His Creator had been there; they’d been playing in the woods near their friend Tavey’s house when the girl, Summer, had gone missing. Theories about what had happened to her ranged from animals attacking and dragging her body away to a clan of child molesters that lived in the woods. Some blamed bootleggers, some the witches, whose family the girl had belonged to, and some blamed his Creator, claiming that she must have done something to the girl.
He found that interesting. Had his Creator taken the girl’s string? Was that the one she wore like a halo around her head? But if she’d taken her friend’s string, why continue to look, why search for a girl who was certainly dead, her life pulled from her?
He found her endlessly interesting, this girl, though it seemed he was not the only one. The lights came on in her apartment, he saw them in the webcam, but she didn’t go in her bedroom. Taking out his binoculars, he went to the window, training them across the circle at the big windows of her apartment. There was a man with her, one of the FBI agents. He’d seen the county deputy driving around the circle, but he hadn’t thought they’d assigned her any FBI protection.
He moved even closer to the window, unaware that he’d reached the glass and was pressing the binoculars up against the window. He found himself counting her strings, his strings, watching them sit together on the couch, sitting too close, their hands close together on the cushions, the colors of the fabric melting with her strings, melting with his strings, until it almost looked like they were connected by one long curling red string, their lives entwined.
Something cracked and he realized that he’d been holding the binoculars too tightly, that he’d cracked a piece of the plastic around the eyepiece. He didn’t like this. He would have to do something.
“Stay here,” he told the girl, who was standing frozen. He was so irritated with his Creator now that he barely noticed she’d done as she was told. “Put the body in the trash and go to bed.”
He glanced briefly at her strings, satisfied that she had removed the final link that tied her to anyone else but him. The thread connecting her to the dog remained, but it had changed, grown thinner and transparent, like the edge of a knife at a certain angle.
He picked up the van keys from his desk. He didn’t worry about gathering knives; there were knives in the van, more than he would ever need to take the strings he had in mind, strings that would be taken more easily than those of a small dog.
22
AT EIGHT-THIRTY, Chris and Ryan still hadn’t heard from Midaugh on the identity of the body they’d found. Ryan had called when they left the restaurant for updates from the team on the search for Martha Cooper, but though no bodies fitting her description had been reported, she hadn’t shown up at her job as a store clerk at a pet store for two months or been seen around her apartment. Her car and her Chihuahua were also missing. Her mother claimed she was flighty and an addict, so the police hadn’t reported her as a missing person. Agents had also spoken with Caroline Coffee, who hadn’t checked her Facebook or seen the messages sent from the unsub. When asked about any suspicious characters that may have come into the bakery, she’d said she couldn’t recall any, but that students paraded in and out because of the discount she offered.
Another agent was also looking into references the unsub had made to a “rainbow-haired” girl, but so far no additional bodies had surfaced.
Chris cupped her green tea and curled her legs up on the couch. The rain had finally started to pour in earnest, large drops drumming against her windowpanes. Ryan sat next to her. He’d taken off his jacket, which had gotten wet running back across the circle from the restaurant. Chris had changed into her standard outfit of gray yoga pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and fuzzy socks. She’d taken her laptop from the bedroom, but it sat, closed, next to her on the couch.
She’d gotten Ryan a towel for his hair, which stood up in wet spikes on his head. He looked sexy and rumpled, very different from the buttoned-up FBI agent who had come into her house yesterday.
He’d begun telling her about living with his grandmother, at her farm just outside of Rome, and how the old woman’s dogs, a Great Dane and a pug, were the loves of her life. She’d told him about growing up playing with Raquel, Tavey, and Summer and how they’d loved going on adventures together in the woods behind their houses.
“How old were you?”
“When we pretended we were Robin Hood?”
He nodded.
“Six, I think. We’d just seen the Disney movie.”
“Who was Maid Marian?”
“Tavey, of course.”
“Why not Summer?”
“Summer wanted to be Maid Marian’s lady-in-waiting—the chicken. She liked the sound of her voice.”
“Who were you?”
“Robin, of course.”
“And Raquel?”
“Guess.”
“The sheriff.”
“Yep. She was a great one, too; we even made a star from tinfoil that she wore on her chest.”
He was sitting next to her, not touching, but Chris was aware that if she shifted over, just a little, she would be leaning against him, against the warmth and heat and strength of him. She wanted him to touch her.
His phone rang.
He sat up quickly, pulling his cell phone off the holder on his belt. “Helmer. . . . When? . . . Okay. I’ll be there.”
He hung up and looked at her, his face conflicted. “I have to go. They have the identity of the body and a report of a murder in Rome.”
“Okay,” Chris agreed, trying to mask her disappointment. Even the prospect of having Raquel come over wasn’t enough to make up for the loss of Ryan, who was starting to look at her as if she were more than just a witness in his latest case.
He looked at his phone, at the time. “When is your friend getting here?”
Chris had checked her phone ten minutes ago. “She’s in traffic; the rain has caused a few accidents.”
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes.”
He ran a hand through his messy hair and stood. “I’ll stay until she gets here.”
“Ryan, just call the county deputies, let them know you had to leave. They can come park next to my building like they did last night.”
He didn’t want to, she could tell by the tension in his arms and shoulders as he paced behind the chair where he’d laid his jacket. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing wiry forearms with a dusting of red-brown hair and more freckles. She’d never thought about freckles on a man—whether she liked them—but she liked him, and the thought of where else he might have freckles was . . . interesting.
“All right.” He put on his jacket and came to stand next to her.
She looked up at him. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but his fingers twitched, like he wanted to touch her.
“Call me when your friend arrives.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes and sipped her green tea. She didn’t want him to leave; in fact, all she could think about was how badly she wanted him to kiss her.
She felt the air move as he bent down. He touched a finger to her hair, smoothing back a wayward curl. It seemed strangely intimate, more intimate than any kiss she’d ever received, but maybe that was her imagination.
“I’ll be back. I promise.”
She nodded, because that was the only appropriate response she could make. Clinging to his leg and begging him not to go really wasn’t an option.
“Don’t do anything crazy,” he warned softly, and Chris heard the sound of his keys jingling as he fished them out of his pocket. “Lock the door behind me.”
“Okay.”
He left, closing the door behind him with a soft snap.
“Shit.” She put the mug against her forehead, wishing she could suck the warmth from the tea into her body. It was too quiet without him.
In the dim light of her living room, thoughts of what she’d seen that afternoon floated back. Unnerved, she walked to the big windows and drew the gauzy curtains shut. It didn’t help much. She still felt . . . hunted. The familiar streets of her hometown had transformed into a foreign world.
“Fuck this,” she muttered, setting her laptop on the table and opening the lid, letting it power on while she locked the door.
She made another cup of tea and grabbed some peanut butter crackers from her cabinet, arming herself for the battle ahead.
Settling herself on the couch, her tea and crackers next to her on the end table, she pulled the computer into her lap, logging in with the password she’d changed just the day before.
Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn were first on her list to check; she never underestimated what people would post on social media, nor did she underestimate the power of her contacts. She made a habit of friending people, not just people she met in person, but people in online groups, people who liked the same books she did on Goodreads, people who liked the same Facebook pages she did. She hunted for friends like an insecure teenager, not because she wanted them, but because the more lines of connection she had, the more she could search for the missing. And then there were the connections of her creations. Even though the people she made weren’t real, people still friended them, either not realizing that they’d never met or not caring.
It bothered her suddenly, that her creations were given the same weight in the virtual world as real people. When had it become so easy to take a human life and mimic it to the point where an actual person was no longer necessary? Did people friend her and really not know who she was or how they knew her? She had more friends than any one person needed, but only Tavey and Raquel were links to the tangible world. Only they knew the real Christina. She was afraid, in time, that her weekly meetings with them would no longer be enough, and she would begin to fade away, like an old forgotten Polaroid.
The image made her cringe. She would do better, she vowed, make more of an effort to get involved with other people, make real connections. But even as she thought it, her fingers were flying over the keys, her eyes hunting the screens for news in any of her searches.
As soon as she had her websites up and rolling, she felt better, and the house no longer seemed so empty and purposeless.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Task one.” She quickly checked all her “active” cases: Martin Hays, Lobelia Curso, and Martha. So far there were no updates from the Atlanta PD on the Hays case, so she sent a quick email to Raquel to remind her to follow up. As far as Lobelia, Chris had sent messages to her friends on Facebook, but so far none of them had responded, either. Once that was done, she started looking into Martha Cooper.
She found Martha’s Facebook page and searched her friend list. They had one mutual friend, a woman named Cora Scott, one of Raquel’s cousins. She sent a message over to Cora, introducing herself again, and asking her what she knew about Martha. Once that was complete, she pulled an image of Martha from her public Facebook page and sent out an email blast to all her contacts who worked to find the missing, letting them know that any information would be useful. As far as she could tell, the focus of Martha’s life was her dog, Badger, so maybe she had left and had taken the dog with her. Her car was gone as well, so it was possible she’d taken a trip somewhere.
Chris got up twice, once to set one of her desktops to search for Martha’s face throughout social media and her friend pages on Facebook, and once to use the bathroom. When she came back into her living room, she realized two things: that her green tea was cold and that, even though it was approaching nine-thirty, there was no sign of Raquel.
Picking up her phone, she discovered she had two messages, one from someone who had seen Martha two weeks ago at a gas station in Canton and one from Raquel.
Be there in ten.
That was ten minutes ago. She looked at the front door, only to jump when a knock suddenly sounded and she heard Raquel’s voice through the door.
“Chris, it’s me.”
Chris set her tea down on the table and hurried to open it.
Raquel was standing on her doorstep, dripping wet, her black hair plastered to her head.
She was tiny, but she was fierce, which showed in her bag, a waterproof black backpack with reflective strips, and her choice of vehicle, which was what Chris affectionately called a crotch rocket, a shiny black Ducati.
“Light showers, my ass,” Raquel muttered, stepping inside and tossing her helmet and bag just inside Chris’s door. “I could kill that Channel Thirteen weatherman.”
Chris closed and locked the apartment door behind her. “Bet you wish you’d taken your car this morning.”
“Girl, you know it.” She shrugged out of her wet motorcycle jacket and unzipped the legs of the leather pants she was wearing, stripping them off to reveal clothing more suitable to a teenage girl—jeans, a funky boat-neck sweater a la 1986, and a cheap costume necklace. Well, everything except the shoulder holster and the Glock she wore in it. She’d been acting as bait tonight for predators, which wasn’t unusual, but for some reason tonight it gave Chris a twinge of uneasiness.
“How’re you tonight?” Raquel took off her weapon and badge, setting them on the end table next to Chris’s tea, and took off her holster, setting it on the chair. She wiped some rain off her skin and shook out her long hair. Raquel’s mother had been half black, half Cherokee, her father a white man she’d never met, so of course she had perfect skin and hair that looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial.
Chris shook her head. “Boy, do I have news for you, but let’s get you some wine.”
“Actually, you better make it coffee unless I’m spending the night.”
“Could you?” The words left Chris’s mouth before she even realized she intended to ask.
Raquel gave her a curious look and came over to enfold her in a hug. “You have had a day, haven’t you?”
Chris hugged her back, ignoring the wet hair and the faint smell of exhaust. “It’s been different.”
“Come on, then, pour me some wine and we’ll talk about it. Lemme just grab a towel to dry my hair.”
Chris ventured into her kitchen, pulling a clean wineglass down and rinsing out the one she’d been using the night before. She only had two; she wasn’t a big believer in multiple dishes. Having two meant she had to wash them regularly; otherwise they piled up in the sink.
“So tell me,” Raquel demanded as she walked into the kitchen. “What man have you had over here tonight, and does he look as good as he smells?”
Chris smiled and handed her the glass of wine. She clinked glasses with Raquel. “Raquel, darling, I have a crush on my FBI agent.”
Raquel’s gracefully arching eyebrows rose. “Well, my my my, it looks like Old Ninny was right. I do believe the ever-single Miss Pascal has found herself a man.”
Chris wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say that, you’ll jinx it. Besides, I get the feeling that he was burned by an ex. He made a few comments about her, and he’s sensitive to what he sees as deception. Probably he’s only hanging around because some serial killer has a thing for me anyway.”
Raquel sighed. “And now you’ve killed any possible excitement. How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad.” Chris didn’t want to think about it. “Just for the record”—she swirled her wine in her glass, breathed in deep, and took a long sip—“he looks even better than he smells.”
Raquel fanned herself and headed into the living room. “Girl, you are in trouble . . .”
23
RYAN RUBBED HIS eyes beneath his glasses, tired of being in front of his computer screen.
“What do we know?” he asked the room. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.
The body they’d recovered from the river earlier was a kid named Jason Kirkpatrick of Cave Springs, Georgia. He’d been
seventeen years old and in love with a woman named Liz Darcy—only Liz Darcy didn’t exist. Liz Darcy was one of Chris’s creations, created for a gay man in San Pedro, California, who’d wanted everyone to think he was straight.
According to her notes, she hadn’t accessed the Liz Darcy profile in several years. Cyber Crimes had also had little luck in pinning down a specific IP address to track the interactions. The killer not only seemed to know a great deal about technology, but also seemed to move around quite a bit within five counties in northwest Georgia.
Ryan looked at the board and shook his head. Too many people had already died. This man had to be stopped.
“We know he has to see his victims before he decides to kill them,” one of the analysts threw out.
Ryan nodded. “We know he only kills with each identity once. He’s gone through almost twenty of the identities created by Ms. Pascal. This latest kill was one of her earliest, created nearly ten years ago when she started her online business.”
“We’re tracking all the IDs she has left, following his interactions,” Sandeep added. “He’s been contacted by two women on a dating site and has reached out to one woman directly, Miss Coffee, using the Dylan Fennick identity. We have deputies and local PD assigned to all three women as well as everyone else who’s been in contact with the identities that he hasn’t yet used to kill.”
“And where are these women?”
Midaugh gestured to the map, where pushpins had been used to mark locations. Black pins identified the locations where bodies had been found, while green ones indicated the last-known location of the victims—those pins connected with a piece of yarn. They had software that did something similar; it was even now running algorithms, searching for connections, patterns, similarities, but Ryan was a tactile person. He liked the board.
Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate) Page 14
