Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate)

by Dore, Deirdre

  She noticed that he was studying her and came to stand next to him, head bent obediently.

  He reached out and took her wrist. She flinched, just a little, and sadness filled him. He would have to punish her, he supposed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, touching his face, entreating him. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He nodded and stroked her hair. “You know what you need to do.”

  A tear dripped down her cheek, but she nodded, walking to a large chest, lifting the lid, and climbing inside. She closed the lid above her and began to chant, “Joe is the only one who loves me. Joe is the only one who wants me. Joe is the only one I see. Joe I must obey.”

  He had taken her several months ago, after snatching her little dog out of the yard. He’d promised to give him back if she came with him, and the foolish woman had. He’d known she would, he’d seen the string connecting her to the little animal.

  After a moment of making sure she was doing as she should, he turned back to his monitor and continued to watch his Creator, enjoying the fierce frown on her face, the way it contrasted with the string like a halo or a crown on her head. He rubbed his hands together, wanting to reach into the monitor and snatch it from her, put it on his own head, and dance. What a feeling that would be, to wear such a string. He wondered where she’d gotten it; who she’d taken it from. He’d only met one other person who could do that, who could wear the strings of others.

  He wondered if his Creator knew the girl in the woods—the one who had killed his father.

  He went to the blog he liked, The Mysteries of Fate, and clicked to post below one of his previous comments:

  Stringman14: In your town, I found the Creator. She makes lives for me to take and I use them to take the strings of others. Am I the only one that sees them? How can that be? She wears a string like a girl in the woods. Surely she knows the secret.

  He glanced at his second monitor; she’d disappeared from the screen. He scowled in frustration and picked up his night goggles. Standing, he went to the window of his new apartment and stood looking out across the circle. The lights were on in her living room and kitchen; she’d rarely turned them off in the week that he’d been here.

  She was walking through the living room, her body slender and graceful in lounging pants and a long-sleeve shirt. She was alone now, but she hadn’t been earlier. He’d seen the FBI men in her house. They’d nearly caught him spying through her camera, nearly, but he’d known and pulled back, hid himself just enough. He was glad they hadn’t taken her equipment, glad he could still watch her, but he knew they were looking for him now.

  It was time. Time he made the Creator his own.

  He glanced at the chest where the woman was still chanting. She would willingly give him her strings soon. And so would his Creator—he wouldn’t need to cut her strings; she would give them to him, one by one, and tell him all her secrets.

  15

  CHRIS ATTACKED HER keyboard like she was going to war, glancing from screen to screen with the liquid ease of someone so used to working with machines that the mouse seemed like a natural extension of her hands, the screens serving as views into worlds where she belonged, where she ruled.

  As soon as the agents left, she looked up Agent Helmer on Google and a few other search sites. There wasn’t much beyond his current position at the FBI and that he was originally from Houston. She also found a YouTube video of an interview he’d done after a serial murder case near Houston. He’d been really young, but he hadn’t looked young in the interview. His eyes had been dark-circled and grim. After looking up the case, she could understand why.

  Other than that, he didn’t seem to spend much time on social media, though she did find him connected to several people from Texas A&M University. She wasn’t even sure why she bothered, except that he seemed to dislike her so much. She wanted to know why, but nothing she’d discovered so far had made his antipathy any clearer.

  Setting thoughts of the prickly agent aside, she got to business gathering her list of clients without letting the creeper know what she was up to. It wasn’t difficult; she kept an Excel spreadsheet with all her alias names cross-referenced with her clients’ requests. She updated it frequently, so there wasn’t anything suspicious in her pulling it up now. Despite her reluctance, she’d also finished building the profile for Dylan Fennick and the woman on the run from her ex.

  Once that was done, she checked on Martin Hays, reading his Facebook posts, which were few and mostly innocuous—pictures of his backyard, where there was an old muscle car on cement blocks, a toolshed, and a magnolia tree. He was mixed-race, married to an older black woman named Janet, but there were no pictures of her on his Facebook page. She was the breadwinner of the family, as Martin hadn’t worked since an accident on the job had left him with an amputated left foot. They had one child, a daughter, who’d run away from home at seventeen. Chris had found her working as a mechanic at the Atlanta airport several weeks earlier. She’d refused to talk to Chris about her father, which, in Chris’s mind, told most of the story.

  On the surface he looked normal enough, but, as she’d told Raquel, she’d discovered him through a child porn website, where his posts were not so innocuous. He’d made several references to the girls he’d raped, and the descriptions had matched some of the missing from the Atlanta case. For all intents and purposes, she was out of the picture, but she couldn’t help checking. She wanted to know what was going on, whether they’d found the missing girls, whether they were alive or dead. She felt the same way about Lobelia Curso. The girl had gone missing last week, but she was almost fourteen; the local police assumed she was a runaway. Chris, along with the girl’s distraught mother, doubted it; the girl’s social media posts had been, if not cheerful, at least funny and highly observant.

  Around three a.m., when her eyes were gritty and burning from staring at her screens, she collapsed in her small bed, her eyes floating over Summer’s face, but her thoughts were on Agent Ryan Helmer. She fell asleep and dreamed that he was carrying her through a forest, his eyes burning down on hers.

  At eight-thirty, when her cell phone alarm rang, Chris sat up with a gasp, her heart racing. She’d been dreaming of the woods again.

  Shaking off the lingering shudders, she pressed the button to stop her alarm. Wiggling her mice to bring her monitors to life, she briefly checked for any developments or emails, but nothing new had come in since the night before. She wanted to go to the Mysteries of Fate blog and read what the crazy had said about her. She’d been tempted last night, but she didn’t want him to realize she was on to him if he didn’t know it already, so she got up earlier than usual and jogged over to the library, already dressed in her yoga outfit for class. The grass in the center of the circle was damp with dew, but she crossed through it anyway, throwing a penny in the fountain for luck as she passed.

  Main Street was just starting to get busy as the resale shops and boutiques opened for the day. On Wednesdays the library opened at nine, and sure enough, just as she walked up to the glass door, the librarian, Mrs. Cooley, was unlocking the door, her face scrunching into a sour expression as Chris approached. Jeez, you wipe a booger in a book one time at nine years old and the librarian remembers it forever.

  “Hey, Mrs. Cooley,” Chris greeted her, ignoring the sour expression. After all, she wanted to use the Internet this morning. No point in aggravating the old bat.

  “Christina.”

  “Okay if I use the computers for a few minutes? Mine are down.”

  “Sign in, please. There’s a twenty-minute limit.”

  Chris looked around at the empty library and started to say something, but stopped herself before it could leave her mouth. Cooley had kicked her out for her unwanted commentary in the past. Lips zipped, she signed the little sheet with today’s date at the top and walked over to the computer bank, which consisted of four rows of deskt
op computers with old-fashioned plug-in keyboards. The Ethernet was state-of-the-art, though—Tavey had made sure of it when she donated money to the library last year.

  Once she logged in, she went straight to Google and typed, Mysteries of Fate Georgia, and clicked on the site.

  Below a section on the “string-makers,” which George had clearly added recently, someone had been posting about strings, about how they connected everyone, how he could cut them off. Some people had commented, including George Mills—she recognized his handle—and it looked like the posts went back several weeks at least.

  “Strings . . .” she muttered, and nearly let out a What the fuck? but didn’t, because it was the library. Still, strings? He went on and on about them and about the Creator who helped him, which made her stomach clench. He meant her. He acted like he knew her, like she should understand these strings. Fear—something she didn’t deal with well at all—made her palms sweat. She was afraid of him, of his clear obsession, but there was something more. Summer had told her about the string-makers, which seemed weirdly similar to the ones discussed in this blog, but there was also a niggling memory that picked at her as she signed out of the computer and crossed her name off the sign-in sheet. A memory that kicked up her pulse as surely as the words written by a psychotic serial killer. She’d been talking to Summer about the string-makers before they’d walked into the woods, but that wasn’t the one coming to mind.

  “’Bye, Mrs. Cooley,” she called out loudly, knowing the old lady hated loud voices, and left the building chewing on her lower lip in thought.

  Instead of heading to the yoga studio right away, she found herself crossing over the railroad tracks that ran next to the library and through the rusted gate to the cemetery. The stay-at-home moms and the college students in her ten a.m. yoga class would understand.

  Lonely and quiet, the historic cemetery was poorly tended. She’d have to talk to Tavey about it next Sunday. No one she knew was buried here, though she recognized some of the family names. It was a short walk from the gate past some of the crumbling tombstones to the big oak where they’d placed a cross in Summer’s name.

  As always when she thought about that moment, the one when she, Raquel, and Tavey had sat beneath this tree and vowed never to stop looking, she felt like something amazing would happen, that somehow Summer would step from behind the tree and laugh and spin around and it would all have been a dream.

  Her steps slowed until she was barely moving forward. The air had thickened to the point where she struggled to breathe. She went to her knees in the grass, which was brown and crunchy from lack of water. A slight breeze blew one of the frayed red ribbons that they’d tied around the cross. Her heart lifted just a little as she saw it flutter, and just like that, the memory floated to the surface.

  It had been late spring, the same year that Summer disappeared. The four of them had been playing with the puppies at Tavey’s house in a small patch of grass in the rose garden, which Tavey loved because her mother had loved it. Raquel, Tavey, and Chris had been romping, but Summer had been standing still for once, apparently looking at the driveway, but Summer couldn’t see. Curious, Chris had come to stand beside her.

  “Summer, you okay?”

  She hadn’t answered right away, her head tilted toward Chris, but her eyes remained fixed, if unfocused, on a man getting out of a black car. Tavey’s grandfather was greeting the man; they shook hands and clapped each other on the back the way that men did sometimes, and Summer’s eyes followed them, her mouth grim.

  When she did speak, it was softly, as if she didn’t want to call attention to their conversation, as if she wanted to hide it not just from their friends but from the roses, the bees, the wind that blew tendrils of her hair into Chris’s face.

  “You know the story we heard in the library, about the red string of fate?”

  “The Chinese story about true love?” Chris had liked that one. It was cool.

  “I wonder if there are other colors.”

  Chris remembered that she had looked at Summer skeptically, taken her hand, and led her back to the puppies, who were tumbling over each other, happy, careless balls of fur and sharp puppy teeth.

  WHEN SHE CAME back to herself, ten minutes had passed. She stood and dusted off her knees, a little confused. She remembered that moment so clearly that she could picture the clothes they were wearing, the color of the roses in bloom, but Tavey’s grandfather would never have let them play with the puppies, not unsupervised.

  She shook it off for the moment and hobbled on legs that had fallen asleep to the little cross that lay, tilted a little, under the shade of the big tree. She stood looking down at it, head bent as if in prayer, and maybe she was praying.

  “I miss you forever.”

  And with that she turned and made her awkward way across the circle and back to her studio, wishing she had time for a green tea latte. She needed a caffeine boost if she was going to be all calm and soothing for these folks.

  ONCE HER CLASS was over, she showered and changed quickly into jeans, a long-sleeve T-shirt, a jacket, and coral UGGs. She made sure the back door to her apartment, the one that opened to the wrought-iron balcony and spiral staircase, was locked, and went out the door that led to the interior staircase. She was careful to lock it behind her as well, though she usually wasn’t so conscientious.

  She continued down to the bottom floor, where there was a small lobby with black and white tiles and a door that led out to the back, behind the circle, where Chris, Tavey, and the employees of the boutique usually parked. On the wall to the right of the staircase were the three inset mailboxes for the building, and to the left was the side door to the boutique. She had a key; Tavey preferred that customers use the main entrance, so she kept it locked.

  Chris opened it carefully, since sometimes customers were browsing on the other side, and shut it behind her.

  “Hey, it’s Chris,” she called, not wanting to scare Tavey or the manager, Betty, a short, round woman with bright blue eyes.

  “Over here,” Betty called.

  Chris walked past an aisle of various squeaky toys to the main counter, which was lined with a display case featuring treats that looked good enough for a person to eat, much less a dog. The sounds of clippers and the occasional bark came from the right, where, instead of a bedroom like in her apartment, a small grooming salon had been created. A half door that swung on a hinge had EMPLOYEES ONLY written on it.

  Betty was sitting behind the counter tallying something, her gray hair in tidy curls, her wrinkled blue eyes delighted to see Chris, as always.

  “Hey, Bettes.” Chris approached the counter. “How are you this morning?”

  “I’m fine, honey,” she drawled. “How are you?”

  Chris shrugged, not wanting to go into details. Betty had a bad habit of suggesting that she stop chasing after missing kids, find a man, and have some kids of her own. “I met a handsome man,” she offered now, which was the truth.

  “Did you? Well, that’s good, honey. Are you going on a date?”

  Chris considered that. “I’m seeing him today.” Again, not a lie.

  Betty set her clipboard down. “I’m so happy for you. I hope this one works out.”

  Chris hoped he didn’t end up shooting her. That would be working out, in her opinion.

  “Is Tavey around? She asked me to stop by.”

  “She’s in the back going over everything with the new groomer. What a sweet girl.”

  “Okay, I’ll just—”

  “I heard you,” Tavey said as she breezed through the swinging door.

  Tavey always looked put-together, even though she dealt with dogs and mud and god knew what else on a daily basis. She was wearing jeans that fit her tall, athletic frame perfectly, knee-high riding boots in a cognac color, and a matching leather belt with a gold buckle. A long-sleeve navy shirt,
a colorful scarf, and a tidy French braid completed the look, which radiated confidence.

  “Betty, could you show the new groomer where the supplies are and make sure she signs all her paperwork? Courtney has her hands full with that Chihuahua from hell.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that. You be sure and ask Miss Christina about the handsome man she met today.” Betty slid out of her chair, made sure she had her balance, and carried her generous frame through the doors to the salon.

  Once she was out of sight, Tavey embraced Chris in a hard, brief hug. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Tavey, who was a few inches taller than Chris even without the boots, looked into Chris’s face doubtfully. “Yeah, the bags under your eyes are telling a different story.”

  “Well . . .” Chris shrugged. “How would you sleep if you’d just found out that you were partially responsible for a bunch of people dying?”

  Tavey pressed her lips together. “Probably not well.”

  “Hmm . . .” Chris shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m headed over to the FBI building to see if I can help them figure out exactly which of the identities I’ve created have been used to kill people.”

  “You want me to come with you?” Tavey offered.

  Chris considered it; she wouldn’t mind having someone as forthright and respected as Tavey along, but she didn’t want to drag her friend into this mess any more than she had already.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “All right,” she agreed, “but call me when you get back. I have to head back home after lunch and meet with some people who want to adopt one of the rescue hounds.”