Kiss of Fate

by Deirdre Dore

  “How?” He was so interested, so sincere. Raquel knew she was falling into the trap of Brent, into his own personal magic, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “She was blind, and she lived more in the world than any of the rest of us did.” Raquel twitched. “Especially me.” She took a sip of her coffee. “She would have done anything for us.”

  “Sounds like you were a bunch of serious little girls.”

  Raquel frowned. Did it sound that way? She didn’t remember being serious.

  “I mean,” he elaborated, “that you must have felt threatened, at least a little, otherwise why would you remember something like that? Why would you remember her as someone who would have done anything for you? Why would you remember her as being brave? You were little girls.”

  Unbidden, the smell of the woods was in Raquel’s nose, and her pulse kicked up. “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I never thought about it.”

  Brent nodded and changed the subject; he knew how to conduct an interview. He would have been a good investigator . . . was a good investigator, come to think of it. “There’s something that bothers me about Jane’s story,” he said.

  “Just one thing?” Raquel said sarcastically, because Jane’s story had more holes than the floorboard of his Jeep.

  “You think Mark seduced Jane?” Brent asked, making her almost smile. She’d never heard a man use the word seduced before.

  “I don’t know. Why would he? What would he have to gain?”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  Raquel nodded. “She is. She was even prettier then, I think, when she was . . . eighteen, I guess. Jane was never quite right, though.”

  At his glance, she elaborated. “Some of Summer’s family could be pretty normal. Her mother was quiet, almost shy. Her father was secretive and cold. Jane was temperamental—she blew hot and cold. She’d be fine one minute and then the next she’d be irate about someone touching her things. We didn’t go to Summer’s house often—she usually came to Tavey’s—but I never saw anything strange going on, no rituals or chanting.

  “It wasn’t until Jane started that natural remedies and witchcraft shop in town, several years after Summer disappeared, and started calling herself Circe that I really thought she was crazy. Or brilliant. That was right about the time that natural remedies, organic foods, zombies, and witches all became extremely popular. The business does well, as far as anyone can tell.”

  Brent frowned, clearly frustrated. “So why would Mark, Robert, Charlie, and Belle have needed Jane? I would’ve thought they’d be happier if they’d kept what they were doing as secret as possible. It can’t have been easy hiding the fact that Charlie was alive and that they were having powwows in the woods with a damn motorcycle gang.”

  Raquel knew the woods were deep and that the families that lived there had lived there for over a hundred years—Tavey’s, Abraham’s, and Summer’s—and were secretive and strange. But he had a point. Why had they needed Jane? She’d never considered it before.

  “Maybe he was really attracted to her?”

  Brent had looked at Raquel for a long second. “Yeah,” he’d agreed, “that could be why.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes things are that easy.”

  “And sometimes they’re not,” Raquel finished for him, thinking about her own attraction to him. She wished it were simple, but it wasn’t anymore.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Brent “checked” the doors and discovered they were unlocked. He was surprised that Raquel was willing to go for breaking and entering, but it wasn’t like this was the kind of neighborhood where the neighbors called the cops, and if someone happened to, Raquel was a cop—albeit one with absolutely no reason for being out this late in a strange neighborhood, in a house she didn’t own, with a documentary filmmaker in tow, but Brent was confident that she’d manage if it came to that. Bottom line, she was best friends with an influential woman in the state of Georgia, and she was a well-respected police officer whose mother was currently missing. No one would say shit.

  Raquel preceded him through the door with her weapon drawn, but they stayed quiet, not touching any lights. The house appeared deserted, with some old stained furniture and a few dozen empty boxes, but there was no TV, and the electricity didn’t even appear to be on; the characteristic hum of machinery was missing.

  Raquel made her way down a long hallway to the back bedrooms, where they found several twin mattresses on the floors and dead bolts on the outside of the doors.

  “They kept someone here. By the size of the beds, young women or children.”

  He nodded, his face grim. He knew she was thinking of Summer. He wished he could reassure her that this hadn’t happened to her friend, that Summer hadn’t suffered this way, but he’d seen too much horrible shit in the world to promise anything of the kind, and he knew she had, too.

  Raquel, her body stiff, her face a mask, shouldered past him back into the living room. Brent followed her, feeling like a helpless ass. He didn’t understand how people could do this.

  “Gloria Belle was a part of this,” Raquel growled, her voice rough. “Back then. She had to have been. How could she have missed that they were dumping bodies in that pond? How could she have missed knowing that they were taking girls along with drugs?”

  “I don’t know,” Brent replied, but that was a lie. He knew; he just didn’t want to say it. She knew anyway; he imagined she’d always known.

  “ ’Cause she never gave a shit about anyone but herself, and Charlie, apparently,” Raquel conceded. “She certainly never gave a shit about me . . .” She trailed off, squinting at the floor on the other side of an armchair. “Is that a dog?” she asked, approaching but keeping her gun ready. The dim light from the streetlamps outside wasn’t enough to make out the lump on the floor very clearly.

  Brent came around to the other side of the chair and bent down to look as well.

  “It’s a wig,” he concluded.

  “Don’t touch it,” Raquel ordered. “Have you got anything we can use to pick it up?”

  Brent felt his pockets, but he hadn’t brought his camera bag, where he kept his pens. They were no doubt getting stolen out of his Jeep this minute.

  “You think it’s the wig your mother was wearing when she was kidnapped?”

  “I do, damn it.” She snatched it up. “I’m going to assume that whatever creeps were here are long gone. And I’m going to call this place in tomorrow morning and tell my supervisor what I’ve done.”

  Brent was astonished. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

  “I don’t care,” Raquel replied. “I want to find my mother. I want to know who’s behind all this”—she waved a hand—“so I can know what happened to Summer.”

  9

  AFTER BRENT DROPPED Raquel back off at her bike, he followed the low, dark shape of her on the motorcycle through the quiet streets, trying not to worry that she would lose control and crash into one of the bail bonds buildings that lined the streets surrounding the station. He still couldn’t believe that Raquel rode a Ducati. She was so ladylike sometimes, so restrained and controlled. Except in bed. She wasn’t restrained there. Or when she was passionate about something, like finding Summer.

  By the time they’d left the house where they’d found the wig, it was four in the morning, and they were both exhausted from the events of the evening.

  Still, when they’d gotten back to her bike and she’d geared up in the leather she wore to ride, she’d looked at him with an indecipherable expression and said, “You want eggs?”

  Brent hadn’t wanted anything in the world more than a good night’s sleep at that point. He was getting too old to stay up so late, but she was asking him, asking him to join her. He wasn’t about to miss the opportunity.

  “I’d love some.”

  The di
ner she led him to wasn’t far from the station, and several police vehicles were parked in the lot.

  She was already off the bike and waiting for him by the time he’d parked and gotten out of his Jeep. Her helmet had flattened her dark hair against her head, and her eyes were bright with adrenaline.

  “I can’t believe you like riding that thing.”

  Raquel raised one elegant eyebrow at him, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. They were both tired, and the day promised to be long as well. “Don’t be jealous.”

  He snorted. “Come on.” He reached out and awkwardly tugged the sleeve of her jacket, like he wanted to touch her but didn’t want to be too presumptuous. Seeing her on the bike had unsettled him, it always did. He thought she knew it. “I’m starving.”

  The diner was crowded with all kinds of people in various states of dress: cops in uniform, kids in T-shirts and jeans, a man in a suit, and, for some reason, an entire table of men dressed as Elvis. Like all diners, the smell of cheese, frying meat, and french fries filled the air. It was noisy, full of too-loud conversations of people who’d had too much to drink, and in the corner, a TV tuned to a local news station was muted and largely ignored.

  Brent sniffed appreciatively, thinking that if he wasn’t with Raquel, he’d ask permission to film, maybe interview a few people. This was his kind of place, no doubt about it. The waitress, a young woman with dark, tight curls, led them to a booth in a quieter section of the restaurant. She wasn’t flirtatious or particularly friendly, but when she handed Raquel the menu, she asked, “You find Gloria Belle?”

  She was looking at Raquel.

  Raquel cast a glance at her and answered, “Not yet. Thanks, Jill.”

  The girl nodded. “Dinah will be here in a minute to get your order.”

  After she’d left, Raquel looked at him and waited.

  He thought about not asking the questions that had popped into his head: She knows you? Are you friends? He stopped, however, when he realized he could guess the answers. She came here a lot. The girl was a friend.

  “How do you know the hostess?” He asked it anyway because he wanted to hear the story from her. Knowing an answer—that they were acquainted—didn’t make the story of how less interesting.

  “I eat here a lot.” Raquel kept her gaze steady, but her lips twitched, just a little, and Brent knew that wasn’t the whole story.

  “Tell me.” He kept his eyes on her, making sure she knew that he was interested. People always wanted to talk about themselves.

  She looked satisfied, like she’d won a bet with herself. “It’s not my story to tell.”

  Damn, I like her, Brent thought, and wondered if now was the time to ask her why she had decided not to sleep with him anymore.

  “It’ll take a while for DNA to come back on the wig,” she said out of the blue. “But if I go on the hunch that it was my mother’s, then I can assume that she was here, and that whoever took her is somehow involved in everything that went down in 1986, correct?”

  Brent considered it, but their waitress, a young black girl with purple hair, came and took their drink order, and Brent was briefly distracted by the menu—he was suddenly starving.

  When the girl came back with their drinks, they both ordered breakfast—Raquel opting for an omelet while Brent ordered French toast with a side of bacon.

  “I’m going to regret that.” Brent touched his chest, as if the heartburn had already started.

  “You eat too much junk,” Raquel told him firmly, and then paused. “I sound like my grandmother.”

  He nodded. She did.

  “So, what do you think, am I right?”

  “Well”—Brent took a long sip of water—“you’re working off a number of assumptions, any of which could be incorrect. One, that the kidnapping of Gloria Belle had anything to do with what happened back in eighty-six. Two, that whoever owns the house is involved somehow. It looked abandoned, could be they just borrowed it for a while. And three, well . . . I’m too tired to think of a third.”

  Raquel sighed. “I fucked up. I should have called it in. Told my supervisor I’d received an anonymous tip, and we could have gone in as a team. Now I won’t be allowed to participate because I went in without authorization—with a civilian—and that’s if I’m not fired.”

  Brent knew it wasn’t good, not if she came clean like she planned. He considered talking her out of it but decided against it. She’d already broken too many rules tonight. He’d ask her to consider calling in an anonymous tip herself in the morning. He knew there was valuable evidence in the house; perhaps some DNA could be found to identify whoever had been held there, but it wasn’t going to be a quick process, especially not in that neighborhood, and there was no reason for Raquel to lose her job.

  The waitress delivered their plates, setting them down with ruthless efficiency.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked, and both Raquel and Brent shook their heads.

  The waitress dropped the check on the table and left. Brent picked it up before Raquel could take it.

  She eyed him, but didn’t say a word of protest.

  Brent took a bite of bacon, chewed thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s assume you’re right and the house is owned by this motorcycle gang and whoever else is involved in the smuggling and trafficking. You have to assume that if they’ve gone this long without getting caught, they know how to cover their tracks, maybe using a shell corporation to hide the real owner.”

  Raquel laughed. “That’s TV talking. Criminals don’t usually bother. In a neighborhood like that, there are probably dozens of old abandoned houses. Even in suburban neighborhoods, there are houses that are used for drugs, for guns, for prostitution, without any fancy maneuvering.”

  “Yeah,” Brent agreed. “But those idiots are usually caught. If we’re right about this, then these people have been operating for over thirty years.”

  “All right,” Raquel conceded. “Maybe they have someone who helps them out. Maybe this fat white guy Tristan saw. What are we going to do, work up a sketch? It was a ‘fat white dude.’ ”

  “I know.” Brent sighed. “Let’s finish this, go home, and get some sleep. We’ll come up with a plan in the morning.”

  “You mean I’ll go home, and you’ll go to your uncle’s.”

  “Yeah.” Brent coughed. “That’s what I meant.”

  Raquel toyed with her eggs. “Did you know that your uncle George knew Gloria Belle?”

  Brent took a big bite of his French toast and nodded. When he’d finished chewing, he answered her. “Yeah, I knew. That’s how I got so interested in doing the documentary of her. He used to play me her records and talk about how beautifully she sang.”

  “He knew Charlie, too. Have you asked him if he remembers anything else about that time? Anyone else who might have been involved?”

  “Nah. I guess I always figured he would have mentioned anyone else. When Jessica disappeared, the police assumed she was a runaway because she’d been fighting with my parents about her new boyfriend, this biker kid named Nick. She showed up at my uncle’s house, stole some money, and disappeared. He went over it with the police at the time.”

  “Yeah, but have you asked him about it recently? Maybe he remembered something else.”

  Brent nodded. “It’s worth a shot. He’s got all that research on Fate as well. I can ask to look through that again.”

  Raquel nodded. “And I’m supposed to be able to visit Jane in a couple days. If we don’t find Gloria Belle soon, I think Jane is our best shot for getting some answers,” she said.

  “I agree. Though from what you’ve said, Jane hasn’t been all that helpful.”

  Raquel grimaced. “She’s not helpful, but to be fair, it seems like she has good reason to be afraid. If Gloria Belle’s kidnapping is connected, and the drugs and trafficking are still going on
, then whoever she was working with back then probably wants her dead now.”

  “Are you going to warn Tyler and Ryan, let them know so she can be protected?”

  “Yeah, although if we tell the Feds that not only is Jane’s story true, but that the drug and sex trafficking seem to have continued across state lines, the FBI is going to assume control.”

  “You think we have enough to go to them with this?”

  Raquel shook her head. “No, I don’t. Not unless we find some evidence. Or Gloria Belle.”

  10

  BRENT FOLLOWED HER home. She’d told him not to, that she’d be fine, but he’d done it anyway. She’d seen his Jeep behind her, making sure she was okay.

  The sun was rising by the time she pulled into the driveway of her small house in Fate. Brent’s Jeep pulled up at the curb and stopped, but he didn’t turn off the engine.

  Raquel stepped off her bike and removed her helmet, carrying it over to his Jeep. He reached over to unroll the passenger-side window.

  “Hey,” he said simply. His rough-hewn face looked tired, and stubble covered his chin. Raquel looked at him, thought about how he’d found Bean, and how well they worked together. It didn’t change the fact that this wasn’t his fight, and that it had grown more dangerous.

  “Why is this so important to you?” she asked baldly. “We found your sister.”

  Brent didn’t answer; he just looked at her steadily. Raquel swallowed. “The story, huh. You want to know the story of what happened?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted after a second. “That’s part of it.”

  At least he was honest. “I didn’t want you involved in this; it’s dangerous. But thanks for finding Bean.”

  The muscle in his jaw tightened and he sighed. “I’m a grown man, Raquel. You can’t decide for me, and I don’t appreciate you trying.” He yawned as he said the last, stretched, and popped his knuckles.

  Raquel studied his face. “You’re tired. Why don’t you crash here for a while? Drive to your uncle’s in a couple hours?” she asked.