Sin City Goddess (12 page)

Archer’s eyes widened. “So how do you suppose she was captured? Is it possible her abductor knew who she was?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Because she was on holiday, her powers wouldn’t have functioned at full capacity. Like me, she would have been cloaked in appearance, but also—just as my wings are disguised—her power would have been dulled.” I cleared my throat and explained, “You see, Furies no longer police humans as we once did. Only under the most dire of circumstances are we permitted to intervene. And even then, it’s usually I who is sent. Murder is my specialty. So the cloaking, combined with her rare use of her abilities and the bright lights of this city, likely rendered her incapacitated.”

Lords, I hoped I was wrong about that.

Archer was staring at me. “So you punish murderers?”

“Only when the human laws fail to do so.”

Archer nodded slowly. “Yeah, the system isn’t perfect.” He looked like he wanted to ask me something, then stopped.

“What?”

His eyes glimmered like those of a child with a new playmate. “I was just wondering, and, well, I don’t know the rules, but can you tell me any cases you worked on? What was the last one?”

His question threw me. It had been many years since I had spoken of it. Not since the trial had I told anyone the full story, but we had agreed to keep no secrets, Archer and I. As painful as it was to remember what I had done, what
he
had done, it might be therapeutic. That was another lesson Athena had tried to teach me: purging myself of grief and anger through talking or writing about the times that tried me. Perhaps relaying the actions that had led me to be banned from the mortal realm—and the Fates to put me on indefinite probation—to a lawman was just what I needed. I had blamed the mortal police and their incompetence for so long that the anger had turned to hatred, and the hatred had transformed into suffering. And while my fury had served me well over the years, the suffering had only heavied my heart.

I was tired of carrying the extra weight around.

I closed my eyes, imagined the rushing river for a moment, and began.

Chapter 18

“The human records show that it began in 1967. That’s when they believe he committed his first sexual assault on a boy.”

Archer sank into an oversized chair, listening intently.

“Assault isn’t my domain, as I’ve told you, but the man was brutal. Torturous, and from experience, I knew he would get much, much worse.” I recalled the day Hades brought the case to our attention. It was Alecto who had first tracked him, and later Meg. The man was married by then, and infidelity was Meg’s area, for he committed that crime too. They tracked him from Olympus, for the crime was reported to the mortal authorities, and we felt certain he would have been arrested for molesting the boy. He was so careless.

“He was a business owner. Well respected in the community. A member of a club called Jaycees. He was involved in political affairs. He volunteered, spearheaded fund-raising projects, supplied free food to club members and neighbors from the restaurant he owned.” I paused, catching my breath. My fury was bubbling. “But the signs were there. He had drinking parties in his basement for the teenage boys who worked for him.” I looked at Archer. “People really should be more mindful of who their children associate with.”

Archer said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

I continued. “We were anticipating the man’s imprisonment, thrilled that he would likely be stopped before he
hurt another child. Of course he denied it, and folks rallied around him. No one wanted to believe that a man of such a high caliber was capable of such a vicious act.” I gazed out the window at the lights. “Humans never want to believe that evil can hide in plain sight. They want to believe the bogeyman wears a mask. They want to believe they can trust their neighbors, their teachers, their family members with their most precious commodities—their children.” I paused, thinking of my niece and nephew. How soft their skin was, how trusting their little eyes were, the way they always smelled of sugar and moonlight.

“So what happened?” Archer asked quietly.

“He was arrested, convicted, and sentenced to ten years in the penitentiary.”

“And?”

“And if that sentence had held, if the man had not been a model prisoner, if the parole board had not released him just eighteen months later, thirty-three young boys and men would be alive today.”

Archer’s face drained of all color. “No.”

“Oh yes, Archer.”

He blew out a sigh and looked down. Almost to himself, he said, “No wonder you don’t trust cops.” He lifted his head after a moment. “So when did you step in?”

“When he graduated to murder, I was sent to track him here, in the mortal world. I used all my powers to try to get him to repent, to no avail. I followed him everywhere, hounded him, wailed at him, interrupted his dreams, fed him waking nightmares, but nothing worked. He was immune to me. A rarity in my line of work. It wasn’t easy watching the police fail to connect him to murder after murder. I finally began leaving clues as best I could, both on the victims’ bodies and
in his home: planting receipts placing him at the scene of the crime or possessions the victims owned, even convincing witnesses that they had seen the man with his prey. When yet another victim reported an assault and the police believed the suspect’s word that it was consensual, I finally snapped.”

“What did you do?”

I sighed, not wanting to tell him. Not wanting to relive the memory. After a while, I said, “I confronted him one night. Threatened him. Showed him images of Tartarus in his mind, but he didn’t care. He taunted me, just as he had taunted the police. Do you know he would actually invite them to dine with him while he was under surveillance?” I shook my head at the frustration of the case.

“Jesus. I bet they wanted to kill him.”

I nodded. “After he was finished laughing at me, he said, ‘You know, clowns can get away with murder.’ That’s when I strangled him with my bare hands.”

Archer was staring at me, mouth agape.

“You’d be surprised how much strength is bottled up in fury,” I said. “I wanted to kill him just for making me track him to Chuck E. Cheese’s.” I poured some water. “And for making me watch his absurd clown shows, entertaining at children’s hospitals, if you can believe it.”

At this, Archer perked up. “Wait a minute. Are you talking about John Wayne Gacy?”

“You know him?”

“The entire country knows who he is.” He thought a moment. “But he was executed.”

“That’s true. After what I had done, the Fates stepped in. They decided that it was best to let the mortal law dictate his punishment. They returned his soul to his body and put me on trial for murder. My mistake could have had immeasurable
consequences in the human realm. That’s when the Fates changed the laws. We simply don’t track humans anymore. Only gods. He was caught a year later by the local police, tried, and eventually executed.”

“Seems like they would have let you slide. You probably saved lives.”

I had heard that perspective from my sisters and from Hades. But the truth was, what I had done made me no better than he was. It wasn’t my place to take a life. That was the Fates’ job. I could have unraveled our entire system by killing a mortal. Who knows how many strings would have been cut, crossed, or knotted if Atropos hadn’t cleaned up my crime? I was lucky they were watching. The tracking system for assignments hadn’t been implemented then. I might never have made it home.

And what would that have meant for the mortals? Would my fury have morphed into the evil I’d spent my life fighting?

To Archer, I said, “Laws are stricter in Olympus.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon going over the files and what Archer had learned in his investigation. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much. We also studied the list of gods and goddesses in the area. Again, not too many. There was Rumour, whom I despised for her barbed tongue and malicious intent; Molpe, a Siren performing in a show; and Thalia, one of the Graces, who was assisting some comedian.

After we ordered some sandwiches, Archer looked at his watch. “You better get ready soon. It’s almost showtime.”

I groaned, ate as slowly as possible, and then got up to crawl into that ridiculous prophylactic the Shadow Bar dubbed a uniform.

The purchases from the professional shopper were still in the bag on the bed. When I opened it up, a note was resting on top of the pile of shirts, pants, shoes, and underthings.

It said,
Meet me by the Jupiter pool at 6 p.m. It’s urgent.

It was simply signed
Stacy
.

Why did that name ring familiar?

Chapter 19

He had another prison dream when he took a nap. The kind that jolted him out of bed, his clothes stuck to his sweat-stained body, his hands trembling, It wasn’t the place itself that was bad—he had made many friends there, friends who shared similar interests. It was the fear of never being able to satisfy the hunger again. Trapped in the endless abyss under lockdown, he had turned to fantasy, daydreams, and writing to satiate his cravings.

It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

Now that he was out, he didn’t have to daydream anymore. He was free to do as he pleased.

He shuffled to the bathroom and took a leak in the dirty toilet, splashing a few drops on the floor because he wasn’t awake yet. He thought maybe he should make one of his playmates clean the place. Maybe the one with the big tits. His partner would be pleased with that.

He washed his hands, shut off the bathroom light, and went to check on the women.

The one he had killed was still in the closet. He’d have to do something about that soon, before she started to smell. The other four were all tied to their respective mattresses. He had fed them, given them water and french fries left over from his lunch. He needed them to stay strong for the plan to
work. It was probably time for a bathroom break. He wasn’t an animal, after all. He treated his treasures with compassion.

Except that one with the foul mouth and the temper. He couldn’t believe the stream of obscenities that poured from her lips. Disgraceful. He decided then that she needed some denial therapy. He hadn’t fed her as he had the others. She needed weakening.

He heard something when he stepped over to her. A mumbling, a faint squeak. No, wait—that wasn’t it. She was speaking. Her eyes were shut tight, her mouth still gagged, yet somehow she was speaking. No, that wasn’t exactly what he was hearing.

She was chanting.

He strained to hear the words, but it sounded like gibberish to him.

“Stop that!” he yelled.

She opened both her eyes. They were swirls of light, and he could have sworn he saw an image inside them. What was that? A river? Was that a boat?

He stepped closer, and she snapped them shut.

That’s it
, he thought. This bitch gave him the creeps with those eyes. He couldn’t kill her, because he was still short a cast member.

He decided there was only one choice. He grabbed the knife.

Chapter 20

I emerged from my bedroom wearing the skintight catsuit, black heels, and an overcoat.