Whispers of Fate: The Mistresses of Fate, Book Two (6 page)

5

TYLER DROVE THE
ten miles from Canton back to Fate with a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t want to think about Tavey Collins anymore, but it was difficult not to think of her when driving on Main Street into the town of Fate. Everywhere he looked he could see the mark of Tavey or her grandparents. The library at the high school was named after her family. The fountain in the center of the main circle of town had been donated by Tavey when she was still in her twenties. Several of the college’s buildings were named after her, and recently she’d had the old graveyard by the railroad tracks restored—some of the residents had been there since the Civil War.

He was probably the only person in town who didn’t kiss her ass, and now Christie wanted to get her help training that stupid dog.

He’d intended to drive straight home, clean up, and grab a beer, but the thought of heading to the small, empty house he’d rented after his divorce didn’t appeal to him. Instead of continuing through town, he looped around the circle in the center of Main Street and parked in one of the open spots in front of the redbrick building that housed a small satellite office of the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office.

He got out of his truck, nodded a greeting to Mr. Ward, who looked beleaguered as usual. The poor old guy was covered in sweat and wearing loose-fitting pants and carrying a yoga mat. He must’ve just finished class. Tyler glanced across the circle at another old brick building, at the dog-grooming place with the yoga studio upstairs. One of Tavey’s best friends, Chris Pascal, taught at the yoga studio during the week, but the dog-grooming store belonged to Tavey. She’d named it Dog with Two Bones. He’d always wondered why she’d chosen that name considering the parable was a lesson in greed. He thought it might have something to do with the rumors that surrounded her father before his death, rumors of gambling debts and arrests for drugs.

After the uproar that had occurred the previous fall when reporters had swarmed the town hungering for news of the serial killer, the town felt quiet—but not peaceful. It was almost as if the town was waiting, just waiting for something else to happen. Even the people sitting on the benches in the circle seemed hesitant, casting looks over their shoulders. He’d found himself driving the narrow streets more often and had even set up a desk in the Fate office, which was used only on weekdays by two patrol officers. Evenings and weekends, all calls were routed to the main offices in Canton.

Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he located the one to the front door. He released the two dead bolts and opened the glass door, punching in the code to turn off the alarm. He closed and relocked the door and walked down the black-and-white-tile entryway to the door for the police station. Switchback stairs led to the second and third floors, which housed the offices of the few city officials and the school district’s officers.

He used a second key to unlock the door to the tiny sheriff’s office and disabled the alarm there as well. The main desk faced the door and was painted with the symbol of the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office on the front of the ancient wood. Two more desks were on the other side of a small partition. He’d made one of the desks his own—unofficially, of course, but no one minded, least of all his boss, Captain Davies.

The derelict blue office chair he’d appropriated had seen better days. One arm was missing and duct tape covered both corners. It squealed in protest as he collapsed into it. He relaxed for a moment, sinking into the quiet. He lifted his head a little so he could see over the partition to the window. The blinds were closed. He knew that if he looked, he would see the citizens of Fate as they walked around the circle, eating ice-cream cones and strolling around the fountain. Fate was a tiny town, and most of the residents lived near the center or at the nearby college. Even in summer, when the majority of the students returned to their homes, the town was always filled with people milling about. There were church fairs, summer movie festivals at the restored theater, the weekly farmers’ market, and of course the midsummer celebration held by Circe and some of the other witches.

He shook his head, hoping that there wasn’t going to be a lot of press surrounding the celebration this year. The events of the previous fall had put their small town in the national spotlight, and in Tyler’s humble opinion, press coverage brought out the nut bags in bulk.

Not that the midsummer celebration was ever without controversy. Ever since the Haven family had opened that witchcraft store and launched the tradition a little over a decade ago, a few of the local church leaders had taken it upon themselves to hold protests. Tyler tended to side with the Havens even though he thought they were mostly insane. When he’d been growing up and getting the shit kicked out of him by his father, the local churches hadn’t done anything to help, even when he’d passed out on their doorstep when he was twelve.

Tavey’s family had helped, though, he acknowledged with grim recollection. Her grandmother had taken him in on one memorable occasion, Tavey a pale ghost watching him, her eyes fastened on him, unblinking and solemn.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and straightened in his seat. He used yet another key to open the bottom right drawer of the desk. He pulled out a thick reddish-brown file stuffed with documents and held together with a rubber band. It contained the main pieces of evidence and his notes about the disappearance of Summer Breen Haven.

He’d been working on the cold case—on and off—over the past five years or so after inheriting it from the original investigator, Jimmy Daughtrey, his mentor. He’d been tracking down whispers mostly, hoping that something would break in the case, something that would clear his uncle, who had grown increasingly agitated as Tavey continued to wage her campaign against him.

Tyler curled the thick file almost into a C, his knuckles white. If she wasn’t after his uncle, he’d be impressed by her decades-long dedication to finding her friend.

Sighing, he uncurled the file and tugged off the rubber band.

He pulled out a sheaf of freshly printed pages, conspicuous in comparison to the yellowed edges and colorful triplicates of the old files. Removing the jaw clip, he folded aside the first page, which was a copy of the email Ryan Helmer, the FBI agent who had worked the serial killer case last fall, had sent with the files.

The second page of the document was the cover page of a report, describing the evidence gathered at the old paper mill when the girls and Chris had been rescued. He flipped past it, not wanting to read the descriptions of the human remains that were found at the bottom of the old millpond. Most had been young women, but several men had also been found, one of whom had been the father of the serial killer who’d kidnapped the girls.

He skipped pages until he was nearly to the end of the stack, where incidental findings were detailed. He pulled out the photographs and pieces of the report that dealt with a small leather-bound book that had been found. Though degraded and badly damaged by being exposed to the elements, the book had survived. In the inside cover, written in crooked, heavily slanted letters, in what looked like red crayon, was the name
Summer.

Below that, in a stiff, formal cursive, was the quote that Tavey was convinced his uncle had written:

But in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world.

Tyler’s hands, which had been stroking the file, paused. He’d been there when they’d questioned his uncle about the book. His uncle had said no, that it wasn’t his. Tyler had tried to talk to him about it as well, but Abraham had gotten pissed off and asked him to leave. Tyler wanted to believe him; his uncle certainly seemed to be telling the truth, but he wasn’t sure the old man knew what was true anymore—he lived inside his head, inside the memories of a war that wouldn’t leave him. Tim O’Brien was his uncle’s favorite author—said he was the only one who wrote what it really had been like. The book could have been his, but Tyler didn’t know why he’d give it to a blind girl, or help her write her name in it. It didn’t make any sense.

Stroking his lower lip, Tyler thought of Tavey’s face when he’d confronted her this morning, her brown eyes flashing, cheeks red. She was the loveliest woman he’d ever met, old-fashioned lovely, like a cameo or a black-and-white photograph. Today, when he’d seen her petting her dog, her white teeth flashing as she smiled, he’d thought about the one time he’d kissed her. He’d been angry—frustrated—but he’d never forgotten the taste of her—peaches and coffee. That’s what he remembered. Of course, then he’d thought about her voice mail, about the tirade he’d had to listen to from his captain after he’d arrested her for trespassing, and he’d snapped. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Even though he always did, he never meant to.

Tyler dropped the file and stood, walking over to the window and tilting down one of the slats in the blinds. The sun was setting and the town was quieting down for the night—only the theater remained busy. Even the local pub seemed mellow, with only one couple sitting out on the patio.

He went back to the file and opened it to the beginning. He hadn’t read it cover to cover in a while—there could be something he’d missed. He thought of Tavey’s face when he’d told her his uncle was dying. He thought of how she’d looked when she’d saved his life all those years ago. He could talk to his uncle again, he decided. Early in the morning. Sometimes Abraham felt better in the morning, and Tavey would be in church, not knocking on his uncle’s door asking questions.

He thought of the determined glint in her eyes, her frustration at hearing his uncle was dying. She might be in church, he amended, and shoved her out of his head so he could look at the file with fresh eyes.

6

TAVEY COLLINS WAS
of the firm opinion that some mornings required more coffee than others, but it didn’t look like she was going to get any before she had to leave for church. Her three idiot beagles, who had moments of insanity where they forgot their training, had hurled themselves over the back fence . . . again, and seemed to be headed east, onto Abraham’s property. Abraham who knew something about Summer. Abraham who was dying.

“Damn it,” she cursed, her hair falling loosely into her face as she tugged on a disreputable pair of rain boots that had belonged to her grandmother. She hadn’t bothered dressing and still wore the red silk pajamas she’d slept in the night before.

“Stupid dogs. Think with their damn noses. Next time it’s all females,” she muttered darkly, knowing it was Boomer who’d led the charge. She grabbed their leashes and a treat bag before heading out the French doors in her room. They opened to the back garden, which was fenced, but not high enough to block her view of the mountains to the north or to keep her dumb dogs from leaping over it.

She turned right, toward the driveway, and jogged past her car, through the carefully manicured garden on the other side, and into the woods.

The air was cool and damp, a typical spring morning, and it was early enough that dew still lingered, especially in the woods. Tavey hurried, following the path she’d taken through the woods since she was a child, listening to the sound of the beagles as they bayed. They were northeast of her, on the trail of something, probably a rabbit or a skunk. God help her if it was a skunk again, she’d had to throw away their collars last time and buy them new dog beds.

She moved a little faster, listening to the air moving in and out of her lungs and the crunch of twigs beneath her feet. Stray sunbeams landed like liquid gold on the young leaves of the trees and caught dewdrops suspended in thick spiderwebs. Tavey was careful to duck under them when she could. Summer had called breaking them a “Kiss of Fate,” but the feeling had always given Tavey the creeps.

Tavey’s eyes stung, and she blinked the emotion away quickly. The beagles were getting too far ahead. They would be on Abraham’s property soon, and if she didn’t stop them, they’d cross over onto the Havens’ land. She had to get dressed for church—she didn’t have time to chase them all over hell’s creation.

She stopped and whistled for them but couldn’t detect any discernible change in the baying; whatever they were after, it was interesting. She cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, “Boomer! Here, boy! Lizzie, girl! Jack. Come.”

Silence. Tavey walked a little farther forward—the trees had thinned out some—and was approaching Abraham’s clearing.

“Boomer, Jack, Lizzie,” she shouted again, and heard one of them bark.

The sound of a twig snapping had her turning abruptly to her right. A tall man was standing in the trees, the sun behind him, casting him in shadow. She didn’t have to see his face, though, she’d know those broad shoulders anywhere.

“Tyler.” She sighed. He would yell at her now; he’d think she was coming over to interrogate his uncle.

“What the hell are you doing?” He sounded dumbfounded but not angry.

Tavey realized she was standing braless in her pajamas and rain boots, all on full, bright display since the sun was shining directly on her. Unconsciously, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re up early,” she said when nothing more appropriate came to mind.

“I’m up—what’re you wearing?” He sounded a little strange.

He walked forward a few paces, stepping into the shade offered by the trees overhead. His eyes, bright and piercing blue, were staring at her as if they could physically hold her still.

He stepped closer, and closer still, until he was barely a foot away. Reaching out slowly, as if afraid she would bolt, or disappear, he caught the short sleeve of her red silk pajamas with two fingers and rubbed the fabric between them.

Tavey felt her breath sigh out of her and dropped her arms. Nothing in her life seemed quite as intimate as standing here with him, in the quiet stillness of the trees.

His gaze drifted over her face, over the tumble of her long dark hair and down to her chest. Her nipples tightened, and she knew they were visible beneath the fabric of her top.

He stepped a little closer so that his chest brushed hers. She gasped, feeling the heat of him, feeling her nipples tighten even more. It had always been this way, always. Only Tyler could make her feel like she was melting from the inside out. The one time he’d kissed her had been hard and fast. This was a slow, inevitable fall, the anger they felt losing its grip in the overwhelming pull of desire.

His lips were inches away now, parting as his descending head blocked the sun. He brushed his lips against hers slowly, teasing her, and Tavey parted her lips eagerly, wanting him to kiss her deeply. Kiss her and lay her down on the soft moss and take her.

Alas, the idiot dog Boomer had other plans. He ran up barking, Lizzie and Jack joining in when they saw her. Tyler broke away when the dogs jumped up at his jeans-covered legs. It wasn’t long before both of them were covered in muddy paw prints, breathing hard and staring at each other as if verifying that the kiss had really happened, that they weren’t dreaming.

“Sorry,” Tyler muttered after a second, running a hand through his hair and looking away from her.

Tavey frowned and crossed her hands over her chest again. She didn’t want him to be sorry.

“I’m not.” She shrugged. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me.”

He was staring again, his mouth was even open a little, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

Tavey was actually a little surprised at herself—she wasn’t usually this honest, at least not about her feelings, not with Tyler, not when he hated her. Still, it was true, and she felt better about it the longer she looked at his gaping expression.

“Come on, guys.” She herded the dogs with her body, still watching his face, a tiny smile tugging one corner of her mouth. “Let’s go home.”

She wasn’t sure how long he watched her walk away; she’d put a little sway in her usually forthright stride, hoping that the sight of her ass in supple red silk was burned into his brain, but she didn’t look back as she stepped into the trees, her dogs at her heels.

CHRIS SPAT THE
sip of coffee she’d just taken back into her cup. “You did what?”

Tavey shrugged. “I told him I wanted him to kiss me.”

It had been almost five hours since she’d run into Tyler in the woods. She, Chris, and Raquel were sitting at their usual table in the Alcove. They’d gone to church, and then to the cemetery to pray for Summer under the oak tree they’d played beneath as children. Their Sunday meetings as board members of Once Was Lost were held in the Alcove, in the booth the owner reserved at Tavey’s request.

Chris looked even more astonished than Tyler had, her pretty gold eyes wide in an angular face.

Raquel was giving her a pleased look, as if she’d done something too cool for words.

“He arrested you three weeks ago,” Chris pointed out.

Tavey narrowed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about that, or about how much she’d liked the feel of him standing behind her while he’d cuffed her. Cuffed her. Her! No one cuffed Tavey Collins.

“I don’t know if you can call it an arrest,” Raquel argued, “since she was released the second she arrived at the station.”

“Well, Sheriff Davies isn’t an idiot. He knows who butters the bread in this county.” Chris leaned back against the booth, coffee cup in hand.

“What on earth does that mean?” Tavey sniffed.

Chris waved a hand in Tavey’s direction. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually. It sounds disgusting.”

“Enough.” Raquel sighed, exasperated, holding up one long caramel-colored finger with a precisely painted deep blue polish. “Let’s get down to business.”

“I wanna talk about this kiss some more.” Chris leaned forward again over the table. “Were you really wearing your pajamas? Tell me it wasn’t those man-jamas with the stripes.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Tavey felt herself blushing a little, but then she relented. “They were red silk, but pajamas, not a negligee or anything.”

“Too bad.” Chris frowned. “You’ve been lusting after him since high school. You should’ve brought out the big guns.”

“I didn’t plan it,” Tavey protested. “And I haven’t been lusting after him.”

“Okay, crushing on him.”

“I—”

“—probably don’t want this discussed in public.” Raquel finished Tavey’s sentence, putting her hand on Tavey’s shoulder.

Tavey snapped her mouth shut, looking briefly around the restaurant. She straightened, and smoothed the napkin in her lap.

“Okay, enough about Tyler. What have you heard about the mill? Any updates?”

Chris nodded, but her expression was grim. “They’ve identified several bodies, all girls who went missing in the early nineties up until last fall.” She paused, breathing slowly. Tavey didn’t press—she was well aware that the time Chris had spent as the captive of a psychopath had been far from pleasant.

“So far there are two bodies that remain unidentified, a man and a woman. Still no sign other than the book that Summer was ever there. There is something new, though.”

Tavey and Raquel perked up, eyeing Chris with interest.

“Ryan found out on Friday that some of the glass and other fragments they found had traces of meth.”

“A meth lab?” Tavey wondered why Tyler hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the report yet.

“Yeah. Everything they found was pretty degraded after decades of exposure, but they’re fairly certain someone was using it to cook meth around the time Summer disappeared.”

“I’m surprised. Meth was just getting popular then. It’s not like it is now.” Raquel frowned, lost in thought. “You find anything online about it?”

Chris grinned, she was proud of her online—sometimes less than legal—sleuthing. “I did. Nothing concrete, but apparently there was a gang that got its start after the Vietnam War, the Harpies, that started bringing meth down from Philly to Florida during that time. They’re a rough bunch, but I haven’t found any connection to Fate . . . yet.”

“See what you can find out, but be careful.” Tavey pointed a finger at her friend. “If I find out that you’ve put yourself in danger again, I will lock you up in a kennel and keep you there.”

“I don’t even rate a guest room? Tyler got a guest room that time and he was barely civilized,” Chris protested, referring to the time when they were children and Tyler had stayed at Tavey’s house recovering from a beating his father had given him.

“He’s just civilized enough.” Raquel smirked. “Tavey likes that wild streak.”

“Remind me again why I put up with you two?” Tavey arched both eyebrows.

Chris and Raquel looked at each other and raised their own eyebrows, mocking her. “
She
puts up with
us
?” Chris shook her head. “Tavey, you wouldn’t know what to do without us. Everyone else kisses your ass. You’d be bored in a week.”

“Tyler doesn’t kiss her ass,” Raquel pointed out.

“But she wants him to,” Chris tossed in, roaring with laughter before she finished the last word. Raquel joined in, the two of them giggling hysterically while half of Fate looked on.

Tavey tried to stay indifferent but lost the battle with her own grin. She didn’t know what she’d do without them, and hoped she never had to find out.