He sighed. The next and final test was the one he was more concerned about. Lance had never ingested any illegal substances—nor, really, any diet soda. His mother had always been very against sodas—but he knew the only way he could allow himself to believe he’d thoroughly explored every possible facet of this mysterious can was to go through with a taste test. Hey, if pot brownies were a thing, why not infuse soda with something? It was possible, right?
He had no idea. But he knew he was going to have to try. He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink and held up the can in a toast. “Well, Lance, here’s to you. Good luck.”
He took the tiniest sip he could manage.
Tasted nothing but syrup and artificial sweetener.
It was disgusting. Yet it tasted exactly like he expected it should.
He made a frustrated noise from deep down in his throat and then, after only the slightest hesitation, tipped the can to his lips and chugged a third of it.
How long do I give it? he wondered. Five minutes? Ten?
In the end, he waited fifteen minutes, sitting on the floor with his back against the glass wall of the shower stall, waiting for his body or mind to react. Waited for the room to start spinning or to start hallucinating aliens taking a poop on the toilet. Waiting for anything that might signal there was something foreign in his system.
After fifteen minutes, he felt exactly the same, except for the tingling in his legs from where they’d started to fall asleep. He stood up and dumped the rest of the soda down the drain, turning on the hot water tap and rinsing away the remnants. Then he rinsed the inside of the can as well before feeling ridiculous as he closed one eye and then squinted, trying to look inside, as if there might be a message inscribed on the interior walls. Of course, he could see nothing, especially without some sort of flashlight.
I need to cut it open.
He left the bathroom and returned to his room, tossing the empty and well-rinsed can onto the bed and then unzipping the small side pouch of his backpack, where he kept his pocket knife. He pulled it free from the Velcro strap that kept it in place and then opened the blade. He reached for the can and—
Noticed the tiny words stamped on the underside of the can, where one usually found the packaging and expiration date. It looked … wrong.
Lance scooped up the can and read the words, red and faint and stamped on almost haphazardly.
It was not a packaging or expiration date.
The top line of text was a website address that looked odd, but it was certainly not the website for the soda manufacturer. The bottom line was a series of twelve characters comprised of random letters and numbers.
Lance did not own a computer, and not even—again, much to his increasing chagrin—a smartphone with a built-in web browser. He could try and find a library, or maybe see if Loraine Linklatter had a computer with Internet he could use, but he had a feeling that whatever this strange-looking web address led to might not be something he wanted random persons to see him browsing. No, this needed to be done in private, just in case.
Lance sat on the bed for a long time, staring at the bottom of the soda can in his hand and thinking about whether or not he should do what he was thinking.
On one hand, it seemed to go against what he’d been believing to be the best way to handle things. For her protection, he’d said, knowing there was a lot of truth to that statement. But on the other hand, when he really thought about the logistics of what he was asking here, he didn’t see how it would actually cause her any physical danger, nor connect her directly to him.
In the end, he decided he would ask her. And he would hate himself forever if it turned out he was wrong.
He found his cell phone and typed out the message, hitting Send and feeling an odd sense of liberation, as if he were suddenly breaking free of a snare that had been holding him back. But along with that feeling came a sudden sense of anticipation that bordered on nervousness. When his phone chirped a couple minutes later, he actually felt his heartrate kick up as he punched the buttons to bring up the new message he’d received. He read it.
Leah: Sure! But I’m pulling a double and can’t till after my shift tonight. That cool?
Lance smiled. Yeah, he thought. That’s completely cool.
He sent his response and then closed his phone, tossing it on the bed next to him and leaning his head back, letting his eyes close. He was all at once very comfortable, very relaxed. Even though he knew it couldn’t be possible, he could swear he could hear the waves crashing on the surf.
The nap began to envelop him, and he didn’t fight it.
HER
(II)
Annabelle’s Apron was busier than usual for a Saturday night in Westhaven, where Friday nights were usually the big tip nights, as it seemed like half the town piled in to scarf down some burgers or steaks or a full stack of pancakes for dinner before rushing back out the door and over to the high school to watch the football game (or basketball, once the seasons switched), leaving the waitresses and kitchen staff buried beneath mountains of dirty dishes and an all-at-once-silent dining room.
Once the game started, nobody came in. That was an exaggeration, of course. They did get the handful of regular customers who understood the routine and waited on purpose for the game to start before venturing out for a quiet dinner, the sounds of air horns blaring and the siren from the ambulance whoop-whooping after every Westhaven touchdown still audible, even way out at the diner. But this meager crowd of non-sports enthusiasts was nothing compared to the army that had preceded it.
Or maybe Annabelle’s Apron wasn’t that busy for a Saturday night, not really. Maybe it just seemed that way to Leah, because for the first time in several weeks, she had something she was desperately looking forward to once her shift ended and she’d wiped down her last table and rolled her last bundle of silverware. Something other than a hot shower and an evening binge-watching Netflix.
The text message from Lance had come in right as the lunch rush was winding down—no Ghostbusters alert tone in the diner, though. Margie was very strict about personal cell phone noises in the dining room, said it was unprofessional. Leah had felt the vibration from her phone in her back pocket and snuck a glance at it while she waited for a fresh pot of coffee to finish brewing.
She smiled. Couldn’t help it.
After her night of tossing and turning in her bed, getting little sleep, all because she felt like she’d crossed a line, broken one of their unspoken relationship rules and potentially ruined what little momentum they’d been gaining, she’d been happy to get his message in the morning. It was simple and casual and to the point—Just like him, she’d thought, feeling that warmth in her chest—but she also couldn’t help but feel it was forced. Like maybe he was still slightly peeved or put off by her questions, but wanted to play nice about it so as to not make her feel bad.
God, Leah, you’re being such a girl, she’d chastised herself as she got ready for work. Stop reading so much into this.
But she couldn’t help it. Lance was special, she could feel that in every bone of her body, and more importantly, he’d seemed to think she was special, too, and treated her like he did. Which, Leah reasoned with herself, was probably the most special thing of all. There was something between them. And she didn’t ever want to let that go.
Which was why the message she’d gotten at the diner had made her so happy. It was as if the conversation of the previous night and this morning’s had been wiped clean, and they were starting fresh.
Lance: Hey there, I have a favor to ask you, whenever you have time to talk. Probably better to call instead of text.
Not the most romantic of messages, she knew that, but it was a message all the same. He wanted to talk to her.
She’d responded, telling him it would have to wait till after the dinner shift. There was part of her that badly wanted to call him on her thirty-minute break in between lunch and dinner shifts, but that was when she ate and chatted with t
he other waitresses, and while honestly none of those things mattered so much that she would mind skipping them, she didn’t want to have to constrain whatever conversation she and Lance needed to have to a defined window of time.
And something else told her she would probably want some privacy. She doubted very much that Lance would be calling her to ask something he wanted everyone to know about. Otherwise, he could have very easily asked somebody else, wherever he was.
So, she kept herself busy. Rolled her silverware and helped clean the countertops and started reorganizing the shelves of condiments with such focus that Margie stopped by and stared for a moment, as if trying to come up with some sort of witty retort about Leah’s sudden burst of Look what a good employee I am, but in the end she just nodded, satisfied, and went to refill Hank Peterson’s coffee.
Finally, her last table left. Leah cleared away the dirty dishes, wiped the table down, bade farewell to Margie and Hank and the other two waitresses who were working the closing shift, and then nearly sprinted out the door with one arm in her jacket and the other one out.
The walk back to her studio apartment, which she normally enjoyed—especially in the crisp evenings when the temperatures began to drop—seemed to take a very long time.
* * *
She forced herself to take a shower, wanting to cleanse herself of the lingering smell of grease and coffee and bleach, and then, once she’d dried herself and dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, switching on the little space heater next to her bed, she leaned back against her pillows, stretched her legs out, getting comfortable, and called him.
Put the phone to her ear and listened as it rang, hearing the blood pumping through her head as her heart kicked up a beat or two. It suddenly felt very strange, to actually be calling him, about to speak to him after all this time. She was oddly nervous, even though she knew she had no reason to be. It was just Lance. After what they’d been through, after what he’d done for Leah and her father—and the entire town, really—she would have thought nerves were something she wouldn’t have to worry about.
She heard the connection pick up on the other end. Then, his voice: “Thank goodness you called.”
Her heart dropped. Worry set in. “Why? What’s wrong?”
She heard what sounded like him yawning. “I was taking maybe the best nap ever, and if you hadn’t called, I might have slept right through dinner.”
Her brain, slow on the uptake, not expecting the humor after being so frozen with dread, finally allowed her to laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m serious,” he said, though she heard the playfulness in his voice. “When my blood sugar gets low … watch out. I’m useless and grumpy and generally unpleasant. So I’ve been told.”
“You’re an idiot,” she said again, wondering if he can hear the smile beaming on her face.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve imagined what we might say to each other, once we finally got to talk again, and I have to say, I wasn’t predicting so many insults.”
“So you’ve been fantasizing about me, is that what you’re saying?” Leah sat up on the bed, loving how easily they were falling back in stride, wondering why on earth she’d been nervous.
Silence from his end.
She took advantage. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you have been. I’m pretty amazing, you know.”
There was another beat of silence, but then he offered: “Yes. Yes, you are.” And the sincerity she heard through the speaker filled her with adoration.
“I’ve missed you,” he said. “Missed talking to you.”
“Me too,” she said. And they enjoyed this moment between them, the space between pleasantries and what they both knew was the real reason for the call. The favor he’d alluded to earlier.
“So what is it you want me to do?” she asked, taking the lead.
He was quiet for several seconds, and Leah wondered if he was now second-guessing his idea, had decided that maybe reaching out to her wasn’t the right thing to do. But then he started talking. He told her everything—not where he was, but about the girls with the coolers and the feeling he was getting and about the soda can and the web address with the code he’d found.
And then he told her about the suicides, how it seemed to be a pandemic, and to make things worse, there might be somebody helping things along.
“I don’t think they’re related,” he told her. “The girls and the suicides, I mean. But…” He paused. “I think I’m here for both. I think I’m supposed to help with all of it.”
Leah absorbed it all, marveled at the potential scope of it. “How?” she asked incredulously.
He actually laughed out loud at this. “I never know,” he says. “Until I do.”
Leah heard this answer and had a difficult time comprehending the selflessness of this man’s life, his daily actions. She’d only met him as he’d saved her town from a great Evil, but she knew he’d done so much before her, and there was no telling how much more good he’d spread, how many more people he’d save after.
She shook her head. “What great things you do, Lance.” She meant these words with every bit of her being but fully expected some sort of witty or sarcastic remark from him, a downplaying of his own abilities. But instead … just silence. Long and drawn out and so jarring that Leah pulled the phone away from her face to check the screen and make sure the call hadn’t gotten disconnected.
“Lance?” she asked. “Are you still there?”
She heard him swallow, an audible click in his throat, and then take a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “I’m here. Sorry, it’s just…” He trailed off, and silence replaced the words again.
“What is it?”
A pause. Then, “My mother. She said almost the exact same thing to me the night she died.”
“Oh, Lance, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I just …”
“It’s okay,” he told her. “Really. It’s actually … well, it’s okay, trust me. It just sorta, you know, caught me off guard.”
She said nothing. What could she say?
There was silence again, a moment of refocusing, before Leah decided to push forward. Asked, “So what can I do to help?”
He told her, stressing over and over again that she didn’t have to. That he’d completely understand if she didn’t want to get involved in any way. She dismissed his caution for her and joked that if he’d at least gone and gotten himself a smartphone, he could have taken care of this himself.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’ll put one on my Christmas list, alright?”
And suddenly Leah was overwhelmed by one of the saddest images she’d ever conjured. She pictured Lance alone, sitting in some run-down motel—much like the one she’d met him in, the one she used to run with her father—with nobody to share the holidays with. No family. No friends.
“I’ll do it,” she blurted, trying to push back the tears that had surprised her. “I’ll check it out and let you know what I find.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving her the web address and the code he’d found. She put him on speakerphone and typed these into the Notes app on her phone.
“Got it,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you soon. And, Leah?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful?”
She said she would, and then they hung up.
19
Lance ended the call and flipped his phone shut, bathing himself in darkness. The little sliver of screen on the top of his phone displayed the time, and he saw it was half past eight. He sat up in the bed, reaching out for the bedside light and switching it on. Rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the edge, marveling at how long he’d slept.
When was the last time you napped like that?
He didn’t know. A long time, for sure. But the bed was comfortable, and the setting peaceful. Despite his being needed here—for by now, he knew it was no accident he’d ended up in Sugar Beach—he had to wonder if the Universe was allowing him to rest, as
well. And because of that, he wondered if this much-needed sleep was a reward for hard work done thus far, or preparation for a tough battle ahead. He chose not to debate the issue.
It’d felt so good to hear her voice. A swirl of emotions had stirred, taking him by surprise as he’d been jarred awake by his phone’s robotic ringtone and had seen her name flash across the tiny screen. He’d answered, and after all these weeks … it’d been like no time had passed at all.
How he’d missed her.
But now, even though he’d felt confident in asking, had assured himself there would be no harm in the matter, he felt guilty for getting her involved, even in such a seemingly anonymous way.
His stomach grumbled, and he pushed the negative thoughts away. Pulled on his sneakers and went out into the hallway, stopping at the restroom before heading down the stairs to the foyer.
The house was quiet and still. He stood there, by the front door, hearing nothing but the ticking of the clock and the hum of electricity burning in the lights.
“Hello?” he called out.
Nothing.
He shrugged, walked to the kitchen and found a note written on the digital screen of the high-tech refrigerator. The handwriting was flowy, with lots of loops. A woman’s writing.
Lance, went out for a bit. Make yourself at home. – L
Loraine Linklatter was a very trusting person, it seemed. Leaving him, a stranger, all alone in her large home. But, Lance supposed, that was the sort of risk you took on when you decided to operate a B&B. He reached for the fridge’s door handle, ready to retrieve his sub sandwich from earlier, and just as he was about to pull the door open, something on the digital screen caught his eye. There, along the left side of the screen in the Notes application where Loraine had scrawled her message, was a list of other saved notes, one of which was labeled TAKE-OUT AND DELIVERY FOOD.
Lance selected the note, Loraine’s written message disappearing and a new note opening. A short typed-out list of restaurants and phone numbers was displayed, obviously meant to help guests who were in search of food. Lance, who’d been ready to unapologetically devour his sub, found his eyes instantly landing on one item on the list. Frank’s Pizza. And before he even knew what he was doing, his cell phone was in hand and he’d ordered a large pie loaded with meats and veggies. Not knowing his actual address, he’d simply said he was staying at the Boundary House, and the man on the phone said his food would be there in twenty minutes.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 11