Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate)

by Dore, Deirdre

  “So imagine how I’ll feel if it was you,” he countered.

  “If what was me?” she whispered.

  He didn’t want to describe what he’d imagined when he’d read what she’d written. Her words had been beautiful; he’d seen the woods and the two girls running through them in his head, but then his mind had flashed on the crime scene photos, on the women who had been left sliced and broken, all because some lunatic thought he was collecting strings.

  He crouched down on his haunches, breathing in the smell of her: grapefruit, coffee, and warm female sweat.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he confessed, taking her hands.

  CHRIS FELT WORSE than if he’d yelled. She’d known he didn’t want anything to happen to her; he was the type to want to protect anyone from harm—an old-fashioned kind of protector, the kind of man heartbroken by the death of six little girls, but this felt more personal, like he was starting to feel something more than just the need to look out for someone involved with the case. “I’m sorry.” She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, knowing that he wouldn’t make the first move, not with the case between them.

  He resisted at first, but then he kissed her fiercely, tugging her close into his arms, and the fierce kiss gentled into something soft and wet and open. He traced her lower lip lightly with his tongue, soothing her, only pulling away when she was gasping, her fingers clinging to him.

  His glasses had fogged up.

  “I’ll take them off.” She reached up and removed them, folding them gently. Taking them from her, he leaned over, stretching with one long arm to set them gently on the table. He moved so that he was sitting next to her on the couch, moving slightly over her, so he could look down into her face.

  He touched her nose, lips, chin, looking into her eyes the entire time. It was strange to have her so quiet and still. He wondered if she would let him pull up the tight tank she was wearing and kiss and lick her nipples. He wanted to. He wanted to sink himself inside her and forget about killers and dead bodies, and fucking strings.

  “So, just how flexible are you?” he asked, trying to distract himself from thoughts of pulling down her soft, form-fitting yoga pants. It would be so easy—just a little tug and he’d have access to her. He wouldn’t even have to get them over her knees. He’d be able to stroke her, tease her, slide one finger into her hot, wet heat.

  She chuckled, as he’d intended, but her fingers were busy touching his shoulder, arm, chest, her eyes trailing from his lips to his jaw.

  “You have beautiful cheekbones.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to laugh. What the fuck? “Yeah, no one’s ever mentioned that to me before.”

  They looked at each other, bodies pressed together, breathing heavily, skin flushed. He pressed his hand over her heart and slid his fingers up, touching the little hollow of her throat.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but all he could think about was sliding his hand to cover her round, full breasts, tugging down her tank top until her nipples popped free, and sucking on them, making her hips bounce against his. It felt so great to be touching her, to be wanted this much.

  His cock was digging into her hip; he knew she felt it. She reached up and gripped his hair. “Ryan, if you don’t get on with it—” She growled low in her throat and curled her left leg up and over his hip, urging him farther on top of her.

  He let himself fall, settling himself on top of her with a deep sigh. She was firm and round, all lithe muscles and female curves.

  “God, that feels so good.” She arched up against him. “You have no idea.”

  He had a pretty good idea. She was rubbing and arching against his cock like it had been years since she’d had one between her legs. Maybe it had been; she seemed pretty isolated here with her personal mission.

  He should stop this, slow down, but damn it, she arched her back, her breasts now right in front of his face, and he couldn’t help it, they were there, so he nuzzled them, rubbing his face from side to side, sliding his cheeks against the soft mounds of flesh. With one finger, just one finger, he couldn’t do much damage with just one finger, he tugged down the top of her tank, pulling toward the right, until one sweet little pinkish brown nipple peeked out.

  “Ah, fuck,” he groaned. She would have perfect tits. He leaned over, curling his tongue around her nipple before suckling it fiercely between his lips.

  She cried out, fisting her hands in his hair. “Fuck, yes,” she shouted, loud enough that he nearly missed the sound of his phone ringing.

  When the sound of it finally registered, he cursed and pulled back. She didn’t want to let him go, her hands still curled in his hair. It took him a second to untangle himself and pull his phone off the holder on his hip.

  “Helmer.” He snatched up his glasses and put them on, looking at her through the fog. She’d thrown her arm over her eyes, her chest heaving, one perfect nipple still showing. For two seconds, he considered throwing his phone at the wall and continuing down the much more pleasant path before him.

  When Midaugh said something about the van, Helmer realized that he hadn’t been paying fucking attention.

  “Sorry,” he interrupted, “you broke up. Can you say that again?”

  “We think we have a possible image of the unsub caught on camera at a gas station two exits west of Fate. Can you get over there and talk to the manager? I’ll send the stills to your phone.”

  Ryan blew out a frustrated breath. Chris, listening, dropped the arm covering her eyes and adjusted her shirt.

  “Yeah. I’ll head over there right now.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Yeah. Call you back when I’m done.”

  Ryan hung up the phone. “Fuck.”

  Chris nodded. “Totally not cool. I’m going to have to take a shower now.”

  Ryan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Chris looked at him. She thought about mentioning her awesome shower wand, but thought he might be shocked. “Because I’m all sweaty.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “You have a mean streak,” he muttered. Damned if he didn’t like that about her. He stood, looking down at where his cock was tenting out the leg of his pants.

  “I know,” she agreed with a smug little grin.

  He chuckled, bending down again to cage her with his arms. Dropping a quick kiss on her lips, he murmured, “This was inappropriate. Can you call Raquel and have her come back up?”

  “Sure,” she agreed, but her eyes drifted down to his mouth.

  He wanted to kiss her as well, but he thought that if he started kissing her again he wouldn’t stop, so he pulled away, cursing the unsub with every breath.

  “Lock this behind me,” he yelled, and slammed the door shut.

  “Catch the bad guys,” she yelled back. “And be careful.”

  Ryan shook his head. She was the damnedest woman. If anyone needed to be careful, it was her. What he needed was to calm down. No one takes a man with a hard-on seriously.

  28

  CHRIS CALLED RAQUEL’S phone after Ryan left.

  “Finished already?” Raquel answered, her voice amused.

  “Ha. Ha. He was called away.”

  “That sucks. Believe me, I know.”

  Chris did believe it. It was one of the negatives of getting involved with a law enforcement official. There was always an emergency somewhere.

  “Yeah. I just wanted to tell you that I’m taking a shower; the doors are locked.”

  “All right. I’ll be downstairs helping Tavey. One of her groomers cut herself and started crying. I’m keeping an eye on the reporters for her while she bandages the girl up.”

  “The dogs okay?”

  Raquel laughed. “You’re as bad as Tavey. Yeah, the dogs are fine. The girl is, too, in case you were wondering; Tavey
is sending her home.”

  “Good. See you in a bit. I have class again at six. You coming?”

  “Depends. Is your FBI agent coming back?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Hmm. Okay, I’ll see, but keep your door locked, and if you need to go somewhere, call me and I’ll take you.”

  “You got it.”

  Chris hung up and contemplated her afternoon and evening. She could take a shower, as she’d suggested to Ryan, and imagine him taking her while enjoying herself beneath the amorous attentions of her massaging showerhead, or she could work and hold off until she saw him again . . . if she could wait until then. She rolled her shoulders and stretched a little. She hadn’t been in the right frame of mind when she’d been teaching class earlier. She’d gone through the motions, but she hadn’t honestly cleared her head and taken the time to relax.

  Walking to the clear space in her living room between the couch and her favorite gold chair, she placed her hands in prayer and stretched upward, reaching for the sky in sunrise salutation before descending into downward-facing dog, stretching the backs of her legs and her shoulders. She moved smoothly into warrior, engaging the muscles of her legs, breathing slowly in and out through her nose and mouth, grounding herself with the earth and sky. As she moved, she thought of Ryan, of what it would be like to give herself to him, to surrender her body as she did during a good yoga session.

  The tension in her back and shoulders eased as she relaxed, while the ache between her legs shifted and changed, liquid gold moving through her back and spreading through her body, until she felt like a cat lying in the sun. Descending into child’s pose, she relaxed, doing her best to think of nothing except her breath flowing in and out, trying not to think about killers and missing children, and handsome FBI agents.

  When she finally stood forty-five minutes later, she felt much calmer and more centered—the state of mind required to find the missing. She tried not to think too much about what could be happening to the girls on the child pornography sites or to the ones at the mercy of Martin Hays. If she thought too much about what could be happening to those girls, she would freak out completely.

  She made herself a cup of tea, glancing briefly out the window at the circle—looking for what, she didn’t know. Aside from the herd of reporters bunched outside Dog, there was nothing suspicious. The sun had come out for the moment, and people were going about their business for the most part, though they all stopped and stared at the reporters. Some even came over and were hanging around the edges of the reporters, hoping for the chance to be on film. The restaurant where she’d eaten with Helmer seemed busy, but the new waitress was on the phone outside, her body tense as she listened to someone. People were going in and out of the coffee shop, and in the center of the circle a couple of college students were eating lunch sitting on the fountain in the circle, all bundled up in jackets and knit caps.

  Chris glanced at them enviously, feeling faintly trapped. Usually she chose to stay inside and work on her searches, but not having the choice because someone might be after her made her feel like she was locked in a box.

  She ignored the vague sting of claustrophobia and carried her tea into her bedroom, where her computers hummed faintly. Taking her seat, she drew her legs up until she was sitting cross-legged in her office chair, and wiggled her mouse to bring the screens to life.

  She turned on her music first, hitting her working-in-the-afternoon playlist. Billie Holiday began singing about a devil called love, and Chris began checking her email. She had dozens of email addresses, all set up in Outlook on her different computers. She also ran several instant-message softwares. The only email she used on her phone was her personal one, the one she gave out to friends. Everyone else was filtered through her various accounts. Her contacts at several law enforcement agencies had sent her messages in response to her tips on various missing persons. Some were dismissive, others thankful. There was no information on the Martin Hays case, which frustrated the crap out of her. She sent a quick message to her contacts at the GBI and the FBI Atlanta Field Office asking for an update on the case, making a mental note to have Raquel check in; they were more likely to give her a response.

  The Mysteries of Fate blog was pretty quiet. There had been several comments on her post about the woods and the string-weavers. Most seemed to think it was a story that someone was writing; others were clearly curious fans of the witches, asking if it was true, if there was really a magical place in the woods. The unsub hadn’t written anything in response, which worried her. Surely he’d seen what she’d written. But maybe he hadn’t believed her. She started running a search anyway, both in Google and using a program that one of her hacker friends had written for her. It was specifically designed to look through file-sharing sites and subversive websites where users entered passphrases to gain access. She searched for the name Summer Haven without really expecting to find anything. When it returned a hit immediately, she felt her heart rate increase dramatically, her blood pulsing in her ears.

  She clicked on the link, which was to a particularly seedy file-sharing site. She’d alerted the FBI to it and many others, but usually after a few weeks the site was shut down and moved elsewhere. She’d created a false identity, a man in his forties, and had a friend help her infiltrate the group of complete lowlifes. She had to play the part, so she often triggered downloads to cloud sites, where the information was searched with her facial recognition software, and immediately erased if there wasn’t a match to a current missing person. She didn’t want to see that horrific filth; she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she did.

  After logging in, she was given access to the folder. It was named Summer Haven. The Boyfriend had left it for her, she was certain. Who else?

  Clicking on it launched a video, a little girl tied, her body covered in bruises. Chris quickly slammed the pause button, feeling like she was about to vomit up her bagel. Glancing up at Summer’s smiling face in the picture on her wall, she swallowed her horror and pressed play again, watching with her body tensed, as if poised to flee.

  Girl after girl flashed across the screen, all horribly tortured and abused, and then, about three-quarters of the way through, suddenly a man’s face appeared on the screen for a full two seconds. Chris quickly paused it again, her breath wild and erratic as she glared into his hateful eyes, his familiar face—Martin Hays.

  As she stared at it, an instant-message notification popped up on her screen.

  Hello. Do you like my gift?

  Chris pulled out her phone, about to call Ryan.

  I wouldn’t do that. Don’t you want to know where they are?

  Chris stopped, realizing that he could see her. She looked at her laptop camera, realization dawning. He’d been watching her this whole time.

  Taking a deep breath and holding it, Chris looked directly at the camera and spat, “Yes.”

  Good. I want you to show me the place in the woods. I want you to take me there.

  Chris clenched her jaw. Damn it. She’d dived in way over her head, and now there was no turning back. She needed to know where those girls were. And she needed to stop that asshole.

  “The FBI is monitoring my computers.” She looked directly at the camera. “You know what that means, asshole. It means they’ve seen this message.”

  No, they haven’t.

  He didn’t write anything else, but Chris got the idea. He’d done something to keep the FBI out, maybe only for a short time, but long enough for him to contact her without being noticed.

  Don’t think of using this video as evidence. I’ve already deleted it.

  Chris wanted to hurl her computer across the room. He sickened her. And he was always two steps ahead of her.

  Leave now.

  Her mind was racing.

  “I can’t,” Chris spat out frantically. “I have yoga class. They’ll notice I’m missing .
. .”

  He didn’t respond for several minutes—minutes during which Chris sweated and desperately tried to think of an alternative to meeting this fucking freak in the woods. She needed to stop this fucker, but she wouldn’t be any help to anyone if she died in the process.

  Tomorrow. I’ll send you the coordinates.

  Chris couldn’t think of another option, but she wasn’t about to agree completely. She stared directly into the camera, struggling to keep her voice even. “We both know you’re going to kill me when I meet you in the woods. You’re not going to release those girls just because I show up—I’m not that stupid. I’d be dying for nothing.”

  I won’t need to kill you. You’ll give me your strings.

  And that would teach Chris to reason with psychopaths.

  “Okay, but I’m not giving up my . . . strings for nothing. You have to give me something in return—the video at least.”

  The next message he sent didn’t make any sense to Chris at first. It was just a bunch of numbers. But suddenly it clicked. GPS coordinates. Two of them. He’d sent her the location of the meet and—she guessed—the location of one of the girls Hays had taken. She supposed it was too much to hope that it would lead her to a girl who was still alive.

  Find her. Find me.

  He signed off.

  Chris left the room immediately and went to the linen closet in the hall between the bathroom and the kitchen. Pulling out her small green toolbox, she located the electrical tape and cut off three short strips. It was time for a low-tech solution to that asshole’s privacy invasion.

  Back in her bedroom, she stuck the tape in front of each camera, making sure she flipped him off for a good two seconds before placing tape over the last one. She also took a few minutes to disable the microphones so he wouldn’t be able to hear her. She thought about calling the police now, but figured that he had a way of finding out if she did that. She wouldn’t be surprised if there were other bugs in the room.