should probably drink the coffee now, if you want it. That way it doesn’t get cold. I mean, come on, you can never have too much coffee, right?”
He was rambling and very much aware that he was saying a lot to say very little. But he couldn’t help it. He didn’t know where to start, couldn’t quite crack the code to figure out what exactly he was trying to solve here. Let’s say the girl was selling drugs. What was he to do? Say “Bad girl! Didn’t you ever learn to just say no in school?” and then steal her cooler and run away like a madman?
Slow down, Lance. Take it easy for a minute.
He stopped and took a deep breath. Maybe it was all the coffee, maybe it was the growing sense of frustration of suddenly feeling thrust into two very different problems that he had very little understanding of, yet felt obligated to correct. He’d been on the go for what felt like a very long time now—one town and problem after another.
He was getting burnt out.
Or maybe you’re getting lazy, he chastised himself.
He took another breath and looked at the girl. Really looked at her. Felt that sorrow again, despite the coy smile across the girl’s fine lips.
Start with the girl, not the problem. You help people, remember? So start with people.
Lance set the bag of donuts and cup of coffee atop the cooler and stood. He stuck out his hand. “Let me start again,” he said. “I’m Lance, your friendly delivery boy.”
The girl looked at the food and coffee he’d set on her cooler and then looked up to him, using her hand to block the glare of the sun. She must have liked the cheesy grin he felt on his face, because her tight-lipped smirk morphed into a full-on laugh.
“Diana,” she said, but she did not shake his hand.
Her eyes darted to the stoplight, and then she quickly turned and noticed the line of cars that had begun forming. The light had changed back to red, and Diana dutifully held up her sign and started the walk down the sidewalk. She made it six or seven cars deep, then turned and started back.
Nobody bought a drink.
When Diana made it back to the cooler, it was as if somewhere along the walk up and down the sidewalk, all the enthusiasm had been sucked out of her. Her eyes were no longer friendly, had turned back to business.
“You want soda?” she asked.
Lance thought about the way she’d so quickly reacted to realizing the light had changed back to red. Had seen that glimpse of fear cross her eyes and flood her face.
She thinks somebody’s watching her, he thought. She’s afraid she’ll get in trouble.
This was definitely about more than soda.
“Sure,” Lance said. “I’d love a soda.” He pulled a dollar bill from his backpack and handed it to Diana.
“Diet?” she asked.
Lance shrugged. “Whatever you can grab first.”
Diana’s royal blue eyes narrowed, boring into him. “Diet?”
A flash of memory from inside the donut shop. Officer Tuttle with his can clutched in his sausage fingers. The image of the can sitting unopened on the table next to his tray as he’d eaten.
“Diet,” Lance said. “Please.”
Diana looked at him hard, as if trying to drill into him there was meaning behind what she was about to do. Then she gently set the coffee and donuts on the grass by the sidewalk and reached inside the cooler, pulling out an ice-cold diet soda and handing it to Lance.
Their hands met as she handed it over, and as Lance gripped the can, he gently held on to her fingers for just a moment, whispering against the breeze, “I’m staying at the Boundary House.”
Diana looked at him with those serious eyes again, and Lance thought he saw understanding in them.
“I hope you have a great day,” he said. Then he slid the soda can into his backpack and left, walking back down Sand Dollar Road in search of a coin laundry or some new clothes.
THEM
(II)
The Honda Element had been recently washed. The Surfer had said he’d liked the way the color sparkled in the sunlight because it reminded him of ocean waves, just before they crashed to the shore.
The Reverend was surprised, if not curious, at this bit of sentimentality from his partner—another mystery to add to the box of the Surfer’s true being—but he did not deny him the task. Just like allowing the Surfer to pick their new vehicle, the car wash had been a concession that seemed a simple price to pay to keep him content. As long as the Reverend continued not to fully understand his partner’s ability, he would not purposely dissuade him. They’d worked together well all this time, but friends they were not. They simply shared a common goal.
The two men sat in the booth by the window in the small diner that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, nestled among short rows of run-down buildings on either side of the road. The only buildings they’d seen for miles, with the nearest town still several miles away. The diner, its exterior appearance, was quite modern and fresh on the inside. Fancy coffeemaker behind the counter and everything sparkling clean and up-to-date.
“Why here?” the Surfer asked, sipping a cup of coffee. “Seems, like, totally lacking in any vibes, man.”
The Reverend heard his partner but ignored him. His gaze was transfixed on the building across the street, the one on the left end of the row. There was a wooden ramp leading up to the front of the shabby front entrance. Blinds drawn closed behind the windows. A single car was parked to the side, a small sedan that had nosed its way to the ramp’s entryway, almost as if blocking one’s way.
The Reverend had told the Surfer to exit the freeway and turn onto this rural highway over an hour ago—just one of those feelings, a pull toward something. The Surfer, now used to these sorts of instructions, having seen firsthand their accuracy, if not specificity, had not questioned the order. Had just silently reduced his speed and flipped on the Element’s blinker and executed the maneuver.
But now, as the two men sat in silence in this lost but modern diner, he was asking.
Why here?
The waitress, who’d introduced herself as Rachel, came over to the table and broke the Reverend’s thoughts. “You sure I can’t get you gentlemen anything else today?”
The Reverend turned and smiled. His outfit almost always put people at ease, thinking that a man of the cloth would certainly mean them no harm or ill will. The smile—white teeth and an appearance of bashfulness—only sweetened the deal. He looked Rachel in the eyes and nodded toward the window. “What is that building behind me? The one with the car parked by the ramp.”
Rachel’s polite waitress grin faltered a moment. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I guess it’s nothing now.”
“Now?” the Reverend pushed.
Rachel nodded. “It used to be Miss Sheila’s place—still is, I guess. I mean, that’s her car there. She still comes most days. But she doesn’t run her business anymore. Not after what happene
d.”
The Reverend waited patiently, his expression of curiosity unflinching.
Rachel took the bait. “She was a medium,” she said. “She helped people communicate with their lost loved ones, stuff like that. Was super popular. I mean, people used to come from all over to see her. But then one day she just stopped.”
“Stopped?”
Rachel nodded. “Yeah, I mean, she just stopped taking customers. Put a sign on the door that read ‘retired,’ and that was that.”
“And nobody knows why she stopped?”
Rachel shook her head. “Nobody that I’ve talked to. Her assistant, Christina, came in one morning a few days after they closed up. She got a large cup of coffee to go, and then she drove off. Nobody’s seen her since. So whatever decision Miss Sheila made, I’d say it’s for good.”
“How curious,” the Reverend said, thinking to himself he had a very good idea of what had happened to cause this famous Miss Sheila to close up her shop.
More importantly, he thought he knew who had caused it.
The Reverend paid for their coffee and left Rachel a nice tip. He eyed the sedan parked across the street and said to the Surfer, “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”
* * *
Sheila Waugh—aka the famous Miss Sheila around these parts and for several surrounding counties—lifted her head from the round table covered in black cloth in the center of the room that had once been her main stage and tried to shake the grogginess from her head. Everything was fuzzy, as though she was coming out from under anesthesia, or just waking from the deepest and most restful of naps. She looked around the room, lit up more brightly than it had ever been when she’d sat here with the bereaved and put on her show, and then her eyes settled on the laptop in front of her, its screen gone dark. Asleep, just like she’d been. At least, she thought she’d been asleep.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 8