The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4

by Robertson Jr, Michael

  Meriam looked as though she were going to say something and then stopped. Instead, she pushed her chair away from the table and walked to the bedroom, disappearing out of sight, replaced with the sounds of a drawer opening and some things being shoved aside. She returned a moment later with something small and white in her hand. “Here,” she said, handing the thing to Lance. “You can have it.”

  Lance took the object from her—a folded white piece of paper, yellowed with age. Meriam’s name scribbled across the front. The letter from the dead woman in room one.

  “She was very nice,” Meriam said. “We chatted a bit when she first arrived. She seemed very sad, and I was trying to be friendly and cheer her up. I don’t know why she addressed the letter to me instead of Quinten. I assume it’s because she thought it would be me or Murry that would find her.” Meriam shrugged. “Anyway, I used to read it whenever I wanted to remember how pure Quinten was. How much good there was in him.” And then, like a switch being flipped, Meriam’s eyes filled with tears again and she spoke through a sob, saying, “I never even showed it to him. I was so selfish. I thought … I … I didn’t want him to feel responsible for her, for that woman killing herself. I know he did, still. Probably would have either way. She thought the letter would make it better, but I thought it would have only rubbed salt on the wound. Yet there I was, all these years reading the letter for my own comfort. What a terrible person I am.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks and said, “God, all I ever tried to do was protect him, and look where it got me. In the end, none of it mattered. He’s still dead. And I’m alone with nothing but time to think about it.”

  Lance stood and slid the letter into his pocket, sensing it was time for him to leave. He could offer Meriam nothing more to set her mind at ease, and he felt there wasn’t anything else she could tell him that would be useful.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For the talk and for the coffee. I’m sorry we had to meet this way, but I want you to know I do appreciate what you’ve been able to tell me, and I’m truly sorry about Quinten. I don’t know what lies beyond, but I hope you get to see him again someday.”

  Lance turned to leave, but as he reached the door to head back into the office area, Meriam called out, “You … you aren’t going to turn me in, are you? About Murry killing those people, about us hiding it all these years?”

  Lance gave her a sad smile. “Trust me,” he said.

  And then he slid out the door into the office, quickly and quietly grabbing the one thing he needed before he made his way outside, back into the snow.

  28

  The wind had died down to barely a breeze, not even enough to cause a rustle from the trees. The snowfall had reduced itself to scattered flakes, drifting down solo, like stragglers trying to catch up with the rest of the pack. The clouds were rolling out, revealing the sky above. The moon was fading away, a dimmed spotlight on the parking lot. Soon it would be morning, the sun cresting the horizon and burning open a start to a new day. But for now, everything was still and quiet and calm.

  Meriam crept from the office the few short steps to room one’s door. She stopped, startled to find that the window blinds were up and the curtains open, allowing her to look right in. Her first instinct was to drop down, quick, and hopefully unseen. But it was too late. She’d already come this far; anything other than acting completely normal would be suspicious. So, she stood, braved a look in through the window, and then let out a sigh of relief.

  The room was dark except for the flicking light of the television, which was showing an old sitcom that had gone off the air. She couldn’t remember the name, but she knew it was about a big family living in one big house. The American Dream, some might say. But not hers, not Murry’s either. They’d liked being just the two of them, way out here with nobody to bother them, running their own business, being their own bosses. And they’d had Quinten, their nephew who was really more like their son. The three of them had been all the family they needed. It had been perfect, in a lot of ways. Not always easy, but perfect, still.

  Until tragedy had reached its ugly and gnarled hand from the ground and snatched Quinten away from them.

  But until that day, they’d all been so strong together. And while losing Quinten had temporarily weakened her and Murry’s resolve, they’d eventually decided together that the two of them moping around, blaming themselves, blaming others, being consumed by Quinten’s death, would be the exact opposite of what their nephew would have wanted. So they pushed on, tried to live a happy life together the way they had before. They talked of Quinten fondly and often, hoping that the pain would eventually subside and the memories would allow themselves to be brought forth without the veil of sorrow surrounding them.

  After the police investigation had concluded—all too fast, in her and Murry’s opinion—they’d repaired room six and then considered it open for business once more.

  But Meriam never allowed it to be occupied again. She wasn’t sure why. Best she could figure, it was just her own way of preserving a part of her nephew. It was almost as if room six had become hallowed ground in her eyes. She never went in herself, either. She’d made Murry go in to clean and change the sheets and everything else that went along with the rooms’ upkeep, regardless of occupancy, but once he’d passed away, she’d kept the door locked and tried not to think about what might be growing behind it.

  The worst part, though, the part that sometimes made her ill with guilt—even more so than when she’d decided to blame herself for Quinten’s death—was the part of her that sometimes felt her life had actually gotten easier since they’d lost him. Because with Quinten no longer around, she suddenly found it much easier to keep his secrets. To keep all their secrets. The evidence—or rather, anybody who might be searching for it—had essentially died with Quinten.

  Murry had done a good job of getting rid of the bodies and the vehicles. He’d lived in the area his whole life, hunting and fishing and hiking and exploring every inch of the forest and mountains. He’d known exactly where to go, and it must have been a good place, because as far as Meriam knew, neither the Backstroms nor the cop had ever been found.

  She’d kept her secrets for so long. First to protect her nephew’s memory, and then later to protect her husband’s.

  Meriam looked through the motel room’s window at the bulky shape hidden beneath the comforter. She thought the guy was right, that he and Quinten really would have liked to meet each other, and it was tragic that their paths had never crossed. She wondered how many others like them there might be. Tried not to think about what impact there might be if there was soon going to be one less.

  Because even though she’d willingly told the guy her story in a long-overdue moment of catharsis, a story that he’d already figured out on his own, her motel had been home to her family’s secrets for a long, long time.

  And she intended to keep it that way.

  She gripped the knife tightly in one hand and with the other slid her master key gently into the lock on the door, glancing out the side of her eye as she did so, looking for any movement from the shape beneath the comforter. Once inside, she’d have to control her emotions, not let her adrenaline rush her, making her sloppy. She needed just a few good strikes, right in the chest and neck. That should do it. That should be enough to end him quick.

  The door unlocked and she pushed inside, quietly closing the door behind her, not wanting the cold to rush inside and wake him.

  She took a moment to let her eyes adjust, the light from the television helping to light her way. The volume on the set was turned way down, and suddenly her own breathing sounded very loud. She closed her eyes, counted slowly to ten, inhaling and exhaling with each count.

  I have to do this, she thought. For Quinten. For Murry. For us.

  And then she was moving across the room, as if on air. Floating. She was in front the bed, looking down at the shape beneath the comforter. He’d pulled the blanket completely up and over his head, like a chi
ld who was hiding from the monsters.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the room, feeling emotions overrun her, the warmth of tears on her cheeks.

  She raised the knife high, feeling herself transition from accomplice to murderer, and then brought it down, throwing all her weight into it, wanting to bury the blade deep, wanting to make sure she got the job done.

  Turned out, it was a wasted effort. Because the blade met almost no resistance at all, slicing through the shape beneath the comforter before plunging into the mattress, all the way to the hilt.

  * * *

  Lance had been standing watch for the last couple hours, waiting by the window, sneaking glances out from behind the curtain and fighting off sleep. As soon as he saw Meriam make her way inside room one and heard the door close behind her, he slid out the door of room two as quietly as he could, leaving the key he’d swiped from the office earlier on the bedside table.

  He pulled his hood up over his head, adjusted the straps of his backpack, and headed off across the parking lot, not bothering to stick around and watch through the window as Meriam attempted to murder a stack of pillows.

  He’d been counting on the fact that she’d be too worked up to notice that the shape beneath the comforter wasn’t exactly proper human proportions, and also wasn’t breathing. But even if Lance had been wrong, and she’d quickly realized his attempt at trickery, he wasn’t worried. He didn’t think she’d chase him. She was acting in desperation, he figured. An uncertainty about her past, and fear that she’d revealed too much to him driving her into a temporary moment of irrational behavior. She’d would settle down, and Lance would be long gone.

  The only reason Lance had allowed himself to stay put at the motel was to see if the vision that he’d seen through his room’s window would come true. If the Universe, after thrusting him into the past, was actually allowing him to see the future. Turned out it had all been accurate. A warning, that was what he’d decided. Play time was over, time to move along.

  Trust me, he’d said to Meriam.

  But she hadn’t.

  He didn’t blame her, not exactly. She’d never fully understood her nephew, so Lance couldn’t expect her to fully understand him, either. And who was he to her, anyway? Just a stranger calling in the night.

  She needn’t worry, though. She’d spent her life keeping her secrets in order to protect Quinten, and Quinten had done the same for her and Murry. Quinten’s decision was good enough for Lance. He would respect it. It would be Lance’s own way of honoring the boy he’d never met.

  Lance, more than most, understood the sacrifices people make for family.

  He reached the edge of the parking lot, his sneakers not quite touching the edge of the road. Here was where he’d entered, the place where he’d crossed over earlier. Here was the barrier where, in the past, he was not allowed to pass through.

  But I’m done now, he thought. It’s finished. I learned what I needed to, and that’s enough for now. I learned that I might not be alone in this after all.

  He stepped into the road. Felt the snow crunch beneath his feet.

  He was free.

  He turned and started walking along the snow-covered asphalt, letting the moon light his way. He did not look back. He’d seen enough of what was behind him. It was time to look forward.

  29

  Lance had walked a mile, and then two things happened. First, the trees began to thin out, replaced with fields and the occasional house or farm nestled off the road, long gravel driveways snaking toward them. Some had lights on inside, others were dark. The early risers versus those who preferred to wait for the sun. Second, the snow stopped.

  Completely.

  It wasn’t simply that the accumulation had seemed less here than what lay behind Lance. No, it was as if a line had been drawn across the earth. On one side, the road was slick with slush and snow, Lance’s sneakers wet and heavy. On the other side, the ground was dry, the asphalt a dusty gray instead of the wet black you’d expect, the grass dead and stiff instead of soggy and bent, weeping with melted snow. Lance looked to his left, where two farmhouses sat separated by maybe two acres of land between them. One yard had snow, the other did not. He wondered what the morning conversations might be between the two residents if they met at the end of their driveway to collect their morning papers. Well, George, I told you that was the wrong type of seed for this climate. Guess you should have listened, huh?

  Lance would have bet money that if he’d turned around and walked the mile back to the motel and then kept going, he’d have come across another such demarcation. He didn’t know how large of a circumference this snowy barrier consisted of, but he understood its purpose.

  It was to slow me down and keep me put. The motel was the only place I was supposed to end up.

  He couldn’t help but think there’d been some sort of symbolism between the fact that it had been snowing fiercely when he’d arrived at the motel—an unexpected storm, not even forecast by the weather folk—just like it had been the night Quinten had been killed by the Reverend and the Surfer.

  But maybe he was just tired. Tired and hungry.

  Just as the sun began to rise, and the temperatures along with it, Lance heard the sound of a car coming up behind him. He stepped off the road and squinted against the morning light peeking over the trees. A boat of a car, an old Oldsmobile or something like it, long and low and loud, was maybe a quarter mile away. Its lights were on, weak against the rising sun, but strong enough to keep Lance from looking at the car head-on. He was exhausted, and even though he figured the town to be close, he wasn’t going to turn down the chance of a ride. He’d had luck with Neil and the box truck. Maybe his luck would continue.

  It didn’t.

  As the car grew closer, Lance stuck out his thumb, causing the vehicle to slow to nearly a stop, still about fifty yards away, before it suddenly burst to life, the engine grumbling and whining as the accelerator was smashed and the tires did a quick skip on the asphalt before finding purchase. The car flew past Lance, fast enough to cause him to take two quick steps further back off the road. And then it was nothing but taillights growing faint in the distance.

  He hadn’t even gotten a look at the driver.

  Disappointed, but not deterred, Lance summoned what strength he had left and kept walking.

  Soon, around another bend, the tops of the town’s taller buildings came into view. A clock tower, presumably a courthouse, signaled civilization.

  At a crossroads, he made a right. Then a left.

  Then he saw the diner.

  He was seated at a booth in the rear, right next to the alcove that housed the restrooms. It was wonderfully warm inside the diner, and the air was alive with coffee and eggs and bacon and everything life should smell like. He ordered everything, ate it all like he didn’t know when he’d eat again. Washed it down with an entire pot of coffee, which he’d politely asked the waitress to leave at the table. She’d winked at him and said, “Long night, Hun?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lance had said. “Felt like it lasted years.”

  She laughed and touched his shoulder and said, “I know the feeling, babe.” Then she’d sauntered off to her other tables, leaving Lance with his coffee and his thoughts.

  And he thought for a long time, about everything. He replayed the events he’d seen at the motel, listened again to Meriam’s story in his mind. Shook his head at how similar his life and Quinten’s were on so many levels. Marveled again, with a certain bit of elation, at how, for the first time in his entire life, he knew that somebody else like him had walked this Earth, lived the same way he’d been forced to live, carried the same burdens and used the same gifts.

  And when Lance had had the chance to save him, he’d failed.

  It was right there in the booth that Lance knew what he had to do. Even though the coffee and food had helped to reinvigorate him, he was still craving sleep, wanting nothing more than to ask the waitress where the nearest place to
rent a room might be—the nearest place not behind him, that was. But he wasn’t finished. One last thing needed his attention.

  So when the waitress came back with his check, he handed over his cash, including a handsome tip, and asked, “Could you tell me where the town cemetery is, please?”

  Turned out, it was only three blocks away, behind the Methodist church.

  Lance stepped outside and headed toward the sidewalk, just catching sight of a car speeding out of the diner’s parking lot.

  A beat-up silver Oldsmobile, long and low and disappearing around the corner, leaving a plume of exhaust in its wake.

  Lance Brody did not believe in coincidences.

  * * *

  The Methodist church was old, peeling gray paint and a leaning banister on the steps leading up to the front entrance, but its spire stretched high and proud, the cross atop it staring back at the clock tower in the center of town like a young sibling waiting for its older brother to make the first move. The stained-glass windows were bright and free from grit and dirt as the sun, which had climbed higher into the sky, heliographed secret messages to Lance as he found the rutted road on the side of the building and followed it around to the rear.

  He stopped.

  The cemetery was vast, not a simple plot of land with several congested stones and markers, but sprawling acreage that stretched far beyond the church and butted against the dense forest that lay beyond. Sycamore trees lined the road that weaved its way in a well-plotted loop around the grounds, mostly dead now, but in the spring and fall, Lance bet it was a beautiful sight.

  It was peaceful. Exactly the way the resting place of the dead should be.

  He scanned the area and saw he was alone. Exactly as he’d prefer it.

  He started walking.

  He followed the road halfway around its loop, breathing in deep the smells of the grass and the dead leaves and the impending arrival of winter in the air. He let it all guide him, take his hand and lead him. Sometimes, Lance felt he could literally let his mind leap from a tall building, or lie on its back in the waters and float, trusting the Universe to take hold, steer him in the right direction, allow him to land softly and safe.