You Fit the Pattern

by Jane Haseldine

  The car passed by slowly, and Christy could make out the model, an old Buick, the kind her grandpa used to have and let her borrow every so often when she was in high school. That was until she tried to return it buzzed after a night of drinking and mistook his metal fence for the driveway.

  Christy grabbed a black sheer blouse from her bag and kept half an eye on the Buick, which slowly drove past and then parked at a spot near the back of the building. No Beemers or Mercedes in the Magic Stick parking lot tonight, which meant each of the three band members in Raven’s Poe would probably split a whopping ten bucks from the tip jar.

  If they were lucky.

  Christy began to sing the lyrics of her latest song, “Blue-Eyed Dreamer,” one that was inspired by her major girl-nerd love of books and a favorite poem, “If,” by Rudyard Kipling.

  Dreams eat you alive if you let them

  But don’t you know you’d die a bitter death without their ache

  Dark cloud over your head, baby girl

  Your soul bleeds for a lucky break.

  At least she’d get to sing one of her own songs tonight, an original tucked in between her covers of Amy Winehouse and Pink, two female artists she respected as singers and songwriters. Billy, the drummer and cofounder of the band, insisted she only got to sing one original song per gig because, “People want to hear the hits. Not some song they’ve never heard of, even if the lyrics are decent. I’ll give you that.”

  Billy had caved last week and agreed to rename their band Raven’s Poe. Score one for the struggling book nerd. Christy made a note to herself to update the band’s website, since it still had their loser former name, Detroit Riot, posted on its homepage.

  The Magic Stick’s weekly-advertised live-music lineup had included her band’s previous shitty name, so tonight was going to be Raven’s Poe’s big debut.

  Yeah, drum roll to no one, please, Christy thought, and hurried out of the car, her duffel bag banging against her thigh as she ran in the stupid shoes to the back of the Magic Stick. Two minutes until they opened. Good thing she was a runner, something she would do tomorrow morning if she could haul her butt out of bed before Clay got up.

  She shoved open the door of the bar and was greeted by the smell of beer, sweat, and fried chicken fingers and pounded ahead toward the stage.

  “Where the hell have you been, Christy?” Billy asked. “We just got a gig tomorrow afternoon, playing a private party. You show up late like this, you’re out of the band.”

  “You can’t fire me. You think we booked this gig because of your drumming?” Christy asked. “I always get to our gigs in time.”

  “Barely. You need to figure out your home life, because you can’t be cutting it close like this anymore.”

  “Heads-up. I can’t make it tomorrow. My kid has a soccer game. I need twenty-four hours’ notice, remember? You’re going to have to cancel.”

  “Then you owe me the two hundred we would’ve made. You need to make a decision whether you’re in the band or you want to be a mommy.”

  “Shut it,” Christy said as the stage lights came up. “Time to play. You ready? Let me show you how it’s done.”

  When the lights hit her, Christy felt alive, a different, confident person who never, ever screwed up.

  And she was about to give the audience one hell of a show.

  Christy did her signature power-girl pose, hands on her hips with a sassy, defiant gaze as she stood in front of the microphone. Depending on the bar, sometimes the lights blinded her, but not tonight. Christy did a quick pan of the first row and caught a glimpse of a good-looking guy with sandy-blond hair in front of the crowd.

  “Who says smart girls can’t rule the world?” Christy roared. “We’re Raven’s Poe!”

  She dropped her head down on her chest, raised her hand in a fist pump, and sang the first line of Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” in her sultry, soulful voice.

  The lyrics and the spell of the song caught her up and she took one more pan for the guy she had seen, always wanting to focus on someone in the crowd to fix her mood on.

  But he was gone.

  Damn. Another cute boy got away.

  CHAPTER 17

  In the dream, Julia could see a woman who looked like her, running alone on a trail with the sun rising in the distance. The jogger had blue eyes, long, dark hair, and she wore a T-shirt with Raven’s Poe on the front. A man was crouched behind a thick nest of trees just ahead of the jogger on the path. His face was hidden inside the hood of a gray sweatshirt, and he clutched the handle of a knife in his right hand.

  Julia tried to scream out her warning, but the words stayed trapped inside her as the killer jumped out from the trees and grabbed the woman while she tried to sprint past.

  Julia felt the cool metal of the killer’s knife against her own throat and she realized the runner she was trying to save was actually herself.

  MMK dragged Julia backward toward the woods like a mountain lion that had just snatched a rabbit, bringing it back to its lair. But the Magic Man Killer stopped short when a little boy with jet-black hair and a red shirt ran down the path in their direction with his fist clenched defiantly over his head.

  The boy, Julia realized, was her brother, Ben. He picked up a stone and threw it at the man.

  “You can’t stop me. Leave her alone!” Ben cried. His hand sprang back down to the ground, where he snatched up a large rock and threw it at the killer, striking him in the side of his head.

  “Go on, black monster. I’m stronger than you! I always will be,” Ben said.

  “No, Ben! Run before he hurts you,” Julia called out.

  Ben turned his back as if he were distracted by a sound. When he turned around, the child standing before Julia was no longer Ben, but her son Logan.

  “You better run, mister, or I’ll make you disappear,” Logan said. “I know magic.”

  The killer released his knife from Julia’s neck and crept backward alone toward the woods.

  “I’ll be back. Make sure you write everything, Julia. Every single little detail,” MMK said, and then ducked into the trees that seemed to swallow him whole.

  A familiar, safe voice called out to Julia, a lifeline bringing her back up to the conscious world.

  “Babe, you’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re having a bad dream.”

  Julia woke up, her heart pounding, and saw Navarro’s barbed-wire tattoo and the rest of his arm wrapped protectively around her.

  “What time is it?” Julia asked. She sat up quickly and looked at the clock. Seeing it was six AM, Julia jumped out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts, and grabbed her cell phone.

  “I slept too long.”

  “I was going to get you up. I came in last night after I checked in with the cop out front. I must’ve fallen asleep before I set the alarm on my phone.”

  Julia beat a path to the kitchen, where she already smelled a dark roast brewing in the coffeepot. Helen was standing in the middle of the kitchen, stuffing pans, measuring spoons, and anything she could grab from the pantry into six large boxes that lined the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Julia asked.

  “Packing necessities for the apartment, where we have to go today.”

  “It’s temporary, I promise. And you don’t need to bring your kitchen supplies. Navarro told me the apartment is fully furnished. It’s a corporate rental, so it’s equipped with everything we’ll need. All you need to do is pack a bag.”

  “I will not just pack a bag. Corporate place probably means it is tailored to bachelor men who don’t know how to cook and need very little. If this family must be uprooted, at least we will eat well,” Helen said, but then softened her tone when she studied the younger woman’s face. “You’re still troubled. I can tell. You think this woman the police are protecting isn’t the right one, no?”

  “Her profile doesn’t match. But I’ve hit a wall. I can’t find her.”

  “My grandmother used to tell me, ‘Do not push
the river, it will flow by itself.’”

  “What does that mean?” Julia asked.

  “If the answer is supposed to come, it will present itself to you.”

  “I’m not going to sit back and wait for something to happen.”

  “I told him to go back to bed.” Navarro entered the kitchen with his arm around Logan’s shoulder. “I hope that was okay. He didn’t listen.”

  “I want to play with my magic set,” Logan said, and rubbed his eyes. “Mom, you’re going to give me that old tape recorder of yours, right? I was dreaming about a magic trick right before I woke up, and I need your recorder for it.”

  “It’s in my desk. I’ll get it. I want to check the news.”

  Julia returned to her office and her computer. She fumbled through her desk drawer, found the tape recorder, and pulled up her paper’s homepage. The lead story was by a fellow reporter who did a ride-along with a cop patrolling the parks looking for MMK, so Julia realized her stall plan with Virginia had worked. Julia did a quick scroll through the other headlines, and froze the screen on a photo from the entertainment section of a dark-haired woman with blue eyes, fronting a band named Raven’s Poe.

  “Navarro! We found her.”

  Julia felt an adrenaline rush as she clicked on the picture, hoping to find a story that would include the lead singer’s name, but all that had been posted on her paper’s website was the photo and a one-sentence cutline, stating the band played at the Magic Stick the previous night.

  “What do you got, Gooden?” Navarro asked, and shut Julia’s office door behind him.

  “Raven’s Poe is a band. They played at the Magic Stick last night,” Julia said while Navarro looked over her shoulder at the image on the screen.

  “The Magic Stick is going to be closed this early, but one of our patrol guys likely knows the bar owner.”

  “I have an idea,” Julia said, and hunted through the contacts on her phone until she found the name she was looking for, her paper’s entertainment editor, Jack Roberts. She hit the call button and started to pray. “Come on, come on! Answer.”

  After six rings, a very rough voice came on the phone. “Hello? Hmm. Who is this?”

  “Jack, it’s Julia Gooden. I need a number, fast.”

  “Julia? It’s six-fifteen in the bloody morning. This can’t wait until I see you in the newsroom?”

  “No. I’m not playing around. Someone’s life is in danger. Do you know a group called Raven’s Poe?”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Well, there’s a picture of the band that ran in your section online.”

  “The Magic Stick has live bands on Thursdays. There wasn’t much going on, so I sent a freelance photographer to cover whatever group was playing there last night.”

  “I need the name and number of the owner of the Magic Stick. Now, Jack.”

  Julia heard the sound of something crashing on the other end of the phone and then papers being rustled until Jack came back on the line.

  “The owner’s name is TJ. TJ Davison,” Jack said amidst a yawn and then gave Julia the number. “Whatever you do, don’t tell him I gave you his number. Is this about the Magic Man Killer?”

  “Exactly. Got to go.” Julia barely heard the dial tone before she plugged the number of the owner of the Magic Stick into her phone.

  This time, the caller picked up on the third ring.

  “I got him,” Julia called out to Navarro, who was in the hallway on the phone. “Mr. Davison, this is Julia Gooden. I realize it’s early, but please don’t hang up. I’m a reporter. I don’t know if you follow the news, but I’m covering the Magic Man Killer and I think the singer from Raven’s Poe, who played at your club last night, is in danger. I realize this all probably sounds strange, but please believe me. I need to find her before the killer does.”

  “Shit. Hold on.” Julia heard more fumbling on the other end of the phone until a slightly more awake TJ came back on. “You think Christy is in trouble? This guy’s after her?”

  “Yes. Christy what? What’s her full name?”

  “Christy King. She’s a nice girl. Christy is cute and was real spunky onstage. She did a great show last night. The crowd loved her.”

  “Is Christy a runner?” Julia asked. She wrote down Christy King’s name on the front cover of one of her reporter’s notebooks and flashed it to Navarro.

  “I hardly know her. It was her band’s first time with us.”

  “How old is Christy? Does she have any kids? I’m guessing she’s a single mom.”

  “Christy’s early thirties, I’m guessing. And, yeah, I got the impression she’s a single mom. She booked the gig through me and mentioned something about not always having a flexible schedule but that her band was usually available on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.”

  “Thank you. This is helpful. I need every number you have for her, but her cell would be best. Do you have her home address?”

  “That I don’t have. Here’s her cell, though. I hope she’s okay.”

  * * *

  Christy King took a weak sip of her Red Bull and looked at her puffy eyes in the rearview mirror of her Volvo. She and the rest of Raven’s Poe had finished their last set just before midnight the night before, and sleeping in that morning had never seemed more tempting, but Christy hadn’t run in a few days, and if she was going to sneak exercise into her insane schedule, this morning was do or die.

  Welcome to her day off, a quick run, then home for breakfast with Clay, who had a day off from school, and then a movie with him after his soccer game. It was going to be their special time, and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to make her little boy feel like he was the most wonderful thing in the world.

  Christy was exhausted out of her mind, but she was going to pull off a fabulous day for her kid, even if it killed her. Christy took another hit of her Red Bull and clicked through the radio stations, hoping she’d hear a kick-ass rock-and-roll song that would be motivation for her run. She listened to two seconds of a local news station, the news, something she rarely paid attention to these days, because with her schedule, who had time for it? Plus the news was always too depressing. Who wanted to hear about killings and death and the crazy shit coming out of Washington?

  Christy gave up on the radio, got out of her Volvo, and began to stretch. Belmont Park, near her mom’s house, was empty except for some old car she could barely see parked over in the second lot. She spotted a person next to the car and figured it was a fellow jogger. Christy didn’t love being out on the trails alone so early, but she was smart and would stay on the main paths the whole way. Plus she had her trusty pepper spray in her waist pack, so she knew she’d be okay.

  Her left hamstring muscle felt tender when she pulled her foot to the back of her thigh. God, a couple days without a run and her body was already atrophying. She thought about a new lyric for a song she was writing, “Last Girl for Battle,” when she noticed the speck of the person she’d seen before grow closer. Now she could tell it was a man who was wearing what looked like a blue uniform. Maybe a park worker, she figured. She took a deep breath, ready to start, when she saw her cell phone sitting on the dashboard in her car.

  Christy popped the locks to the Volvo and reached inside for her phone as it started to ring.

  “Yeah, it’s Christy,” she answered, without looking at the caller ID, figuring it was her mom calling about Clay because no one else she knew would be up that early.

  “Christy King?”

  “That’s right. If you’re calling to tell me I just won a cruise to the Bahamas, I’m hanging up.”

  “No. My name is Julia Gooden. This is not a joke. You’re in danger. I’m a journalist and I’ve been covering the Magic Man Killer stories.”

  “The what?”

  “Please, you need to listen. He’s been picking up female joggers in parks and killing them. I know this is going to sound crazy, but he sent me clues about his next victim, and I think you’re it.”


  “Hold on. Did my drummer put you up to this? He’s pulling some kind of prank because I couldn’t play that gig this afternoon because of my kid.”

  “No. That’s not what’s happening. Look, you’re right not to believe someone you’ve never met before who’s calling you out of the blue. Believe me, I get stubborn and street smart. Your band is Raven’s Poe, right? The killer sent me clues about the name of your band. I didn’t know what it meant until I saw a picture of Raven’s Poe playing at the Magic Stick last night on my newspaper’s website. I told the bar owner what was going on and he gave me your number. The killer is targeting female runners who are in their thirties and single moms. Are you a runner?”

  “Yes. I’m at Belmont Park in Royal Oak right now. I’m about to take a quick run before my kid wakes up. If this isn’t some kind of joke, you’re scaring me.”

  “You need to be scared. And you need to get out of there. I live in Rochester Hills, so I’m not that far out,” Julia said. “She’s at Belmont Park in Royal Oak.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Christy asked.

  “A police officer. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, except for one guy. He’s wearing a uniform. He’s walking in my direction. Now that I see him better, I’m thinking he’s maybe a cop. His uniform is blue.”

  “You need to do exactly what I tell you. Get in your car, lock the door, and drive out of there as fast as you can,” Julia said. “My cop friend is calling dispatch right now, so the police will be there soon.”

  “The car in the lot, it’s pretty far away, but it doesn’t look like a police car. It’s old.”

  “A cop in uniform is going to be in a patrol car. And they usually work in pairs. He wouldn’t be alone. Get out of there, Christy. Now!”

  Christy’s hand shook as she dove into the front seat. Her hand skittered across the side of the door as she saw the man in the blue uniform now running full tilt in her direction.