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.”
“Okay,” Chris said, “I’ll call you. Ten bucks says that Raquel will show up at my door after work.”
“No deal.” Tavey smiled.
16
SLEEP HADN’T BEEN a big part of Ryan’s evening. He’d gone back to his apartment in Rome and run about ten miles on the treadmill he kept in his living room while he watched episodes of Dr. Who that he’d recorded on his DVR. He’d gone to bed thinking about the case, about the unsub who talked of strings. After about an hour, he’d given up on sleep and pulled his laptop into bed, running a Google search on strings and the human body, on strings and creators, puppeteers, strings and Fate. He’d found one obvious connection to a Chinese story about people who were fated to love each other. They were said to be connected by a red string of fate. The concept the unsub described seemed similar, aside from the fact that he referred to multiple strings and claimed that he could see them, the strings that connected people to each other.
Ryan found it slightly ironic that when studying the connections of victims to killers, to each other, to the world around them, the agents often drew network diagrams with lines that they would color based on the relationship—brother to brother, lover to friend, business associate to accident victim.
He thought maybe this unsub believed he could see these connections and that his actions—the cutting of the ankles, knees, wrists, elbows, and throats—were somehow symbolically removing the victims’ connections to the world. He didn’t know; it was all fucking crazy.
He stopped thinking and rubbed his forehead. If it weren’t so late, he’d call his brother Jake, get his take on the situation. Jake was a musician, the only artist Helmer that Ryan was aware of. He was a good sounding board, since he’d never worked in law enforcement and was pretty good with people. Come to think of it, though, Jake was probably awake, since he was an hour behind in Texas.
Ryan reached over to the nightstand and detached his phone from the charger. After a quick scroll through his favorites, he located his brother’s number, and pressed call.
Jake answered after two rings, his voice smooth as melted chocolate, the sounds of laughter and the distant chords of a guitar in the background.
“What’s up, man?”
“Hey, Jake, how’s it going?”
“Pretty good, just wrapped up a set at Mucky Duck in Houston. You
“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.”
“Okay,” Chris said, “I’ll call you. Ten bucks says that Raquel will show up at my door after work.”
“No deal.” Tavey smiled.
16
SLEEP HADN’T BEEN a big part of Ryan’s evening. He’d gone back to his apartment in Rome and run about ten miles on the treadmill he kept in his living room while he watched episodes of Dr. Who that he’d recorded on his DVR. He’d gone to bed thinking about the case, about the unsub who talked of strings. After about an hour, he’d given up on sleep and pulled his laptop into bed, running a Google search on strings and the human body, on strings and creators, puppeteers, strings and Fate. He’d found one obvious connection to a Chinese story about people who were fated to love each other. They were said to be connected by a red string of fate. The concept the unsub described seemed similar, aside from the fact that he referred to multiple strings and claimed that he could see them, the strings that connected people to each other.
Ryan found it slightly ironic that when studying the connections of victims to killers, to each other, to the world around them, the agents often drew network diagrams with lines that they would color based on the relationship—brother to brother, lover to friend, business associate to accident victim.
He thought maybe this unsub believed he could see these connections and that his actions—the cutting of the ankles, knees, wrists, elbows, and throats—were somehow symbolically removing the victims’ connections to the world. He didn’t know; it was all fucking crazy.
He stopped thinking and rubbed his forehead. If it weren’t so late, he’d call his brother Jake, get his take on the situation. Jake was a musician, the only artist Helmer that Ryan was aware of. He was a good sounding board, since he’d never worked in law enforcement and was pretty good with people. Come to think of it, though, Jake was probably awake, since he was an hour behind in Texas.
Ryan reached over to the nightstand and detached his phone from the charger. After a quick scroll through his favorites, he located his brother’s number, and pressed call.
Jake answered after two rings, his voice smooth as melted chocolate, the sounds of laughter and the distant chords of a guitar in the background.
“What’s up, man?”
“Hey, Jake, how’s it going?”
“Pretty good, just wrapped up a set at Mucky Duck in Houston. You
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