Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr.

  The door to the office building swung open, and a blond-haired woman wearing a simple skirt and light sweater stepped out and held the door wide. A single student walked out of the office with a yellow slip of paper in his hand and headed toward the left building. He was staring down at the sidewalk as he went, downtrodden and slow-moving. That’s a boy who just got in trouble, Lance thought, then realized that if a bell rang then, the students would come flowing out of the buildings like a school of fish and he didn’t want to be standing out here all alone, sticking out and being noticed. Lance’s eyes followed the boy until he disappeared inside the other building. He looked back to the office just in time to see the door swing shut.

  But he needed to see more. He was looking for something else.

  Lance walked a little further, taking a few steps up the cracked asphalt leading toward the school’s lot. There was a flagpole in a small section of grass outside the bus loop, the Stars and Stripes flying proudly alongside the deep blue of the Virginia state flag and the black and white of the DARE program’s own banner. Lance’s own high school’s flagpole had looked exactly like this, and he again felt that twinge of longing for home.

  Keeping in the grass, he continued up the entrance just enough to try and get a look behind the buildings. Halfway to the parking lot, he was able to see a fourth building behind the middle one, a large domed roof rising up over what was clearly the school’s gymnasium. He thought back to his four years on the basketball team and tried to remember if he’d ever played against the Westhaven team. It would have had to have been in the state tournament, which he had only been privileged to go to his junior and senior year—no titles, unfortunately. He didn’t think they’d ever played each other.

  He wanted to see the football field. It was probably behind the gym, Westhaven’s pride and joy stuck in the middle of what otherwise looked like a cornfield. But Lance didn’t dare venture further. He was probably trespassing as it were, and he didn’t want to push his luck.

  He looked back toward the flagpole and studied the small brick marquee beside it. Beneath the WESTHAVEN HIGH SCHOOL insignia, a white message board with black plastic letters advertised upcoming school events. Lance read through the list, stopped, pulled out his phone to verify the date, and then smiled. He’d picked a good day to show up in Westhaven.

  The football team had their next game that night. It was a home game, and he wished he’d thought to ask Leah about when the next game was sooner. It would have saved him a trip out here.

  Thinking of Leah, he remembered lunch, and as he turned to head back to the road and start back into town, he heard the crunching of loose bits of asphalt and gravel under tires as a car slowly pulled into the drive behind him.

  Without even looking, Lance immediately knew he would see a police cruiser when he turned around. Cops, for some reason, were easy to sense. The good ones … and the bad ones. The problem was it was difficult to tell at first.

  You took too long, Lance. He scolded himself. This was a bad idea.

  Or … or something knew you were here.

  The sound from the tires stopped, and Lance heard the gentle hum of a car window being lowered. “Help you?” a voice dripping with Southern accent asked.

  Lance, slowly, turned around and offered his best smile to the man behind the wheel of the sheriff’s department car. “Afternoon, Officer.” He waved. “No, sir. Just on my way into town to have lunch with a friend.”

  And then the thing Lance had hoped would not happen, did happen. The man behind the wheel rolled up the window, unfastened his seat belt, opened the door, and stepped out.

  15

  Lance had seen enough national news television footage (“Such a sad place our world is,” his mother often said as they watched. “So much hate. So little love”) and he knew that being a stranger in town was recipe enough for a potential disaster, so he stayed perfectly still and didn’t say a word as the sheriff’s deputy stepped out of the car and stood with his hands on his hips, one palm resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  It had been unwise for Lance to come here, but it was too late for regrets. He knew from Samuel Senior that he’d already been on the police radar since yesterday, and now he was only fueling the fire of the town’s suspicions of him. He’d been caught loitering around a freaking school, of all places.

  Lance stood. Waited. The deputy took another step closer and his eyes met Lance’s, and all at once Lance let himself relax a little. The man had kind eyes, not the eyes of a power-abusing ruffian dressed as an officer of the law. He took another step forward and—Lance could hardly believe this—stuck out his hand. “Deputy Miller,” the man said, and boy was that accent heavy. “What brings you to Westhaven, young man?”

  Deputy Miller was almost as tall as Lance, but even thinner, an Ichabod Crane physique with spaghetti limbs and an Adam’s apple that looked as if the man had swallowed an arrowhead. His uniform was loose-fitting, and he’d adjusted his hat twice since stepping out of the car. Lance shook the man’s hand and

  (Single-story house in the nice section of town, green lawn, likes to garden, wife named Jen with red hair, pregnant with baby number two, first son’s name is Ben, they joke because it rhymes with Jen, there go Ben and Jen, Jen says he works too much, but he says they need the money and Jen says they aren’t that bad off, church every Sunday, third pew, plays on the softball team and always brings his famous triple-chocolate brownies to the potlucks)

  had to stifle his surprise as Deputy Miller’s life flooded through his veins and into Lance’s mind. He pulled his grip away fast, unintentionally rude. Deputy Miller’s eyes scrunched in confusion.

  I hate it when that happens. So weird.

  Invasive was the word he used when he really thought about these occurrences, which took place at random in his life. He’d tried to make sense of whose touch prompted such visions, but the demographics were so varied and inconsistent it was hopeless to try.

  Lance offered another big smile, hoping they could move on from the awkward handshake. “Nice to meet you, Deputy.”

  “Likewise, son.” Deputy Miller looked right, down the road and toward town. “Meeting a friend for lunch, huh?” The question wasn’t exactly accusatory, but Lance knew the man was trying to make sense of Lance’s tale, trying to assess any potential threats to himself or his town he’d sworn to protect.

  “Yes, sir,” Lance said, speaking as casually and confidently as he could. “I’m on my way a little further north to visit some family, but I got off the bus here yesterday to say hi to a friend of mine I haven’t seen in a couple years. Catch up a little before I headed on.” Then Lance relied on good ol’ small-town camaraderie. “You probably know her, actually. Leah, over at Bob’s Place?”

  Deputy Miller’s face lit up, and Lance knew he was off the hook. “Sam’s little girl? Sure, I know her. Heck, I’ve known her since she was this big!” He held his hand out, just below waist-high. “Good girl, she is. Good girl.”

  Lance knew he had to try, for Leah, and for the town. He’d take any info he could get. “Yeah,” he agreed. “She is. Her brother was a good guy, too. Always makes me sad, what happened to him.”

  Deputy Miller’s smile didn’t falter, but his energy took a hit. He stood still for a moment, as if Lance’s most recent words were taking longer to process than the rest. He looked directly at Lance, but it was like he momentarily lost focus, thinking back to something long ago.

  But then he was back, snapping his fingers and saying, “Is that who you’re going to meet for lunch? Little Leah?”

  Lance nodded. “Yes, sir.” He was becoming increasingly amazed at how folks in Westhaven said absolutely zero about the missing boys. Not even the vaguest of acknowledgments.

  Deputy Miller turned and motioned for Lance to follow, and he opened one of the back doors to the cruiser. “Hop on in, I’ll give you a lift. I’m headed into town myself.”

  Lance didn't move at first, looking into the rear of
the open cruiser and calculating his options.

  “I know, it’s a little weird,” Deputy Miller said with an almost-embarrassed smile. “But I can’t let you ride up front.” He shrugged. “Against the rules.”

  Lance took another glance toward Westhaven High School, read the marquee again to verify there was a football game tonight, and then sighed. What choice did he have? He could refuse the officer’s ride, but that might make him seem more suspicious. It might cause more questions to be asked. He replayed the flashes of Deputy Miller’s life in his mind, like the memory of a movie he’d seen long ago and could only remember the good parts. He’s a decent guy. He believes me. And Leah’s smart. She’ll quickly catch on and verify everything I’ve said if asked.

  Lance smiled and started toward the cruiser. “Hey, yeah, that would be great! Thanks so much. I really appreciate it. That’s the problem with taking the bus into town. It’s hard to get around afterward.”

  Lance folded himself into the rear seat of the cruiser, sliding his backpack off his shoulders and setting it in the seat next to him. “Yeah,” Deputy Miller said, “we had a couple folks try to be Uber drivers for a while, but Uber’s a little too sophisticated for a town like us.”

  Lance looked down to his shorts pocket, where his flip phone lived. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I could see that.”

  Then Deputy Miller said, “Everything in?” Lance said it was, and the back door to the cruiser was closed and Lance was locked in.

  The bell rang, an old-fashioned physical bell from the sound of it, not the new digital tones that got played over speakers at more modern and up-to-date schools, and like racehorses out the gate, a sea of students began to pour from every exterior door of Westhaven High School and scatter in every direction. Lance watched them through the window of the cruiser. Even at this distance he could see them smiling and laughing and joking. He could see the popular girls and the jocks and the FFA leaders and the chess club members. He saw them all and, as he’d done so many times in his life, he wondered what it must feel like to be normal. To be able to be a student and an athlete and only those things, instead of living with his gift, living with one foot firmly planted in a dimension of the world that nobody else could see.

  The front door of the cruiser opened and the noise from the kids intensified as Deputy Miller folded his own long and lanky frame into the driver’s seat and closed the door. He took off his hat and tossed it onto the passenger seat, and through the partition, Lance could see the man was losing his hair on top, a beanie of baldness starting at the center of his skull and working its way outward.

  “Let me guess,” Deputy Miller said, “You’re going to… hmm … Frank’s Pizza?”

  Lance smiles. “You got it. How’d you know?”

  Deputy Miller shrugged. “Not a lot of choices around here, and Frank’s is always popular with the younger crowd. Figured it was there or the diner.”

  Lance nodded. “I’ve been there. I liked it. Margie seems nice. Seems like she runs a tight ship.” And then Lance wondered why he felt compelled to offer up this information to Deputy Miller, why he was telling more of his story than necessary. Not that there was anything wrong with him visiting Annabelle’s Apron, but when you were sitting in the back of a cop car, you couldn’t help but feel like you were under interrogation, no matter how casual the conversation.

  Deputy Miller sat still in the driver’s seat and watched as the last of the students disappeared back inside the school’s buildings. Two boys wearing black t-shirts and baggy jeans were left alone outside the building closest to the parking lot, huddled around a large orange trash can. One boy produced something small and white and rectangular from his pocket, shook it, and as the other boy reached out, Lance realized it was a pack of cigarettes. Deputy Miller reached forward and flipped a switch on and off, creating a quick bleep-bloop! from the car, and the boys’ eyes darted up, saw the cruiser. And then they dashed off around the rear of the building.

  Deputy Miller shook his head and sighed. “There’s always those kind.”

  Lance knew what he meant. Those kind were everywhere. Always.

  Deputy Miller put the car into drive and made a three-point turn, then drove along the front of the school, following the same path the buses would drive in a few hours’ time. At the stop sign, he waited for a pickup truck to pass by, and then a Jeep, and then a small sedan.

  Then there was no more traffic, nothing coming or going in either of the two lanes. The car’s engine idled and that was the only sound Lance could hear. They do not move. The gearshift was still in drive and Deputy Miller’s hands were still on the wheel and the road was clear and they did not move an inch. Lance let a full minute pass, his pulse beginning to drum in his ears, and he was about to ask Deputy Miller if everything was all right when the deputy’s arm reached up and flicked the turn signal up, signaling a right turn.

  Lance felt his stomach tighten, and the drumming in his head grew louder.

  The town, and Frank’s Pizza, and Leah, these things were to the left, back the way Lance had walked.

  The car began to move, slowly at first, and then with a sudden burst of speed, as if Deputy Miller had accidentally stomped on the gas instead of the brake. The car fishtailed out of the school’s driveway and the tires squealed on the rough blacktop. Lance’s backpack slid across the rear of the cruiser and Lance followed it, both bag and boy slamming into the door of the car. Deputy Miller’s hands seemed clumsy on the wheel as Lance watched the man overcorrect, whipping the wheel back in an unpracticed motion and rocking the car back and forth as it tried to straighten out. Lance reached up and braced his palms against the roof of the car to gain some balance, and as he sat up and the cruiser finally straightened out, he looked into the rearview mirror and instantly knew he had made a mistake.

  Deputy Miller’s eyes were nothing but solid whites, rolled up into his head like a man convulsing. His mouth hung open, slack, his tongue poking out and a bit of drool dripping down to the breast of his uniform. Lance sat up straighter and saw the speedometer needle pass seventy, and it felt like a hundred from the backseat. The car was straddling the center line, and all it was going to take was one car coming the other direction, cresting a hill or turning from a side road into their path, and they’d be dead. There was no question about it.

  And Lance took another look at Deputy Miller’s face that wasn’t his face and knew that this had been the plan all along. He’d been found, and he’d been tricked. It was no accident that when he'd shaken the deputy’s hand, he’d gotten a glimpse into the man’s life. It had shown the life of a simple and good family man in order to disarm him, to have his guard lowered. Whatever force was here in Westhaven knew more about Lance than he’d imagined. It knew the specifics of his gifts, it seemed, and now it was exploiting them. He’d been baited and lured into the back of the cruiser, into a rolling cage from which he could not escape and in which he would now likely die.

  He’d failed.

  He’d failed the town, and he’d failed those boys and—worst of all—he’d failed Leah. She’d put so much faith in him, and he’d seen the hope he’d inadvertently inspired in her.

  And now he was going to die and nobody would ever see him again. Just like Samuel.

  His anger and his frustration and his fear overcame him. He pounded on the partition and began to shout. “Hey! You’re never going to win, you know that, right? It won’t go on forever! If I don’t stop you, there will be somebody else! I’m not the only one!” And then as he fell back into the seat, he thought, I can’t be the only one. Just can’t be.

  Deputy Miller’s head snapped to the right, so hard and so fast Lance heard something crack. The whites of his eyes were still all that was visible, and his throat muscles shifted and his tongue slid back and forth and his lips twitched as a series of deep gurgles and grunts spilled from his mouth. They were audible, but indecipherable, like the sounds of an animal or an invalid.

  Lance was not afraid, onl
y angered even more that this thing inside Deputy Miller thought Lance could understand it. Lance slapped his hand against the partition, and Deputy Miller snarled and bared his teeth and barked in response, spittle flying against the Plexiglas. Lance jumped back, and that was when he saw the semi in the distance.

  The road was flat, and the truck was still a good distance off—a half mile maybe—but at the speed they were traveling, that would be eaten up in no time. Lance heard the air horn screaming through the air, imagined the driver wondering what in the world this policeman was doing. The driver would be braking, doing his best to avoid an accident, but unfortunately for Lance, the truck could be completely stopped and it would likely make no difference. If they hit it going this fast, the cruiser would crumple like a soda can and Lance would quickly be a lot thinner.

  He smacked the partition again, Deputy Miller’s white eyes still staring vacantly at him. Lance’s mind raced, spun and spun and—This is really it. I’m going to die. Less than forty-eight hours after my mother and I’m going—

  BEN AND JEN. BEN AND JEN.

  The thought smacked him so hard he could barely register its meaning. Then he saw the face of the innocent man caught in a terrible darkness he deserved no part of, and Lance screamed, “Ben and Jen, Ben and Jen, Ben and Jen! You love them so much and they love you and you have a new baby on the way and you are so happy and so lucky and blessed and you don’t want to leave them! If you can hear me, Miller, fight! Fight! Ben and Jen, Ben and Jen!”

  The truck ahead was stopped, but the cruiser was not.

  Lance pounded the partition, his hands stinging with each blow. “Ben and Jen, Ben and Jen, Ben and Jen!”

  The eyeballs flickered, a small sign of life. Then the hands on the wheel shifted—marginally, but they shifted!