Suzanna started screaming. Her mouth opened. Her throat scratched. Her lungs shook. She screamed as loud as she could. The noise wouldn’t stop. She screamed even when the man left. She screamed over the doctor’s soothing voice. She screamed when the paramedics came. She didn’t stop screaming until the doctor stuck the needle in.
The drug rushed through her body.
Immediate relief.
Her brain calmed. Her heart slowed. She could breathe again. Taste again. See again. There was no part of her that did not feel it. Her hands, her fingers, her toes, all tingled from the rush.
Release. Salvation. Oblivion.
And Zanna was in love all over again.
twenty-nine
Present Day
WEDNESDAY
Sinatra crooned softly through the speakers in Amanda’s Lexus, but Will could only hear Suzanna Ford’s screams. He had been so relieved to find the girl alive. He’d wanted to weep as Sara freed the girl. His father had hurt her. He’d tried to destroy her. But Will had stopped him. He’d won. He’d finally beaten the old man.
And then Suzanna had taken one look at Will and seen James Ulster come back to life.
He leaned his head into his hand as he stared at the passing cars. They were on Peachtree Road, stuck in the patch of traffic near one of the many strip malls.
Amanda turned down the volume on the radio. Sinatra’s voice mellowed even more. She put her hand back on the wheel. The other rested in the sling that was strapped around her shoulder and waist.
She said, “It’s supposed to get cold this weekend.”
Her throat sounded raw, probably from talking nonstop on her BlackBerry for the last twenty minutes. Hotel security. The Atlanta Police Department. Her own agents at the GBI. No one was going to skate on missing the fact that Ulster’s morning trips to the gym were simply an excuse for him to gain access to the stairs that led to the sub-basement. How many times had he gone down there to hurt her? How many opportunities to stop him had been missed?
The girl had been held at least a week. She was dehydrated. Starved. Mutilated. God knows what else.
Amanda said, “Of course, you can’t trust the weatherman. Never could.”
Will still didn’t answer.
The car accelerated as they drove past Amanda’s condo. The Regal Park complex was nice, but paled in comparison to its neighbors. They were in the Buckhead fingerbowl. Habersham Road, Andrews Drive, Peachtree Battle—residences on these streets started at two million dollars and jumped sharply north. The area contained the most expensive real estate in the city. The zip code was listed among the top ten wealthiest in the country.
“We could use some rain.”
Will looked at the side-view mirror as they approached the heart of Buckhead. An Atlanta PD cruiser was following them. Amanda hadn’t told him why and Will couldn’t bring himself to ask her. His breathing was shallow. His palms were clammy. There was no explanation for his feelings, just that he knew deep in his soul that something bad was about to happen.
Amanda slowed the car. Horns blared as she took an illegal turn onto West Paces Ferry Road. Her lips parted, but only to take a breath.
He waited for her to say something more about the weather, but her mouth remained closed, her eyes on the road ahead of them.
Will stared out the window again. The dread was making him feel sick. She’d already surprised him once today. It was a cruel thing to do. The shock had almost killed him. What else did she have planned?
Amanda pointed to a sixties-style house with fake Tara columns. The Governor’s Mansion. “A tornado cut straight through here a few months before you were born. Took the roof off, cut through Perry Homes.”
Will wasn’t going to take the bait. “What will happen to his body?”
She didn’t ask whom he meant. “No one will claim him. He’ll be buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“He has money.”
“Do you want it?”
“No.” He didn’t want anything from his father. Will would live on the streets again before he took a dime of the man’s blood money.
Amanda slowed down for another turn. Will finally asked the question. “Where are we going?”
She signaled for the turn. “Don’t you know?”
He studied the street sign. The X in the middle gave it away. Tuxedo Road. They were in the wealthiest part of the wealthiest section. Two million dollars would probably be just enough to cover property taxes for one estate.
“No?” she asked.
Will shook his head.
She made the turn. The car traveled several more yards before she said, “Your juvenile records are sealed.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have your father’s name.”
“Or my mother’s.” Will loosened the knot in his tie. He couldn’t get enough air. “That reporter with the AJC. Faith’s ex-boyfriend. He called you—”
“Because I worked on the original case.” Amanda glanced at him. “I’m the one who put your father in jail the first time.”
“No, you didn’t. Butch Bonnie and—”
“Rick Landry.” She braked for a steep curve. “They were the homicide detectives. I was in what was euphemistically called Vagina Crimes. If it went into a vagina or came out of one, that was my case.” She glanced over again, but only so she could enjoy his reaction. “Evelyn and I did all the work. Butch and Landry took all the credit. Don’t be so shocked. It was a common occurrence. I hazard to say it’s still going on.”
Will couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. It was too much to take on board. Too much information. Instead, he stared at the mansions rolling by. Castles. Mausoleums. Finally, he managed, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it didn’t matter. It was just another case. I’ve worked on lots of cases over the years. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been doing this job an awfully long time.”
He unbuttoned his collar. “You should’ve told me.”
She was honest for once. “I probably should’ve told you a lot of things.”
The car slowed again. She turned on her blinker and pulled into a long driveway. A Tudor-style house stretched out the length of half a football field, the front entrance peering down a rolling green lawn twice as long as the house was wide. The turf was crisscrossed in a checkered pattern. Azaleas and hosta spilled in rings around the tall oaks.
Will asked, “Who lives here?”
Amanda ignored the question as she pulled up to the closed gate. The scrollwork was painted a gloss black that matched the brick and wrought-iron fence ringing the property. She pressed the intercom button on the security panel.
A full minute passed before a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“It’s Amanda Wagner.”
Static came through the intercom, then the sound of a long buzz. The gate started to swing open.
Amanda mumbled, “Swell digs,” as she drove up the curving driveway.
“Who lives here?” Will repeated.
“You really don’t recognize the place?”
Will shook his head, but there was something familiar about the house. The rolling green hill—tumbling down headfirst, grass stains streaking his pants.
The driveway laced across the front of the house in a gentle arc. Amanda pulled into the circular drive. A large fountain was in the center. Water slapped against a concrete urn. Amanda parked the Lexus parallel to the heavy wooden front doors. They were oversized—at least twelve feet tall—but fit with the scale of the building.
Will checked over his shoulder. The APD cruiser was thirty yards down, hanging back at the end of the driveway. Exhaust trailed from its tailpipe.
Amanda adjusted the sling on her arm. “Button your collar and fix your tie.” She waited until he complied, then got out of the car.
Will’s shoes crunched on the pea gravel driveway. Water splashed from the fountain. He looked down the vista of the front yard. Had he rolled down that hill? His
mind could only recall fragments. None of them felt happy.
“Let’s go.” Amanda held her purse by the straps as she walked up the front steps. The door opened before she could ring the bell.
An older woman stood in the shadow of the door. She was the prototypical Buckhead Betty—extremely thin in the way of all wealthy women, with a tight face that had obviously been stretched back onto her skull. Her makeup was thick. Her hair was stiff with hair spray. She wore a red skirt with hose and high heels. Her white silk blouse had tiny pearl buttons at the wrist. A red cardigan was draped around her narrow shoulders.
She didn’t bother with formalities. “He’s waiting for you in his office.”
The foyer was almost as large as the lobby of the Four Seasons. Another wide staircase. Another two-story entrance. Dark wooden beams arched into the white plaster ceiling. The chandelier was wrought iron. The furniture was sturdy-looking. The Oriental carpets showed a mixture of dark blues and burgundies.
“This way,” the woman said, leading them down a long corridor that ran the width of the house. Their footsteps echoed on the slate tiles. Will couldn’t help but look into each room they passed. He felt like a lightbulb kept flashing on in his head. The dining room with its large mahogany table. The delicate china hanging on the walls in the front parlor. The game room with its billiard table that Will had never been allowed to touch.
They finally stopped at a closed door. She turned the knob, opening it as she knocked. “They’re here.”
“They?” Henry Bennett stood from his desk. He was impeccably dressed, his blue suit tailored to his body. His mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head, as if to clear his vision.
Will almost did the same. He hadn’t seen his uncle in almost thirty years. Henry was just out of law school when Lucy was murdered. He’d tried to keep a connection with his sister’s only child, but by law an unmarried man could not adopt an infant. Henry had lost interest by the time Will turned six, which put Will right at the age when no one wanted him. Even Henry. Will had never laid eyes on his uncle again.
Until now.
And he had no idea what he was supposed to say.
Apparently, neither did Henry. “What the—” He was visibly angry. His mouth twisted in disgust as he asked Amanda, “What game are you playing?”
Yet again, Will felt a cold sweat come on. He looked down at the floor, wishing he could disappear. If Amanda thought this was going to be a happy homecoming, she was dead wrong.
“Wilbur?” Henry prodded.
Amanda took over. “Hank, I need to ask you some questions.”
“It’s Henry,” he corrected. He obviously didn’t like surprises, just as he obviously did not like Amanda. He couldn’t even look at her.
Will cleared his throat. He told his uncle, “I’m sorry that we showed up like this.”
Henry stared at him. Will felt an odd sense of déjà vu. Even after all these years, Henry shared similar features with his dead sister. Same mouth. Same high cheekbones. He had all of her secrets, too. All the stories about her childhood, her parents, her life.
And Will had a thin file that told him nothing more than that Lucy Bennett had been brutally murdered.
“Well,” the Buckhead Betty said. “This is awkward.” She extended her hand to Will. “I’m Elizabeth Bennett. Like in Austen, only older.” Her smile was as practiced as the joke. “I suppose I’m your aunt.”
Will didn’t know what else to do but shake her hand. Her grip was firmer than he expected. “Will Trent.”
She raised an eyebrow, as if the name surprised her.
Amanda asked, “How long have you been married?”
“To Henry?” She laughed. “Too long.” She turned to her husband, saying, “Let’s not be rude, sweetheart. These people are our guests.”
Something passed between them, the sort of muted, private exchange that old married couples hone over the years.
“You’re right.” Henry pointed to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Sit down, boy. Would you like a drink? I need a drink.”
“I’m fine,” Amanda said. Instead of sitting in front of the desk, she sat on the couch. As usual, she stayed on the edge of the cushion, not leaning back. The leather was old. It creaked under her slight weight.
“Wilbur?” Henry asked. He was standing beside a cart with a full bar.
“No, thank you.” Will sat beside Amanda on the couch. The frame was so low that he could easily rest his elbows on his knees. His leg wanted to shake. He felt nervous, like he’d done something wrong.
Henry dropped a piece of ice into a glass. He picked up a bottle of scotch and unscrewed the cap.
Elizabeth sat down in the matching leather chair. Like Amanda, she sat on the edge of the seat, back straight. She opened a silver box on the side table. She took out a cigarette and lighter. Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around a smoker. The house was large enough to absorb the smell, but the pungent odor of burning tobacco filled his nostrils as the woman lit the cigarette.
“Now.” Henry pulled over one of the chairs from his desk. “I assume you came here for a reason. Is it money? I have to warn you, all my cash is tied up right now. The market’s been volatile.”
Will would’ve preferred a knife in his groin. “No. I don’t want your money.”
Amanda said, “James Ulster is dead.”
Henry’s lips pursed. He got very still. “I’d heard he got out.”
“Two months ago,” Amanda confirmed.
Henry leaned back in his chair. He crossed his leg over his knee. His glass rested lightly on his palm. He smoothed out the arm of his suit jacket. He said, “Wilbur, I know that despite Ulster’s terrible actions, he was still your father. Are you holding up?”
“Yes, sir.” Will had to loosen his tie again. The air was stifling. He wanted to leave, especially when the room turned silent. No one seemed to know what to say.
Elizabeth took a deep drag off her cigarette. There was an amused smile on her lips, as if she was enjoying their discomfort.
“Well,” Henry said. “As I said, your father was a very bad man. I think we’re all relieved to learn of his demise.”
Will nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Elizabeth tapped the cigarette against the ashtray. “And how is your life, young man? Are you married? Do you have children?”
Will felt a tingling in his arm. He wondered if he was having a heart attack. “I’m doing well.”
“What about you, Hank?” Amanda asked. “I saw when you made partner. Three years out of law school and you rocketed to the top of the firm. Old Treadwell certainly took care of you.”
Henry finished his scotch. He put the glass on the table. “I’m retired now.”
Amanda spoke to Elizabeth. “It must be lovely having him home.”
She held the cigarette to her lips. “I cherish every moment.”
Another muted exchange, this time between Amanda and Elizabeth Bennett.
Will reached up to unbutton his shirt collar. Amanda touched his elbow to stop him. Elizabeth took another drag off her cigarette. A clock ticked somewhere in the house. The water from the driveway fountain continued its rhythmic sound.
“So.” Henry’s fingers tapped against his knee. “Wilbur.” His fingers stopped tapping. He looked down at his hand. “Was there anything else? I was about to head off to the club.”
Amanda asked, “How old would Lucy be now?”
Henry kept staring at his hand. “Fifty-three?”
“Fifty-six,” Will said.
Henry straightened his leg. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a pair of fingernail clippers. “Wilbur, I was thinking about your mother the other day.” He swiveled the handle. “I suppose news of Ulster’s parole put her in my mind.”
Will felt that familiar clamp start to tighten around his chest.
“Lucy had this friend. Not a pretty girl, but very demure.” Henry lined up the clipper to his thumbnail and presse
d the handles together. “I’ll hazard Lucy was a bad example for her. That’s neither here nor there.” He placed the cut fingernail on the table beside the ashtray and started on the next nail. “At any rate, the summer I was home from school, I would hear them giggling in Lucy’s room, listening to records. One day I went in to see what all the racket was, and caught them dancing in front of a mirror, singing into their hairbrushes.” He put the second nail by the first. “Isn’t that silly?”
Will watched him clip the nail of his middle finger. Henry flinched as he cut too close. Still, he managed to remove the tip in one piece. He put the crescent-shaped nail beside the others. When he looked up from his work, he seemed surprised that they were watching him. “I suppose that’s not an interesting anecdote. I just assumed you’d want to know something about your mother.”
Amanda asked, “Do you remember Evelyn Mitchell?”
He grunted at the name. “Vaguely.”
“You know, Evelyn was determined to track Ulster’s money.” She told Will, “This was before the Miami cocaine heyday when the government started requiring banks to report large deposits.”
Henry tucked the clippers back into his pocket. “Is there a point to this?”
Amanda picked up her purse from the floor. The bag was huge. She carried the world on her shoulder. “Ulster lived in a slum, but he had enough money to hire the top defense attorney in the Southeast. It raised some questions. At least among some of us.”
Henry’s tone was arrogant. “Again, I don’t know what this has to do with me.”
“Ulster had a savings account at C&S bank. We knew a gal there. She told us he had less than twenty dollars. He didn’t use a dime of it to pay his lawyer.”
Henry said, “He owned property.”
“Yes, a house in Techwood that he sold in 1995 for four million dollars.” She unzipped her purse. “He was the last holdout. I’m sure the city was pleased when he finally accepted.”
Henry sounded annoyed. “A lot of people made money off the Olympics.”
“Ulster certainly did.” Amanda took a latex glove out of her purse. As usual, she wiped her palm on her skirt. With her arm in a sling, it was more difficult to push her fingers into the latex, but she managed to pull on the glove. And then she reached into her purse again and pulled out his father’s Bible.
Criminal Page 40