The Fog of Dreams

by Justin Bell

  Part of her wondered how much her gender and ethnicity played a role in the decision, as much as she hated to validate Deputy Buck's narrow-minded view. She knew one thing, though?she knew that she'd have to work twice as hard to get half as far as her predecessor, and she knew that she would. They were not going to regret this decision if she could help it.

  So here she was, working through her lunch hour again, only she suspected if she found what she was looking for this time around, it might be bad for her career, not good. William Strickland was not a name she'd heard much in the six months that she'd been Chief of Police. In fact, she hadn't heard the name Strickland at all. The family had lived out on the outskirts of town, closer to downtown Stratton to the north than they were to downtown Norwood. A quiet family, kept to themselves, nothing remarkable at all.

  You know, except for the two guys mauled to death by a strange animal by their front yard.

  So she was spending her lunch hour checking school records and looking at anything she could find for William Strickland, his wife Jennifer, and two young daughters, but so far there wasn't much. According to elementary school attendance records, the two girls and their mother were taking a year off and traveling abroad. Not out of the realm of possibility Louisa knew, but a little bit strange for children of such a young age, especially leaving their father here. At least she assumed they left their father here. Someone had been peeking through those shades on the second floor of the Strickland house, and he was the most likely culprit.

  There were no signs of William Strickland or his wife on social media, and in fact the Internet in general appeared to think they mostly did not exist. Louisa lived a pretty sheltered life herself, and both her and Julietta kept to themselves, but even they left some social media waves in their wake. Why didn't the Stricklands?

  She pushed away from her desk and leaned back slowly in her swivel chair, tilting her head slightly right to gaze out her opened office door. The police department lobby beyond sat empty, her deputy out grabbing whatever fat-filled calorie bomb he called lunch, and no unexpected visitors hanging out and waiting. Louisa shifted her eyes in consideration, then brought herself upright again and plucked the phone from its cradle. With practiced ease, her fingers punched a series of ten number keys, and seconds later a tinny voice clicked on.

  "Bridget?" Louisa asked, a tinge of recognition and familiarity in her voice.

  "Louisa?" came the reply on the other end. The word turned up into a hopeful lilt, just how the Norwood Chief of Police hoped it would.

  "How are you, Bridge?"

  "Good! I'm great, actually."

  "How's the bureau treating you?"

  "Well, you know. I'm still a newbie. Lots of desk work and filing. None of the fun stuff yet. Still wish you were here?"

  "Every damn day, Bridge."

  "So," Bridget continued, her voice turning inquisitive. "I've never known you to just make social calls. We spent enough time together at school for me to realize that."

  "You can see right through me." Louisa crossed one leg over the other and leaned back again, casting another gaze out into the lobby to make sure it was still empty. "I need you to poke around a little bit for me."

  "Okay," the voice lowered perceptibly. "Nothing shady I hope? I just got here."

  "No, Bridge. Totally up and up. I just think I'm getting stonewalled by someone here and need a fresh perspective."

  "Okay, shoot." Several hundred miles away, Bridget Hartford leaned forward in her tiny fabric board cubicle and slid a pen from the cylindrical cup on her desk. She pulled a small pad across to just in front of her, tapping the pen tip against the white lined paper.

  "William Strickland. Currently place of residence is Norwood, Vermont."

  There was a brief moment of silence from Bridget's cubicle as she jotted this information down. "That it?" she asked.

  "Yep."

  "What do you need to know about him?"

  "Whatever you got."

  Bridget let the question hang there for a few moments again. "All right. I'll start digging."

  "Thanks, Bridge. Let me know what you find, okay?"

  "Sure thing. I still hope we'll see you down here eventually."

  "You and me both. Residency is three years. After that, who knows?" Louisa tried hard to keep the emotion out of her voice. As she looked around her little office her time at Quantico seemed so far away. A possible desk at FBI headquarters even farther. Was this all worth it? She desperately hoped so.

  "Good talking to you, Louisa," Bridget said. "I'll let you know what I find."

  Both phone sets clicked and Louisa sat in silence, the thick, wet smell of grease soaked French fries hanging in the Vermont air.