Page 107 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Yes, that was it. Atropos. She cut the string of life that her sister, Klotho, the spinner, had spun for each person’s life and her other sister, Lachesis, the apportioner, had measured so carefully. The sisters . . . three strong, all of one mind . . . But that mind hurt right now, it hurt like hell.

She opened the drawer. The strings of life were waiting, red and black, symbolizing blood and death, braided and wound intricately together. Fate. Destiny. Kismet.

Think! You are here for a purpose.

She found the two pictures of her latest victim, the mother . . . In the still frame, Berneda was young, a slim woman in a knee-length black dress. Her head was turned coquettishly to one side to show off her stunning profile, her red-brown hair piled on her head and pinned with a diamond tiara. Silk gloves hugged her slim arms, and a cigarette in a long-stemmed holder smoldered, sending a curl of smoke aloft. It was a posed picture, the backdrop solid white, and it was entirely unmotherly.

She who had borne seven children; she who had time and time again complained at her loss of figure, of the sacrifices she’d made for her brood. She, the once beautiful and often betrayed by a philandering husband, had lamented her loss of beauty, vitality and youth. She whose weak heart had been her downfall. She who had hated the bastards her husband and father-in-law had sired.

Poor long-suffering Berneda.

Finally she suffered no longer, Atropos thought as she pulled at the strands of the mother’s life, seeing where it had been measured. Unfolding her unique instruments from their soft sack, she found her cherished surgical scissors. With a clean snip of stainless steel, she clipped off the strands of Berneda Pomeroy Montgomery’s martyred life.

So how to mold the photograph to properly reflect the deed? Hmmm. It was her hourglass figure that Berneda had prized and later mourned in life, and so it would be robbed of her in death. Yes, that would do. Satisfied, Atropos went to work. With two clean snips Atropos clipped Berneda’s head from her body, then sliced off her legs. Yes, yes, perfect. The pieces drifted to the desktop.

Picking up the head and legs, Atropos held them together, then carefully pinned them where they belonged on the gnarly Montgomery family tree. And there was Berneda, just a small profile of a beautiful face and glittering tiara resting upon knees and calves supported by four-inch heels. The cigarette and arms were still intact, giving Berneda a skewed though elegant, eye-catching look. The kind she’d always wanted. Atropos smiled. The newly cut-and-pasted Berneda stood on the branch next to the husband, the Betrayer. He was dressed in hunting clothes for he had always been a hunter, though women were his usual prey. His body was intact, aside from a hole at the juncture of his legs, to one side, a small jagged perforation where his testicle had once been. She scanned the others who lived on the tree as well . . . Little Parker robbed of his stupid little pacifier and crying his lungs out, Alice Ann with her head cut off and placed at an impossible angle, just as it had been when she’d hit the bottom of the stairs at the upscale institution where she’d been hidden away.

If only she had more time to look at her artwork, to sit back and enjoy her work. But not yet. Atropos was running out of time.

Finding the picture of Amanda, the eldest, she snipped the car away from Amanda’s slim body. The eldest was still alive—an act of God—and would have to be dealt with later. That thought made her smile. Yes, yes . . . it all fit perfectly. For the moment, she placed the picture of the little crumpled sports car on Amanda’s branch. For now it would have to do, but Amanda’s life string could not yet be cut.

The sister of fate had decided.

Now it was time to choose again. She sat in the chair and began to shuffle the pictures. Quickly she flipped the old photos, and as she did she realized that some of the pictures were no longer flawless. Some had faded, others had yellowed, still others were bent and cracked from all the handling.

Too much time had passed. Too many years. She felt a new anxiety. Where once she’d been patient, she was now nervous. Edgy.

From the other room she heard her victim moving . . . God, was it not her time yet?

Time. Atropos was running out of it. She needed to finish this, and yet there was so much work to do. She didn’t even have the luxury of taking time to pick her victims at her leisure. Where once she could wait months or years, now she felt an impending sense of panic to get the job done. Faster . . . and faster.

She flipped a photograph over and saw Caitlyn’s face. Again. It seemed as if destiny was pointing in the weaker twin’s direction. But was it the right, precise moment in time? Atropos had planned for Caitlyn to be the last, to accept the blame for all of her doings, but perhaps that was a miscalculation.

Now where the hell was the wimp’s life cord?

Sorting through the strings in her drawer, the braided cords marked appropriately, by inches and in years, Atropos noted that Caitlyn’s time was just about due. There were others as well, and as she flipped up the next pictures, she felt a cooling sense of satisfaction. Her anxiety eased.

Two more victims . . . one looking sullen, the other trying to shy away from the camera, her image in the background.

Too late. You can’t hide.

Atropos smiled peacefully even though she heard Cricket thumping and pounding, trying to free herself. The girl was terrified. Sensed what was coming. Good. Maybe it was time for a little reminder. Yes, that was it. Atropos had never before taken a hostage; her victims knew they were dying at her hand, and she’d dragged it out beautifully with Josh Bandeaux, but now the slow mental torture of the captive was a new high, a rush, one she couldn’t indulge in too often for fear of being caught. But . . . while she had Cricket as her guest, she might as well enjoy it.

And she knew just how. She heard the girl kicking and attempting to scream, so maybe it was time to give her something to think about. She unwrapped her packet of surgical instruments and found the forceps. They should do. She donned a pair of gloves, then quickly left her slippers at the door and found her flashlight. Her gloved fingers curled around the flashlight’s handle, and she felt the thrill of anticipation run through her body. This basement was so foul, so perfect. Cautiously, in case Cricket was able to throw her body or kick out, she walked toward her, clicking on the flashlight and training it on the girl. She looked bad. Dirty. Wan. Probably from lack of nutrition and water . . . it had been several days. Cricket showed some spunk. It was time to drug her again, but first . . . yes, first it was important for her hostage to understand.

Atropos squatted down by the jar teeming with spiders. The girl was angry and scared, shouting behind her gag, and Atropos could only imagine the words. Ugly words. Not that it mattered. Slowly Atropos unscrewed the lid of the milk bottle and checked the life cord . . . time was fast running out. Then, using her gloved hands, she slid the forceps into the bottle, gently angling them around a part

icularly thick webbing where tons of the tiny spider babies were crawling.

“You know, you’re lucky your nickname is Cricket,” Atropos said and glanced back at the girl. Her eyes were round with fear. She couldn’t take her eyes off the surgical tongs as they extracted a slowly elongating silken sac that was pulsing with life. “If you’d been called Bunny, or Rosebud, or Chrissy, I would have had a lot more trouble determining your fate, but as it is . . .” She turned, waving the bit of spider web into the flashlight’s beam and dangling it over Cricket’s head.

The girl was sweating now, scooting back farther into the corner. “I wouldn’t go there,” Atropos warned. “I’ve seen rats and snakes in here and . . .”

Cricket was going nuts. Kicking and screaming behind her gag. Atropos would have none of it. She held the bit of fluff over the girl, then let it drop. Cricket screamed. “Now . . . let’s see. We wouldn’t want to separate a mother from her babies. Which one do you think it is . . . oh, here she is.” She found a particularly nasty-looking creature staring at her through the glass, all of its eight eyes reflecting the light, spinnerets visible. “Oh, here we go.” With the precision of a surgeon, Atropos slid her forceps inside the milk bottle again, and while Cricket wriggled and shrieked behind her gag, she gently grabbed the silken tuft on which the dark creature resided. A bit of red, in the shape of an hourglass, showed on the glistening black abdomen. Atropos was pleased . . . She’d had to gather some of the creatures herself, others she’d found on the Internet and had shipped to a post office box, paid by an anonymous check, and this one, the black widow, with its pear-shaped egg sac, had been her favorite. “Come to Mama,” she said, nudging the shy creature into her tongs. Black Widow. How appropriate, for surely Caitlyn Bandeaux would be blamed for not only her husband’s death but all the rest.

All according to plan.

Cricket was screeching now. Scooting and shaking as if she could feel each and every little spider and mite on her. Tears raining from her face. Slowly Atropos turned, holding the tongs over Cricket’s head, watching her tremble as she closed the gap until the forceps with their wriggling prey was just inches above the panicked girl’s nose, the red hourglass visible. “They’re not as poisonous as most people think,” Atropos said. “But, with enough bites—”

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