Murder in the Mist (14 page)

He gripped the steering wheel. “I’ll meet you inside.”

She nodded her appreciation. For a second the picture of his young wife floated in front of her eyes. A life and happiness cut short. She knew the ache of such feelings.

The moment she walked into the building, a willowy, freckle-faced ranger approached. “Hi, I’m Ranger Jane Dorsey.”

Laura accepted the outstretched hand. “Laura Friday. Deputy Carter is parking the car.”

“Days like this aren’t popular with the campers.”

“Can’t say as I blame them. Especially for those in tents.”

Mitch sprinted toward the canopied double doors. Before entering, he brushed drops of water from his jacket and removed his cap and slapped it against his thigh. Ranger Dorsey welcomed him. “Bryan is in the office.”

Laura and Mitch followed the ranger past the snack bar, the gift shop, and a left turn down a short hall which led to the administrative offices. She pointed to a coffee station. “Help yourself. It’s fresh.” She snagged a napkin and grabbed a glazed donut from its box. “Perfect day for doing paperwork.” She waved as she strolled to her office.

Senior Ranger Bryan Cole stood. He indicated seats. “Looks like the rain isn’t going to let up anytime soon. Too bad.”

“Bryan, I’d like you to meet Laura Friday. She runs the
Harbor Gazette
.”

The senior ranger offered his hand. “Any relation to Phyllis Friday?”

“My aunt.”

“She once tweaked my ear when she caught me ogling a nude model in a girlie magazine. I was ten.”

Laura laughed. “Sounds like her.”

A moment passed as the trio sat and stared at each other in an awkward silence. Laura tucked her hands in her lap and fiddled with her fingers.

“Well.” Ranger Cole opened a drawer and pulled out a file folder and removed two forms. “These are incident reports taken from the women. Neither could identify the alleged perpetrator.” He held up one sheet. “This is the shower episode. Her story changed from someone actually watching her to ‘having a feeling someone was watching her.’ He shoved the form forward. “Your copy, Mitch. Now, this one, the woman states she definitely saw a pair of eyes staring through her RV window. However, she thinks it might have been some preteen boys she’d spotted earlier. She suspects the boys were having a hormonal attack at her expense. She states, ‘no harm done.’ And doesn’t wish to pursue the issue further.”

Mitch leaned forward to accept the reports. “Are we chalking this up as a wild goose chase?”

“Pretty much.”

“For the record, to show that I’ve followed up on the complainants’ concerns, how great are the chances the rain has washed away any signs of footprints or other evidence from last night’s events?”

Ranger Cole shrugged. “At least ninety-nine point nine percent.”

“Can we get to the showers and where the RV is parked without endangering ourselves?”

“Sure. We’ll take the 4x4. What about you, Ms. Friday…game?”

Laura opened the rain jacket to reveal the camera case. “Laura, please.” She smiled. “Game on.”

Cole stood and grabbed his cap and jacket from the coat rack. “Let’s saddle up.”

Outside, claps of thunder vibrated across the mountain range. The clouds grew darker, and the rain increased. Bryan Cole said, “With this downpour, the only thing we’ll find around the public showers is water and mud. Same at the RV site. It’s up to you, Mitch. We’ll go if you insist.”

Mitch pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck. He tucked the envelope containing the two reports into the rain jacket’s inside pocket. “No need. Keep me posted if you get similar complaints, or if you see any suspicious characters lurking around.”

Bryan guffawed. “That would account for about every other guest coming into the park.” He shook hands with Mitch.

Then he turned his attention to Laura. “Give me a call, Laura. It’d be my pleasure to give you a personal tour of my playground. Thunder Hole is one of the more popular sites. I’ll even pack a picnic lunch.”

“Sounds wonderful. It will give me an opportunity to take pictures of the park and add them to the list of tourist spots to visit.” She gave a brief explanation of how the town planned to rejuvenate themselves. “I’ll let you know.”

Once settled inside the patrol car, she side-glanced at Mitch. The truth was she liked the man. Liked being with him, liked his serious demeanor, liked bouncing the cases off him and getting his reactions.

And that worried her. Mitch Carter was easy to be around, but he was leaving Cole Harbor. In his eyes there was pain that never went away. She knew why, plus she’d made it clear they had no future together. She’d not put a crimp in his plans to return to Texas, or in hers by falling in love with him.

“You okay, Friday?”

He pulled her out of her meandering thoughts and she nodded, turning to stare out the window. “Just thinking.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

The winding road was void of traffic; the drive to town didn’t take long. Laura kept her gaze glued to the scenery while Mitch drove with practiced ease. He pulled up in front of the bookstore, and she stared for a moment at the building that had become her home.

As she opened the door and climbed out of the vehicle, Mitch leaned away from the steering wheel to look at her. “Bryan Cole is a nice guy.”

She jerked in surprise. A longing filled her. What would it be like to find that one person she could feel comfortable with to share her life? “Yeah, so what’s your point?”

He frowned. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Silence echoed for a brief moment. “I’ll call when I hear anything about Elio Casper or from the ME.”

She smiled. A quick twist of the lips. “I hope it’s soon.” She turned away and limped toward the bookstore door.

Chapter Eighteen

Benjamin stood at the porch railing and watched the storm. He covered his ears to shut out the rumbles of thunder and the sharp cracks of lightning. The noise vibrated painfully through his skull.

His inner-twin stood next to him.
A perfect day for killing.

“Go away, Bennie. I’m not listening to you.”

Benjamin stepped inside the cabin, and though he knew nothing could keep his dark nemesis out, he locked the door. He turned on a lamp and then, selecting several of his favorite records, switched on the old-fashioned record player and settled on the sofa. He shut his eyes and allowed the slow, sweet music to soothe the persistent throbbing in his temples.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. At first he thought the pounding was inside his head, before he realized someone was beating against the cabin door.

His heart lurched. No one ever visited. Never. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe Bennie was playing a trick on him.

The thumping continued. A woman’s voice called, “Hello…hello…Is anyone in there?”

Benjamin stumbled to his feet. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he was uncertain about answering the door. He clasped his hands in a wringing motion as he fretted over what to do.

Answer the door, stupid.

He willed his feet to move, and crossed the small area to release the lock.

On the other side of the screened door a vision stood leaking all over his porch. She pushed a mop of sodden brown hair from her face. She wore a pair of cutoff denim jeans. Threads clung to her long slender legs like thin worms. The white T-shirt molded to her frame, outlining her bare breasts. His eyes riveted to the strutted nipples, and he felt flushed. She held a pair of flip-flops in her hand.

Her teeth chattered as she spoke without drawing a breath. “D-do you have a phone? I was hiking, and then the rain and fog came, and I got lost. Oh, I’m so thankful I saw your cabin! I need to call my friends. They’re probably sitting in the tent trading tequila shots while I’m wandering around in the wilderness freezing my ass off. Oh, sorry.” She extended her hand. “My name is Daisy Fuller.”

She’s a Daisy, Bennie. We like flowers.

He hissed. “Go away!”

The girl corked her face into a frown. “Son of a bitch! I’m wet, I have to pee, and you’re telling me to go away—in this weather?”

Frustration rolled over him. “No…I-I wasn’t talking to you. Never mind. Come in.” Keeping his gaze riveted to the floor, he held the door wide. “The bathroom is over there, on the left.”

The way she bounded across the room reminded him of a frightened doe. For the first time in ten years, he saw the shabbiness of his open-concept grand room. When his mother went away, his grandfather had kept everything in the house the same. Then the old man died, and Benjamin had returned to live in the cabin. He saw no reason to make changes. The sofa, its brown floral design worn threadbare, stuck out like an advertisement for ugly furniture. The once-white lace curtains wore coats of gray dust. Rust spackled the side of the antiquated refrigerator. He’d placed folded cardboard under one of the legs of the dining table to keep it from wobbling. He didn’t like that this woman…this intruder…made him feel uncomfortable in his own home.

“Hell,” he mumbled.

He stood in the middle of the room. Waiting. Remembering. Remembering every detail of Lynnette Braswell’s face. And of her death—the way the snap of her neck echoed in his ears.

Ben…ja…min. Did you see her tits and tight ass? I bet she wouldn’t make fun of Beenie with the little weenie.

The voice inside his head hushed when the girl walked out of the bathroom. He gawked. Daisy Fuller had changed out of her wet clothes and was wearing a red-and-black checkered flannel shirt that hung to her knees.

“Whew! My kidney’s were ’bout ready to explode.” She dried her hair with a towel. “Hey, I hope you don’t mind me borrowing this. It was hanging from a hook behind the bathroom door. Besides, it’s better than dripping all over your floor. I hung my clothes over the shower stall to dry.”

He nodded, searching his muddled mind for a response.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Ben…Benjamin.”

She smiled. “Well, Bennie, I dropped my cell phone, and it slid inside a rock crevice. I heard a splash, so it’s probably floating in the bay by now. Mind if I use your phone to call my friends?”

The shout rolled out before he could draw it back. “Don’t call me, Bennie! I told you my name is—Benjamin.”

She held her hands forward. “Hey, no sweat, sweetie. Now about the telephone—”

“Don’t have one. Never saw a need.”

She blinked. He watched her hands flitter around her waist, drawing the flannel shirt around her body as if it were protective armor. He’d frightened her.

“S-sorry. Didn’t mean to yell at you. I don’t get much company.”

“Sure, sweetie. Whatever.”

A glow spread through his veins. The raspy cry in her voice reminded him of his favorite blues singer, Etta James. “I could heat water and make a cup of tea to help warm you up.” He indicated the sofa. “Won’t you be seated? It’s old, but comfortable.”

She sat down and drew her legs under her. “Hot tea...cool. I’m starved, too. Haven’t eaten all day.”

“Mostly I eat in town. Would a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich do you?”

She licked her lips and huffed a little snigger. “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

He busied himself in the kitchen—filling a pot with water, opening a cabinet to get a cup, and placing a teabag in it, getting the bread and jelly from the refrigerator, rummaging in a cabinet for the peanut butter. He wanted to look at her, to see those long legs that seemed to go on forever under the shirt. Hell, he wanted to see beneath the shirt.

He finished his preparation and willed his hands to stop shaking long enough to hand her a plate with the sandwich. “I don’t use sugar. You’ll have to drink the tea black.”

“No pro-blame-o. Girl’s got to watch her figure.” Daisy spoke between chews. “Do you know the way back to the Blackwoods campground, where the tent campers stay?”

He gave a little shrug. “Ayuh. But it’s stormin’ and not safe to be out this late at night. In the morning, I’ll show you the way before I leave for work. I had to miss today because of the storm. Not tomorrow, though. The weather will clear, and we’ll have cloudless skies.”

He didn’t like the incredulous way she stared at him. His inner sense knew she mocked him. “What are you, some kind of meteorologist that you can forecast the weather? I’ve never met a freakin’ genius before.”

“Why are you making fun of me? I don’t like it when people do that.”

“It’s a joke, sweetie. Honest, I’m joking. Can’t you take a joke?”

Bennie whispered in his ear.
We don’t like Daisy. She’s not a nice flower. Tell her she isn’t nice, Bennie.

Benjamin sprang from the kitchen chair, knocking it over. The black holes in his head had opened. Electrical conduits were short circuiting. He pressed a hand against his temple to ease the white flashes of pain.

“Do your friends like your sarcasm? I don’t like it when people make fun of me! And if you d-do it again”—he pointed toward the door—“storm or not, you can leave, and if you slip on the rocks and break your neck, I won’t cry over you.”

Daisy scooted against the corner of the couch as if she were trying to wedge herself to safety. “Whoa, sweetie. I didn’t mean to light your fuse. I’m a waitress—well, actually a barmaid—and tend to forget not everyone appreciates my dry sense of humor.”

Without a further word, he strode to the bedroom and returned with a quilt. He tossed it to her. “I gotta work tomorrow. Be up and ready by the time I leave.”

“What time is that?”

“You’ll know when I wake you. Don’t expect breakfast. I eat in town.”

He turned out the lights and walked to his bedroom in the dark.

****

The dream came the way it always did when he was stressed. Benjamin didn’t like this dream and fought to wake himself. The blankets covering him scalded his body. He thrashed and kicked them aside.

The dream persisted, sucking him into a deep abyss. He was at a funeral. The day was unbearably hot in the graveyard. His mother gripped his hand until the life drained from his fingers. He was a little boy. He was three. The priest droned on and on. Benjamin inhaled the offensive odors of sweating bodies. His little legs hurt. He wanted to sit down. There were no chairs.