I’d been a mother to eight-year-olds.
Thus, it was also time to activate Delphine.
Seven
Doomed
I set aside the laptop after scanning the Tri-Lake Chronicle.
It was three days after I’d met Celeste and her father, she had gone, as had he.
The weekend had passed.
It was Monday, and I could only assume (and hope) that Celeste was back in school.
Try as I might, and I studied it often, that triangle of their roof that I could see told no stories.
The Tri-Lake Chronicle did, however, the prevailing one being that Alice Pulaski had not been found.
This was a curious mixture of horrifying and comforting.
It was horrifying, obviously, because Alice had not yet been found.
It was now more than clear that she had not wandered off, got lost, became scared and holed up in a cave where some intrepid deputy would run across her, dirty, hungry and dehydrated, but alive. News I’d been hoping I would wake up and read in a relieved article accompanied by a joyous photo of parents and child reunited.
It was comforting because this was still the top story in the local newspaper, splashed underneath the online masthead.
A community like this did not have girls missing, or, as I’d become accustomed to in spending so much time with the Chronicle, hardly any news at all…but good news. Bingo nights and bridge tournaments, boys and girls basketball league signups at the rec center and a local woman who still lived by herself and stitched stunning embroidery reaching the age of 105.
And whoever ran the newspaper did not feel that their readers would get Alice Pulaski fatigue.
This was not a sensational piece of news offered up for information and digestion in a digital landscape where people experienced sorrow or outrage but had no interest in follow-through. Their only craving being getting their hit of sorrow and outrage. Their only thought being, what was next to devour?
Alice Pulaski was important, and the community cared.
A video had been posted on Saturday—one I could only stand to watch for forty-five seconds before I had to shut it off.
Audrey Pulaski begging whoever took her daughter to bring her home.
Dale Pulaski stood beside her looking ravaged.
Sheriff Dern stood behind her, appearing solemn.
I didn’t even have to be in his presence to sense his puzzle.
Whereas Cade Bohannan’s covered a twelve-seater dining room table, and it was made of thousands of pieces that held subtle shading that only the most patient of players could fix together, Leland Dern’s could be assembled by a five-year-old.
This did not bode well.
I’d made the decision, and upon watching that forty-five seconds, I carried it through.
I called Hawk Delgado.
It was no surprise this situation in Misted Pines was known to him. He was tasked with keeping me safe, and although this had nothing to do with me, it had to do with Misted Pines, and that was where I was. It was also not a surprise that he currently did not have any resources to devote to assisting with it.
However, he gave me two names.
Nightingale Investigations, an outfit located where Delgado was, in Denver, Colorado.
And Tanner Layne, a private investigator who worked out of a shop in Brownsburg, Indiana, which was, to my astonishment, where Joe Callahan was based.
Neither were close.
But Nightingale was closer.
Though for reasons I didn’t understand (they probably had to do with Callahan), I called Layne first, left a message as it was the weekend and waited.
It was not long before he returned my call.
He had a full caseload, but said he’d look into it and get back to me.
I then reached out to Denver, leaving another message.
Not much time passed before a woman named Shirleen Jackson got in touch, saying she’d assessed it and presented it to her boss, the man behind the name, Lee Nightingale. She would follow up with me as soon as he’d made his decision.
Within hours, I had two replies.
Layne: “We’re ready to roll when we receive word from the investigator on site that he welcomes assistance. We have a message to him. But if he doesn’t give us the greenlight, I’m afraid at this time we can’t get involved. I hope you understand. I would feel the same if someone I didn’t know pushed into one of my investigations, especially at this early juncture. Trust me when I say that it’s never helpful.”
I didn’t know who “we” was, I also didn’t ask, but I suspected he’d consulted with Callahan.
I also didn’t think this was “early.” At that point, she’d been missing nearly a week.
Which begged the question, what parents had a slumber party for their eight-year-old on a Monday evening?
I didn’t ask Layne that either.
Jackson: “We understand your concern, but Lee looked into things and the investigator contracted to assist the local authorities is second to none. In this kind of situation, although it seems contradictory, more hands on deck can make a mess.”
That was two nos of the same ilk.
I decided to focus on the “second to none” comment, knowing they were referring to the fact it was clear the locals had called Cade Bohannan in. She was not talking about Dern.
This seemed to be quite a bit of esteem for Bohannan, but knowing it, no puzzle pieces fell.
Even so, I was undeterred.
Which was why, upon indication that Alice had yet to be found, I left my laptop where it lay, and did what I hadn’t done in the entire week since I’d been there (save one epic trip to the grocery store, this trip accompanied by Agent Palmer).
I walked into the kitchen, grabbed my purse and keys, then made my way through the mudroom and to the garage, where I got into my Volvo XC60, pulled out and drove into town.
I’d memorized the directions, and in less than fifteen minutes, I was there.
I checked all mirrors and rechecked the pocket of my purse, where the GPS emitting panic fob Delgado had given me was ensconced.
Only then did I get out of my SUV.
I walked into the sheriff’s department to find it buzzing.
This came as no surprise.
It was also no surprise when the deputy, who was walking swiftly across the unstaffed front counter, did a double take and stutter step when he turned his head and caught sight of me.
He stopped.
I approached the counter.
He opened his mouth, closed it, blushed.
I put him out of his misery with a quick scan to his name tag.
“Hello, Deputy Dickerson, I’m Delphine Larue.”
I reached out my hand.
He stared at it, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
It took a moment, and then he clasped it, letting it go quickly, like his lowly touch might infect my famous person and turn me to ash.
“I know this is likely an imposition at this time,” I continued. “But I was wondering if I could have a word with Sheriff Dern.”
“I’ll get Polly,” he announced, and then he took off in a way I was surprised a blossom of dust didn’t bloom from his heels.
I stood there, outside the polished wood counter that ran the whole front of the station and separated the reception area from the inner workings of the department.
There were people behind the counter, quite a number of them, and I now had much more attention than when I’d first walked in.