I’d forgotten.
The local sheriff was supposed to come by. Introduce himself. Etc.
He’d been briefed by Agent Palmer, Joe Callahan and Hawk Delgado.
I’d been told he wanted to assure me, personally, that I also had his department’s support and protection.
I did not need to read between the lines that he wanted to meet me.
In fact, not entirely successfully hiding her smirk, which, coming from the fantastically professional special agent said quite a bit about Sheriff Dern, Agent Palmer had told me that Dern wanted to assure me I had the entire town’s support and protection.
“We did,” she noted drily, “explain in rather firm terms that the point of you being here was for the entire town not to notice you or know anything about your current dilemma. He promised he didn’t mean it…in that way.”
This did not give me a good feeling about Sheriff Dern.
However, he had authority and a gun, and if something triggered Callahan’s sensors, or was caught on Delgado’s constant surveillance, his department would be call two and that might mean he, or his deputies, could be in danger.
I had to respect that.
“Considering,” Agent Palmer stated, taking me from my thoughts. “He’ll need to reschedule.”
Considering?
Considering what?
“I—” I didn’t quite begin.
“But we’re still monitoring, and Mr. Booth, Mr. Kyle and Ms. Rosellini, as well as yourself, are all getting communications as per the MO. This leads us to believe that the suspect is not aware that you’ve all moved to safe houses.”
Well, that was good.
“As you know, but I wish to assure you, we’re continuing to investigate vigorously, and we hope a break will come soon, we’ll find this person, and you’ll be free from his machinations. Of course, you need to live your life as usual, just please, as we discussed, take precautions,” she went on.
“Of course, however—”
“Sorry to disturb you, I know you’re busy. I’ll leave you to it. Thank you and be safe.”
And with that, Agent Palmer rang off.
For a second, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
This was because I wasn’t sure I’d been hung up on since Angelo threw that fit after I told him under no circumstances was I going to pretend still to be his loving wife when he was fucking all three of his backup singers, I didn’t care how many Grammys he’d been nominated for that year.
And the time before that was my agent when I flatly refused another acting gig.
I only had a second to think about all of that.
Because movement out the window caught my eye.
And when I focused there, I saw the girl was back.
Two
No Trouble
The phone in my hand rang before I could even get to the top of the stairs.
I took the call.
“Hello, Mo.”
“Ms. Larue, the girl is Celeste Bohannan. She’s the daughter of your neighbor at the bottom of the lake. She’s sixteen. Good grades. Good student. No trouble, except a recent suspension that we do not consider an issue. She’s safe.”
Good grades.
Good student.
No trouble.
But…
Recent suspension.
Wasn’t that, in essence, how many wayward souls were described by those surprised acquaintances, friends and loved ones who had no idea they were psycho killers?
They were quiet. Smart. Kept to themselves. No trouble.
On the other side of that coin, wasn’t that the lament of the sorrowful acquaintances and friends of beautiful young girls who met grisly ends?
What a waste. She was so young. Good grades. Quiet. No trouble.
I hit the bottom of the stairs, and Mo kept speaking.
“No idea why she’s coming to visit, except she’s probably bored and curious about her new neighbor.”
“Thank you, Mo.” My reply was a whisper.
Because Celeste Bohannan, the Girl in the Mist, was not out in my pine-needle strewn yard.
She was on my deck, at the glass doors, staring at me.
“Are you all right?” Mo asked.
We had code, and to tell Mo I was not all right, I would say, “I’m perfectly fine.”
Obviously, I didn’t say that, even if I did have this uncomfortable feeling, watching that girl as I walked through my new house to the back doors, that I was what that phrase meant to say.
The opposite of perfectly fine.
Something was wrong.
Very.
I might be fine, but something was not right.
Even though I felt that keenly, I said, “I’m good, Mo. Thank you.”
“Take care and call if you need anything.”
“Thanks again.”
“’Bye.”
“Good-bye.”
I said this as I opened the door.
And looked, without barrier, into the eyes of Celeste Bohannan.
A wave of such melancholy struck me, I instantly longed for the uncomfortable feeling I’d just been experiencing.
My life had just changed.
The world had just changed.
With one look in the wounded, haunted, lost eyes of Celeste Bohannan.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Hi,” she whispered.
Shy or affected, I did not know, but her fragile voice played its part in the overall delicacy that was so very her, it permeated the air around her.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked.
A brief pause and then, “That’s why I’m here.”
I didn’t understand, tipped my head to indicate that, and backed it up with words. “I’m sorry?”
“To see if I can help you.” Another pause before, “Move in.”
When I didn’t immediately allow her entry, she turned at the waist, lifted a lethargic arm and pointed to the green, corrugated metal roof down the way.
“I live there,” she said, dropping her arm and turning back to me. “With my dad and brothers.”
It hit me belatedly she lived there with her father and brothers.
Behind a rather daunting gate.
A gate that had, on either five-feet high column at the sides, plaques—not signs, plaques— that read, Private Property and Trespassers will be Prosecuted.
Again, two of them, one on either side.
Along these columns was a stone fence, also five-feet high, that extended well into the woods.
I had been informed by Joe Callahan there were cameras located in random places in the woods.
Not only that, those places were changed, randomly, so anyone who would think they could clock those areas and avoid them so they could find lake access or a free campground would eventually be disabused of those notions.
Finally, she lived with her dad and two brothers on a property that was one of only four in perhaps a ten-mile radius, sitting behind a daunting gate with threatening plaques affixed (twice), a fence and cameras. All of this approved by the Federal Bureau of Investigations as a good, safe place for me to be because the garden-variety stalker myself and my former costars were experiencing had done things—done such terrible, terrible things, and was still doing them—and we now knew he was not-so-garden-variety at all.
And here she was, wounded, lost, for some unusual reason suspended from school, a good kid who got good grades, on my back deck offering to help me unpack.