by Trisha Wolfe
“But what? I shouldn’t offer her my respect?” I slip my phone into my pocket and walk toward him. “Let me give you a little advice, detective. I know you’re experienced, I know you’ve put the hours in. You’ve got a real handle on despising the enemy.” His features shift into a confused expression as I go on. “But don’t try so hard to put up a barrier between yourself and the damned. Understanding that we are all capable of some measure of sin is what keeps our guard up. Separating yourself from your enemy with such clear precision comes across as fear. And fear leads to the dark side.”
He shakes his head. “Did you just quote Star Wars to me?”
I offer him a smile. “George Lucas is a freaking genius.” Then I start back toward the crime scene, saying, “But seriously. Every killer you hunt deserves some of your regard. Psycho analysis and great sci-fi aside, there’s a fine line between hate and fear. Sometimes the lure to become the thing we fear—just to alleviate that fear—is too great a temptation.”
Words of wisdom once given to me by my mentor. And though I’ve kept that advice close to me through the years, it didn’t save me in the end. My monster just shouted louder.
As we approach the scene, Quinn is hollering into his phone, giving the lead reporter at the local news station a royal ass-chewing.
“And to answer your question from before,” I say to Carson. “We don’t want to give serial killers nicknames because it fuels them on. Yes, the UNSUB is vain, and the media egging him on, when he’s already demonstrated he doesn’t need an audience to go on a killing spree, only suggests that he’ll become bolder.”
Carson groans. “Quinn’s going to put me on desk duty, isn’t he?”
I shrug. “Maybe for the rest of the day. But he gets over things pretty quickly.”
“So how was the third victim linked back to the Countess?” Carson asks suddenly.
My chest prickles with apprehension, and I don’t look his way. “I’m not sure yet.”
“But if you don’t know, then who does? If the UNSUB is mutilating women based on the Blood Countess’s murders, then—”
“Carson. The UNSUB’s methodology is evolving. Even though he’s emulating Bathory, he’s still his own killer.” I face him then. “He’s a sadist who derives pleasure from torturing and killing his victims. He’s delusional—he’s built an alternate reality for himself where Bathory plays a role, but he’s still feeding his own sick need to kill. He’s capable of anything, really.”
Carson studies me closely, brown eyes flicking over my face, and I suddenly regret giving him an inch back there to get close to me. “You’re saying you think the third murder of the rope suspended victim was more his own method and not related to his overall masterwork?”
“Yes.” And for the most part, I have to believe that. Because the alternative is too frightening to admit. That both the victims at the last crime scene were a message to me—and that the UNSUB knows intimate details about my relationship to Colton.
“I’ve already covered all this with Quinn and Wexler,” I say, exasperation edging into my voice. “You’re on a need-to-know basis as far as the full profile goes, Carson. Work your assignments. Or else you’re just going to tick Quinn off even more.”
I glimpse his smug smile from the corner of my vision. “Not when I give him the report about the victims’ connection to The Lair.”
Shit. With the new crime scene taking precedence, I nearly forgot about that detail.
Carson moves forward, not waiting any longer to give Quinn that information. As soon as Quinn hangs up with the reporter, Carson is there, ready to gain Quinn’s favor again.
“Dammit,” Quinn shouts, then cups the side of his face.
“You should really get that root canal,” I say as I walk past, quickly getting out of the line of fire before he can lash back.
Leaving Carson to give the full report on the victimology linkage, I put my full attention on the current victim. With the Bathory crest in full view—something bold that differentiates from the past, subtle hints—the UNSUB is very well trying to tell me something new.
Now that the UNSUB is abducting victims to torture for longer periods of time, that means he could already have another woman. I take out my phone and make a note to update the task force to start scouring the local reports of missing women, starting from the last twenty-four hours and going back through the past month.
“Avery,” I say to myself, “where are you.” I really need the M.E. to give us a timeline. How long the victim was tortured, her time of death…and if possible, an identity. I need to know if this victim was also a member of The Lair.
“Group up,” Quinn hollers. I look over to see him motioning to me and other members of his task force.
Falling in behind the rest, I reach into my pocket for a piece of gum. My nerves are about hacked today, and I’m tempted to just buy a damn pack of cigarettes.
“Listen up,” Quinn starts. “There’s a leak in this department.” Curious grumbles travel the task force. “Shut it. When I find out who it is—and I will—that person will never work in law enforcement again, you can bet your ass. But for now, we have more pressing matters.” He points to his first in command on the force, Kyle. “You’re in charge of forming a low key stakeout. I’ll give you the location soon. I want four unis at this location tonight.”
Kyle nods. “Do we have a suspect?”
Quinn runs a hand over his jaw. “We have new information on the victims, and a possible point of abduction. We’re going to watch this spot and the surrounding area closely. I want anything—anything that looks the least bit suspicious—reported to me immediately.”
He finishes giving the task force their new assignments—mine being to backtrack the new information on the victims—then closes out with a reminder to everyone that this is highly confidential information.
“If I hear that it’s anyone on this task force—” his gaze sweeps the group “—I shouldn’t have to repeat myself. I’m tired of this sadistic bastard making us chase our tails. Let’s bring him in, people.”
With the task force now watching The Lair, it’s only a matter of time before Quinn makes the connection between Colton being the first vic’s neighbor. Which means he’ll soon be brought in for questioning.
I start toward Carson’s car, ready to put my own skills to more useful means to find the UNSUB, when Quinn approaches me. “Bonds, I need you for a minute.”
A sinking feeling grabs ahold of my stomach. I know Quinn well enough to predict when he’s about to request something that I’m not comfortable with. “What do you have?”
“Nothing, really. A feeling. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “But that’s why I need you to look into something for me. Just you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You mean I can’t include boy wonder over there?”
He gives me a mock smile. “Funny. Carson’s a good kid. Maybe a bit too eager, but that’s not such a bad thing when working a case like this. He did give us the only major break we’ve had on the vics so far.”
Hell. A break that has the ACPD about to swarm all over The Lair, Colton…and then inevitably me. My member file is located in that club. I might have joined under a pseudonym, but that won’t deter detectives. Especially stubborn, case-making detectives like Quinn.
“He’s not all bad,” I say, shrugging. “But I seriously do not need to be babysat, Quinn. I work alone. You know this.”
He waves a hand. “I know. But give me a break, okay? Your ass should be in your apartment with, at the very least, two unis keeping watch—”
“Not happening.”
“I got that. So if you insist on staying on this case, I need you where I know you’re safe. I could ring Carson’s neck for taking you to that club today…” His hands ball into fists. “Look. I want you at the station from here on out. No more field work. And I need you to run background checks on the owner of The Lair and all the employees.”
My stomach drops, f
ree-fall. “I can’t do that.”
His eyebrows press together. “Why the hell not?”
Because I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t look into Colton’s past. Because I have to have some semblance of separation between my job and personal life. And because I don’t want to know.
But the dark voice cresting inside me whispers this is the very excuse I’ve been waiting for. I lash out at that voice, indignance burning fire-hot in my veins. I’m not that person. She’s not me—I won’t let Colton be devoured by her.
“Bonds,” Quinn says, breaking into my cycling thoughts, “this isn’t really a request. I need someone I can trust, who’s not leaking like a damn faucet to the media, to do this. I don’t want to start dragging in random suspects and have the department come down on me if it’s not warranted.”
“Fine.” Accepting my responsibility, I decide I’m the best one for this assignment. It’s better I look into Colton’s past rather than someone like Carson. “I’ll take care of it.”
He nods once. “Thanks. Let me know what you find.”
I leave him, feeling the pressure of my job bearing down on me. I knew it was possible it would come to this—that I’d have to delve into Colton’s past. Over the last week, I’ve fought the temptation to do just that many times. Not wanting anything to come between us.
No matter how I aspired to give him the trust he’s offered me so freely, my past has made me an untrusting creature. It’s the rules I’ve always lived by. I’m about to test Colton’s assurance of having nothing to hide.
Link
UNSUB
One seemingly minor action can trigger a domino effect that results in a drastic outcome.
It’s called the butterfly effect.
A tuft of snow is kicked loose from the mountain top, and down it travels. Down, down, gaining momentum, increasing in size, until it’s an unstoppable force. An avalanche.
The same snow, kicked in precisely the same manner and place, will have varying degrees of results. The course and aftereffect of the snow cannot be predicted nor controlled. It is ruled by chaos. The only thing that is known for sure is the link, the connection, that lies between the initial action and the aftermath.
Chaos is such an unruly fiend. Some want to believe their actions—no matter how inconsequential—have no influence on a catastrophe. Blame chaos. She’s the merciless mother, the creator of such heartache. It is all out of our control.
But there’s always a connection.
You may have to search hard, dig deep, to unearth it, but it’s there. Two people cross paths who would otherwise never come into contact during their lifetime, had it not been for one or the other’s small, trivial action. A chance meeting.
Or is it?
Once chaos has set the pendulum in motion, fate steps in to make her claim. Chaos and fate. These two deceptive beauties work flawlessly together. A fantastic chess match where all the pawns are eliminated—one-by-one—until the queen is checkmated.
And that’s the purpose, isn’t it? To come out on top. The victor. Against all odds, against all the pain, suffering, trials—against the destruction of the unpredictable—human beings persevere to triumph. Some are too hypocritical to admit it, but we all have a little devil lurking inside, nudging us to stomp out the weaker competition to seize the trophy.
History is full of these fools.
I rather like chaos, myself. The art of control is best learned through this condition. You cannot dictate the outcome, but you can finesse it. Caress it tenderly and guide it lovingly, carefully maneuvering all the players in place.
If you’re diligent enough, you can even wager fate.
Oh, in the end, all fingers will point to me. I will be analyzed and scrutinized, and it will allow them to sleep easily at night, knowing the blame rests with the killer.
But, although I was a part of the equation, I was not the one who set this particular course in motion. I was merely one of the fools who seized upon the opportunity. Truthfully, it would be remiss for me to take all the credit. I could not have orchestrated a game board like this all on my own.
Even I need the help of the unwitting to channel all the elements into a great, master design.
Each has a part. And when everyone plays their role dutifully, the final reveal is all the more powerful.
I run the damp cloth along the stretch of blade. The white fibers soak up the blood, leaving the silver gleaming. Tool maintenance is of utmost importance. Can’t have any cross contamination. That muddies the water. I learned this from my mentor, who was proficient in forensic science.
Not that I would ever use a dirty tool; I loathe filth. A neat and tidy workplace denotes control and demands respect. We must respect our process as much as we enjoy it. And I do enjoy my work.
It’s changed some over the past year. I was forced to find my own way. With my mentor taken from me so…abruptly, I admit, I was lost for a short time. Vengeance can infect the brain. Can cloud reason. But ultimately, that was humiliation taking hold.
So I went back to the basics. Watching. Detailing. Plotting.
I guess you could say it forced a sort of cooling off period. A chance to revaluate myself, my work, and her. I’ve learned so much since then. The more I discovered about her world, the more I recognized our link.
We were meant to be.
How fortuitous.
Chaos thrust her into my life at the sacrifice of my mentor, but fate has declared her my match. Checkmate.
So finally, after nearly two years, it’s time to get rid of the pest. I can’t blame him too much anymore, because his action—the one, inciting incident—that caused the pendulum to swing, is what brought her to me.
Maybe I owe him my thanks for that—but I think, rather, it’s time to throw down the gauntlet and take fate back into my own hands.
Puzzle
Colton
The rattling boom of house music pulses against my chest, my nerves, heightening my anxiety. I’ve been sitting on this damn stool in the corner of the voyeur room for an hour, just waiting. This is where I first saw her.
Every minute that passes and she doesn’t walk through that door…I’m losing control. She won’t come here—but still, I keep waiting. Delusional with the belief that she needs me as badly as I need her, and that prolonging until later tonight is simply too painful.
I toss back the last of my bourbon and then force my gaze away from the entrance. A scene on the stage is unfolding. Two women are chained to a man, and they’re taking turns striking him. One with a leather whip, the other with the slack from the chain. It’s edgeplay night in the voyeur room, and although admittance is extra exclusive tonight, I’ve made it known that Sadie is an ultra exclusive member.
Enjoying the scene without her has no appeal. I glance back at the double doors, tempted to take a drive to the police department. Demand to see her. It’s only a matter of time before she makes the connection…and I need to be the one to tell her first. If I’m going to confess my sins to anyone, then it should be Sadie.
Regardless of what she does after, she deserves to hear the truth right from me. I swore to her that she could trust me, and if she finds out on her own, what little trust she’s been able to invest in us will be destroyed.
Onyx saunters up and places another bourbon on the table before me, pulling my attention away from my painful thoughts. Her lips stretch into a thin smile, her deep eyes conveying what she’s too polite to voice. That I look like a wreck.
As she walks back toward the bar, I run my finger along the cool tumbler. Beads of condensation streak down the glass. Another drink is the last thing I need. False courage won’t help.
Giving up my haunt, I leave the corner table and the voyeur room, not looking back. If she can wait, then I have no choice. Besides, there’s a pile of confidential reports from the captain of the ACPD sitting in the office that I have to go over again—even if it breaks me.
Wexler didn’t just send over the pr
ofile—he gave me copies of the crime scene reports. Julian must have something more on him than just dressing in drag and getting lashings from a Domme.
When I first glimpsed the crime scene photos, a sickness took hold of me. And as I pored over the images, each scene becoming bloodier, more macabre, panic tore through my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. A cold, clamminess prickled my skin, sending a shock of awareness right through me.
The connection is too obvious to deny.
Tamping down the rising fear, I insert my key to find the office door already unlocked. My back tenses as I push it open.
Julian is seated at the cherry oak desk, still wearing his crisp black suit from the engagement party. He doesn’t look up from the case documents spread across the desktop.
I close the door behind me, shutting out the noise from the club. The many monitors stacked along the back office wall are on, but the volume has been muted. A long silence stretches out between us as I stand here, watching him take in what I’ve already discovered. The moment recognition hits, Julian’s eyes are on me.
“I should’ve looked into her better,” he says, steepling his fingers over his mouth. “Dammit. Did you know she was an agent with the ACPD?”
I nod once.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me? No, you know what? I get it.” He laughs mirthlessly. “But, Colt—I have fucking lawyers, doctors, police officials, and even their fucking captain on the members’ list. You should’ve said something. Did you ever think she might’ve been sent here undercover? To investigate us—”
“She wasn’t.” I take a seat in the cushioned chair before the desk. Look him in the eyes. “She’s not. Though maybe you should’ve been more careful. Blackmailing the higher-ups in the department wasn’t the smartest thing, Julian. Especially for someone who has so much to hide. That’s just tempting them to dig into your past.”