“Nice long vacation,” Kurt said. “Bet you hate to interrupt it.”
“Not really,” Joshua replied. “He’s in Ohio.”
Kurt blinked. “Ohio? He’s on a month holiday in Ohio?” He glanced curiously at Henry. “Who the hell goes on holiday to Ohio?”
Joshua smiled. “The one and only Lars Rayburn.”
Lodi, Ohio
Totally irritated, Lars chalked up his cue stick at the local tavern and aimed not only his eyes but also his voice at the bartender.
“Hey, Bart!”
Bart turned around to look at Lars, who was one of six patrons. “Yeah?”
“Put MTV on, or something,” Lars instructed.
“MTV?” Bart questioned. “What in Christ’s name for? This is the news. It’s important.”
“It’s depressing,” Lars said. “People do not visit your fine establishment to be depressed. They come here to take their minds off of things. Turn off the news. If people want to watch it, they can go home and watch it.”
Bart shrugged. “Okay.” He switched the channel.
Patrick was waiting patiently for Lars to take his turn. He shook his head with a smile. “I take it you don’t care much for this big news.”
“Not at all.” Lars found his shot, leaned over the table, took it and missed. “Especially not today. Today was depressing enough.”
“Mr. Hughes?” Patrick asked.
“Sam,” Lars spoke with a sigh. “Three children.”
“And a wife.”
“Well…” Lars tilted his head. “I do feel for Dylan. She’s known Sam since grade school.”
Looking for a shot to take, Patrick walked around the pool table. “How long have you known Dylan and Sam?”
“Since before they were born, if that makes sense.”
“So, you grew up here?” Patrick took a shot.
“Nope.” Lars looked at the table. “I only take my holiday here. Have done so forever. Of course, taking the holiday was much easier once I bought my house ten years ago. They have one boarding house in Lodi, which is a terrible place. And, any decent hotel one was too far away for my holiday to be considered in Lodi. I have to stay in Lodi.”
“So, if you have to stay here, why did you wait so long to buy a house?”
“I would have purchased one sooner,” Lars replied. “But I was waiting for that particular home.”
“So you liked it?”
Smiling after his successful shot, Lars looked up. “Very much so.”
“Can I ask you more?”
“Certainly. I’m an open book,” Lars answered.
“If you didn’t grow up here, why do you take a month off to stay here?”
“I take it you haven’t been to the Lodi fall festival?”
Patrick shook his head. “No, is it that great?”
“No. Not really,” Lars chuckled. “Just thought I’d say that.” Stopping in his ‘shot check,’ Lars stood upright. “Lodi. The reason I come to Lodi is pathetic. But I’ll tell you, because you’re new, you don’t know the people yet. In college I met a girl. You know the story. I fell in love with her. She lived in Lodi. I came here once back then and loved it.”
“I take it you didn’t marry this girl?”
“No,” Lars replied. “She married someone else. But my love for the town and my eternal desire to see her, keeps me coming back.”
Patrick choked on a laugh. “She still lives here?”
“Yes. A beautiful woman.”
“Who?’
Lars shook his head. “Can’t tell.”
“Okay.” Patrick leaned a little on his cue stick. “Can you tell me this? You’re this legend around here, yet every time I am almost ready to find out who you are, what you do, and why you’re a legend, something interrupts. I have some guesses, but, can you finally fill me in? Who is Lars Rayburn?”
With a grin, Lars prepared to answer, but turned his head when his name was called.
“Mr. Rayburn.” Officer Haddock stepped into the bar and took off his hat. “Hate to interrupt your social time, sir. But the WHO has been looking for you all over town. They called the station after they tried your home. I said I’d track ya. Didn’t think you’d mind, it had to be important.”
Lars nodded. “Thank you, Chester. I’ll go home and call right away. Well, my new young friend,” he said, handing Patrick his cue stick, “I must depart. We’ll finish this conversation later. The WHO calls.”
Patrick took hold of the stick, staring in awe as Lars hurriedly grabbed his things and left. Then Patrick snapped his fingers and nodded. “I knew it,” he said to himself. “I knew he was some sort of throwback from the sixties rock era.” He nodded knowingly. “The Who.”
The pattering of Tigger’s running footsteps were overshadowed by the loud thumping ones of Mick. Still moving, Mick swooped down one arm and lifted the small child. “Bed,” he ordered as he opened the bedroom door right in front of them.
“But I’m not tired,” Tigger complained.
“It’s almost midnight. You will be.” Mick carried the tiny child over his shoulder. He pulled down the covers on the bed and dropped him onto it. “Did you take your pills?’
“Yes. And they take twenty-seven minutes to work.”
“Quick,” Mick snapped his fingers, “best guess—how much longer until they kick in?
Tigger looked down to his little watch. “Sixteen more minutes.”
“You can last sixteen minutes.” Mick covered him up. “Night.” He leaned down and kissed him then walked to the door.
“Can you leave the light on? Mommy does.”
“Sure.” Mick pulled his hand away from the light switch. “Night.” Closing the door a little, Mick walked down the hall to Dylan’s room. He prepared to knock once on the slightly opened door, but stopped when he caught a glimpse of her.
Dylan stood by the mirror looking closely at her face, pulling down the skin under her eyes.
Chuckling, Mick opened the door, crossed his arms and leaned on the archway. “What are you doing?”
Dylan jumped and spun around. “Mick,” she grabbed her chest, “do my eyes look dark to you?”
“They always look dark.” He walked to her.
“But they look darker than usual, don’t they.”
“Dylan, you cried a lot today.”
“But I am not feeling all that—”
“Dylan.” Mick laid his hand over her mouth. “You don’t have the flu.”
Dylan cleared her throat. “I think I do, Mick, I’m scared I do.”
“It’s all the way over on the other side of the country. You don’t have the flu.”
“My throat’s sore, Mick.” She rubbed her neck. “And right now, it’s over there. It could be here, and no one knows. These things spread. I’ve read The Stand.”
Laying his hands on her shoulders, Mick gently lowered her to the bed. “You’re right. It could be here. However, you never finished reading The Stand.”
“That’s because it scared me,” Dylan said. “But you read it.”
“Yes, I did. And this isn’t the same thing. It isn’t The Stand. It isn’t the bubonic plague.”
“Gee, Mick, thanks. I wasn’t thinking of that.”
Mick rolled his eyes. “Dylan, you had a long day. You don’t have the flu. What you do have is two boys downstairs waiting on you. Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s sit down there for awhile before I leave.”
“Wait,” she slowed as she left the bedroom. “You’re leaving?”
“Going home.”