She leaned back and closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to clear her mind, regain her thoughts. She inhaled until her lungs were full and then counted to ten before slowly exhaling through her nose.
She remembered waking up this morning, alone in her bed, as usual. She remembered the quick bagel she’d eaten and two cups of coffee before she’d showered and dressed and then grabbed her purse and her laptop and headed here, making the drive she used to make with so much enthusiasm, so much anticipation of her performances. But now she came here, to the run-down office building she was stuck leasing for another three months before she’d be able to say goodbye and walk away from this place for good, with a different task at hand.
She’d decided, since she had nothing else to do and no other skill as far as she knew—she’d been Miss Sheila for so long, who was she without her?—to try her hand at writing a book. Fiction, of course. A ghost story. Because who better to write a bestselling ghost tale than a woman who’d spent the better part of her later years giving artificial voices to the dead, spinning tales and weaving untruths. Whatever it took to get the reaction from the paying customer.
Yes, she’d been here, writing a chapter that was going nowhere, when…
She’d seen them.
In her mind, she replayed the image of the two men emerging through the entryway from the antechamber, and she remembered thinking, How did they get in? I know I locked the door. An odd duo, looming in the shadow of the doorway before stepping into the light. One was dressed as a priest, she remembered, though she was not convinced he actually was one. She, better than most, knew how easy it was to deceive people. The other man—well, he looked as though he’d stepped straight out of a vintage beach advertisement, something promising lots of sun and sand and big waves.
But there was also something off about him, more so than the priest. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but when the men had walked toward her table and stood on either side of her, she’d felt it, something cold and callous and … terrifying. Whatever it’d been, it’d reached for her, and at the first inkling of it making contact, with a feeling of violation so strong she’d nearly vomited from shame, she’d opened her mouth to scream and the priest’s hand had shot out and wrapped around her mouth.
“Shhhh, now,” he’d said, his voice pleasant but his eyes dark. “Tell us about the boy.”
And in an instant, she’d known who he’d meant. The image of the young man her mind conjured up was as fresh as wet paint.
With fear’s icy hand still gripping her heart, she’d told them everything, sparing no detail.
“He ruined my business,” she’d said when at last she’d finished her tale. Then, breathlessly, with a tiny, selfish feeling of hope bubbling up from inside her, “Are you going to stop him?”
And the next thing she remembered was waking up in the empty room, her laptop asleep and her novel unfinished.
15
Lance found a coin laundry in a small shopping center down a less populous road off the main strip. It was nestled between a pawn shop and a payday loan office, in case those who were waiting on their clothes to rinse and spin suddenly found themselves extremely short on cash. The sidewalk had been cracked and broken in spots on Lance’s short walk, and he didn’t need to look very far around him to realize that whatever glitz and glamour and appealing aesthetics Sugar Beach was clinging to, you didn’t have to venture far from Sand Dollar Road for it all to start to fade away, the wrinkles and warts quickly exposed.
There was an overturned shopping cart next to the laundromat’s door, along with one high-heeled shoe. Lance didn’t want to know what situation had arisen that had resulted in both these items being left as they were. He hoped they’d belonged to different people.
He pushed through the door and was greeted by the smells of cheap detergent and bleach, the humming of dryers tumbling clothes and water trickling through pipes as it filled washers. The units were all old and beige, lining the entire left and rear walls and stopping hallway down the right wall to allow for a row of plastic chairs that looked like something you’d find in a police station interrogation room. (Lance would know, he’d been a guest of a few such rooms in his time.) The middle of the room held more rows of plastic chairs and some long tables for folding clothes. To his left, an ancient Coke machine rattled and sounded as if a wire were loose somewhere. A snack machine next, full of the standby classics: peanut butter crackers, M&Ms, chocolate cookies, and roasted peanuts for the slightly more health conscious.
There were three other people inside the place. Two women, maybe in their late twenties, early thirties, wearing pajama pants and sweatshirts, sat huddled together in chairs on the right wall, a small stack of magazines between them while they murmured conversation and flipped through pages, empty clothes baskets at their feet. They both gave Lance a quick look when he entered, then one girl leaned over and whispered something into the other girl’s ear and they both burst out laughing, giving Lance another quick glance before returning to their magazines.
Lance had a mild suspicion the laughter was at his expense. He wondered if maybe he had donut on his face.
The other person in the laundromat that morning, Lance recognized immediately. Sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, leaning back with his feet kicked up on another chair he’d spun around in front of him, earbuds with a bright white cord snaking down to an iPhone in his lap, was the young guy in the apron who’d been smoking outside the diner last night.
Lance walked toward the guy, and when he was a few feet away, the man turned his head and his eyes flickered with recognition. He pulled the earbuds from his ears and let them fall to his lap. “Hey, man. Small world, huh?”
Lance nodded. “More like small town.”
“Yeah.” The guy shrugged. “I guess the odds aren’t all that impossible we’d run into each other around here. What’s up?”
Lance unslung his backpack from his shoulder and set it on one of the tables. “Even the lightest of travelers must occasionally wash their undies.”
The guy smirked and made a sound through his nose that might have been a chuckle. Lance formed his small pile of clothes and hauled them to one of the washing machines, dumping them inside. He found the change machine and fed it some dollar bills, using the quarters to buy a pack of detergent from the dispenser, and then tossed this in with his clothes, thumbed quarters into the washer and started the cycle. He returned to the guy from the diner and took a seat next to him, leaving one empty chair between them.
“No work today?” Lance asked. The guy had not put his earbuds back in, so Lance didn’t want to be rude. They were, after all, two dudes just hanging out in a laundromat. Might as well make the most of it. Besides, the guy had been fairly forthcoming with information the night before.
The guy shook his head. “Nah, man. I don’t work Saturday mornings. They’re too damn busy for me, even during the off-season. The servers love it because they make big-time tips, but us in the back … it’s hell. I’ve got some seniority, so the manager works with me. Grants me this one wish, if you will.” Then, “Hey! Did you go see about a job? I checked last night after we met, just to make sure I wasn’t feeding you a bunch of bullshit, and we’re definitely looking for a part-time cook.”
“Would I have to work Saturday morning?” Lance asked dryly.
“Uh, well … you could … maybe if you—”
“I’m kidding,” Lance said. “I appreciate the offer, again, but I’m not looking for a job.”
The guy made another noise through his nostrils that was half laughter, half relief. “Nice. Yeah, it’s cool, man. So … what is it you do?”
Lance, not able to summon the energy to spin a white lie, said, “I help people.”
The guy, to his credit, took this in stride, nodding as if he understood completely. “Odd jobs here and there? Whatever people need at the time?”
This time it was Lance’s turn to chuckle. “Something like that,”
he said.
And then, from the corner of Lance’s eye, he saw a flash of black appear. His head turned hard to the left, and through the glass window at the front of the building, he saw the Ford Excursion drive by, heading away from Sand Dollar Road.
Lance was on his feet in an instant, rushing to the door and out into the crumbling parking lot. To his right, the Excursion was maybe a hundred yards away, and Lance took off after it without thinking, his sneakers pounding the asphalt without waiting for any reason or justification from his brain. The only mission was to keep the SUV in sight.
I want to know where it goes, Lance finally processed. I want to see what this person does when they’re not playing chauffeur.
But despite Lance’s long stride and his athleticism and speed, two legs were no match for four wheels and an internal combustion engine. The Excursion pulled further ahead and then made a right turn down another street. Lance slowed, jogging to the stop sign where the Excursion had turned, and then he looked down the street.
It was gone.
He walked back to the laundromat feeling like a fool. Both for causing such a scene in the laundromat in front of everyone, and also for—he was now realizing—potentially drawing attention to himself from the driver of the SUV. One glance in the rearview and they would have seen him running after them. The same guy, they would realize, from last night near the diner, and this morning near the donut shop—if they’d noticed him then, that was.
Lance had caught his breath by the time he made his way back and pushed through the door, back into the aroma of bleach and stale M&Ms.
The guy from the diner was standing at one of the tables, folding several white t-shirts and stacking them neatly. He pulled out his earbuds and said to Lance, “Ice cream truck?”
It took Lance a moment, but when he got the joke, he laughed out loud, hard. It felt good.
He walked over to the guy and shook his head. “Sorry about that. I just …”
What could he possibly say?
“You want to know where they live, don’t you?”
Lance was stunned, and his face must have shown it.
The guy from the diner made that noise again through his nose. “You’re not the first one, man. And you won’t be the last. I mean, come on, a house full of hotties? What guy wouldn’t want to see that? I gotta say, though, you don’t really strike me as a stalker perv. So what gives?”
Lance considered this question. He could appreciate the certain look he was giving off by tracking down a house full of attractive young women, and what connotation it implied. He thought about backing off a bit, trying to step his way carefully out of the manure he’d stepped in and not leave more dirty footprints. But this might also be a moment where he could spread a little good around, put into a person’s mind a willingness to help. This guy from the diner? Though he was reserved—despite his outgoing personality—Lance could feel the traces of honesty and sincerity beneath the surface. It was faint, but it was there, buried beneath hardship.
“Remember how I said I help people?” Lance asked.
The guy stopped folding his clothes and looked at Lance, readjusting his earbuds around his neck. They stood that way for a moment, the sounds of washers and dryers humming and spinning while the two men truly saw each other for the first time.
Finally, the guy asked, “Do they need help?”
Lance was honest. “I think so. But I don’t know why. What about you?”
The guy didn’t hesitate. “I think anybody who spends their days standing on a corner needs some sort of help. But even they might not know what it is.”
Lance nodded, thinking it was a brilliant analysis of human behavior. “So, can you show me where they live?”
The guy sighed, gave Lance another look, and then nodded. “Yeah, I can. It’s on my way home, so no big deal. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
That was something Lance certainly couldn’t promise, but he kept this to himself.
16
“I’m Todd, by the way,” the guy from the diner said as he and Lance stepped onto the sidewalk outside the laundromat.
“I’m Lance. Thanks again for doing this.”
Todd waved his hand. “No big deal, man. Like I said, it’s on my way home.”
They’d waited until Lance’s wash cycle had finished and he’d tossed his clothes into a dryer, thumbing more quarters in and starting the machine, which sputtered loudly to life and vibrated so much that Lance half expected the thing to start chasing them down the street. Todd, who’d finished his washing and drying for the day, had placed all his neatly folded clothes into a canvas duffle bag and then cinched it tight, slinging the strap over his shoulder and motioning for Lance to follow him.
They walked quietly together, Lance trying to figure out what exactly he hoped to gain by seeing where these young women were living, and suspecting Todd was trying to figure out whether he’d made a mistake in agreeing to show him.
“That night the manager sent me over to offer the girl that free meal, I think … I think I knew then there was something wrong,” Todd said.
Lance kept his eyes forward, anticipating the black SUV to slide out from one of the side streets and roll up on them, somehow knowing exactly what Lance and his escort were up to, ready to stop them. He was being paranoid, he knew that. But being paranoid wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, in Lance’s experience.
“What made you think that?” Lance asked. “Did she say something?”
In his peripheral vision, Lance saw Todd shake his head. “Nah, man. Like I told you before, she hardly said a word that didn’t sound like it was from a script. But … well, you could tell she was skittish, for one. Scared, in that untrusting way a dog that’s been abused gets, you know?”
Lance nodded. “Sure.”
Todd pointed to a side street, and they made the turn together. “Plus … and I’m not positive about this, because it was getting dark and the light was funny with the streetlight and the traffic light and all. But I think she had this bruise on her cheek, like, right below her eye. It looked a little puffy, and while I think she did a pretty good job of covering it with some makeup … well, I think that’s what I saw.”
Lance felt something grow in his chest, an anger that he’d need to extinguish quickly. “And you don’t think she fell down some stairs or walked into a door, do you?”
Todd sighed, as if he knew he was getting into a conversation that he’d tried to avoid for a long time now. “No,” he said. “I don’t think it was an accident.” And then, after a long pause, “Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean that whatever happened to her is happening to all these girls, or is even remotely related to whatever it is they’re actually doing out there on the street—because, let’s face it, you and I both know there’s more going on here than just selling knock-off-brand soda. Maybe she’s got a boyfriend who got pissy one night, or one of the other girls slugged her because she ate her Lean Cuisine or some shit like that. I mean, catfights can get vicious, man, you know?”
Lance said nothing, letting Todd finish his rambling.
“But I guess it’s just a feeling I got, man. The way she looked at me, and the way that bruise seemed to stand out on her face.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I guess from that night on, I always had this little idea that while I probably wouldn’t condone whatever it is they were doing, nobody deserves to get abused.”
Lance thought for a bit as they walked. The houses along this street were nicer, well kept. Most had freshly painted shutters and lawns that still looked respectable despite the weather. Newer-model cars in driveways. Basketball hoops here and there. The sound of the rubber ball bouncing on asphalt causing Lance’s head to swing to the left, where he found two teenage boys playing a game of HORSE. It’d been a long time since he’d shot a ball. He found that he was starting to crave it.
Soon, he thought. The next chance I get.
Lance cleared his throat and brought his thoughts back to the
present. “I’ve always liked the word condone,” he said.
Todd turned and looked at him. “What?”
“You said you probably wouldn’t condone whatever it is the girls are doing. I’m just saying I’ve always liked that word … condone.” He shrugged. “It just sounds good, and it’s fun to say.”
Todd made that noise through his nose again. “You were a dork in high school, weren’t you?”
Lance made a maybe/maybe not gesture with his hand, then said, “All-State basketball, four years in a row. But I also read a lot.”
Todd nodded. “Nice combo.” Then he pointed to the left when they’d reached another intersection. “This way.”
They crossed the street and Lance nodded toward the nicer homes that surrounded them. “You live in a house like this?”
Todd shook his head. “Yeah, on my part-time diner cook’s wages, I can afford a single-family home with a yard, yet every Saturday morning, I still walk all this way to the nearest coin laundry, where I’ve chosen to lounge for two hours.”
“Point taken,” Lance said, sensing Todd’s sarcasm for what it truly was. A deflection. A defense against his truth.
“I rent one half a duplex with two other dudes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not a shithole or anything, but this”—he nodded to the neighborhood—“this only goes another couple blocks, then you’re right back into minimum-wage-ville.”
Lance stopped walking, his sneakers nearly skidding on the sidewalk. Todd turned to look at him and then followed Lance’s gaze across the street. Then recognition set in.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Lance asked, staring at the house.
“How in the hell did you know that?” Todd said, ignoring the house and looking directly at Lance.
Lance heard the question, but he had no answer. Not one that wouldn’t create even more suspicion. He’d opened up to Todd as much as he was willing to for now, and what he’d told the guy, while it wasn’t exactly a lie—he was here to help these girls, if he could—it certainly was nowhere near the entire truth.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 9