Criminal (41 page)

twenty-seven

July 15, 1975

“Amanda,” Evelyn repeated.

Amanda stared down at Ulster. Her foot was still jammed into his neck. With the slightest pressure, she could crush his windpipe.

“Amanda,” Evelyn said. “The girl.”

The girl.

Amanda stepped back. She told the patrolman, “Take him.” The man took out his cuffs. He called dispatch on his shoulder mic, sounding as scared as Amanda had felt ten minutes ago.

She wasn’t afraid now. The steeliness was back. The fury. The anger. She headed toward the house.

“Wait.” Evelyn put her hand on Amanda’s arm. The lower half of her face was swollen. It obviously hurt to talk, but she whispered, “There could be someone else.”

Not another girl. Another killer.

Amanda found her revolver on the ground. The wooden grip was cracked. She opened the cylinder. One bullet. She looked at Evelyn, who checked her own revolver and held up four fingers. Five bullets between them. That was all they had.

That was all they needed.

The front door was unlocked. Amanda reached in with her hand and turned on the switch. A single bulb hung from an old fixture in the ceiling. The house was shotgun style, one story with a front door that lined up to the back. There were two chairs in the front room. A Bible was open on one of them. A silver bowl of water was on the floor. She was reminded of Easter church services. The women would bring bowls of water and wash the men’s feet. She’d washed Duke’s every year since her mother died.

The distant wail of a siren broke the silence. Not just one siren. Two. Three. More than she could decipher.

Evelyn joined Amanda as she walked down the hall. The kitchen was straight ahead. Two doors were on their right. One on the left. All closed.

Evelyn indicated the first door. She gripped her revolver in her hand. She nodded that she was ready.

They stood on either side of the closed door. Amanda reached down and turned the knob. She pushed open the door. Quickly, she reached in and flipped up the light switch. A floor lamp came on. There was a metal bed in the middle of the room. The mattress was soiled. Threads jutted up. Broken threads. A washstand. A sink. A chair. A bed table.

On the table was a pair of nail clippers. Cuticle nips. Buffer. Three types of metal files. An emery board. Tweezers. Red Max Factor nail polish with a pointy white cap. A glass vial filled with the crescent-shaped clippings of women’s fingernails.

Jane Delray.

Mary Halston.

Kitty Treadwell.

Lucy Bennett.

Filthy rooms. Cracked plaster walls. Bare bulbs in the ceiling. Animal droppings on the floor. The stench of blood and terror.

This house was where he’d kept them.

Evelyn gave a low hiss for her attention. She nodded toward the next door. Amanda saw the patrolman enter the front room. She didn’t wait for him. They did not need his help.

She stood to the side of the closed door and turned the knob. The light was already on in the room. Washstand. Sink. Manicure kit. Red polish. Another glass vial of nail clippings.

The girl was slumped against the headboard. Blood spilled in a steady stream down her abdomen. Pink foam bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was wrapped around the large knife in her chest.

“Don’t!” Amanda lurched forward, dropping to her knees beside the bed. She covered the girl’s hand with her own. “Don’t take it out.”

Evelyn yelled to the patrolman, “Call an ambulance! She’s still alive!”

The girl’s throat made a sucking sound. Air whistled around Amanda’s hand. The blade was angled to the left, piercing the lung, possibly the heart. The knife was huge, the kind of weapon hunters used to skin their kill.

“Ha …,” the girl breathed. Her body was shaking. Torn threads hung from holes around her tattered lips. “Ha …”

“It’s okay,” Amanda soothed, trying to keep the knife steady as she peeled away the girl’s fingers.

Evelyn asked, “Is she having a seizure?”

“I don’t know.”

The girl’s hand dropped. The fingers twitched against the mattress. Her breath was stale, almost sour. Amanda’s muscles burned as she gripped the handle of the knife, trying desperately to hold it in place. No matter what she did, blood poured steadily from the wound.

“It’s all right,” Amanda mumbled. “Just hold on a little bit longer.”

The girl tried to blink. Pieces of eyelid stuck to her brow. Her arm reached out, fingers flexing as she tried to point to the open door.

“That’s right.” Amanda felt tears streaming down her face. “We’re going to take you out of here. He’s not going to hurt you anymore.”

She made a noise, a sound between a breath and a word.

“We’ll get you out of here.”

Again, she made the sound.

“What is it?” Amanda asked.

“Laa …” The girl breathed. “Vah …”

Amanda shook her head. She didn’t understand.

Evelyn got down beside her. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“Laa,” she repeated. “Laa … vah …”

“Lover?” Amanda asked. “Love?”

Her head shook in a trembling nod. “Him …”

Her breath stopped. Her body went limp as the life drained out of her. Amanda couldn’t hold her up anymore. Gently, she let the girl fall back onto the bed. Her eyes took on a blank stare. Amanda had never seen another person die before. The room got cold. A breeze chilled her to the bone. It felt as if a shadow hovered above them, then just as quickly, it was gone.

Evelyn sat back on her knees. She spoke quietly. “Lucy Bennett.”

“Lucy Bennett,” Amanda repeated.

They stared at the poor creature. Her face. Her torso. Her arms and legs. The horrors of the last year were writ large across her body.

“How could she love him?” Amanda asked. “How could she …”

Evelyn used the back of her hand to wipe away tears. “I don’t know.”

Amanda stared into the dead girl’s eyes. She had seen her through the window just moments ago. The image flashed into Amanda’s mind like a scene from a horror movie. The girl on the bed. Her hand at her chest. It was a knife she had been holding. Amanda realized that now.

The sound of the sirens got louder.

“House is clear.” The patrolman came up behind them. “What did you—” He saw the body. His hand slapped to his mouth as he ran from the room, retching.

Evelyn said, “At least we were here for her.”

Tires screeched in the street. Blue lights flashed.

“Maybe we brought her … I don’t know. Comfort?”

Amanda said, “We were too late to save her.”

“We found her,” Evelyn said. “At least we found her. At least the last few minutes of her life, she was free.”

“It’s not enough.”

“No,” Evelyn said. “It’ll never be enough.”

The sirens wound down as the cruisers pulled up. They heard talking outside; gruff voices barking orders, the usual palaver of men taking charge.

And something else.

Evelyn obviously heard it, too.

Still, Amanda asked, “What’s that noise?”

twenty-eight

Present Day

SUZANNA FORD

She knew what the noise was now. The elevators rushing up and down. She heard the wind whistling like a train—up and down, down and up—as the doctor cut the threads with a pair of office scissors.

“You’re going to be okay,” the woman said. She was obviously in charge. She’d been the first to come to Suzanna’s side. The only one who wasn’t afraid of what she had seen. The other guys hung back. She could hear their breathing like steam pushing out of an iron. And then the doctor told one to call an ambulance. Another to get a bottle of water. Another to get a blanket. Another to find some scissors. They jumped to obey, running off so fast that Suzanna could feel the ghosts of their presence long after she could no longer hear their sneakers pounding against the floor.

“You’re safe,” the doctor said. She put her hand to Suzanna’s head. She was pretty. Her green eyes were the first thing Suzanna saw. They looked at her down the blade of the scissors as she carefully snipped apart the threads. She’d covered Suzanna’s eyes with her hand so that the light would not blind her. Her touch was so light when she cut apart Suzanna’s lips that she’d barely felt the metal grazing her skin.

“Look at me. You’re going to be okay,” the woman said. Her voice was steady. She was so damn certain that Suzanna believed her.

And then she saw the man. Hulking. Lurking. He looked different. Younger. But it was still the same guy. Still the same monster.

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.