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Prologue: Creatures of the Night
Deanna
Deanna rolled her eyes, climbing up the rope ladder and entering into his room. She immediately took out a stash of bills, at least $300 and tossed them on his bed. "That should pay for the window. But this news...will make your window seem less important."
She moved to sit on the edge of his bed, holding her head in her hands. "Kieran has access to a burner phone...he called me tonight."
"Consider it a return on 16 years of paternal abandonment," said Fitz, "Torture is a father's prerogative."
He bent over the contract, adding a flourish of his own (at this point, he was merely playing along a in farce; this paper was about as legit as a Hubba Bubba wrapper) in the margin: "...these monies will be rendered on the petitioner's completion of weekend retreat at..." he trailed off, writing "...boggy hellhole somewhere."
With that, he signed his name with a flourish, pressing the pen into Drew's hand, "Go ahead. You're part of the undersigned too. If you mean to make a contract, you should sign it as well."
Noah
"Wait....What!?" Noah jumped over to his murder board and slapped on a picture of Kieran slap in the middle.
"Tell me everything."
_____________
Drew
As Drew signed his name and looked over at his father before shaking his head.
"You know a notary?"
Deanna
Deanna shifted and looked at the murder board, at her brothers picture.
"He asked me if I missed him....said he access to a burner phone...and that was it."
She turned to look at Noah, frowning a moment. "You know what this means right? He could have cops working on his side..."
"What if he gets out Noah? Do you think that could happen?"
"I have notaries popping out of my bum. Have you seen this place?"
He sighed, "Rest assured, you'll get your dues. Once I get mine."
He folded the contract up, neat and letter-style, in fourths. He almost put it into his breast pocket, but figured Drew wouldn't like that, so he left it on the writing desk. As he turned toward the door, he stopped.
Without turning around, he said, "I don't suppose you have anywhere to spend the night."
Noah
"It means we're still nowhere, even if he has something to do with this, there's still a killer on the outside."
Noah spent the rest of the night with Deanna discussing theories.
______________
Drew
"No I do, I'm sleeping in your dead kid's room." He told him with a wink and jogged upstairs.
Deanna
She was sure that things could only go south from here, so discussing the theories with Noah through the night was what she continued to do.
Hell she could run home and get her things for the retreat when morning came.
Stargazing
Harold Frey was at the end of line. Rock bottom. The lowest of lows. The corner booth, all to himself in Sal's. He was finished, in other words.
Fools. Bureaucratic fools. Kellerman and Teague, looking for a scapegoat and save face. Oh but they're still going on retreat, of course. Take Harry's ideas, get rid of Harry, make them your own, THAT'S MY LIFE. YEP.
Harold Frey was also drunk.
He looked out through the grimy window. The retreat site wasn't too far from here, actually. Maybe a few miles. Hard to tell with all that swampland. Could be a few miles or a thousand, depending on if it was raining or not, and the roads weren't flooded.
Maybe Harold would go to the cabins, carve something nasty. They wouldn't recognize his handwriting because they never read his paperwork or his reports. Never checked on his surveys or charts or college success plans. Harold was a non-factor, forever and always.
So it was in character for this non-factor to give up this fancy, yet another to join the collection of his lost hopes and dreams. He'd return to his motel room, gather his things, and drive on, out of Louisiana, back to Fresno to his now even further disappointed mother.
That's life, Harold left it at that, finishing off the rest of his whiskey sour. There was a cherry left over in the glass. He'd eat it but he didn't trust Sal's upkeep of his cocktail fruits, so he plucked it and started his way towards the trash can. The motel's bar was empty, nary a soul to be found, except one young woman, hunched over the counter...crying.
She looks...familiar...oh God. Bridget Atwood! From GW High! She can't see me in a seedy location like this! I have to get out of... Harold paused, Bridget's sobs hitting him more and more. Ah, screw it. You haven't got any reputation to destroy. And isn't this why you joined your profession? To help young folks in need?
Harold swallowed before resting himself on the stool next to Bridget. Sal had fallen asleep watching one of those ghost shows on the Travel Channel. I suppose haunted houses don't make interesting travel locations. That tickled old Harry, prompting a chuckle from him.
Bridget looked up from her crossed arms, eyes red, startled. "M-Mr. Frey?" She rubbed her eyes and sniffled. "What ar-are you doing here?"
"I should ask you the same thing, Bridget," Harold replied, getting himself in order. Now it'd look like he was laughing at her misery. God, he had no social skills. No wonder Teague fired him. "What are you doing in a place like this? Why aren't you with your parents?"
"Oh," Bridget looked down, perhaps in shame. "It's...I don't want to be around anybody right now, Mr. Frey. Not after..." Her lip quivered, before she burst out weeping, burying her face in her arms.
Harold looked around, not sure what to do. Awkwardly, he patted her on the back. "There, there. It's..." He swallowed. "It's alright." Realizing that wasn't getting him anywhere, he persisted with the questions. "Not after what, Bridget?"
"After Terrence!" She said, without looking up.
He paled, withdrawing his hand slowly. "Oh. I...see." The crying went on for another minute, as did Sal's snoring. The crew on the TV were putting on their night-vision goggles, looking for some supernatural activity now. Harold was removed from it all, not sure how to connect with any of what was going on.
That's always been your problem, Harry. Connection. Couldn't connect with your mother, not with the kids you worked with, not with Vanessa. You. Can't. Connect! With anybody! He looked to Bridget. Change that now.
"I know losing someone is...hard," Harold started, Bridget's sobbing beginning to quiet down. Maybe already she was listening. "And we all need our, er, our..."
"Alone time?" Bridget endeavored to finish his sentence.
"Alone time! Yes. To kind of, um, reset our minds, and sort things out. But you can't go it alone entirely. You need family. Friends. Running away won't do anything for you."
Says the man running back to his mother.
"Family. Ha," Bridget dried her eyes with the sleeve of her GW High hoodie. "My parents didn't care about Terrence. They never liked him. It was because of them I always pushed him off. Again and again, I'd just push him off, nicely. All because I didn't want to upset them. And the minute I finally go against them for the first time in God knows how long, he..." Her tears swelled, so she left it at that.
Douchebag parents. His least-favorite part of the job. Always listening to complaints. Always bootlicking. Always the doormat.
Well, no more.
"Well screw them!" That caught Bridget's attention, ceasing her sobs. "They have no right to assert that kind of control over you, and you don't have to give in! Y-you can't let others control who you are, especially when you're grieving!" He threw his hands up in distaste. "You're probably better off here, away from the clutches of those dictators! Christ almighty!"
"Mr. Frey..." Bridget was in shock. "I never know you could be so...angry."
Instinctively, Harold replied, "Blame my mother." But then he quickly recovered, justifying his anger. "A-anger is healthy. Bridget. If you don't let it out every now and then, well, it's..." He searched for an analogy. "It's bad!"
"I guess," Bridget nodded, but her eyes caught onto something else. "Is that a...a cherry?"
"Huh?" Harold realized he was still holding it. "Yeah, from my drink." Catching himself on another mistake, he added, "And drinking won't fix your problems, Bridget. I'm just in a really bad time and I'm not a good example..."
"Can I have it?"
Harold froze. "...what?"
"The cherry," she clarified. "Can I have it?"
"Er," Harold studied the shriveled fruit before handing it over to Bridget. "Sure."
Bridget smiled for the first time since Harold had seen tonight, plopping the tiny fruit in her mouth. After some silence, she asked, "So what are you doing here, Mr. Frey?"
"Harold," he asked of her, growing disdainful of the formalities. "Mr. Frey was your incompetent guidance counsellor. He died when your school up and fired him. Harold is just an incompetent man who gives bad advice, moving back to his mother's Fresno apartment."
"But...why did the school fire you?" Bridget asked, confused.
"Because I'm an idiot who doesn't know what to do when tragedy hits, other than crawling back into his shell." It was weird being this honest with a student. But again, what reputation did he have to lose?
"But what about what you told me? About letting other people define you?"
"Did I say something about defining?"
"Well, that's my interpretation of what you said about the totalitarian dictators and all."
"Wow. Your interpretation," he looked Bridget in the eye. "You're a smart girl. What college did I advise for your number one?"
"I wanted Berkley, but you told me I'd be better off at the community college here."
"Oh," Harold swallowed, guilt overwhelming him. "Wow, I'm a dick." He blurted out.
"Stop that!" Bridget said, as if she were checking up on him now. "You were just doing your job."
"Yeah, just not well."
"My point is you can't let your ex-bosses define you! Or your past!" Bridget snapped her fingers. "Isn't that one of the posters in your office?"
"The one with the clownfish in the pod of salmon or the cat hanging in there?"
"No, the one with the night sky!" Bridget put her arm around his shoulders, spreading her other one far and wide. "Reach for the stars!"
"Oh, Bridget," Harold said, cracking a bashful smile.
"It's true, isn't it?"
Harold turned to face her. "It's cliché, is what it is." They were both smiling at each other.
"Cliches are rooted in truth." Bridget jumped off her stool, motioning Harold to follow her. "C'mon."
"C'mon, where?"
"Outside," Bridget said with a smile. "We're going to see the stars."
Harold chuckled.
"I'm serious, Harold."
"Harry," he corrected, his laughter dying down. "My...friends call me Harry." No one had called him Harry since college.
"OK, Harry, c'mon!"
And so Harry complied, following her outside into the motel parking lot. The breeze felt good, even though it carried the stench of swamps that weren't too far off.
"Alright," Harry said, scratching his nose. "So..." He gestured to the sky. "There are the stars." He clenched and unclenched the fist of his raised his hand. "I have reached for them."
Bridget laughed, letting out a snort, prompting even more laughter from her and Harry both, the latter red in the face. To think he only had one whiskey sour.
Figuring she had to guide him along, Bridget stood by Harold and pointed to the sky. "It's not just about reaching towards the stars, Harry. It's about knowing what to reach for."
That piqued Harry's curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"What do you see in the stars?"
"What do I see..." Harry squinted. "I don't know. Um...I think the Big Dipper is somewhere..."
"Not constellations." Bridget explained. "What's in the stars themselves?" She looked up and pointed at one. "That one, that's Terrence."
"How do you figure?" Harry inquired, curious.
"Because he's right next to that star over there," Bridget pointed to a neighboring light in the sky. "And won't leave her alone. Eventually, though, she'll catch on and the two will join into one. It might take years. Centuries, even. But eventually, the two will merge into one, together forever."
"Huh." Harold looked down for a second before asking, "Wait, is that how stars work?"
"I don't know!" Bridget motioned to the sky again. "Go ahead! Try it for yourself!"
"Well, alright then." Harry readjusted his glasses, squinting at the stars. Which one was him? "There! That one!"
"Where?"
"That star, there all alone." There it was, far apart from the rest, isolated, disconnected from his peers, sad in his loneliness. "Yeah, that one. Because...because he's alone and he's sad. But he doesn't want to be. He really really wants to be with the others. So he tries his best. He...he steps out of his comfort zone, makes it his life's work to just connect. And...and yes! Yes, it's moving! Moving to the rest! I-I don't believe it! He won't be alone anymore! He won't be sad! He'll be happy! He'll be..."
Harold felt a thud at the back of his before falling on his knees and blacking out.
"That was a plane, dumbass."
Bridget thanked God that was over, holding the back of her hand. She could only keep up that sentimental act for so long. Bending over his body, she searched Frey, finding his wallet. She wasn't expecting a motherlode but damn, this was pathetic. Maybe the credit card would be worth it, though. And the car keys. She looked over to his Toyota Camry parked a few spots over. Eh, it was better than Mr. Krapp's Nissaan Maxima, and she had to do a lot more to con him to get it.
Strolling past her old ride, Bridget contemplated on her journey here. The Terrence plan fell through, but then again, how much would she really get from him? It did give her the grieving guise, though, so driving by this old joint to stake out needy middle-aged men seemed like the plan. But the place was deserted. Bridget was scared she'd have to wake up Sal, she even made her sobs louder. But she got stuck with Harold Frey and now Harold Frey was unconscious on the pavement.
And now, Bridget Atwood had enough money to leave this murder-town and make it big. Not in L.A., though. That city was horrible. Portland. Portland, Oregon. She would find some artsy douche there and they'd live in a studio apartment. And if things go bad, the cycle repeats and she moves to San Fran. Or San Diego. Or maybe even Fresno.
Whatever the case, Bridget was free.
"Thank you, Harry," Bridget said to herself, as unlocked his car. "Country roads, here I come." She said stepping into the driver's seat. Letting out a sigh of satisfaction, she stuck the keys in the ignition, starting the car.
The lights went on and Bridget looked in the rear-view mirror. She only had a split-second to process the masked figure waiting in the backseat.
Bridget screamed as Ghostface slammed her face again and again into the driver's wheel without remorse, honking the car's horn over and over. After six times, Ghostface paused and held Bridget's face, observing her. Then, like discarding a piece of garbage, Ghostface opened the passenger's seat door and dragged Bridget onto the pavement. Wielding the Slim Jim that got the masked killer into Frey's car, Ghostface beat Bridget down to a pulp, violently in frustration and disappointment.
Harold woke up to the sound of his car horn going off. Holding the back of his head (God, how many rings did that girl wear on that hand?), he waited for his vision to focus. When it did, he was met with the sight of the Lakewood killer beating Bridget to a pulp. He gasped in horror.
HOLY SHIT! IT'S THE KILLER! His conscience spoke up. Well, what are you doing?! It's your job to help young folks in need, isn't it?! But then his rationale replied. That was my old job! I need to get to Fresno!
Harold ran up to a sprint only to trip over himself.
Ghostface looked up. There he was. Done with Bridget Atwood, Ghostface discarded the Slim Jim and took out the ideal weapon for this kind of thing: the good ol' reliable knife.
Harold looked back. He got the killer's attention! Sweating bullets, Harold got back to his feet and ran for...the swamps! He could lose him there! And so Harold ran off the road into the reeds, and it wasn't long before he found himself sloshing in the near knee-deep, filthy water. The downside of all this was he couldn't see where he was going, and eventually, an unseen tree root got the best of him, send him crashing to the ground.
"Agh! My ankle!" It was sprained! Damn his weak bones! Sputtering and stammering, he tried to crawl away. He could still hide...
Harold felt a hand clench the back of his head, right before all he saw and felt was a surge of filthy sludgy water. As if in an act of charity, the killer withdrew Harold to let him gasp for air, but then forcing him back down, drowning Harold slowly but surely.
But then Ghostface withdrew Harold again, but now turning him to face his killer. Harold couldn't see well enough, with his almost being drowned and dirty glasses and all. Ghostface at least did Harold the courtesy of wiping Harry's glasses clean, allowing the pathetic ex-guidance counsellor to look into the blank expression of his killer's mask in terror.
Ghostface raised the knife. Harold screamed. Again and again and again and again...
He was wrong. This was the end of the line for Harold Frey.
-Harold and Bridget (may they finally rest in peace)