“Put a knife in his throat. Jam a crowbar in his head. Shoot him up with H and make it look like an accident. That was your favorite one, right?” She leaned down, inserting herself in his line of sight. “You pussin’ out on me, Wilbur?” He moved away from her. “Do I need to remind you what happened to your mother?”
Will tried to clear his throat, but something got stuck.
Angie dragged over a chair and sat a few inches away from him. “Listen, baby, you can have all the fun you want with your little doctor friend. You know I’ve had my share. But this is business. This goes back to you and me and a promise we made to each other.” She waited another beat, then said, “What happened to your mother, what happened to you—all because of that bastard—we can’t just let that go, Will. He has to pay.”
Will’s cuticle started to bleed, but he couldn’t stop picking at the skin. Angie’s words stirred up something familiar inside of him. The anger. The rage. The need for revenge. Will had spent the last ten years of his life trying to let that go, and now Angie was shoving it back in his face.
He told her, “You’re not in a position to talk to me about broken promises.”
“Ashleigh Snyder.”
Will’s head jerked up, surprised to hear her mention the missing girl.
Angie smiled as she tapped her finger on his mother’s file. “You’re forgetting that I know everything, baby. Every detail. Every last drop. You think he’s changed his ways? You think he’s too old to get around? Let me tell you, honey, he’s been busy inside. He could outrun you, out-jump you, out-kill you. Just looking at him made me scared, and you know I don’t scare easy.”
Will looked at her finger. The nail polish was chipped.
“Are you listening to me, Will?”
He waited for her to stop touching his mother’s file.
Slowly, she moved her hand away.
Angie had helped him fill out the paperwork to get the documents. Angie had been the first to show him his mother’s photograph. Angie had read the autopsy report aloud when Will, so upset he could barely function, was unable to make sense of it. Lacerations. Abrasions. Scratches. Tears. Wounds. The indescribable rendered in cold, medical language. Like Will, Angie knew every word. She knew every awful thing. She knew the pain and the misery, just like she knew when she finished telling Will what had happened to his mother, he had been so violently ill that he’d started coughing up blood.
She said, “He’s holed up at the Four Seasons on Fourteenth. I guess his money earned some interest over the years.”
“You’ve been watching him?”
“I’ve got a friend in security keeping an eye on him for me.” She pursed her lips. “It’s not a bad life. Five-star hotel. He uses the gym every morning. He orders room service. He goes for walks. He hangs out at the bar.”
Will pictured every single tableau. The thought of this man living such an easy life put a fist in his stomach.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. Will couldn’t stop looking at the file. His hands were gripping the edge. “It’s me, baby. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
He flinched as Angie’s fingers traced down his neck, his back. Her fingernails lined up with the scars that mottled his skin. “You can talk to me about it. I was there. I know what went down. I’m not going to judge you.” Will shook his head, but she kept touching him, her hand going to the front of his chest, tips of her fingers finding the perfectly round circles where the tip of a burning cigarette had seared into his flesh. Her mouth was at his ear. “You think this would’ve happened to you if your mother had been around? You think she would’ve let them hurt her baby boy?”
This was what they had talked about for hours, days, weeks, years. The things that had been done to them. The things they would do to pay those people back. Childhood revenge fantasies. That’s all they were. And yet, it felt so good to give in to them now. So nice to enjoy the fantasy of doing to that bastard what the state had refused to do.
“Let me take care of it,” Angie said. “Let me make it all better for you.”
Will was so tired. He felt incapacitated. Every inch of his body was sore. His brain was filled with static that wouldn’t go away. When Angie pressed in closer, all he could think was how good it felt to be near another person. This was what being with Sara had done to Will. She’d taken away his ability to be alone. She’d broken through his solitude. She’d dragged him into a world where he didn’t just want things—he needed them. He needed to be touched. He needed to feel her arms around him.
“Poor baby,” Angie said. She kissed his ear, his neck. Will felt a familiar stirring in his body. When she slipped her hand inside his shirt, he didn’t stop her. When her mouth found his, he didn’t stop her. His hand went to her breast. She pressed closer against him.
But she tasted like nothing. Not mints or honey or those little sour candies Sara liked. Angie’s hands rested on his shoulders, palms flat, not wrapped around the back of his neck. Not pulling him closer. Pushing him away.
Will tried to kiss her again. Angie moved back out of his reach, just as he knew she would. That’s how she worked. Once she got something, she didn’t want it anymore.
Will breathed out a heavy sigh. “I don’t love you.” He corrected, “I’m not in love with you.”
She crossed her arms as she sat back in the chair. “Am I supposed to be hurt by that?”
Will shook his head. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted her to stop.
“Get real, baby. Sara may be all lovey-dovey now and telling you she wants to know all about you, but what’s she really gonna do with that knowledge?”
He couldn’t answer the question, but he knew one thing for certain. “She won’t use it against me.”
“That’s sweet, but tell me this: how’s she gonna go to sleep beside you every night knowing your father’s DNA is swirling around inside you? Nature trumps nurture, baby. Sara’s a doctor. Eventually she’s gonna start to wonder what you’re really capable of.” She leaned closer. “Think about the terror you’re gonna see in her eyes.”
Will stared at her. There was a nasty twist to her mouth, a hollow look to her eyes. She wasn’t just thinner. She was almost gaunt. For as long as Will had known her, Angie had always worn her makeup heavy—not because she needed to, but because she wanted the cover. Thick black eyeliner around her eyes. Dark brown eye shadow with a sparkle of glitter. Deep red lipstick. Blush on her high cheekbones. Her curly brown hair draped along the sides of her face. Her lips were a perfect bow tie. She was tall and thin with breasts that spilled out of the tight shirts she favored. She was the sort of woman that made men cheat on their wives. Literally. Angie loved taking things away from other people. She was a temptress. She was a siren. She was a thief.
She was also high as a kite. Her pupils were blown wide open.
He asked, “Are you taking pills again?” He tried to take her hand, but she jerked away. “Angie?”
She pushed herself up from the table and went back to the sink.
Will sat back in the chair. “What are you doing, Angie?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead, she stared out the kitchen window. Her shoulder blades were sharp. The skull and crossbones tattoo she’d gotten when she was eighteen had faded to a light blue.
Will put his hand in his pocket. He felt the cold metal of his wedding ring. Sara kept her husband’s wedding ring in a small wooden box on the mantel over the fireplace. Her ring was in there, too. They were tied together with a white ribbon, resting on a pillow of blue satin.
Will repeated, “What are you doing, Angie?”
Her shoulders went up. “I guess this is what happens to me without you.”
“You’ve been without me lots of times.”
“We both know this is different.”
He couldn’t argue with the truth. “Please stop hurting yourself.”
“I will when you stop fucking your girlfriend.”
Angie walked out of th
e kitchen. She picked up her purse where she’d dropped it on the couch. She turned around at the front door and blew him a kiss.
And then she was gone.
Will pressed his forehead to the table. The Formica was cold against his skin. Betty’s paws tapped on his leg again. He let her into his lap. Her fur was wiry under his hand. She licked his fingers.
Angie’s mother had killed herself with drugs. It was a twenty-seven-year-long suicide. That was what brought Angie to the children’s home. Deidre Polaski had spent more than half of Angie’s life in a vegetative coma, warehoused in a state hospital. She’d finally died a few months ago. Maybe that’s what had gotten Angie back on the pills. Maybe she needed an escape.
Or maybe Will was to blame.
Three weeks ago in this very kitchen, Angie had put Will’s gun in her mouth. She’d threatened to kill herself before. It was her go-to strategy when nothing else was working. Will thought about the wedding ring in his pocket. Maybe he was keeping it for the same reason Sara kept her husband’s. Will had been mourning Angie for years. The only difference was that she hadn’t died yet.
His phone rang. Not his cell, which was charging on his desk, but the landline. Will lifted his head from the table, but couldn’t make himself stand. Maybe it was Sara calling. Though Will was pretty sure it was his responsibility to call her, not the other way around. He had stormed out last night. He had pissed her off. He had kissed Angie.
Will put his hand to his mouth. There was lipstick on his fingers. Jesus Christ, what had he done? Sara would be devastated. She would—Will didn’t even want to think about what she would do. It would be the end of them. It would be the end of everything.
The phone stopped ringing. The house was completely silent. He could feel his heart jackhammering in his chest. There was no saliva left in his mouth. Betty stirred in his lap.
What the hell had he done?
His cell phone started chirping. Will had never seen himself as a coward, but the lure to just sit there and do nothing was strong. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the willpower.
Will put Betty on the floor. He felt like he was dragging through quicksand as he walked into the living room. He picked up his cell phone, expecting to see Sara’s number, but there was Amanda’s instead.
He considered for a moment not answering the call, but if the last twenty-four hours had taught him anything, it was that Amanda always knew how to track him down.
Will grabbed his car keys and flipped open the phone. “I’m on my way to the airport.”
“Stay where you are.” Amanda’s tone was off. “We found a body. Faith is on her way to pick you up.”
Will braced his hand on the desk. His head started pounding. “Where?”
Amanda hesitated, something Will had never heard her do before. “Faith will loop you in on the details.”
“Where?”
“You know where.” Will made her say it. “Techwood.”
nine
November 15, 1974
MARY HALSTON
Mary had been robbed at the Union Mission last night, which was not unusual, but still annoyed her. It wasn’t money that was stolen—her pimp kept all of that—but a locket that her high school boyfriend had given her. Jerry. He’d gone to Nam straight out of school. He’d held his own against Charlie, but got hooked on H so bad that he couldn’t pass the drug test to get back into the U.S. Took him six more months of rotting in the jungle before he could get clean, then the minute the plane touched down, he grabbed Mary and a bag of H, and another six months later, Jerry was dead with a needle in his arm and Mary was face down in an alley gritting her teeth, praying for it to be over fast.
She preferred not to look at their faces. Their beady eyes. Their wet lips. Their brown teeth. She felt like their images were etched into a part of her brain that she would be able to access one day and then—puff. She would ignite like a Roman candle and flame out forever.
Mary had read a crazy book one time about scientists slicing off your retinas and sticking them into a big TV that showed everything you’d ever seen in your entire life. The book was a gas, but creepy, because Mary didn’t want to think about her life. Strange she’d read the thing in the first place. Mary’s speed was more the Dana Girls and Nancy Drew. She’d been on a sci-fi kick after watching 2001: A Space Odyssey. Not really watching it, because Jerry’s hands were down her pants the entire time, but she got the gist of the movie: human beings were totally screwed by 2001.
Not that she would live to see it happen. Mary was nineteen years old. When she wasn’t sleeping on a cot at the Union Mission, she was trolling the streets for trade. She’d lost some teeth. Her hair was coming out in clumps. She wasn’t good enough to stand on the street corners. She had to walk around during the day looking for lawyers and bankers who turned her around and smashed her face into the wall while they did their business. It kind of reminded her of the way you held a kitten. Grab it by the back of the neck and it goes limp. None of these assholes were limp, though. That was for damn sure.
Mary darted into an alley and sat down by the Dumpster. Her feet hurt. There were blisters on her heels because her shoes were too tight. Not really her shoes. Mary wasn’t just a victim at the Union Mission. She took what she needed, and she’d needed shoes. White patent leather. Chunky heel. They were very stylish, the sort of thing Ann Marie might wear to an audition on That Girl.
She heard heavy footsteps making their way toward her. Mary looked up at the man. It was like staring up at a mountain. He was tall with broad shoulders and a pair of hands that could easily snap her neck.
He said, “Good morning, sister.”
And that was the last thing she heard.
ten
July 12, 1975
SATURDAY
Amanda had never been particularly adept at lying, especially where her father was concerned. Since childhood, Duke could look at her a certain way and Amanda would burst into tears, pouring out her soul no matter the consequences. She couldn’t even begin to predict how angry he would be if he found out Amanda was spending the afternoon at Evelyn Mitchell’s house. It reminded her of all those stories from the Nixon scandal. The cover-up always brought you down.
And this one was a doozy. Not only had Amanda completely fabricated a church function, she’d dragged Vanessa Livingston into the mix, exacting a promise that the other woman would support the story no matter what. Amanda could only hope that Duke was too wrapped up in his court case to dig too deeply into her story. He’d been on the phone with his lawyer all morning. The state supreme court’s decision for Lars Oglethorpe had shifted the winds at police headquarters. Duke had barely registered Amanda’s presence as she cleaned his house and ironed his shirts.
All she wanted to do now was see Evelyn with her own two eyes to make certain the other woman was all right. After leaving Techwood yesterday, neither of them had said a word to each other. Evelyn had dropped off Amanda at the station and driven away without even saying goodbye. What Rick Landry had done to her in the hallway seemed to be stuck in her throat.
Amanda pulled out onto Monroe Drive. She wasn’t often on this side of Piedmont Heights. In her mind, she still thought of it as barren farmland, though the area had been given over to industry some time ago. As a child, she’d visited Monroe Gardens with her mother, where they’d peruse the nursery for hours picking out pansies and roses to plant in the backyard. The land had been turned into office buildings for the Red Cross, but she could still recall the rows of daffodils.
She took a left onto Montgomery Ferry. Plaster’s Bridge narrowed the road to one lane. The Plymouth’s tires bumped over the rutted concrete. A cold sweat came on as she passed Ansley Golf Club, even though she knew her father wasn’t playing today. She followed the dogleg to Lionel Lane and went right on Friar Tuck, which cut straight through the heart of Sherwood Forest.
Evelyn’s house was one of those ranch-style homes they’d built by the thousands for returning veterans. On
e story with a carport on the side, just like the house next door, which in turn was an exact duplicate of the next house, and the next.
Amanda parked on the street behind Evelyn’s station wagon and checked herself in the rearview mirror. The heat had done her makeup no favors. Her hair was flat and lifeless. She had planned on washing it today, but the thought of sitting under the dryer was nauseating and she couldn’t let her hair dry naturally because it would sour.
She cut the engine and heard the whir of a circular saw. The driveway was taken up with a black Trans Am and a convertible Ford Galaxie like Perry Mason used to drive. As she approached the house, Amanda saw that a shed was being built on the open side of the carport. The wall supports and roof were up, but little else. There was a man in the carport leaning over a piece of plywood resting on a pair of sawhorses. He was dressed in cutoff jeans and no shirt. The logo on his orange sun visor was easily recognizable, though it wasn’t until Amanda was halfway up the drive that she could make out the Florida Gator.
“Hello!” he called, setting down the saw. Amanda guessed this was Bill Mitchell, though she realized that somewhere in the back of her mind she had imagined a more glamorous man. He was plain looking, about Evelyn’s height with wispy brown hair and a bit of a belly. His skin was bright red from the sun. There was a welcoming smile on his face, though Amanda felt immensely uncomfortable talking to a man who wasn’t fully clothed.
“Amanda.” He held out his hand as he walked toward her. “I’m Bill. So pleased to meet you. Ev’s told me a lot about you.”
“You as well.” Amanda shook his sweaty hand. Sawdust was stuck to his chest and arms.
“Let’s get out of this sun. It’s a scorcher.” He cupped his hand to her elbow as he led her into the shade of the carport. Amanda saw a picnic table laid out in the backyard. The Weber was already belching smoke. She felt a brief flash of guilt. She’d been so worried about Evelyn’s state of mind that she’d forgotten this was a party. She should’ve brought a hostess gift.
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 220