Ashley Bell (Ashley Bell #1)(51)

She wondered what kind of man so hated books and bookish people that he would trade the name Faulkner for names that were synonymous with cruelty and death.

Halfway through the pint of ice cream, she realized that she had forgotten something when she’d been searching her dad’s address book. Bibi returned to it and, with a pang of remorse for suddenly being such a doubting daughter, typed in FAULKNER. The directory popped to KELSEY FAULKNER, complete with a local address and phone number.





With the desk light turned off, Bibi felt her way to the window and used the tilt rod to open the louvers on one half of the shutter. She stood staring out at the lamplit fog that still drifted onshore like the ghost of some poisonous sea that had existed billions of years earlier, before the current healthy sea had formed.

With no one to turn to, she would have to be her own detective. And she was as certain as she had ever been about anything that she had little time to wrap the case. The Wrong People were searching for her, and she sensed that their numbers might be daunting, that they were not just a cult of a dozen or two dozen deranged individuals, but were more like a battalion—or an army. Whether they sought her by ordinary or paranormal means didn’t matter; either way, when they found her, they would kill her—and for reasons she still didn’t quite understand.

If Bibi was right about Ashley Bell, that she was a prisoner of these people, held for God knew what purpose, then it would be necessary to find them in order to find her. For that detective work, she needed wheels, and she thought she knew where to get them. But she had to wait for a more reasonable hour, at least seven o’clock, before making the call.

Fog could paint mystery on the most mundane scene. Now when she thought of Pax in some hellhole unknown to her, the mist also painted the night with melancholy. Sorrow was a degree of sadness that she dared not indulge; it would sap her will and strength. As much as she yearned for Pax, she could not dwell on him.

She thought of another foggy night, when she had been six years old for just two weeks, the evening of the day when Captain had moved into the rooms above the garage. He was the only important newcomer in Bibi’s life until, four years later, Olaf came to live with her.

Previously the apartment had been rented by a twenty-something woman, Hadley Rogers, who was busy with a career in art, not as a painter or instructor, but as a dealer or broker or agent, whatever. She had not been a meaningful presence in young Bibi’s life, seen most often flitting down the stairs to her Corvette in the carport. Miss Rogers seemed puzzled by children, as if she wasn’t entirely sure of their origin or purpose. She seemed less substantial than a real person, more like an animated painting of a person.

Captain, on the other hand, was obviously real and important. Tall, rugged-looking, with thick white hair, he was attentive and polite to everyone, even children. Bibi had accompanied her mother when the captain had been shown the apartment, and by the end of the tour, she liked him and knew she would always and forever like him. In spite of his scarred hands and two missing fingers, though his face was weather-beaten and his eyes were as sad as those of a bloodhound, Captain was glamorous; she just knew he had a lot of good stories to tell.

That night, after the fog had laid siege to Corona del Mar, Bibi couldn’t fall asleep. After a while, she slipped out of bed and went to get a glass of milk. As she approached the kitchen, where her parents were at the table, talking over mugs of coffee and Kahlua, she heard her mother say something that warned her to step to the side of the doorway, be silent, and listen.

“I’m thinking it’s a mistake. This has a bad vibe.”

Murphy said, “Well, I’m not getting any vibe, good or bad. I’m vibeless, babe.”

“I’m serious, Murph.”

“Yeah, I figured that out an hour ago.”

“Who moves into a place with just two suitcases and a duffel bag?”

“They were big suitcases. Anyway, it’s a furnished apartment.”

“People still have boxes and boxes of personal belongings.”

“You’re making yourself crazy for no reason.”

“What about Bibi?”

“Listen to yourself, babe. He’s not a child molester.”

“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth. But he’s not like Hadley, hardly home. He’s going to be up there all the time. He’ll be an influence. She was instantly fascinated with him.”

“Retirees do tend to be more homebodies than hot young girls climbing the art-world ladder.”

“You think Hadley is hot?” Nancy asked.

“Not by my standards, not even lukewarm. But I have a lot of empathy. I can see the world through other guys’ eyes.”

“You might need to, if I poke out your eyes.”

“Here you are threatening your own husband, and you think maybe some worn-out, worn-down geezer with eight fingers is a problem.”

Nancy laughed softly. “I just don’t want any bad influences in Bibi’s life.”

“Then we’ll have to move to Florida or somewhere, because right now your sister Edith is just across the border in Arizona.”

Young Bibi had gone back to bed without milk and worried herself to sleep, afraid that the exotic and interesting captain would soon be gone, replaced by another bland and boring Hadley.

She need not have lost sleep. Captain lived above the garage for more than four wonderful years, until that terrible day of blood and death.