Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate)

by Dore, Deirdre

  “Damn.” Raquel winced. “Shit, girl, you’re mean this morning.”

  Tavey looked like she’d just been whipped with a downed electrical line, her pretty brown eyes wide, her mouth parted.

  Chris made an oh-shit-I-fucked-up face, pressing her teeth together and squinting her eyes as if expecting a slap, but Tavey recovered and just answered with ladylike grace, “Well, Tyler always did like you.”

  Tyler had considered Chris a little sister; Tavey was the one he’d stared at as if she’d invented the blow job or Rice Krispies treats—when he wasn’t glaring at her with loathing, that is.

  “Okay.” Chris set that one aside and hoped it walked away under its own power. “Well, you’re probably right. He’ll probably behave himself, and all I’ll have to show for my trouble is a lifelong obsession for freckled men in glasses.”

  “He has freckles?”

  “He has glasses?”

  Raquel and Tavey spoke at the same time, their expressions equally skeptical.

  Chris shrugged. “And then there’s the bladelike cheekbones and the jaw that could cut glass, the lean muscled body, and gray eyes the color of sexy fog.”

  “Oooh.” Raquel laughed. “Sexy fog? You’re crazy.”

  Chris knew, but she was still hoping that Ryan wouldn’t be too furious with her, that the promise of that almost-touch would be realized when she saw him again, though she didn’t know when that would be. She hadn’t heard from him so far this morning and didn’t know if there’d been some kind of development in the case.

  “He does sound nice,” Tavey admitted, clearly willing to forgive Chris her breach in best-friend etiquette.

  Chris thought about that. Nice? She didn’t know about nice. He was impatient, driven, conservative, and, if she had to guess, a Republican, but she liked him anyway. There was a tiny, tiny part of her that thought maybe he’d admire her boldness, her self-sacrifice . . . and then he’d toss her over his shoulder and carry her to bed. A girl could hope, anyway. He was from Texas.

  AN HOUR LATER, while Chris prepped the room for the start of class and Tavey dealt with an issue with the new groomer at Dog, the students in Chris’s class began filing in earlier than usual.

  “Damn,” Raquel muttered. “Is it always this crowded quarter to ten a.m. on a Thursday?”

  Chris looked doubtfully at the crowd of students. In addition to the stay-at-homes and the college students, the Four Senior Ladies of the Apocalypse had decided to take the early class, and several other older women from the church were in attendance as well. Mr. Ward had also made an appearance, though he looked decidedly uncomfortable surrounded by all the women.

  “No.” Chris turned away and stuck the CD of calming ocean waves into the player. “It is not usually this crowded. I think that between the serial killer and the sexy agent I was seen having dinner with yesterday, half the town has turned out to see if I get killed or laid here in class this morning.”

  Raquel nodded as if the situation made perfect sense. “Yoga’s gotten more exciting than I remember.”

  “Nonstop action in this bitch,” Chris agreed.

  “You’re lucky the press hasn’t caught on to you yet.”

  But as the words were leaving her mouth, a TV crew pressed into the room like a pack of hounds on a scent, a hard-eyed reporter with a helmet of blond hair leading the way with a microphone thrust out like a lance.

  “Miss Pascal, is it true that the serial killer known as the Boyfriend has been in communication with you?”

  Chris backed away in self-defense, nearly falling over to get away from the sparkly white teeth, the glare of the lights, and the black object being pointed at her face.

  Lucky for her, Raquel was there. “Okay, this is private property. You need to leave.”

  “We just want a word with—”

  “Atlanta PD.” Raquel held up her badge. “Miss Pascal has no comment.”

  “What’s your name? What’s Atlanta PD’s involvement?”

  “Out. Now,” Raquel ordered again, and, cameras rolling, the thwarted reporter reluctantly retreated back out the door, but Chris suspected they hadn’t left the hallway.

  “Shit.” Chris turned away and dug through her purse for her phone. She called down to Tavey, who answered with an unusually frazzled, “What?”

  “There are reporters in the hallway.”

  “Great. That’s what I needed. Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

  Chris didn’t doubt it. Reporters were no match for Tavey, who could probably handle an alien invasion.

  Since Tavey was busy with the groomer and likely would be late to class, if she made it at all, Raquel locked the door to the entrance so the reporters couldn’t barge in again. Chris tried to ignore the murmurs and whispers of her students, most of whom were unabashedly staring.

  She pressed the play button on the peaceful ocean sounds and put on the headset and mic that she used when she had a large class.

  “All right, everybody, if you’re here, then you better get ready to stretch your ass off.”

  The crowd froze, seeming astonished that she actually expected them to do anything.

  “You heard me,” she ordered. “Namaste, ladies; get your butts over here before I make this an aerobics class—the only dead bodies around here will be from the heart attacks.”

  Grumbling and scowling, the Four Senior Ladies of the Apocalypse moved into their usual positions while everyone else filled in around them.

  “Good job,” Raquel commented.

  Chris turned on her. “You, too, sunshine of mine, let’s go. Sunrise salutation.”

  Raquel obeyed, a tickled smile tilting up the corners of her mouth.

  “Angry yoga instructor. I like this new look on you.”

  Chris felt her spirit lighten even as she lifted her arms to the sky. It felt good to be doing something. Doing something was always better than being anxious.

  26

  JOE ABSENTLY TUGGED on the string connecting him to the woman, who whimpered. She was curled up on the floor, asleep, though she occasionally stirred and moaned. He’d had to hurt her so that she would learn, so that she would be more careful. He’d been with her, getting gas for a drive to Atlanta, and the stupid woman had gotten out of the van to use the bathroom.

  He’d told her; he’d been very clear in his directions. She’d disobeyed him. Still, perhaps he could use her mistake to his advantage.

  He tugged the string again, knowing that inflicted more pain than pulling her little toes off with pliers had. He hadn’t been able to hurt her too much—she had to work in a few hours—but he was growing bored with her now that he’d taken control of her strings; she wasn’t nearly as interesting as his Creator, who’d been very busy of late.

  He turned back to his monitors. Several months ago, when his Creator had first begun investigating a man named Martin Hays, who did not have very interesting strings, he’d visited Atlanta and installed cameras in the man’s home. His Creator wanted him, wanting to know what he’d done with some missing girls. Joe knew what Martin Hays had done, and he knew where the girls’ bodies were buried, but he wasn’t sure what to do with that information. He just knew it would prove important somehow.

  He could give it to his Creator; he’d sent her information before, but he didn’t think she deserved it. He’d hacked into her system again, working around the small traps the FBI had laid to try to track him, and he’d been busy watching her online activities. She’d been reading about an FBI agent as well, one who had come to her house this afternoon. She was becoming no different from all the rest, just another whore, but her strings had brightened, especially the red one on her wrist and the crown on her head.

  And now she’d spoken of the woods, of the place where the strings were made. He wanted to see it, wanted to know what she knew.

  Using video edi
ting software, he made a Hays montage of images from the footage he’d recorded in Martin Hays’s secret room. Each girl’s face, each girl’s body. He’d even dug one of the bodies up, getting the woman to help him. She’d seemed even more frail than usual, but she’d obeyed. That’s why they’d left the apartment in the first place, to get the proof his Creator wanted. He’d also added some music, to make it more dramatic, a song that talked about strings, and dropped it on one of the file-sharing sites that his Creator searched regularly for child predators. He named it Summer Haven and set an alert to notify him when it was accessed.

  Walking to the window, he looked across the circle at her building. The sun was coming up behind the low clouds, the sky growing lighter and lighter gray with each passing moment. He knew where he was going to take her; he just had to find the right moment.

  27

  “SHE DID WHAT?” Ryan repeated, not willing to accept what he’d just been told. He was going to kill her.

  Sandeep looked reluctant to say anything more, perhaps because the man had a small crush on Chris even though he was a father of five.

  “She’s written the unsub a message on the blog he’s been using to communicate.”

  Ryan turned around in his chair and punched up the Web address of the Mysteries of Fate blog. He read it once, could barely make sense of it, and read it again.

  “What the hell? We’re sure she posted this? Last night? This is crazy. I thought we had someone monitoring it for conversations with the unsub.”

  “We do, sir, one of the analysts flagged it last night, but since it wasn’t from the unsub directly and we were dealing with the body, it got lost in the mix.”

  “Damn it.” He pulled out his phone to call her, let it ring six times. She didn’t answer.

  When that didn’t work, he pulled up the website for the dog groomer.

  “Dog with Two Bones,” a disinterested voice answered.

  “Is Tavey Collins available?”

  “She just left.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up. “Damn it.” Ryan looked at Sandeep. “We have Raquel Weaver’s number in the file as well, correct?”

  “I believe so.”

  Ryan found it and called her. No answer.

  “Okay.” He stood, throwing on his jacket. “Midaugh, I’m headed over to Fate. Ms. Pascal decided to give the unsub the finger over the Internet last night.”

  “I just heard.” Midaugh pointed at one of the monitors. A blond reporter was standing in front of Christina’s building, camera pointed at the second floor, where Ryan knew Chris conducted her yoga class.

  “. . . despite the cryptic message from the Creator posted last night on the Mysteries of Fate blog, there has been no official word on the relationship between the Boyfriend and Ms. Pascal, but sources say she is assisting in the case.”

  “Fuck me running,” Ryan cursed, tossing his jacket back on the chair. “How’d they make that connection?”

  “Apparently someone’s been talking. Those three girls, maybe?”

  Ryan grimaced. “Yeah. Maybe. They seem to want to protect her. Can we find out?”

  “What, you’re not going over there now?”

  Ryan lifted a hand to indicate the report they’d just watched. “She’s swarmed by reporters. If I go over there now, it’ll only add fuel to the fire.”

  Midaugh considered that, but ultimately shrugged. “Helmer, we’re basically spinning our wheels analyzing surveillance at this point. Unless something else breaks, we’ve got a perimeter around Rome and Fate that we’ll be monitoring. Could be what she did shakes this unsub loose. I’d feel better if you were around in case he decides she has the prettiest damn strings he’s ever seen.”

  Disgusted, Ryan put on his jacket. “You’re trying to play matchmaker, aren’t you, asshole?”

  “Yeah, you’re real hard to convince; it took all of two seconds. That girl has you so tight, you don’t know what you ate for breakfast this morning.”

  “I do.”

  “What was it?”

  “Coffee and Tums.”

  “Breakfast of champions,” Midaugh conceded.

  AN HOUR AND a half later, Ryan had stopped wanting to strangle her and just wanted to make sure she was all right. He pulled up into the space behind Chris’s building and sat, hands on the wheel. He’d avoided the reporters by taking a back way through town. He didn’t want to go through the grooming salon, but he was pretty certain the door to the back entrance of the building was locked.

  He looked up, at the black wrought-iron staircase that crisscrossed up to a landing and a balcony on the second floor, an alternative exit for the yoga studio, and then up to the third floor and an entrance to Christina’s apartment.

  He assumed it was locked. It damn well better be locked, but he’d bet that she was in her apartment. Her car was in the lot, as was the motorcycle that fit the description of one belonging to her cop friend Raquel.

  Locking his car, he stalked over to the staircase and began climbing. The stairs were steep and slippery from the rain the previous day, and the low cloud cover of this morning hadn’t managed to dry anything off as yet.

  His footsteps clanked loudly on the heavy black wrought iron, to the point where he didn’t know how she wouldn’t hear someone coming, and indeed, when he reached the landing on the third level, a stunning woman wearing workout gear was waiting for him, her sidearm out of its holster, but at her side.

  “Raquel, that’s Ryan.” He heard Chris’s voice, and Raquel relaxed some, but she kept wary eyes trained on him.

  “I told you to stay back in the apartment,” Raquel said to Chris as Ryan continued up the staircase.

  “She’s not very good at obeying,” Ryan commented to Raquel as he stepped next to her on the landing, one professional to another.

  Raquel nodded her agreement. “Ain’t that the truth. You her FBI agent?”

  “He’s not a puppy or a gynecologist, he’s an FBI agent; they don’t belong to anyone,” Chris argued, standing in the doorway.

  Ryan looked at her in the soft gray light, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and tumbling in dark waves, her gold eyes making her look like some kind of exotic tabby cat. She’d crossed her arms over her chest, pushing up her full breasts, and her chin was tilted at that stubborn angle that said she knew she’d screwed up but, given the chance to do it over, she would probably still behave the same way.

  At the moment Ryan understood the sentiment completely. He was about to fuck up big-time, go against his ethics, his better judgment, and his character, by putting the safety of one pain-in-the-ass woman ahead of the case.

  “Nice to meet you.” Ryan kept his eyes on Christina, couldn’t quite pull them away, actually, but he held his hand out to Raquel.

  She shook it, her voice amused. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Chris was watching him, her defense posture changing the longer he looked at her. She bit her bottom lip and his eyes focused on her pretty white teeth nibbling her soft rose-colored lips.

  “Chris”—Raquel was amused—“I think I’ll go see if Tavey wants some help downstairs. You good?”

  “I’m excellent,” she replied, her eyes meeting Ryan’s directly, no coyness or shyness. He liked that about her, he liked that she didn’t stay quiet. He was starting to learn that, while she played with the truth with the agility of a rodeo clown, she did not lie to hurt anyone. She was a fighter, a doer. He’d hated how his ex would pout and stew with resentment. He’d bet that when Chris was pissed off about something, the last thing she would do would be hide it.

  Raquel left the same way Ryan had come up, down the wrought-iron staircase.

  Chris dropped her arms to her sides, but didn’t say anything. She stared; he stared; and then, as if they’d choreographed it, she took a step back into the open door of the apartment and he took one f
orward, stalking her.

  She started smiling as she backed away, and Ryan couldn’t help thinking that she was the prettiest damn girl he’d ever met, even as he vowed to drive home the seriousness of her situation.

  “Whatcha thinking, FBI?”

  “I’m thinkin’ you should keep backing up, Ms. Pascal.” He stepped inside the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him.

  She did, backing farther into the living room. “How far back?”

  “Back to the couch.”

  She laughed, turning around so that she could navigate around the chair. He followed, waiting until she sat and turned to look at him before he said anything.

  He stood in front of her, wishing he didn’t like her so much. “You know about my last case in Texas?” he asked her, and watched the heat in her eyes fade. He regretted it; he wanted her, too, especially when he thought about the first time he’d seen her, stretching that long-limbed body nervously, her mouth running, and all her feelings laid bare in her eyes. He’d known moments after he’d begun talking to her that she wasn’t working with a killer.

  She nodded warily.

  “You want to know what it was like to see the bodies of those girls and know that maybe I could have prevented it?”

  Chris shook her head no, her face pale.

  “I was reckless. I was convinced this woman was evil, but I couldn’t prove it. I broke into her house.” He paused. “And didn’t find anything, but I was tossed off the case.”

  “But—” she began, but he held up a hand to forestall any comments.

  “I didn’t stop. I found the proof, proof we could use, but by then another girl had died.”

  He could see that she understood his grief, probably better than anyone he’d ever met. “That’s why I search for the missing,” she whispered. “I lost Summer. It was my fault we were in the woods, but I was upset. I wanted an adventure. I can’t stop looking for her, trying to find them all before it’s too late, before they’re gone forever.”