Jeff Abbott - Fear

He had slept atop the covers on Blaine’s bed, his mind cracked with exhaustion. And when he woke, he realized trying to find Nathan Ruiz was the wrong tack.

He’d sooner be able to find Celeste Brent, who had left that strange message on Allison’s recorder about keeping her secret.

Blaine the Pain apparently had taken his laptop with him to Texas. Miles found a Santa Fe phone book, scrambled through the alphabet, ran a finger down the listings. No Celeste Brent. No C. Brent.

Okay. She was a TV star. Fame was a critical currency in Santa Fe. He’d seen several celebrities who stopped by Joy’s gallery on their jaunts through town.

It gave him an idea. He dug into his bag and searched the pockets of pants he’d worn Tuesday – he still had Blaine the Pain’s cell-phone number, scribbled on a note. He picked up the phone and set it down. Blaine’s cell would likely show him calling from Blaine’s house. Using his own cell phone was a risk – the feds could trace your location if the phone was on, he’d heard. But he couldn’t use Blaine’s phone. So he took the risk.

He flipped open his cell phone and dialed.

‘Yeah?’ Blaine answered, sounding his usual grumpy self.

‘Hi, Mr. Blaine. It’s Michael Raymond at the gallery. I may have found a buyer for Emilia.’

‘Oh, man, Mike, that’s great.’ Blaine sounded happier than he ever had, and Miles’s chest twisted in guilt.

‘Well, sir, nothing’s set. I have a woman who indicated serious interest, but she didn’t leave a phone number – I guess she forgot. She’s local, and she’s famous, so I thought you might know her. Her name’s Celeste Brent.’

‘Yeah. I don’t know her, no one knows her, but I know who she is.’

‘I guess I don’t.’

‘Well, I never watched Castaway. I prefer PBS.’

‘What’s Castaway?’

‘That reality show where they dump a dozen people on a godforsaken island and they compete to be the last one standing for five million dollars.’ He snorted in disgust. ‘A popularity contest on steroids.’

Miles now recognized the show’s title. Most of his work for the Barradas had been done at night, so he didn’t follow many television programs. But her name had sounded familiar and a drop of the show’s incessant coverage must have seeped into his brain. ‘She was on this game show?’

‘Won the five million. A couple years back. Fifteen minutes of fame for running around in a lime-green bikini. A vicious, backstabbing game and she was the Queen Bee on the island. I’d be surprised to know how she saw the Emilia. She’s a total recluse. She makes a hermit look like a social butterfly.’

‘Why?’

‘Her husband was murdered and she went – how do I say it kindly? – nuts.’

‘That’s awful,’ Miles said. ‘Nuts how?’

‘Agoraphobic – is that what it’s called? She won’t leave her house, not even to go into the yard. But she must be recovering, if she’s out hunting art.’

‘She’s unlisted, and now I see why,’ Miles said, improvising. ‘Do you know anyone who’d know her address? She asked in the voice mail for me to bring the Emilia by for a private viewing.’

‘And she didn’t leave an address or a number for you? That’s weird.’

‘Sir,’ Miles said, ‘if she’s been a recluse for so long, she might not be smooth in her dealings with folks.’

‘True. Let me make a couple of calls and I’ll call you back at the gallery.’

‘Actually, call me on my cell phone.’ He gave Blaine the number. ‘I’m not at the gallery but I can run by there as soon as I know where Ms. Brent’s address is.’

‘Okay. I’ll call you back in a few. Thanks, Michael.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Miles hung up.

Nuts. Maybe post-traumatic syndrome, just like him. Two minutes later his cell rang and Miles answered.

‘I called the top realtor in Santa Fe,’ Blaine said. ‘She knows everyone of a certain net worth. Celeste Brent lives on Camino del Monte Sol.’ He gave him the street number. ‘She sold Celeste the house. She said Celeste never leaves it. I mean never ever. She has a woman who does all her shopping, runs her errands. She doesn’t have any visitors inside, unless it’s her doctors or this caretaker. Isn’t that the craziest thing you ever heard?’

‘Yeah. Crazy. I guess she found the Emilia on the Web site.’

‘Crazy money is still as good as sane money.’

‘Okay.’ He felt real regret about the necessary trick he was playing. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. Blaine.’

‘Let me know what happens. Talk to you soon.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Miles clicked off the phone and started thinking about how he might talk his way into a total recluse’s house.

The sheet felt cool on Celeste’s face. She lay in her bed like a corpse in the morgue. The crying was done; no tears left inside.

Allison was dead. The past twenty-four hours had been full of numbing grief, shock, denial. Celeste kept a gun in the house and she’d gone and picked it up twice and then eased it back into its drawer. I can’t, Allison would kill me. Then she’d cry and then she’d laugh, the good memories of Allison plowing through the grief.

She slipped out from under the sheet and sat at her vanity in the bathroom and, very lightly, touched the razor. She could cut herself, just a tiny nip. She knew cutting was a slide backward. She’d felt stronger in the past week, more sure of herself, than she had in many months. The razor’s edge gleamed; a perfect line. Like the line drawn in her life before Brian was murdered, before she died on the inside and she didn’t know how to resuscitate herself.

She pressed the tip down into the flesh of her upper arm, the pain kicked, up rose a bud of blood.

What are you doing? Allison’s voice rang in her ears. You really want to have a sharp edge be your answer to pain?

She put the razor down, stared at the blood, saw the dead face of her husband, the dead face of his killer in the crimson bubble.

Allison would be ashamed of her. She stopped the blood, dabbed antiseptic on it, covered her weakness with a bandage. She put the razor back in its sheath, tucked the sheath between two folded twenties in her purse’s billfold, and slid a fresh rubber band onto her wrist. She called it her cutting condom, the bit of rubber that was supposed to ease her off an addiction to pain. She started snapping the rubber hard against her wrist, again and again, until fatigue seeped through her and nausea claimed her stomach. But the urge to cut was gone. She curled back under the sheets.

Call the police. And say what? The afternoon before my doctor died, she showed up, acted odd, used my computer? Well, so what? All it would do would be to bring the media’s attention swinging back toward her, a blinding, inescapable light. She could imagine the headlines: ‘Former TV Star Linked to Shrink Death.’ She knew nothing; there was nothing to tell.

She stayed in her room when Nancy Baird, who did all her shopping and errands for her, came by with the twice-a-week grocery run.

‘Celeste? You okay?’ Nancy called from the kitchen.

‘Yes. I’ve got a cold, so I’m just staying in my room.’

Nancy opened the door. ‘I ain’t scared of no cold germs. You want me to run to the pharmacy and get you medicine?’

‘No,’ Celeste said from the sanctuary of the sheets.

Nancy, fiftyish and no-nonsense, came into the room and put a hand to Celeste’s forehead. ‘Not hot or clammy.’

‘No. It’s in my throat.’

‘Let me see.’

‘Oh, honestly, Nancy, let me alone.’

‘You got too much leaving you alone,’ Nancy said. ‘Get up and out of bed, girl.’

‘Just leave me alone!’ Celeste screamed. ‘Just unload the groceries and go.’