Genesis (23 page)

There was a knock at the door; three sharp raps followed by the
doorbell chime.

Faith wiped her eyes as she walked down the hall, her cheeks so
wet that she had to use her sleeve. She still had her gun on her hip, so
she didn't bother to check the peephole.

"This is a switch," Sam Lawson told her. "Women usually cry
when I leave, not when I show up."

"What do you want, Sam? It's late."

"You gonna invite me in?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "You know
you wanna."

Faith was too tired to argue, so she turned around, letting him
follow her back to the kitchen. Sam Lawson was an itch she had
really needed to scratch for a few years, but now she couldn't remember
why she had bothered. He drank too much. He was married. He
didn't like kids. He was convenient and he knew how to make an
exit, which, as far as Faith was concerned, meant he left shortly after
he had served his purpose.

Okay, now she remembered why she had bothered.

Sam took a glob of gum out of his mouth and dropped it into the
trash. "I'm glad I saw you today. I need to tell you something."

Faith braced herself for bad news. "Okay."

"I'm sober now. Almost a year."

"You're here to make amends?"

He laughed. "Hell, Faith. You're about the only person in my life
I didn't screw over."

"Only because I kicked you to the curb before you could." Faith
pulled the string on the trash, tying it tight.

"Bag's gonna tear."

The plastic ripped just as he said the words.

"Shit," she muttered.

"You want me to—"

"I've got it."

Sam leaned against the counter. "I love watching a woman do
manual labor."

She shot him a withering look.

He flashed another smile. "I heard you cracked some heads at
Rockdale today."

Faith said a silent curse in her head, remembering that Max
Galloway had yet to give them the initial crime-scene reports. She
had been so furious that she hadn't thought to follow up on it, and
she would be damned if she'd take the man's word for it that everything
had been fairly routine.

"Faith?"

She fed him the standard line. "The Rockdale police are cooperating
fully with our investigation."

"It's the sister you need to worry about. You seen the news?
Joelyn Zabel's all over the place saying your partner's the reason her
sister died."

That rankled more than she wanted to let on. "Check the autopsy
summary."

"I saw it already," he said. Faith guessed Amanda had shared the
report with a few key people in order to spread the news as quickly as
possible. "Jacquelyn Zabel killed herself."

"Did you tell that to the sister?" Faith asked.

"She's not interested in the truth."

Faith gave him a pointed look. "Not many people are."

He shrugged. "She got what she wanted from me. She's moved on
to network television."

"The
Atlanta Beacon
's not big enough for her, huh?"

"Why are you being so hard on me?"

"I don't like your job."

"I'm not crazy about yours, either." He went to the sink cabinet
and took out the box of trash bags. "Slide a new one over the old
one."

Faith took a bag, holding the white plastic in her hands, trying
not to think about what Pete had found during the autopsy.

Sam was oblivious as he put back the box. "What's that guy's
story, anyway? Trent?"

"All inquiries should go through the public relations office."

Sam had never been one to take no for an answer. "Francis tried to
feed me something about Trent getting circle-jerked by Galloway today.
Made it out like he was some kinda Keystone Cop."

Faith stopped worrying about the trash. "Who's Francis?"

"Fierro."

Faith took childish pleasure in the girlish name. "And you printed
every word the asshole said without bothering to run it by someone
who could tell you the truth."

Sam leaned against the counter. "Cut me some slack, babe. I'm
just doing my job."

"They let you make excuses in AA?"

"I didn't run the Kidney Killer stuff."

"That's only because it was proved wrong before you went to
press."

He laughed. "You never let me bullshit you." He watched her
wrestle the old bag into a new one. "Jesus, I've missed you."

Faith gave him another sharp glance, but she felt herself react to
his words despite her best intentions. Sam had been her life raft a few
years ago—just available enough to be there when she really needed
him, but not so much that she felt smothered.

He said, "I didn't print anything about your partner."

"Thank you."

"What's going on with Rockdale anyway? They're really out to
get you."

"They care more about screwing us over than finding out who abducted
those women." Faith didn't give herself time to consider that
she was echoing Will's sentiments. "Sam, it's bad. I saw one of them.
This killer—whoever he is . . ." She realized almost too late to whom
she was talking.

"Off the record," he said.

"Nothing's ever off the record."

"Of course it is."

Faith knew he was right. She had told Sam secrets in the past that
had never been repeated. Secrets about cases. Secrets about her
mother, a good cop who had been forced off the job because some of
her detectives had been caught skimming off drug busts. Sam had
never printed anything Faith had told him, and she should trust him
now. Only she couldn't. It wasn't just her anymore. Will was involved.
She might hate her partner right now for being a pussy, but
she would kill herself before she exposed him to any more scrutiny.

Sam asked, "What's going on with you, babe?"

Faith looked down at the torn trash bag, knowing he'd read
everything in her face if she looked up. She remembered the day
she'd found out her mother was being forced off the job. Evelyn
hadn't wanted comfort. She had wanted to be alone. Faith had felt
the same way until Sam showed up. He had talked his way into her
house the same way he had tonight. Feeling his arms around her had
sent Faith over the edge, and she had sobbed like a child as he held her.

"Babe?"

She snapped open the new trash bag. "I'm tired, I'm cranky, and
you don't seem to understand that I'm not going to give you a story."

"I don't want a story." His tone had changed. She looked up at
him, surprised to see the smile playing on his lips. "You look . . ."

Faith's mind filled with suggestions:
puffy, sweaty, morbidly obese.

"Beautiful," he said, which surprised them both. Sam had never
been one for compliments, and Faith certainly wasn't used to getting
them.

He pushed away from the counter, moving closer. "There's something
about you that's different." He touched her arm, and the rough
texture of his palm sent heat rushing through her body. "You just
look so . . ." He was close now, staring at her lips like he wanted to
kiss them.

"Oh," Faith said, then, "No. Sam." She backed away from him.
She'd experienced this the first time she was pregnant—men hitting
on her, telling her she was beautiful even when her stomach was so
huge she couldn't bend over to tie her own shoes. It must be hormones
or pheromones or something. At fourteen, it had been skeevy,
at thirty-three it was just annoying. "I'm pregnant."

The words hung between them like a lead balloon. Faith realized
this was the first time she had said them aloud.

Sam tried to make a joke out of it. "Wow, I didn't even have to
take off my pants."

"I'm serious." She said it again. "I'm pregnant."

"Is it . . ." He seemed at a loss for words. "The father?"

She thought about Victor, his dirty socks in her laundry basket.
"He doesn't know."

"You should tell him. He has a right."

"Since when are you the arbiter of relationship morality?"

"Since I found out my wife had an abortion without telling me."
He leaned closer, put his hands on her arms again. "Gretchen didn't
think I could handle it." He shrugged, keeping his hands on Faith's
arms. "She was probably right, but still."

Faith bit her tongue. Of course Gretchen was right. She would've
been better off asking a dingo to help raise her baby. She asked, "Did
this happen when you were seeing me?"

"After." He looked down, watching his hand stroke her arm, his
fingers tracing the neck of her blouse. "I hadn't hit bottom yet."

"You weren't exactly in a position to make an informed decision."

"We're still trying to work things out."

"Is that why you're here?"

He pressed his mouth to hers. She could feel the rough prickle
of his beard, taste the cinnamon gum he'd been chewing. He lifted
her onto the counter, his tongue finding hers. It wasn't unpleasant,
and when his hands slid up her thighs, lifting her skirt, Faith didn't
stop him. She helped him, actually, and in retrospect, she probably
shouldn't have, because it ended things a lot sooner than they
needed to.

"I'm sorry." Sam shook his head, slightly out of breath. "I didn't
mean to—I just—"

Faith didn't care. Even if her mind had blocked out Sam from her
conscious thoughts over the years, her body seemed to remember
every part of him. It felt so damn good to have his arms around her
again, to feel the closeness of somebody who knew about her family
and her job and her past—even if that particular body wasn't of
much use to her at the moment. She kissed his mouth very gently
and with no other meaning than to feel connected again. "It's okay."

Sam pulled back. He was too embarrassed to see that it didn't
matter.

"Sammy—"

"I haven't gotten the hang of things being sober."

"It's okay," she repeated, trying to kiss him again.

He stepped back even farther, looking somewhere over her shoulder
instead of in her eyes. "You want me to . . ." He made a halfhearted
gesture toward her lap.

Faith let out a heavy sigh. Why were the men in her life such a
constant disappointment? God knew she didn't have high standards.

He looked at his watch. "Gretchen's probably waiting up for me.
Been working late a lot."

Faith gave up, leaning her head against the cabinet behind her.
She might as well try to salvage something out of this. "Do you mind
taking out the trash on your way out?"

"G
ODDAMM IT," PAULINE WHISPERED, THEN WONDERED WHY
she wasn't screaming it at the top of her lungs. "Goddamm it!" she
yelled, her voice catching in her throat. She rattled the handcuffs
around her wrists, jerking at them even though she knew the gesture
was useless. She was like a goddamn prisoner at a jail, her hands
cuffed, strapped tight to a leather belt so that, even if she contorted
herself into a ball, her fingertips barely grazed her chin. Her feet were
chained, the thick links clanking against each other with every step
she took. She had done enough damn yoga to be able to bend her feet
up to her head, but what good was that? What the hell kind of help
was the inversion plow pose when your fucking life was at stake?

The blindfold made it worse, though she had managed to move it
up a little by rubbing her face against the rough concrete blocks lining
one of the walls. The scarf was tight. Millimeter by millimeter,
the blindfold was forced up, shaving away some of the skin on her
cheek in the process. There was no difference above or below the
strip of material, but Pauline felt like she had accomplished something,
might be prepared when that door opened and she saw a sliver
of light under the blindfold.

For now, it was darkness. That was all she saw. No windows, no
lights, no way of judging the movement of time. If she thought
about it, thought that she could not see, did not know if she was being
watched or videotaped or worse, she would lose her mind. Hell,
she was half losing her mind already. She was soaking wet, sweat
pouring from her skin. Rivulets tickled her nose as they slid down
her scalp. It was maddening, made all the more worse by the fucking
darkness.

Felix liked the dark. He liked it when she got in bed with him and
held him and told him stories. He liked being under the covers, blankets
over his head. Maybe she had coddled him too much when he
was a baby. She'd never let him out of her sight. She was scared that
someone would take him away from her, someone would realize that
she really shouldn't be a mother, that she didn't have it in her to love
a child like a child should be loved. But she did. She loved her boy.
She loved him so much that the thought of him was the only thing
that was keeping her from twisting herself into a ball, wrapping the
chains around her neck and killing herself.

"Help!" she screamed, knowing it was useless. If they were afraid
of Pauline being heard, they would have gagged her.

She had paced out the room hours ago, approximating the size at
twenty feet by sixteen. Cinderblock walls on one side, sheetrock on
the other, with a metal door that was bolted from the outside. Vinyl
mattress pad in the corner. A slop bucket with a lid. The concrete was
cold against her bare feet. There was a hum in the next room, a hot
water heater, something mechanical. She was in a basement. She was
underground, which made her feel as if her skin would crawl right
off her body. She hated being underground. She didn't even park in
the damn garage at work, she hated it so much.

She stopped pacing, closed her eyes.

No one parked in her space. It was right by the door. Sometimes
she'd go out for some air, stand at the entrance to the garage to make
sure the space was empty. She could read the sign from the street:
PAULINE MCGHEE
. Christ, the battle with the sign company to get
that "
C
" in lower case. It had cost someone their job, which was just
as well, since apparently they couldn't do it right.

If someone was parked in her space, she would call the attendant
and have the asshole towed. Porsche, Bentley, Mercedes—Pauline
didn't care. She had earned that fucking space. Even if she wasn't going
to use it, she would be damned if someone else would.

"Let me out of here!" she screamed, jerking the chains, trying to
wrench off the belt. It was thick, the sort of thing her brother wore
back in the seventies. Two rows of riveted holes going the circumference,
two prongs in the buckle. The metal felt like a wad of wax, and
she knew the prongs had been soldered down. She couldn't remember when
it had happened, but she knew what a fucking soldered belt
felt like.

"Help me!" she screamed. "Help me!"

Nothing. No help. No response. The belt was biting into her
skin, raking across her hip bones. If she wasn't so fucking fat, she
could just slide out of the thing.

Water,
she thought. When had she last had water? You could live
without food for weeks, sometimes months, but water was different.
You could go three, maybe four days before it hit you—the cramps,
the cravings. The awful headaches. Were they going to give her water?
Or were they going to let her waste away, then do whatever they
wanted to her while she lay there, helpless as a child?

Child.

No. She would not think about Felix. Morgan would take him.
He would never let anything bad happen to her baby. Morgan was a
bastard and a liar, but he would take care of Felix, because underneath
it all, he was not a bad person. Pauline knew what a bad person
looked like, and it was not Morgan Hollister.

She heard footsteps behind her, outside the door. Pauline
stopped, holding her breath so she could hear. Stairs—someone was
coming down the stairs. Even in the dark, she could see the walls
closing in around her. Which was worse: being alone down here, or
being trapped with someone else?

Because she knew what was coming. Knew it just as certain as she
knew the details of her own life. There was never just one. He always
wanted two: dark hair, dark eyes, dark hearts that he could shatter.
He had kept them apart for as long as he could stand it, but now he'd
want them together. Caged, like two animals. Fighting it out. Like
animals.

The fist domino would soon fall, then the rest would follow one
after the other. A woman alone, two women alone, and then . . .

She heard a chattering, "No-no-no-no," and realized the words
were coming from her own mouth. She backed up, pressing herself
into the wall, her knees shaking so hard that she would've fallen to
the floor but for the rough cinderblock bracing her. The handcuffs
rattled as her hands trembled.

"No," she whispered, just one word, shaking herself out of it. She
was a survivor. She had not lived the last twenty years of her life so
that she would die in some fucking underground hole.

The door opened. She saw a flash of light under the blindfold.

He said, "Here's your friend."

She heard something drop to the floor—a dank exhalation of air,
the rattling of chains, then stillness. Then there was a second, quieter
sound; a solid thud that echoed in the large room.

The door closed. The light was gone. There was a whistling
sound, labored breathing. Groping, Pauline found the body. Long
hair, blindfold, thin face, small breasts, hands cuffed in front of her.
The whistling was coming from the woman's broken nose.

No time to worry about that. Pauline checked the woman's pockets,
tried to find something that could get her out of here. Nothing.
Nothing except another person who was going to want food and
water.

"Fuck." Pauline sat back on her heels, fighting the urge to scream.
Her foot struck something hard, and she reached around, remembering
the second thud.

She traced her hands along the thin cardboard box, guessing it was
about six inches square. It had some heft—maybe a couple of
pounds. There was a perforation line along one side, and she pressed
her fingers against it, breaking open the seal. Her fingers found something
slick inside.

"No . . ." she breathed.

Not again.

She closed her eyes, felt tears weep from under the blindfold.
Felix, her job, her Lexus, her life—all of it slipped away as she felt
the slick plastic trash bags between her fingers.