And his feet hit the ground, and just like that he was standing on the sidewalk outside of room five, the morning air smelling sweet like honey. A Ford Explorer was parked in front of the room, dirty from travel. Murry was there, a foot or two away. He grabbed the doorknob and turned it. Found it locked and cursed, reaching into one of his pockets, then the other, coming up empty. Another curse. Followed by him pounding on the door three times with enough force to sound like thunder in the quiet morning. He yelled, “Sir, can you hear me?”
He’s got a master key, Lance thought. He left it in the office. In reality—or rather, the present—Lance would have sprinted back to the office in search of Murry’s key, doing whatever he could to help. But here, he was essentially useless.
“Here.” It was the girl, suddenly right beside Lance and holding out her room key attached to the plastic key chain, just like the one Lance had been given. Lance gave her credit for remembering to grab it before she’d left the room. Couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for her, waking up and finding her father dead. To keep her composure the way she was spoke volumes to her maturity.
Murry snatched the key from the girl’s hand and nearly knocked the door off its hinges as he flung it open and called out, “Sir! Sir, I’m one of the owners! Can you hear me?”
Lance stepped across the threshold, grateful he wouldn’t have to subject himself to another episode of “passing through.” Murry was beside the bed closest to the door, saying, “Ah, shit. Ah, shit.”
Lance moved to the foot of the bed and looked down at the man, who was definitely dead.
The first thing that crossed Lance’s mind was the man had had a nightmare and died from fright. His arms and legs were splayed out at awkward angles—not broken, but as if he were trying to form a human swastika—like he’d been struggling against something, fighting something no longer there. His eyes were frozen wide open, blood-red from broken vessels, glossed over, lifeless. But it was his mouth that gave the true account of the man’s death. His lips were slightly parted and crusty with dried vomit that looked like apple cinnamon oatmeal. The vomit had also dried in a drizzle down the side of his cheek before forming a small pool just below his chin.
Murry reached down and gently touched his fingers to the side of the man’s neck—the side without the vomit, Lance noted—checking for a pulse. After a long time, long enough that Lance knew Murry was desperately pleading for the man’s heart to give off a beat and turn this nightmare into something more tolerable, something that could be salvaged, he pulled his fingers away and shook his head. “Ah, shit.”
Lance figured one of two things had happened. One, the man had gotten sick—drunk maybe, or taken too much of some sort of drug—and hadn’t had the presence of mind to roll over once it’d started and had ended up choking to death on his own puke. Or two, he’d been poisoned and had been dying anyway while his body had fought to expel whatever toxic substance had infected it. Both options were terrible, horrific ways to die, but Lance Brody had seen enough of the evil in the world to know that either was extremely plausible. There had to be a story here, because Lance doubted very much the Universe would make the effort to drag him back in time just to show him a man die of natural causes.
Plus, there was the motel to consider. This was the fourth person Lance had seen dead since checking in. This man was part of the story.
Or maybe it’s not the man … maybe it’s the—
“He’s dead, right?” The girl had been standing in the opened doorway, and Lance turned and saw her, silhouetted by the sun, take form as she walked slowly closer, one cautious step at a time, as if at any moment, the man on the bed might suddenly spring to life and shout Gotcha!
She had her hands pulled inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt, and it hit Lance that it was awfully warm outside for her to be wearing such heavy clothing. Pajama pants to bed were one thing, but a sweatshirt in what felt like summer?
Is she hiding something?
Lance looked back to the corpse on the bed. Considered how the girl didn’t seem to be upset at all that her father was dead. Then she was there, standing right next to Lance and asking again, “Sir, he’s dead, right? I … I felt for a heartbeat, too, just like you. I didn’t feel one.”
What did he do to you? Lance wanted to ask. What did your own father do?
Murry stepped away from the head of the bed and positioned himself in such a way that he was blocking the girl’s view of her father’s body. “I think so, darling. I’m so sorry.” Then he put a hand on her shoulder and asked, “Do you have any idea what happened?”
The girl looked briefly at Murry’s hand on her shoulder, then shook her head. “No, sir. I went to sleep last night, and he was like that when I woke up.”
Murry nodded. “Of course, of course. I’m so, so sorry. Come now, let’s get you out of this room and we’ll get this figured out, okay? Are you hungry? I’ll see if my wife can make you some breakfast while I make some phone calls. Say, how old are you, anyway?”
“Twelve, sir.”
Murry looked as surprised as Lance felt. “Twelve? My goodness. Aren’t you a pretty thing? Come on now, I think there’s some bacon and eggs left.”
Murry motioned for the girl to follow him to the door, but as he took his first step, a tall figure stepped into the doorway, blotting out the light. “Wait,” the figure said.
And Lance knew the voice very well.
It was the copy-and-paste boy.
16
(1993)
Robert Shifflett stood in the shower for a very long time. He’d washed himself thoroughly and then let the water, which he’d cranked up to just shy of scalding, beat at his muscles—his shoulders and back and neck—before he’d placed his palms flat against the front wall of the shower stall and leaned forward and let it hit him like a laser beam atop his skull. The hot water seemed to help his migraines. If he stood like this, with his head being assaulted by the near-scalding water, all the pain in his brain seemed to melt away, replaced by the oddest sense of relief that crawled out from the heat.
He thought about the day. About the press conference and all the people who’d rushed to him after it was over to shake his hand and give their thanks. “It’s a team effort,” he kept telling them all. “We all worked hard on this.”
The reporters had been next, waiting around like vultures circling roadkill until all the regular citizens had finished picking at him and then they could swoop in for the leftovers. The questions hit him like rapid-fire darts, the things they hadn’t been able to ask during the presser, too fast and furious for him to give anybody a good answer.
Where do you go looking for these people? How do you know where to start? This is the third one you’ve arrested in two years. Do you think there’s many more around here?
This last one almost made him chuckle, but he had the smarts not to let it through. Many more? Of course there’s many more. There’s probably one among you right now. These ignorant people thought that the criminals he and his task force went after were like finding a unicorn in the woods—something mythical and rare and hardly seen.
In reality, these monsters were more like deer. Everywhere, hiding in plain sight and waiting to jump out at you when you’d least expect it. Most of them too dumb to understand the consequences.
But Robert had done his job, doing his best to professionally answer what he could and then give the sheriff a look of gratitude when he’d finally stepped in and said he thought that was enough for now, and that they’d given out all the information they were willing to at this time.
Robert had finished up his day’s work, stopped by the pizza place to grab dinner, and then driven home to his baby girl. Which was all he’d wanted to do all day. Be with her, keep her safe.
The water started to get lukewarm, and Robert was forced to abandon the relief the shower had temporarily provided. He dried off quickly, and by the time he’d put on his sweatpants and t-shirt, his head was starting to
throb again, a dull ache that he knew would soon blossom into fireworks behind his eyes.
He found Alexa on the couch watching television—some weird cartoon with a talking wallaby and yellow cow that was standing upright on two legs. She’d changed into her pajamas, which at this age were baggy checked pajama pants and a tank top. Her feet were bare. Her toes painted purple. Robert stood in the doorway watching her silently for just a couple seconds, as long as he could get away with before she’d notice him standing there. He could already imagine her turning to see him, rolling her eyes and saying, “Dad, why are you creepin’?”
But Robert couldn’t help it. He was constantly in awe of his daughter’s beauty. Astonished at how big she’d gotten and—his eyes fell to the neckline of her tank top—how much she’d developed.
He put on a goofy dad grin and walked in. “Mind if I watch with you?”
She smiled back at him, and his heart nearly melted. He sat next to her and wrapped his arm around her, and she snuggled into his chest. And together they watched the silly cartoon, and Robert was never happier than he was in these moments.
* * *
Two hours later, after three cartoons and a brief reprieve of SportsCenter that Alexa had allowed him as her eyes had started to get heavy and Robert felt her breathing begin to change as she drifted off to sleep against his chest, Robert said it was time for bed. He watched as she stumbled half-asleep down the hall and brushed her teeth with all the enthusiasm of a zombie and then told him goodnight and that she loved him and slid into her bedroom and closed the door.
Robert felt a twinge of sadness at the sight of the closed door. It seemed like just yesterday she’d had to sleep with it open and the hallway light on because she was afraid of the dark. Robert had done what every parent does in trying to assure her there was nothing in the house that was going to get her, and that all the scary stuff she might have seen on TV was just make-believe and that she was safe.
He didn’t tell her—not at that age, anyway—that the real monsters were other people. And they were out there, waiting for pretty girls like her.
Robert put a hand on his daughter’s closed door, whispered again, “Goodnight, baby girl,” and then started toward the bedroom at the back of the house that he’d converted into his office. It was the farthest room from Alexa’s.
His headache had subsided a bit while they’d been watching television, and he had to wonder if his love for his daughter produced some sort of chemical reaction in his body that combated the migraine. It wouldn’t surprise him. Alexa was that special. But now, Robert could feel it rearing its ugly head again, its claws out and teeth sharpened, ready to bite and scratch and torment him all night long. He pulled the pill bottle from the pocket of his sweatpants and dry-swallowed two more pills. His doctor had warned him early on about taking it easy with them, how if one or two didn’t work, there was no sense in taking more, it would only do more damage than good.
Robert didn’t care. Maybe it was a placebo effect, but in his head, more pills meant more chances of relief.
He opened the door to his office and switched on the lights. Shut the door behind him and locked it, checked to make sure the blackout curtains were still in place on the window, double-checked the door lock again, and then crossed the room and sat at the computer desk.
The sheriff’s department had developed the task force a little over two years ago, and when Robert had been asked if he’d liked to be assigned to it—one of the very few the sheriff felt completely confident in asking, he’d been told—Robert’s heart rate had kicked up and a surge of adrenaline had rushed through his veins and he’d agreed before he had fully realized the possibilities.
Or the consequences.
He was propelled by his eagerness to prove himself, maybe get a promotion, a pay raise.
And also by his need to avoid getting caught. By the department and the bad guys. By saying yes, he’d instantly become somewhat of a double agent. Both the fish, and the fisherman.
And it had been easier than he’d ever imagined. Robert was smart, careful and calculated. He lived in the world of shadows, where the very monsters he was hunting showed off their prey, blended in and acted as if he belonged. Shared their trophies, and he shared with them his own.
But he was different. He knew that. Deep down, his motivations were much more poetic than the carnal desires and fantasies of his fellow shadow-dwellers. The language they used when discussing their shared interests was so crude and vulgar and simply unsophisticated.
Robert was in it for the beauty. Marveled over how purity and innocence could mesh together to form such magnificent, gorgeous bodies. To Robert, the whole thing was about the art. About capturing life’s greatest specimens and putting them on display.
And it was this viewpoint that allowed him to rise himself above his fellow men and women—because yes, there were women among the shadows, too—and use his intelligence and his resources to seamlessly coexist in both their world and his own, to fulfill his own desires of love and purity and respect while also exposing the most vile and disgusting creatures among the crowd and subtly luring them into the arms of the law, where society would judge them accordingly and they would pay oh so dearly for their misguided philosophies.
Computers and the Internet had been the game-changer. Without them, Robert’s success and ability to live in both worlds would have been drastically diminished. In the old way, telegrams and coded letters and phone calls from pay phones and secret drop spots behind dumpsters and rendezvous exchanges in secluded public locations had been the way of life. You had to be present, you had to go out to get the goods. To meet people. To conduct business.
But now, you could do it all from behind a locked door in a room at the back of your house, behind an alias, aka username, that didn’t betray a single identifying detail about yourself if you didn’t want it to. Instead of the letters and telegrams and phone calls, now there were chat rooms and message boards and the Mosaic web browser. Instead of manila folders sealed away in garbage bags and zippered freezer bags duct-taped to known drop spots, now there were privately hosted FTP servers that could hold the contents of a thousand manila folders, sitting patiently and secure, waiting for anyone who had the key to come inside and look around.
And you never had to go rooting around in some trash can in a public park to get to it. You just had to punch a few keys on the keyboard and you had it all.
Robert fired up the computer and waited for his modem to connect and then quickly checked a few or his favorite message boards, just scanning to see if there was anything—or anybody—new or of interest. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to be conducting any sort of official police business off-duty, especially work related to the task force, for obvious reasons. But, hey, it was because of him that the task force had had any success at all.
Robert felt no guilt. He was one of the good guys.
Exhausted and ready for sleep, he was about to shut the computer down and head to bed when a ferocious stab of pain shot through his head, making him double over and cry out softly. He reached for the pill bottle in his pocket and then looked back to the computer screen.
Besides the hot showers and the pills, there was another thing that always caused temporary relief, allowed his mind to drift away from the pain.
Robert used the mouse and clicked through some of his onscreen folders until he located his special one. His most favorite. The most beautiful of his collection. He opened a few of the files and instantly felt himself begin to grow hard. Slipped a hand beneath the waist of his sweatpants.
When he was finished, he cleaned up, shut down the computer, and then went to bed.
He said a prayer, thanking the Lord for another day of keeping his daughter safe.
17
The copy-and-paste boy, his looming figure in the doorway stepping forward and coming fully into view, didn’t even glance at the dead body on the motel room’s bed. He didn’t look at Murry, and of course he didn’t
look at Lance. Though Lance wished he would have. Wished the boy would notice him and introduce himself and say, “Hey there, we sure do have a lot to talk about.”
Instead, the boy’s focus was completely dedicated to the girl, who’d turned around at the sound of the boy’s voice.
“Wait,” he’d said.
And they had. All three of them.
He stepped into the room and gave the girl the gentlest of smiles. Her face lit up in return, the first real bit of emotion Lance had seen from her. As if the tall and lanky stranger with the sharp cheekbones coming to join them was the Prince Charming she’d been waiting for. And in some way that Lance knew he would not be able to explain or articulate, he figured maybe the boy was. He might not have ridden to her on a gallant steed, climbed a tower or slain a dragon, but at some level he might be there to rescue her, all the same. From what Lance had already seen of the boy’s past, and based on the conversation he’d overheard between the boy and Meriam, Lance doubted very much that the boy was here in this room by accident.
Then, with a creeping feeling of stark understanding, a trickle of dread that wove into his thoughts, Lance turned and looked back to the body on the bed. The girl’s dead father.
Maybe there was a dragon slain, Lance thought. But how, and by whom? The boy?
“Hi,” the boy said, collapsing down onto one knee so he could be more at eye level with the girl. “What’s your name?”
The girl’s entire physique seemed to soften, her muscles relaxing. Maybe it was because the boy was closer to her own age than Murry, some level of comfort that would only be achieved via a peer. Or maybe it was just because the boy was the boy, whatever that meant. But Lance knew it meant something.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 31