The Turning Season (8 page)

Wilkerson spreads his hands. “So here's the situation. That young man over there—Bobby Foucault—he apparently met a young lady here tonight. Woman named Celeste Saint-Simon. People here say she's a friend of yours?”

“That's right,” I reply. “I came with her tonight. Ryan joined us later.”

“Ahuh. Well, Bobby took Celeste out to the back alley to get friendly, only he got too friendly and she didn't like it. She scratched his face and ran off.”

“Sounds like Celeste,” Ryan says.

“Here's the weird part. He says she turned into some kind of wild cat before she scratched him. She was a woman—and then she was a mountain lion. Or something.” He looks between us with his blue eyes at their widest. His voice is dripping with Southern honey when he says, “You ever hear of such a thing before?”

Ryan opens and shuts his mouth, then looks at me. His expression says,
How can I tell the sheriff he's talking like a lunatic?
“No, sir,” he says cautiously.

“This Celeste Saint-Simon never—never went through any kind of permutations like that when you could see her?”

Ryan looks at me again, so this time I answer. “No. Does he really think—do
you
really think—I mean—
what
? She changed into an animal? That's what he's saying?”

“Ahuh,” the sheriff drawls again. “I have to admit, those scratches on his face look a little—different—than what I've seen in domestic disputes in the past. She clawed him in the chest, too. Got him real good. And those wounds don't look like your average fingernail marks, either.”

For a moment I cast around for explanations that might sound logical. Maybe
Celeste has been filing her nails to super sharp points. She thinks it's fashionable.
Or maybe
She's been carrying a can of mace and this knuckle bar that looks like cat's claws. She says you can never be too careful when you meet people at a bar.
But I don't have the energy to maintain the lies. Let Celeste figure out what to tell the cops if they decide to follow up.

“I don't know what to tell you, sir,” is all I come up with.

He nods and devises his own plausible alternative. “Maybe she had car keys or something in her hand, and she used those as a weapon. Because—mountain lion? Unless I can get a witness or some corroborating testimony, it's just not credible. I think I'm going to have to write him off as a drunk.”

Ryan and I both nod, but prudently remain silent.

“So
now
the question is, where is this Celeste Saint-Simon?” the sheriff asks. “She hasn't come back inside, and the manager tells me there's no one out in the alley. I'm a little worried about the young woman's safety.”

Oh, crap. I hadn't expected that. “Maybe she just went home,” I say.

He nods. “Could be, and we want to send a squad car out there to check on her. But if she's not there we might need to start looking a little harder.” He jerks his head back to indicate where the other officer is still standing guard over Bobby Foucault. “Don't want to let him go home until we're sure no one's been seriously hurt.”

Worse and worse. Now we not only have to find Celeste, we have to get her back to her apartment in human shape, clearly safe and unharmed. “That makes sense,” Ryan says, sounding deeply appreciative though I'm sure he's just as alarmed as I am. “Thank you.”

“You happen to know her address offhand?” Sheriff Wilkerson asks.

It seems pointless to stall, so I reel it off. He doesn't write it down, so either he has an excellent memory or he already knew it and was just testing me to see if I'd tell him the truth. Why would he do that? I have no idea. But that's how Wilkerson always makes me feel.

“All right. We'll go look for her.” He reaches into a breast pocket of his khaki uniform, pulls out a couple of business cards, and hands one to each of us. “Meanwhile, if you happen to find her before we do, tell her to give us a call or come down to the station, in case she wants to give us a statement.”

“Yes, sir. We'll do that,” Ryan says.

We all stand up, we all shake hands, and I settle my purse on my shoulder. Is this it? Can we go? Ryan nudges me with his foot and nods down at the floor, where I see Celeste's shiny silver handbag nestled against the base of the table. I think quickly but see no reason I can't admit it's Celeste's and take it with me, telling anyone who asks that I'll return it as soon as I see her. The sheriff turns away to say something to Joe, and I bend over to retrieve the purse. When I straighten up, I find Wilkerson has turned back to me with a smile.

“I forgot to ask you,” he says. “You heard from Miss Janet lately? I sure do miss her.”

I smile brightly in return. As part of maintaining the fiction that Janet is still alive, I frequently field such questions from her former clients. I'm constantly inventing news about her travels, phone calls, and occasional visits. “I got an e-mail from her this morning. She's doing great.”

“She going to be back in town anytime soon?”

“Maybe. I didn't ask.”

“Well, you tell her to come on by my place and say hi next time she's here. My dogs miss her even more than I do.”

“I'll tell her you said that! How are they doing—I know she'll ask me.”

“Babe's getting kind of old and gimpy. I don't think she'll be with me much longer. But the other two are just as healthy as can be. Barking their heads off last night at a squirrel got caught in the garage. Almost had the neighbors calling the cops on
me
.”

Ryan and I both offer polite laughs. “She'll be glad to hear that,” I tell him.

He nods at each of us, a silent good-bye, and this time he really does walk away. I glance quickly over at Joe, who gives me a small smile and a slight shrug. I read it as
Whaddya gonna do?
I smile and shrug in return.
Nice to meet you. Strange how the evening ended up. Whaddya gonna do?

“All right, then, I think we can go,” Ryan says in an undervoice. I nod and adjust my grip on the two purses, mine and Celeste's. Ryan puts his arm around my waist and guides me to the door. I try not to lean on him for support or shelter, but it's been that kind of night. I need a little of both.

The air seems sharply cooler outside, as if autumn has swirled through while we were inside lying to the police. Or as if the weather is turning ominous just as a reflection of our lives. Synchronicity.

“So now what?” I murmur to Ryan. “Do we look for Celeste?
Where
do we look for her?”

“I've been thinking. What would I do if I were her? I'd go hang out at my car and wait for my friends to drive it home for me.”

That sounds reasonable, so I pull myself free of Ryan's grip and lead him several streets over to where Celeste and I found a parking spot. We're a few avenues from the main drag, so there isn't much activity and the street isn't particularly well-lit. Unfortunately, her car is under one of the few lampposts, so anyone watching from nearby storefronts or apartment buildings would definitely notice if a bobcat was lurking nearby. However, there are plenty of promising bushes and city trash cans and bus-stop benches along the street, throwing a modicum of shade. I dig through her purse to find her keys, and the electronic locks make a little chirp as they release.

“You drive really slowly,” Ryan orders. “I'll watch for her along the sidewalk. When you get to a dark stretch, come to a stop for a few minutes and I'll get out.”

We put this admirable plan in action, and I roll down the street at exactly two miles per hour. At the first intersection, there's a nice little wooden stockade to hold a collection of Dumpsters and recycling bins, and Ryan hops out to look around. I bend down to peer out through the passenger's side window.

And there's Celeste stepping out past the stockade's wide door, sleek and naked and human in the patchy light. Her skin is only a shade lighter than the wood of the fencing and her hair is as dark as night. She could have hidden here till morning and never caught anyone's attention.

“Celeste!” I exclaim as she slides into the backseat and hunkers down. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. God, that Bobby is such a prick. What took you so long? Get in the backseat with me. And turn up the heat,” she says rapidly, all the commands and questions running together.

Ryan's already circled the car and opened my door, so I quickly yield my place and jump in back with Celeste. She's not embarrassed about being nude, because nothing embarrasses Celeste, but even in the inadequate light, I can tell she looks chilly and pissed off. I scoot close enough to wrap my arms around her and rub her back for warmth. Ryan puts the car in drive and begins cruising out of the neighborhood.

“I don't suppose you keep spare clothes in the trunk,” I say.

“No, but I think I'd better start! I'm not that cold—I just changed shapes when I saw you guys pull up—but what a fucking stupid way to spend my evening.”

“Well, and it's going to get even stupider because the police are sending a squad car to your place, and if you show up without any clothes on, they're going to ask a
lot
of questions.”

“You guys called the
cops
?”

“
We
didn't,” Ryan says from the front seat. “But there was a certain amount of commotion after you disappeared, and the police were most definitely summoned. And they were very interested in Bobby Foucault's story about the woman who changed into a mountain lion when he tried to kiss her. Either he doesn't recognize a bobcat when he sees one, or he didn't think a bobcat would sound all that scary,” he adds.

I can hear the grin in Celeste's voice, and it makes me want to slap her. “Yeah. I figured changing shapes right then might not be such a good idea.”

“Then why did you do it?” I demand. I'm still rubbing her skin to help warm her, but my voice isn't very friendly. “I mean—you shifted in front of a stranger? Are you
crazy
?”

“I know, I know. But I was so mad I wasn't thinking straight.”

“Why? What'd he do?” Ryan asks.

“He assaulted me! He had one hand up my shirt and his other hand unzipping my jeans and he was, like, slamming me into the wall. I mean, seriously, I thought he was going to rape me there in the alley.”

I pull back to look at her as hard as I can in the dimness, because Celeste is prone to exaggeration. But she looks completely serious. And maybe a little bit frightened. “Why didn't you scream?” I ask slowly. “You knew there was a bouncer at the door. You knew there were a lot of people around.”

“I panicked, okay? I mean, he had his cock
out
, you know, and he was hard. He was ready. I panicked, and I defended myself, and, well, I shifted. And I clawed him up pretty good,” she adds on a note of satisfaction.

I glance toward the rearview mirror, where I can see Ryan's eyes, trained on Celeste. His face looks grim. “You need to tell that to the cops,” he says.

“I'm not talking to the cops. Anyway, nothing happened. I got away from him and everything's fine.”

“Well, you
are
talking to the cops, because they're coming to your place and they want to be sure you're all right,” I say. “And you should tell them what kind of monster Bobby is, so that in a few weeks when he assaults
another
girl, and maybe does even worse, they'll believe her story.”

She glances down at her nude body. “Well, I can't exactly talk to them dressed like this,” she says. “And if they're already waiting for me when we drive up—”

I'm stumped. The local Walmart closes at ten and I don't know where else we might buy clothes at this hour. I can hurry into her apartment to grab jeans and a T-shirt, but if a cop has already staked the place out—and if he recognizes me from the bar—

She makes a
gimme
motion with her right hand. “Take off your clothes and let me put them on.”

“What? No! How is it any better if
I'm
the one who's naked?”

“Because
you
don't have to get out of the car and walk up the sidewalk! As soon as the cop follows me inside you can jump in your car and drive away.”

“Naked. All the way down Highway 159.”

“I'll give you my shirt,” Ryan says from the front seat.

“Give it to Celeste!”

“It doesn't look like something I'd wear to a bar,” Celeste says impatiently. “But it will be decent for just driving home. You'll still have on your panties. You'll be just fine.”

I argue feebly for a few more moments, but it was obvious from the minute she proposed her plan that Celeste would get her way. She always does. Ryan pulls over in some deserted parking lot, and we all start stripping down and swapping clothes. Ryan's short-sleeved polo shirt is still warm from his body and fragrant with masculine scents—soap, aftershave, sweat. I try not to inhale too deeply. Celeste has a pile of cloth grocery bags stuffed under the seat, so I spread a couple of them over my thighs to hide my bare legs.

“I hate this,” I grumble, but of course no one listens to me. A few minutes later, we're on our way, and soon enough we're pulling into Celeste's apartment complex.

Where, indeed, there's a cop parked in front of her building, waiting with the determined patience of a man who could watch icebergs form. “Showtime,” Celeste murmurs as Ryan brings her car alongside the police car. She rolls the window down.

“Officer—were you looking for me? I'm Celeste Saint-Simon.”

He's out of the car in about three seconds flat, and it's clear he wants to take a statement and maybe look her over. I can't figure out the logistics of the next few minutes, but Ryan's way ahead of me. He practically pushes Celeste out of her car so she can confer with the police, then drives over to my Jeep at an angle that ensures Celeste's car hides my body when I step out.