Page 7 of Sullied Saints (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #2)

Chapter four

D irk and I drive in together, him behind the wheel, dodging the protests and marches that are now a staple of the city.

We’re nearing the station when I see the first placard with my own face. Its an unflattering, blown-up photo with a big red x painted in what could easily be lipstick. My heart jumps into my throat as I spot it, being hoisted and waved around amid the other usual slogans. Above my face, in a white blank space, are the words, Enemy of Needler, enemy of the people . My throat feels suddenly dry. Maybe I should have seen this coming, being the face of the Needler case for so long, and now they’re looking for someone closer than Cocooner to blame.

“Fucking hell,” Dirk’s curse tells me he’s seen it too.

I shake my head, looking away as we pull out of sight. “They’re desperate for someone to be mad at.”

“Cocooner seems like a damn good option to me.”

I’m about to console myself that at least it’s just that one when we round the corner to the street in front of the station, and I see the next one. It’s not a picture this time. But somehow, it’s still worse. Drawn in the style of a single comic book tile. A character that’s clearly supposed to be me, in tight black clothing shiny enough to be suggestive of leather, with a badge stuck to one boob, is crooking a finger at a man in a silver mask, luring him towards a door and a handful of fat police caricatures with their batons ready.

“What the hell?” I say before I can stop myself. That’s what they think happened? That I somehow seduced Needler into prison?

“Jesus, fuck,” Dirk grumbles, ducking his head to see out the windscreen as we pass the banner. We’re close enough now to see other little details, like my nipples poking through the overly tight suit which I would never be caught dead in, and the drool coming from the mouths of the police officers while they wait to assault Needler. There’s even a hint of cocooned bodies hanging from the backdrop buildings.

“Those assholes.”

I bite my lip, taking a calming breath. They’re wrong, that’s all that matters. “Don’t worry about it,” I murmur, shunting a little lower in my seat.

“Don’t worry about it?” Dirk yells, “How the hell did you get turned into some kind of succubus while I’m the revered survivor? It’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know.”

The muscle in his jaw twitching, Dirk glances at me, recognising his anger isn’t helping. He lowers his voice. “It’s wrong.” Reaching over, he squeezes my thigh, managing a smile for me. “It’s wrong. They don’t know shit.”

Apparently, they don’t need to know anything. I’m the chosen villain of this story now.

***

Our madman turns out to be nothing special. If anything, quite the opposite. Overweight, oily, with the smell of someone wearing clothes that haven't been washed for weeks.

I'm facing him across the metal table, Dirk standing by my chair. "Why did you commit a murder? And why did you try to make it look like Cocooner?"

The man peers at Dirk, small eyes with a glint of too much moisture. "I know you. She talks about you." The way he says this sounds disturbingly close to worship.

"She?" I ask, though my stomach feels oddly hollow. I know already.

"She won't make that mistake again. None of us will."

I blink. What the fuck… "Have you been in contact with Cassandra?"

Is she training someone new? The way my husband did? But… this guy? Really?

He looks back at me. He's sweating, the stains under his armpits expanding across to his chest, amber-coloured. I resist the urge to cover my nose. "Oh, she talks to me all the time."

"About her kills?" Dirk asks.

"You, especially." Again, Dirk’s gaze cuts up. To be counted as a 'kill'. But his expression stays set. "She doesn't like unfinished business."

I clear my throat. Something tells me this isn't about to end well. "Dirk, maybe you should…"

"Why are you killing for her?" His eyes don't leave the greasy man in front of us.

"Because she showed me the way."

"The way to what?"

He stares at me now, and my skin crawls. "Perfection." The wind feels knocked out of me.

They're an echo of what Cassandra said, of Caleb's words, his ideas. What he intended for me. A magnum opus. The perfect kill.

"Is that so?" Dirk asks, voice deceptively calm.

Back to him now, our suspect says, "You're imperfect. But not for long." His chins multiply as he lowers his face back towards me. His leer makes me think of men covered in Cheeto dust watching illegal porn in their mother’s basements. Then he found Cassandra instead. But how? And why was she looking for him ? "Not for long at all. You, too. I wanted you, but she said I had to wait."

My jaw clenches. I need to get away from this man, this stench, before my bile rises any further. Dirk hasn't moved, still perched on the corner of the table, staring down at the man on the other side.

Then, his movement, the snapping out of his arm, is over before I've even registered it, and our killer's nose is a bloodied mess, bright red blood smearing the metal table where Dirk had slammed his face once into it.

I'm on my feet amid the sobs of shock and pain. "Dirk, what the fuck!"

He's pulling me towards the door, closing us off from the integration room and the wailing killer inside, into the relative freshness of the hallway. No sooner has the door latched than he breaks away. "Needler has some questions to answer."

That seems like a bad idea. But he's already gone, marching off. Andrea has rushed out of the observation room, wide-eyed. Vaguely, I can hear the pained crying of the suspect coming through the walls.

“Should I get Tawill?” she asks.

Glancing at Dirk’s retreating back, I curse. “Just try to hold her off for a minute.”

Andrea nods, looking shocked. I can’t blame her. It’s not every day a detective assaults someone right there in the interrogation room. And is possibly on his way to assault another.

By the time I catch up to Dirk on the other end of the station, he’s already punched the code into the Needler side of the cell, on the dangerous side of the glass, and I rush through the solid metal door after him to find Dirk already has Tristan pinned to the wall by his shirtfront.

"You're going to tell us something actually fucking useful about your sister. Today."

Tristan, for his part, doesn’t even look that surprised, nor is he struggling with Dirk. Merely holding his hands open beside his shoulders as though in easy surrender, looking Dirk straight back in the face.

“Dirk let him go!” I yell, staying a pace back. Behind me, heavy boot-falls tell me the cell door has registered as open and security has arrived. I hold a hand back at them, halting them in the doorway.

A picture of calm compared to the storm that is Dirk, Tristan spreads his hands. “If you’ll tell me what she's done…"

Dirk’s eyes narrow, like somehow Needler is in on the whole thing, that he already knows. But I know that’s not true. Needler wouldn't be involved in something like what happened at the laundromat, or whatever sick game Cassandra is playing. He may have been a brutal killer, but he had standards, rules.

I step closer. "We caught the laundromat killer. It’s not Cassandra. But he says she's been teaching him."

"Does that sound right to you? Is she training up the next psycho to take her place?" Dirk demands, fists loosening somewhat in Tristan’s coveralls.

Tristan's gaze turns thoughtful, and to me, mildly concerning. Back to Dirk, the line between his brows softens. "There's blood on your cuff, detective."

And indeed, there's a dark red spot by his wrist, where the sleeve has been shoved back enough to reveal the lowest three of the scars given to him by Cassandra.

Abruptly, Dirk steps back, releasing Tristan, though he stays against the wall, not bothering to straighten his clothes. I touch Dirk’s shoulder, but he pulls away, turning and storming past security and out the door. When Tristan tilts his head to me, I’m suddenly reminded of where I am, and indeed one of the security details grabs my arm, with the intention of dragging me away from the serial killer.

I tug away, snapping, “I got it.”

They re-lock the cell, and I face Needler from the safe side of the glass as he shrugs his clothes back to rights. I press my fingers to my temple. Fucking Dirk.

"Shouldn't be on this case," Tristan comments.

"Shut up for once, would you?"

He does, but only for a beat. "So, you two are fucking now?"

I glare at him. Raising his hands, Tristan says, "Hey, I don't mind sharing. Something tells me he might, though."

"He's not jealous," I snap, then realise I've engaged. And admitted it. I pinch the bridge of my nose, the emerging pain in my head not helped by Tristan’s grin. "We shouldn't discuss our personal lives."

Laughing. "Sure, but you want to know about my childhood?"

"I want to know about your sister. And why she's enlisting men from their mother’s basements to kill for her."

Tristan spreads his hands. "If someone would explain things to me in a slightly calmer manner…"

I do, quickly running through the new development. The day is wearing on me already, and I need to go and find Dirk; make sure he's not back in there breaking more of that greaseball's body parts.

"There's more to this," Tristan tells me.

"More to the laundromat man?" I ask.

"It's likely."

***

It doesn't take much searching before I find a concerned-looking Chloe, and I can figure, Dirk too. She's outside the small storage space that leads through to the usually heavily locked door of the evidence room. I can hear the clattering within as I walk up to her. "Has Tawill found him yet?" I ask because I know she will. He'll need to be reprimanded for assaulting a suspect. I owe him at least making sure he doesn't get himself fired today.

"No," Chloe says. "What happened?"

"I'll explain later. Try to put Tawill off if she comes this way."

"Okay," she says uncertainly, and I can appreciate that I’ve just given her the herculean task of facing off Tawill, who probably seems like a dragon to Chloe.

Walking through the storage foyer, I find him among the three rows of steel multi-tiered shelves. The shelves stacked almost to capacity with labelled cardboard boxes ranging from the decades-old cold cases to the newer, crisper variety. Of this later kind, Dirk is stacking several, and I don't need a close look at the labels to know they're Cocooner case files and evidence. I close the steel door behind me, locking it.

"What are you doing?" I ask as I round the first tier. He's found another stack of files, adding it to the pile.

"I'm finding Cocooner," Dirk tells me without breaking his stride, like that makes all his actions reasonable.

"Really?" I ask wryly.

Now he spares me a glance. "I'm a detective, aren't I?"

I grab his arm, tugging so that he has to turn from his near-frantic perusal of the shelves and look at me. "What you are is a hot-headed mess," I correct, letting some impatience seep into my voice.

His brow draws down. "Hot-headed?"

"What else do you call breaking the nose of a suspect during interrogation? Then manhandling a whole other suspect? You're headed towards getting yourself suspended!"

"Then maybe I'll hunt the psycho on my own."

"Oh!" I spread my hands. "That’s a great idea, some vigilante justice. Why don't you go ask Needler for some tips on that before you go? Might be good not to have him pinned to a wall this time, though."

Dirk tugs his arm free. "Maybe he can give me some tips on attacking people in a calm manner. None of this hot-headed business," he sneers. At least he didn't suggest asking for any tips involving me. I might have slapped him again if he’d done that.

Apparently having decided the stack he's accumulated is enough, Dirk goes to pick it up. I weigh both of my hands on top of the tower to stop him, and a muscle in his jaw twitches as he looks down on me and waits.

"You are being reactive," I tell him flatly.

"Maybe someone should react! Maybe the creep who killed an innocent man and left this body in a laundromat because someone told him to should have his nose—hell, his whole face—broken. Maybe someone should be hunting Cocooner the way she so happily has hunted almost a dozen people!"

I make a frustrated noise. "And you're the one to carry all that out, I take it?"

He throws his hands up. "I don't know! I know what we have been doing isn't working. We're getting more broken, and she's getting fucking fans . Hell, fucking Needler is doing better than us right now and he's behind a glass wall twenty-four hours a day!"

"I didn't realise there was so little good in your life right now," I say evenly, though a slight break in my voice gives me away.

Staring at me, Dirk blinks. "It’s not about that."

"When is it about that, then?" I demand. "You asked to do this properly, didn’t you? Well, I have conditions too; I’m not going to chase you around like a mother hen while you try to destroy your career, our case, and whatever the hell else gets in your way!”

We're facing each other off, and I can see the surprise register on his face. What did I expect? He doesn't do relationships, not really. Like I would be any different. I shake my head before the tears threatening to sting my eyes can fall. "Whatever.” I throw my hands up. “Do whatever the hell you want, Dirk."

"Wait…" he’s saying, but I’ve already turned away, moving back around the shelf and heading for the door.

"Enjoy your evidence," I throw back.

He catches me halfway to the door, pulling me around to face him in the shadow cast from the only working light where it glows from the other side of the shelf. This time it’s me tugging out of his grip, but Dirk only grabs my other arm. "You are the best thing in my life," he says.

I scoff, trying to turn away again. I don't like that I'm crying. I don't even know why I'm crying.

"Don't run away." Squeezing my arms, Dirk pulls me back again.

"This is too hard."

He grips harder. "Don't say that."

"I'm not good at…" I don't get to tell him what I'm not good at, because he kisses me, lifting my chin with his fingertips, silencing my words as well as my thoughts. My hands grip his shirt hard enough to leave wrinkles, needing more closeness, more everything. Even as we're tugging at each other’s clothes, loosening buttons and pulling over zippers, I can't think of how I'm going to get him inside me, just that I will. Breath rasping against my ear, Dirk pushes my pants down to my thighs, the cool, still air of the room feeling wrong and tantalizing on my bare flesh.

Turning me around, Dirk tugs my back flush against his body, hand braced up against my collarbone. I let my head tip back onto his shoulder, his lips grazing my earlobe. My hands brace on the wall in front of me as Dirk nudges my feet as far apart as they will go, given the restriction of my pants, and a hot flush of need settles low in my belly. Hand dragging over the curve of my exposed ass, he tilts his head to rasp against my cheek. "God, I want you."

My breath catches, the bulge in his pants brushing me from behind. "We're at work," I say, with no real protest in my words. In fact, quite the opposite.

"Mm." He checks with a finger first, finding me wet and wanting. I feel his pants fold against the back of my thighs, feel his skin and then him, hard and promising. I arch back to invite him, and he takes, thrusting up so that he fills me so suddenly that I cry out. Squeezing my body hard back against his, Dirk almost has to hold me up as the sensations, the pleasure of this new position, make my knees weak and my breath pant out. Holding himself still, inside me and unmoving, Dirk's voice is low, breath hot on my earlobe. "Is this okay?"

I don't know if he's asking about the position, how deep he feels, making me gasp before he's even moved inside me, or his hand resting softly at the base of my neck, fingers curling around, holding my throat. "God, yes," I gasp because whatever he's asking, all of it is more than okay .

I can only hope this room is soundproof, even when he slides his hand high enough to hold a finger between my teeth and muffle my moans, an effort offset by his hand down the front of my body, moving with me as I roll my hips back with his. Thinking of anything; of being caught, of consequences, even what I came in here for, all flees—it’s only this, him and now.

After I've swayed and nearly convulsed through an orgasm, Dirk grunts, pulling out to finish into his hand while still cupping me under my shirt and bra. Breath spent, we stay, somehow holding each other up, his chin resting on my shoulder.

Mind clearing just enough, I can appreciate the folly of what we just did, and yet I'd be more likely to do it again than to take it back.

"He threatened you." Dirk’s voice comes soft, strained almost, and it takes me a second to catch up, to remember. "I stopped thinking."

Closing my eyes, I let out a slow breath, and turn to face him, the wall at my back now. I cup his cheek. No words come, and with his face turned down towards mine, cast into shadow, I know this is enough. We don’t need words.

Another moment, another breath. Dirk lifts his head slightly. "Hopefully, Tawill's not outside the door, huh?"

The room on the other side of the door is, thank God, empty.

With one last furtive kiss that leaves me blushing, Dirk slips away to the men’s locker room and I make for the bathroom.

It won't do to go back to work smelling of sex.

***

Tawill finds Dirk, of course.

When she comes into the ‘Brainstorming Room’ or whatever title Chloe has given it, Dirk, me, Howie, Dean and Chloe are gathered around one of the station’s only PC units, a thick grey thing with more cords than I understand coming from it. Chloe is at the helm, showing us what she's found on the small, slightly convex screen. "…where she's talking to them."

"So, it’s some kind of… group?" Howie tries.

"Yeah! A forum!" Chloe, apparently more familiar with this concept than any of us, chirps. "You can have them for anything."

"How many people can be on one?"

"Well, an infinite amount! As long as they have computers and internet."

"Shit."

"Found something of interest, detectives?" Tawill interrupts.

Dean straightens, gesturing at the computer. "We think we've found where our laundromat killer was talking to Cocooner. Some kind of online chat spot."

Tawill frowns. "Are there more she's speaking to?"

I clear my throat. "According to what we can see… about two hundred people, or accounts at least, are talking to her."

For a moment, Tawill is silent. The implications are not good. Not when any of them might be at least nearly as crazy as our first killer, and with someone like Cassandra in their ear… "Can you identify these others? Can you trace it back to her?"

"Not so far, but we're working on it. There's a lot of anonymity."

After a pause, Dean asks, “Are you worried at all about the protestors?”

Tawill sighs, shrugging just slightly. Her silk shirt is perfectly pressed, not a crease on it. “They are fast turning into rioters, but they’ve been cleared from the front of the precinct for now.”

“Conrad could bring them back,” I point out.

Her face darkens. “Let me worry about Conrad. Of course, I don’t need to point out that a Cocooner arrest would take the heat off. Possibly enough to get Needler through court and into a real cell, finally.” Taking a breath, she admits, “But for now…”

“We’re stuck with him. And them.” Dean asserts.

“Yes.” Then, to what she really came here for. "Dirk, I would have thought you’d have brought yourself to my office by now."

I cringe, Dean and Howie look between each other, then at Dirk. "Has something happened?"

Tawill tilts her chin towards Dirk, who stands looking just slightly shamefaced. "Well, this morning, your fellow detective here assaulted a suspect."

Howie scoffs like he doesn't believe it for a minute, then he looks at Dirk, who remains silent and clearly guilty. "That’s not like you, son."

Somehow, those words from Howie bring greater shame to Dirk's face than anything else has.

"No, but we have a man with a broken nose and two black eyes in custody to prove it," Tawill informs us.

Standing up, I interrupt. "I know you need to issue some kind of reprimand…"

"Reprimand is putting it lightly, detective."

"I know that, but threats were being made. The guy was goading…"

"That’s no excuse for violence!" Tawill snaps. "We're supposed to be above that."

We all fall silent.

"She's right," Dirk puts in, voice strained.

Howie stares at him. "You need to be on this case."

Shrugging helplessly, Dirk gestures towards Tawill. "It's not up to me."

Her lips tighten. "It doesn't seem that you’re benefiting this case. Or this institution."

My heart sinks. Off the case, maybe even out of the job.

"Yet," Tawill puts in, perking all of our ears back towards her. Tawill's chest rises. "The fact remains you may know something about Cocooner, and her methods, that we didn’t know previously. It may be obvious, it may not. But..." and here she pauses, finally agreeing with Howie, "I agree that we need you… as a witness… on this case. We can put it down this once to your traumatic experience. You’ve scared the suspect enough that he’s afraid to press charges.”

I try not to smile at that news, imagining the creep snivelling in a corner, afraid of retribution from the guy who already broke his nose. “And Needler?” I ask, since technically Dirk laid hands on him too.

Tawill somehow looks even more unimpressed as she turns to me. “ Tristan is pretending nothing happened. Say’s he has no recollection of anyone coming into his cell today.”

Obviously, he’s toying with us, Tawill knows it, but like she said, we can’t move him, and we need him in a similar vein to needing Dirk. Our best shots. I don’t know why we would have expected any differently from Needler. The question is why would he do that to spare Dirk? I’m confident fear isn’t the answer.

“Don't give me a reason to change my mind, officer," she says in final warning, then leaves.

***

By 5pm, we’re all slouched in our chairs, too many new arms of the mind map on the whiteboards for them to make any cohesive sense anymore. Dirk drags his hands down his face. "Fuck me, there's more of them."

That’s the conclusion we've come to. The laundromat is the first of what could, in the worst case—and this is Tregam, after all— be many. Howie sighs loudly.

Dean slumps over his desk. "Look, most of the people on that forum will just be there for the thrills of talking to Cocooner. They'd never actually go and act on the information she's doling out."

"We don’t need all of them," Howie points out. "It just takes one, or five, and then it’s one or five deaths—if they each stop after just one."

"And that’s not considering Cocooner herself," I put in, earning me tired looks. I shrug. "We can’t assume she's stopped." Nor has she left any breadcrumbs that could lead us to her, no hint on the forum of where she might be hiding out.

"Fuck me," Dirk groans again.

Howie gets up, heading for the door with Dean behind him. "On that happy note, folks, I'm off for a sleepless night."

I give a half-hearted wave. "I need to talk to Needler," I sigh, resting my face in my hands. All I want to do is go to sleep and wake up some place happier. Chloe takes her leave, and Dirk stands, picking up his jacket. "I'm going home," he says. "Nearly being suspended and learning about a half dozen new crazies is enough for one day."

I follow him to the door before he can open it. "Dirk, I hope it doesn't bother you… about Needler."

"That’s not what’s bothering me. It’s the psychopaths that are multiplying."

"So you're fine with me interviewing and all that…" I try. I haven't done this relationship thing in a while.

Dirk's gaze drops. He reaches out, fingers brushing my arm, his touch reinforcing his words. "I wish you'd been able to find out about your husband in another way, or hell, you'd just divorced that psycho, but he… Tristan, he’s helped you." I smile softly, and Dirk goes on, "But if you tell me he hurt or forced you in any way, I will go in there and beat the shit out of him, and maybe not stop there."

"He didn't," I say quickly. With a squeeze, I add, "Go home, I'll come over after if you want?"

Smiling, he nods, "I'd like that."

***

"Working after-hours? Some habits never die."

I give Needler a look. I hardly need to be reminded of the times I 'worked after hours' and ended up encountering him. The slight curve of his lips tells me he's teasing. And I'm too tired for it. I tell him about the forum, what we've found, and her new following.

"Tell me about her as a child?" I ask at the end, "Favourite places in Crennik? Did she murder kittens? Did she try to show off to other kids?"

He shrugs. "She was as normal as you'd expect a child with little supervision or love to be. And no, she was a loner. I never knew her to have a friend. Besides me."

"What does that mean? 'As normal as expected'?"

"She was quiet. She didn't socialise well. She was yelled at for being too quiet and that made her clam up even more. She once went a year without speaking."

"Then she was an easy target for someone like my husband. Would she have gone this way without that offer of mentoring?"

Tristan blinks, seeming suddenly sad. "That’s all I want to talk about of her tonight."

"Tristan…"

"That’s all," he says, voice flat this time. Maybe I need to rethink him being a psychopath. They’re not supposed to feel. Not to hold on to nostalgia, or empathise.

My lips tighten. I know we're desperate, and he knows it too. But this trickle of information won't do, not with the protestors at the gate, and only about to get worse when Cassandra's fanboys start killing in earnest. "What do you want?" I ask.

Now Tristan peers at me, as though suspecting a trick. "Want?"

"In return for your cooperation. We've talked to the foster parents you two went through in the system and they're deadbeats. They hardly remember anything further back than last week’s highs. We know you're telling the truth. We need it faster. Do you want a shorter sentence? The chance of freedom in your lifetime?"

If I'm honest, it’s not just for the information that I want to push him to help us. Seeing him like this, caged, fading, it feels wrong. Do I agree with the methods he took? No. Did I, and do I still, have feelings for him, and appreciate what he's done for the city? For me? Yes.

"Freedom? What would I do with it?" Tristan chuckles, a short, sharp sound, then meets my eye and gives a slow smile. "You think I’d kill again." Shaking his head, he drifts away from the glass. "I was killing for revenge, my own and others. But what I was avenging turned out to be alive and well. No," he hums, facing me again. “I'll help you, but I want something to do."

"To do?"

"Yes." Waving a hand, he encapsulates the cell, this place, everything. "With the possible exception of your partner's angry moments, everyone else here bores me. They're afraid and predictable…"

"Stick to the point."

"I'm bored. Give me something to do."

"Such as…"

"Well." The smile he gives is easy to imagine under a silver mask, while he drove spikes into the chests of murderers. "We all know one thing I'm good at."

I laugh, then realise he's serious. I shake my head. "We are not giving you cases to work on."

"Really? Not enough to go around?" When I stare back at him, unmoving, Tristan’s smile falls away. "I used to be a detective."

"You’re not the same man now."

"And are you the same woman you were a year ago? Is dear Dirk the same man he was before my sister got to him?"

My jaw clenches. "You could be planning to escape and use the information we give you to hunt them down."

"Please," Tristan snorts, almost offended by such narrow, obvious thinking.

"Or worse, when you do eventually go to prison, or Eternal Light—which you will—to find them there, instead."

Needler raises an eyebrow. "If your people are going to put me in the same place as them, perhaps you have that coming?" He wanders to the far side of his small room, and then lies back on the bed. "I've told you what I want."

I stiffen, abruptly reminded of what he wanted another time. Watching me from the bed, a tilt to his lips, I can see he knows where my mind has gone too.

"So, Little Shadow, you can deliver, or not."