Fated (21 page)

“Mine, but you’re driving if we’re going anywhere. And fair warning, if you’re boring me, I’m napping.”

He grabbed his things from the cruiser and climbed behind the wheel of the Camry.

“Take a look at these.” Shoving the old bag he’d stuffed all his father’s papers into on the backseat, he showed her the latest letters first.

“Where did you find these?” Freddie glanced at him before touching the papers.

“Fingerprints will be messed up already. I touched them, as well as Dad and—” At the last second, he managed to hold back, but Freddie lifted an eyebrow at him.

“And?”

“Toby.” He expected her to crow, but she didn’t.

“They were in a desk in a spare bedroom. I found them last night, along with a laptop cord, but no laptop.”

“Looks like someone wanted to get his hands on your dad’s work badly.” She picked a random letter and read, “Dear Professor Hart, I strongly advise you to reconsider sharing your work with me….” And then another one. “This is a matter of life and death. Your research could help save many.” She was quiet for a bit, then frowned. “What is this about? What isn’t he sharing?”

“Keep reading.”

Freddie picked another one. “You are one of the only people I know who believes in the existence of the Predator.” She fell into a stunned silence and gaped at the letter. “The
Predator
?”

Hart watched her carefully. The scorn didn’t come; neither did the laugh or what he expected most—the dismissal of all of this as the rants of a deluded someone. Instead Freddie stared ahead out of the windshield, eyes wide as they flickered through thoughts in her mind as if she were reading a book. Then she blinked, but the line of her shoulders didn’t relax when she faced Hart.

“Your dad was a professor,” she began quietly as if talking to herself. “The burgled house belongs to a professor. There is an attempt on your life the day you become involved with the case here, and I almost got shot. Now we find out your father had been threatened.” She glanced at the stack of papers. “For quite some time, it seems.” Freddie frowned. “Do you think your father’s death wasn’t natural?”

Hart shook his head. “Dad smoked a pipe for as long as I can remember, and he loved his red wine. He had a coronary, nothing else to it.”

“Why was someone convinced he researched the Predator of Shadow Mountain?”

“That’s where the weird stuff comes in.” A heavy doubt dragged Hart’s shoulders down. He stared at his hands until his vision became blurry. While his father had been a very respected man, jealousy sprouted pettiness and vitriol amongst some of his colleagues. He loved debating even the most unbelievable theories. Not exactly hard to ridicule. To think that “Professor Hart and his crazy theories” might not be so far-fetched after all tugged at his insides with hurt.

Freddie sensed some of his turmoil because she said, “Whatever you’ve got there, Lieutenant, I grew up with weird, remember that.”

Suppressing his misgivings he pulled a book from the old bag, flipping to the highlighted, underlined, and written-on pages.

“Wait.” Freddie tipped her head so she could read the spine. “
Angels and Demons, Lore through the Ages
?” Her eyes widened.

“What is it?”

“Mama had that book.” She yanked it out of his hands, paging back to the first chapter. She closed her eyes and let her skull thump against the headrest. She swallowed hard, like she felt ill, and Hart noticed a very faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip. “Oh, sweet God.”

He sat up in his chair, staring at her. “Freddie? What’s going on?”

Carefully exhaling, she opened her eyes again and scanned the parking lot. “Not here. People are gonna come into work soon, and I don’t need any more—”

She fell silent, and Hart quickly said, “Where, then?”

“Drive into town, and I’ll tell you as we go.”

The light morning traffic easily made way for them. Hart kept an eye out for a black flower delivery van, but saw nothing.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” he asked when Freddie told him to take a left toward the valley.

They’d driven another mile before Freddie answered. “You know how I said I lost my mama?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. She’s not dead, she’s in a retirement home.”

Hart glanced at her, but traffic slowed again, and he had to keep his eyes on the road. “Why?”

“Her mind is going. I sometimes wonder if that didn’t start when the lung cancer happened. I was eleven at the time. The doctors put her on chemo even though it was pretty clear they just did it to extend her life for a few months. There wasn’t anything else they could do.”

“Go on,” Hart said, taking a left off Main Street at Freddie’s prompt.

“Halfway through the treatments, they did a check to see how the tumors were reacting to the chemo.” Freddie chewed on her lip until it turned white under her teeth. “They were gone. All of them. Medical mystery, they called it. Sound familiar? They wanted to do tests and write articles about it and I don’t know what. Mama refused to cooperate.” She sighed, and Hart heard how the breath shuddered from her lungs. She blinked a few times before pulling her sunglasses over her eyes again. The wave of traffic carried them toward the university, while the sun beat down on the windshield. Without taking his eyes off the road, Hart lowered the AC a little.

“You didn’t say anything about this at the station when Miller thought there were faked records.”

“Like anyone would believe me. I have enough trouble getting the other cops to take me seriously, thanks.”

Well, she had a point. “What else is there?” It was clear Freddie struggled with this, but he needed to know.

“Dad used to hit her. He never touched us kids, but he used to beat her. He stopped when she got sick, but when she refused to make any money out of her miracle, he started again. She broke—” Freddie let out a sound between a laugh and a sob and covered her mouth. When she’d regained control, she said, “She broke a plate over his head and sent him packing. I never saw him again. After that she started her séances. The palm readings and all that. And you know what? She was
really good.
”

“She never did those before the cancer?”

“Before the healing,” she corrected. “No.”

“And did she ever tell you what she thought happened to her?”

“No.” Freddie’s jaw flexed, and she flinched a little. “Not until the dementia set in about two years ago.”

“Did she show any other signs of dementia before then?” Hart asked.

“No. I mean, the séances were very weird at first, but we got used to them, you know? And aside from that she didn’t act odd. Different, but not—not like the dementia now. That’s just old age.”

“So you don’t actually know if you can believe what she’s telling you.” Turning away to stare out of the window, Freddie remained silent. “What did she tell you, Chief Inspector?”

“A cold soul, she called it. She said—” Freddie covered her mouth but quickly dropped her hand. “Mama said he embraced her, touched her neck with his fingers, and healed her. She said she wasn’t supposed to remember, but she did.”

His skepticism ran deep, but a very small part of his mind reminded him of the marks he’d seen on the murder victims who’d seemingly died for no reason and how they could very easily fit a fingerprint. And if all the victims had them…. In Ben’s case they could find out, but the body in the morgue had been burned right there, on the neck. Was the murderer trying to hide the marks?

He blew out a harsh breath and took another left into the driveway of a private property. Lawn, hedges, and trees were all prettily manicured, but not enough to hide the barbed wire fence surrounding the place.

“What the fuck is going on, Freddie?”

“You can ask her yourself.” They came to a halt in front of a white gate. Hart opened his window and pressed the buzzer. Before he could respond to the metallic voice coming out of the speaker, Freddie leaned over him.

“Chief Inspector Francesca Lesley to see Magali Jones.”

“One moment please,” the metallic voice replied. Twenty seconds later the gates creaked open.

“Tell me the rest,” Hart said when he parked the car under a row of oak trees. “Before we go inside.”

Freddie lifted her chin, and Hart followed her gaze. From the building a man in white appeared, staring down at them without so much as a hint of a smile on his face. “Let’s go see Mama first.”

The man barred their way.

Hello to you too,
Hart thought, but he let Freddie take the lead.

“I’m here to see my mother, Ms. Jones.”

“Right.” He didn’t shift his stance, but his gaze slid over to Hart and seemed to narrow, like he was trying to pinpoint where he knew him from. Hart didn’t think he’d ever seen him before. “And who are you?”

“This is Lieutenant Hart,” Freddie said, clearly getting pissed. “Am I gonna have to ask for the manager, or are you gonna let us in?”

“You’ll have to sign in.”

Freddie made a
well, duh
noise under her breath and pushed past the guy in white.

“What a brute,” she told Hart in the elevator. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Maybe they’ve had some trouble and had to hire security.”

Freddie hummed vaguely, her eyes on the elevator doors. When they reached the fourth floor, she stepped out. A woman trundled down a quiet carpeted hallway with a linen cart, and at the other end someone poured coffee in a china cup from a coffee trolley.

“Nice place.”

To his surprise Freddie scoffed. “That’s my brother’s doing. Became a big shot engineer in New York. He pays for Mama’s care so he doesn’t have to soil his shoes by coming back here.”

“No hard feelings, then.”

Freddie smiled at him wryly and indicated a door to the right. “Let me go in, make sure she’s dressed. I’ll be right back.”

Hart used the few minutes of solitude to settle his heartbeat, which had risen in the confines of the elevator. The lady with the trolley steadily poured cups of coffee and tea, adding cream or sugar depending on the room she entered, without once having to check who drank what. When the door opened again, Freddie motioned him inside.

“She seems lucid today. Mornings are usually best, but we still need to tread carefully.”

“Of course,” Hart said and stepped inside.

Where he expected a single bedroom with maybe a half bathroom, a small but bright apartment spread out before him. The carpet was as lush as the one outside its door but more muted in color, and most of the furnishings clearly belonged to Freddie’s mother. She sat with her back to the window in a comfortable rocking chair, cradling a cup of tea or coffee, he couldn’t tell.

Before he could introduce himself, she turned to Freddie. “Who’s your friend, baby? He’s pretty.”

To his mortification, Hart felt his cheeks burn, and Freddie laughed. “This is Lieutenant Hart, Mama. He’s a policeman too.”

“So he’s a hero.” Hart stiffened so hard his spine cracked. “Just like you, baby.” Ms. Jones patted Freddie’s cheek when she sat beside her mother. Hart took a seat on the opposite side of the living room.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said, and Freddie’s mama nodded.

“You may call me Ms. Jones, pretty boy, and it’s nice to meet you too. Freddie never brings her men to see me.”

“He’s not my man, Mama,” Freddie said, grinning.

“No.” A shrewd look appeared on Ms. Jones’ face. “I can see that. So what you here for, then?”

Hart kept his mouth shut and let Freddie do the talking.

“Do you remember when you were sick, Mama?”

“Yes of course I do, child.” She turned to Hart. “Sick in my lungs.” She tapped her chest, and Freddie took the cup away from her since she appeared to have forgotten about it. “Doctors told me I was going to die, but I didn’t.” She glanced at Freddie.

“You can tell him everything, Mama. It’s okay. He’s here to help.”

Ms. Jones’ head snapped up. “What did you say your name was?”

“H-Hart. Lieutenant Hart, ma’am. I—”

“You related to that professor?”

“Yes, I’m—He was my father.”

“Did he die?”

“Recently, yes.”

“Then I’m sorry for your loss, hero.”

Hart wanted to ask how she knew his dad, but that wasn’t the point of their visit, and he didn’t know how long the lucidity would last.

“Tell him, Mama,” Freddie gently prompted, taking her mother’s brittle hand in hers. Ms. Jones wasn’t as tall as Freddie, but she still commanded respect even from her rocking chair. Her hair was shorter than Freddie’s and curlier, with streaks of white running through the black. Her face looked younger than her years; it was the curve of her back that betrayed her age.

“If you grew up here, you know the story of the Predator.” Hart nodded, and Ms. Jones continued. “Well, he’s real. I met him. He’s not really a predator, though.” She paused, and Hart found his entire body aching from the tension it held. “He’s a fallen angel.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Freddie grit her teeth. “What happened?” Hart asked.

“He came to me, when I was sickest. I couldn’t do it, I didn’t want to fight no more.” Ms. Jones looked at her daughter. “Not even for my babies. The Predator promised his touch would take away my pain one way or another. I thought he meant I’d die, but I didn’t care then. Every day felt like I was drowning alive. So I told him, ‘Do it. Take it.’” She straightened, and her gaze went momentarily unfocused. “I didn’t die.”

“Where is he now? Do you remember anything else? What he looked like?”

An anguished look came over Ms. Jones’s face, and Freddie gripped her hand harder. Her mouth opened and closed, she blinked rapidly, and then her stare focused with alarming shrewdness on Hart.

“You mind that boy, hero. Mind that boy, and you take care of him. He needs it.”

“I—Who?”

“Such a beautiful boy,” Ms. Jones’ gaze drifted away, falling and fixing on something over Hart’s right shoulder. “Such a tragedy.”

“Ms. Jones.”

“No point, Hart,” Freddie said, sounding hoarse. “She’s gone.”

For a brief moment, Hart sat glued to his seat, and then he rose, gently patting Freddie on the shoulder. “Take your time.”