“Well, I have two very excited girls over here who can’t stop talking about some fort they plan to build with you?”
Whoops, I’d forgotten about that promise. “It’s going to be a castle with a moat to keep that stray cat out, if I’m remembering right.”
“Poor Puddles,” she said.
“Can I bring anything other than the veggies?”
Steph scoffed. “Ugh, yeah. Chocolate. And soda. There also happens to be a girl here who may or may not wear a pink bow every day of her life and hasn’t stopped talking about the flowers you brought her last week, so, just saying. Points to be had.”
“Noted. And what about Tilly?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything, but now that you ask—no more lollipops for her. I’m done slathering her hair with peanut butter and coconut oil all because she insists on sleeping with sticky candy.”
“I’ll make the switch to Starbursts.” I grinned. “And would the lady of the house care for wine?”
“Mr. Haas, are you trying to romance me?”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Then wine you shall bring.”
“Only if you quit leaving your doors unlocked.”
“Old habits die hard,” she said in her cute tail-between-the-legs voice.
“I kinda like you,” I said.
“I kinda like you too.”
We hung up and I felt a familiar swirl deep in my chest.
I wanted to be there for Steph and the girls. What that might mean for my long-term career, I wasn’t ready to think about. Not yet. Steph needed stability. The pain she’d faced was more than any person should carry. I wasn’t about to add to it.
Right now I needed to find contentment in university work and just be a rock for her. Tomorrow I would barbecue for new students at the orientation fair, and that was just fine.
Others could protect the world from evil for now.
3
FRIDAY, 8:00 P.M.
Stars flickered above as Officer Mike Mitchell pulled into the wide, gravelly driveway. He loved Friday nights because it meant playing poker and making money. Both were guaranteed after he and his TPD colleagues wrapped up for the night and headed over to Officer Clint Hopkins’s pad.
Hopkins had a family, but he’d always kept one foot in the bachelor life, starting with an enormous shop where he did bodywork on cars and trucks. He’d collected pinball and slot machines, a jukebox, air hockey tables, pool tables, dartboards.
As magical as this part of the man cave was, it merely served as the appetizer for what brought Mitchell and his colleagues here weekly. The real banquet sat four steps up to another level of the pad, which was surrounded by flat screens, an industrial-sized vent for their cigar smoke, and a fully stocked minibar that glistened under black lights.
Mitchell noticed the lack of noise and figured none of the boys had surpassed three drinks yet—two if it were Adams. They were probably sitting around the big, felted poker table puffing cigars as they waited for him. But had someone muted the TVs? There were almost no sounds as he walked in. All he could hear was a tapping sound on a counter, like a poker chip doubling as a fidget toy.
“Why isn’t the game on, bunch of fair-weather amateurs,” Mitchell muttered, stepping onto the landing.
He paused, taking in the scene, and wanted to reach for his weapon but realized it was too late.
A man wearing a fancy hat and the colorless makeup of a clown stood before him. Dark circles around his eyes and mouth sprouted tiny black threads that spread all over his plaster-white skin. He was clutching two pistols equipped with silencers. One was aimed at Mitchell while the other dangled loosely in the intruder’s hand, tap-tap-tapping ever so gently against the poker table.
“It’s about time,” the stranger said in an octave somewhere between a tenor and a soprano. “Been trying to convince your friends I’m a worthy opponent—I can play, raise, bluff. But they all tell me the same thing. ‘Mitchell’s the best. You’ve got to play Mitchell. He’s the real player.’” The clown shook his head and grinned. “So, Mitchell, glad you’re here. Take a seat.” He aimed his loose gun at the middle of the table, where all of Mitchell’s colleagues’ weapons rested. “Leave your manhood there.”
Mitchell made eye contact in rapid succession with his fellow officers, each of whom was highly trained in combat. Not a hint that anyone had a plan. Quite the opposite. Their enlarged pupils and ashen skin were telltale signs—they were in shock. How had they given up their firearms? And where was Mathis?
He set his gun on the table with the others. That’s when he noticed the feet sprawled from behind the poker table, a pool of red still growing. He jutted his chin forward for a clearer view, trembling. “What did you do?” he whispered.
“What did I do?” The clown scoffed. “Why’d you show up late to game night, Mitch? All the juiciest stories cascade like vomit the first five minutes of the party, everyone knows this. Come, take a look.”
Mitchell stepped closer, not once taking his eyes off the psycho until he had a clear view of Mathis. Three bullets had pierced his friend’s chest, his eyes still wide with disbelief.
“Today just wasn’t his Lady Luck,” the clown said.
Mitchell clenched his shaking hands into fists. “Who are you?”
But the clown continued like he hadn’t heard him. “Who would have thought that marriage could save anyone.” He hunched his shoulders. “But here we are, your colleague kissing the afterlife all because he didn’t have someone to go home to tonight. I can be merciful like that, see?” The clown pointed at Mitchell. “Yet here’s the twist, Mitch. Those three bullets, they’re from Larry’s, Curly’s, and Moe’s chambers.” He glanced at Hopkins, Adams, and Dominguez. “And the fourth”—the clown snatched up Mitchell’s gun—“is from yours.” He fired point blank into Mathis’s forehead.
Mitchell’s stomach lurched. He pressed his lips together and looked away along with his colleagues.
What had they done to deserve this? What was this lunatic’s game? What was he going to do to the rest of them?
The clown shoved the gun into the back of his pants, then picked up a duffle bag on the floor beside him. “Poker’s a wonderful game—Texas Hold’em, a national treasure. But the alpha competitiveness of five hotheaded colleagues, always flinging around their egos, well, it was bound to blow amid all the high-stakes bidding, bluffing, and booze. How four of Trenton’s finest could kill a friend in cold blood over a few hundred bucks will keep the regional papers busy for weeks, hungry to eat up you white, balding, power-hungry, and crooked cops.”
A frame job. This clown was devising a plot to put them all behind bars. “You’re sick.”
The clown looked at Mitchell with sympathy. “No, Mitch.” He glanced at the corpse. “Not I, but you.” He began placing items into his bag, a clattering assortment of their guns, liquor bottles, glasses, chips, cigars. “All the evidence points to locking you away. The other juicy parts, like your affairs”—he pointed at Mitchell and Hopkins—“those are just bonus details to make sure conjugal visits are out of the question.”
Mitchell couldn’t keep up with the horrific thoughts racing through his mind. His career would be gone; his wife and kids, gone; freedom, gone. All because of a whack job in a Halloween costume? “What do you want?”
“You catch on fast, you officer, SWAT team, professional, you. One moment you’re ready to unwind and let all that stress melt away. Then the next you’re making a deal with the devil, yes? That is the power of the will.” The clown waved his hands slowly, as if casting a different future. “Shame your friend was having such horrible thoughts, journaling his hatred for himself and his addictions. It would appear Mathis could no longer take the darkness, so he decided to leave this note and nothing else.” He held up a typed letter. “The only problem, it seems, is where did he go to end it? Where did he go so that no one would ever find him?”
The clown flipped the duffle bag over his head
and onto his shoulder. “Follow me, gentlemen—and grab Mr. Mathis. He’ll be my guest of honor until our business is finished.”
“What business?” Mitchell asked.
The clown peered over his shoulder coldly, barely making eye contact. “Call it the string.”
4
SATURDAY, 3:30 P.M.
“You know you’re ruining my life, right?” the shirtless student said, running his hands through thick dark hair.
I hated doing this in front of such a large audience, many of them freshmen and their parents, but the university didn’t tolerate drinking in public, and university police needed to be extra vigilant on days like today. The opening round of the NCAA Division I men’s basketball tournament was no small event. The country would be watching. Thankfully, most of the folks hanging around the shirtless student and me were conversing through shouting and couldn’t hear a peep over the band’s attempt at music.
I pulled up the student’s identification card on my phone, then cross-referenced it with the rap sheet app used by the Trenton Police Department.
David P. Kilpatrick: six foot one, 150 pounds, an organ donor—never an offender.
“What’s your major?” I said.
That seemed to calm him a bit. “Double major. But med student.”
I raised my brows.
“What?” he said.
“A bit unprofessional for your aspirations, wouldn’t you say?”
David simply looked at his feet. His only clothes were light blue jeans rolled halfway to his knees and forest green boxers, of which five inches showed. “You’re driving me away from this town,” he said, shaking his head.
I didn’t owe David a response, especially one steeped in guilt, but silence created a deeper rift between university police and students, a gap I’d worked hard to fill with big smiles and barbecues. “Dude, you should know better. You can’t be drinking in public. And what’s with the Jim-Bob fashion and no shirt—they say it might snow tonight.”
Tears filled David’s eyes. He rubbed his face. “I was just enjoying the sun. My parents . . .” He started sobbing.
I scrunched my brows. I knew what manipulation felt like, and this wasn’t it. David was grieving. I put my hand on his shoulder. “What about your parents?”
He didn’t respond.
“Listen, I’m citing you at the minimum. Mistakes happen and a line on your file won’t dictate your future.”
David looked up, but not at me. Something over my shoulder had snatched his attention.
I turned my head.
“This isn’t who I am,” David blurted out, shaking his head. “These aren’t the choices I make.”
I stared at him. Could feel the load of shame weighing him down.
He broke eye contact and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“You gonna be okay?” I said.
David glanced past me again.
“What’s so distracting?”
He backed up a couple of steps, shrugged, and walked away.
Heavy. The word throbbed in her mind.
Heavy like being smothered with a wool blanket, breath getting hotter and hotter. Heavy like stones in place of high heels and chains in place of hair.
Jaw clenched, Janet Blevins approached the officer’s vehicle, which was parked along the edge of the new-student orientation fair. Every brick her heels touched, each person she brushed shoulders with—even the air she breathed—felt like invisible cement seeping into her body and hardening in her bones.
Somewhere in the boisterous assembly, a man with a sick intent stood watching her this very moment. But nobody knew her danger. No one could ever know, if she wanted to keep her sister safe. And even that was probably a bald-faced lie to ensure Janet’s compliance with the conductor’s bidding.
But it was working.
She glanced at the many faces in the crowd, none of whom seemed to know she existed. How could so much happiness be present in her nightmare? Couldn’t they see she needed help?
Maybe if she just looked at someone with her eyes shifted just so, they’d understand the chaos inside of her. They’d see that her every move was in direct opposition to her own will and was, in fact, controlled by another’s.
Janet closed her eyes. Her only hope was to outlast the conductor, completing each task until he stopped demanding and released everyone from the string. She needed to stay strong and finish the assignment. He’d said she was almost finished. She could only hope he was telling the truth, and that his endgame was money or something else material instead of straight terrorism, straight evil for the sake of a game.
Janet looked at the package in her hands and felt her stomach churn.
A group of students had chosen to chat right next to the officer’s vehicle. She grabbed her cell and faked a text as a tangy waft of barbecue filled her nose. Glancing up, she saw a cooler full of ice and soda sticking out from behind the 4Runner. Now she understood. This vehicle belonged to the officer who grilled for students on orientation day. Haas, she believed his name was. She’d seen a photo in the student newspaper several months ago of him barbecuing and connecting with students, remembered admiring that.
And now she was going to wreck his life.
Janet circled the vehicle in one big loop, passing mobs of students, parents, and volunteers, positioning herself so that only one of four nearby students would have a clear view of her as she approached the tailgate. Thankfully, the lone student who’d be able to identify her kept smiling at his phone.
She leaned around the side of the tailgate, spotted Officer Haas’s university-issued cap lying there, and slipped the package under it. Every part of her was screaming to look at the student one last time to know if he’d be able to identify her. But the deed was done. What happened from this point on would materialize no matter what. What she needed was to walk away as fast as possible.
“Hey, Miss Blevins!”
Jimmy from janitorial. So sweet but so loud.
“Good to see you, Jimmy,” Janet said, keeping her voice low.
Jimmy stretched his arms wide and nodded continuously with that infectious grin, eyes squinted. He’d started about a year ago through a local agency that placed adults with special needs into various places of work.
“New students are the best, Miss Blevins. The best! Have you tried Mr. Haas’s ’tish kebab? It’s the best. The best! Want to get one?”
Janet put one hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, perhaps too quickly. He looked at her hand, still smiling but confused. Her heart hurt. She couldn’t push him away like this. She’d worked so hard to befriend him and get him to open up. “Oh, there’s nothing I’d rather do than get a kebab with you, Jimmy. But I’m supposed to call someone in a minute. Paper football tomorrow?”
His grin returned. “I’ll be practicing and getting really good for when the games start.”
She tucked her chin. “Super Bowl or bust.”
“Super Bowl or bust!”
Janet made her way to the fountain, not once looking back at the students. With Jimmy’s voice, she could only imagine how many glances she’d received. But it was out of her hands. She’d finished the assignment—hopefully her last.
Heart racing, she pulled out her phone.
I did it. Leave my sister alone.
She released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Lucy was safe. For now.
She snuck one last glimpse of Haas in his last few moments of peace and normalcy. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Standing on the sky bridge connecting the gymnasium and amphitheater, the conductor slipped on his noise-canceling headphones and tapped Play on his phone. Waves of binaural beats flowed into his ears and down to his cheekbones. Gentle numbing vibrated through his core and wrapped around his very heart, pumping it full of electrical current. He slid his hand into his pocket, brushing the detonator.
The conductor’s gaze panned to two people in the crowd already playing vital roles in his string. The phone i
n his pocket buzzed.
I did it. Leave my sister alone.
Speak of the devil. He tapped a reply.
She looks more stunning than ever, doesn’t need the wig.
P.S. You’re glowing today.
The conductor watched as Janet received the texts and stared at her phone. She glanced at the fair’s various attractions, looking like the poster child of spontaneous combustion. Then her shoulders relaxed, likely not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Smart girl.
Janet had covertly dropped the package in the back of the police 4Runner that belonged to the newest knot in the string, the only one who truly intrigued him.
Markus Haas.
Hands suddenly reached around and covered the conductor’s eyes. He switched off his headphones and turned around to find Rosetta.
“Liking the view?” she asked. “You can see everything from up here—so colorful.”
He smiled.
“I want shish kebabs and soda.” She placed her hands on her hips and squinted as if thinking hard. “Why are you all grumps?”
He shrugged. “Not enough sleep.”
“So we’ll get you a coffee.” She put both hands on his shoulders and leaned back to look through the sky bridge’s glass roof. “And I will require this for the big game tonight.” She swiped the bill off his head and placed it over her dark curls.
The conductor snatched it back.
Rosetta giggled. “Whoa, someone’s touchy.”
Head down, he positioned the cap just so. “I prefer the cap.”
Rosetta shrugged. “Whatever you say, Captain Longface.” She laughed and tugged his sleeve. “Let’s go scope out where ESPN is setting up so I can get on camera.”
Rosetta. Sweet and without a clue.
Taking her by the arm, the conductor stole one last glance out the sky bridge windows and spotted Haas sliding into his 4Runner, package in hand.
The conductor slid his hand into his pocket.
The first surprise would be in Haas’s grasp soon.
The second had been under his tailgate all day.
The String Page 2