They shared a moment of commiseration. Pauline tried to remember what little she knew about Mia. The woman didn’t post much on the board, but when she did, she was pretty on point. Like Pauline and a few other posters, Mia didn’t like whiners and she didn’t take much bullshit.
“They can’t starve us,” Mia said. “I can go nineteen days before I start to shut down.”
Pauline was impressed. “I can go about the same,” she lied. Her max had been twelve, and then they’d put her in the hospital and plumped her up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Mia said, “Water is the issue.”
“Yeah,” Pauline agreed. “How long can you—”
“I’ve never tried to go without water,” Mia interrupted, finishing the sentence. “It doesn’t have any calories.”
“Four days,” Pauline told her. “I read somewhere that you can only last about four days.”
“We can last longer.” It wasn’t wishful thinking. If Mia could last nineteen days without eating, she sure as hell could last longer than Pauline without water.
That was the problem. She could outlast Pauline. No one had outlasted Pauline before.
Mia asked the obvious question. “Why hasn’t he fucked us?”
Pauline pressed her head to the cool concrete floor, tried to keep the panic from building up inside of her. The fucking wasn’t the problem. It was the other stuff—the games, the taunting, the tricks … the trash bags.
“He wants us weak,” Mia guessed. “He wants to make sure we can’t fight back.” Mia’s chains rattled as she moved. Her voice sounded closer, and Pauline guessed she’d turned onto her side. “What were you doing? Before, I mean. Why were you hitting the wall with your head?”
“If I can punch through the sheetrock, maybe I can get out. It’s standard building code that the two-by-fours have to be sixteen inches apart.”
Mia’s tone filled with awe. “You have a sixteen-inch waist?”
“No, you dumbass. I can turn sideways and slide out.”
Mia laughed at her own stupidity, but then she pointed out something that made Pauline feel equally as idiotic. “Why aren’t you using your feet?”
They were both quiet, but Pauline felt something welling up inside her. Her stomach twinged, and she heard laughter in her ears, honest-to-God, all-out laughter, as she thought about how fucking stupid she was.
“Oh, God,” Mia sighed. She was laughing, too. “You are such an idiot.”
Pauline twisted her body around, trying to spin on her shoulder. She lined up her feet, bracing them together so that the chains wouldn’t throw her off, and kicked. The sheetrock caved on the first try.
“Dumbass,” she muttered, this time at herself. She slid back around to face the opening, using her teeth to bite off the broken chunks of sheetrock. There was poison in the dust, but she didn’t care. She would rather die with her head poking six inches out of this room than be trapped here while she waited for that fucker to come for her.
“Did you get it?” Mia asked. “Did you break—”
“Shut up,” Pauline told her, biting into foam padding. He had soundproofed the walls. That was to be expected. No big deal. She just grabbed it with her teeth, taking chunk after chunk out, aching for the feel of fresh air on her face.
“Fuck!” Pauline screamed. She inched around so that her waist was lined up with the hole. She reached out with her fingers, which barely went past the broken sheetrock. She tore out the foam, then her fingers brushed something that felt like a screen. She arched her back, reaching her hands out as far as they would go. Her fingers traced along crisscrossed wire. “Goddamn it!”
“What is it?”
“Chicken wire.” He had lined the walls with chicken wire so they couldn’t break out.
Pauline angled herself around again and jammed her feet against the wire. The soles of her shoes met solid resistance. Instead of the screen giving, the counterforce moved her several inches across the floor. She inched back to try again, rolling over onto her stomach and placing her sweaty palms to the cement. Pauline reared her feet back and kicked with all her strength. Again she met solid resistance, her body sliding away from the wall.
“Oh, Jesus,” she gasped, falling onto her back. The tears came, the tiny spider legs encroaching on her vision. “What am I going to do?”
“Can your hands reach?”
“No,” Pauline cried. Hope drained out of her with every breath. Her hands were too tight to the belt. The chicken wire was attached to the back of the two-by-four. There was no way she could reach it.
Pauline’s body shook with sobs. She had not seen him in years, but she still knew how his mind worked. The basement was his staging ground, a carefully prepared prison where he would starve them into submission. But this was not the worst of it. There would be a cave somewhere, a dark place in the earth that he had lovingly dug out by hand. The basement would break them. The cave would destroy them. The bastard had thought of everything.
Again.
Mia had managed to inch her way over. Her voice was close, almost on top of Pauline. “Shut up,” Mia ordered, pushing Pauline out of the way. “We’ll use our mouths.”
“What?”
“It’s thin metal, right? Chicken wire?”
“Yeah, but—”
“You bend it back and forth and it breaks.”
Pauline shook her head. This was crazy.
“All we need is for one piece to give,” Mia said, as if the logic was clear. “Just grab it in your mouth and pull back and forth, back and forth. It’ll break eventually, then we can kick it. Or we can just break every single piece off with our mouths.”
“We can’t—”
“Don’t tell me can’t, you fucking bitch.” Mia’s foot was chained, but she managed to kick Pauline in the shin.
“Ouch! Jesus—”
“Start counting,” Mia ordered, inching toward the hole in the wall. “When you get to two hundred, it’ll be your turn.”
Pauline wasn’t going to do it because she would be damned if she let this bitch tell her what to do. She heard something then—teeth on metal. Grinding, twisting. Two hundred seconds. Their skin would rip open. Their gums would be in shreds. There was no telling if it would even work.
Pauline rolled over, sat up on her knees.
She started counting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
—
Faith had never thought of herself as a morning person, but she had gotten into the habit of going in to work early when Jeremy was a child. You couldn’t not be a morning person when there was a hungry boy to feed, dress, scrutinize and send off to the bus stop by 7:13 at the latest. If not for Jeremy, she might have been one of those late-night people, the sort who rolls into bed well after midnight, but Faith’s usual bedtime ran closer to ten, even after Jeremy was a teenager and his waking hours were few and far between.
For his own reasons, Will was always at work early, too. Faith saw his Porsche parked in its usual space as she pulled the Mini into the lot under City Hall East. She put the car in park, then sat there trying to get the driver’s seat back where she could reach the pedals and the steering wheel at the same time without being impaled by one while having to stretch to reach the other. After several minutes, she finally found the right combination and briefly thought about having the seat bolted into place. If Will wanted to drive her car again, he’d have to do it with his knees around his ears.
There was a tap at her window, and Faith looked up, startled. Sam Lawson stood there, a cup of coffee in his hand.
Faith opened the car door and wedged herself out, feeling like she’d put on twenty pounds overnight. Finding something to wear this morning had been a nearly impossible task. She was carrying enough water weight to fill a tank at SeaWorld. Thankfully, her giddiness over Sam Lawson had been a twenty-four-hour virus. She did not relish having a conversation with him now, especially since her mind needed to be focused on the day ahead of her.
�
�Hey, babe,” Sam said, looking her up and down in his usual predatory way.
Faith got her purse out of the back seat. “Long time no see.”
He gave a half-shrug that implied he was merely the victim of circumstance. “Here,” he said, offering her the coffee. “Decaf.”
Faith had tried to drink some coffee this morning. The smell had sent her rushing to the bathroom. “Sorry.” She ignored the cup, walking away from him, trying not to get sick again.
Sam tossed the cup into the trashcan as he caught up with her. “Morning sickness?”
Faith glanced around, afraid they’d be heard. “I haven’t told anyone but my boss.” She tried to remember when you were supposed to tell people. There had to be a certain number of weeks before you were sure it took. Faith must be coming up on that mark. She should start telling people soon. Should she get them all together, invite her mother and Jeremy to dinner, get her brother on speakerphone, or was there a way to send a bulk anonymous email and perhaps jump on a flight to the Caribbean for a few weeks to avoid the fallout?
Sam’s fingers snapped in front of her face. “You in there?”
“Barely.” Faith reached for the door to the building just as he did. She let him open it for her. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“About last night—”
“It was two nights ago, actually.”
He grinned. “Yeah, but I wasn’t really thinking about it until last night.”
Faith sighed as she pressed the elevator button.
“Come here.” He pulled her toward the alcove on the other side of the elevator. There was a vending machine with three rows of sticky buns, which Faith knew without having to look.
Sam stroked her hair behind her ear. Faith pulled back. She wasn’t ready for intimacy this early in the morning. She wasn’t sure she was ever ready for it. Without thinking, she glanced up to make sure there wasn’t a security camera watching them.
He said, “I was an ass the other night. I’m sorry.”
She heard the elevator doors open, then close. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.” He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back again.
“Sam, I’m at work.” She didn’t add the rest of what she was thinking, which was that she was in the middle of a case where one woman had died, another woman had been tortured and two more were missing. “This isn’t the time.”
“It’s never the time,” he said, something he’d often told her years ago when they were seeing each other. “I want to try this again with you.”
“What about Gretchen?”
He shrugged. “Hedging my bets.”
Faith groaned, pushing him away. She went back to the elevator and pressed the button. Sam didn’t leave, so she told him, “I’m pregnant.”
“I remember.”
“I don’t want to break your heart, but the baby’s not yours.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She turned to face him. “Are you trying to work out some ghosts because your wife had an abortion?”
“I’m trying to get back into your life, Faith. I know it has to be on your terms.”
Faith balked at the backhanded compliment. “I seem to recall one of the problems between us, other than you being a drunk, me being a cop and my mother thinking you were the Antichrist, was you didn’t like the fact that I had a son.”
“I was jealous of the attention you gave him.”
At the time, she had accused him of this very thing. To hear him admit to it now left her nearly breathless.
“I’ve grown up,” he said.
The elevator opened. Faith made sure the car was empty, then held the door open with her hand. “I can’t have this conversation now. I’ve got work to do.” She got into the elevator and let the doors go.
“Jake Berman lives in Coweta County.”
Faith nearly lost her hand stopping the doors. “What?”
He took his notebook out of his pocket and wrote as he talked. “I tracked him down through his church. He’s a deacon and a Sunday School teacher. They’ve got a great website with his picture on it. Lambs and rainbows. Evangelical.”
Faith’s brain couldn’t process the information. “Why did you find him?”
“I wanted to see if I could beat you to the punch.”
Faith didn’t like where this was going. She tried to neutralize the situation. “Listen, Sam, we don’t know that he’s a bad guy.”
“I guess you’ve never been in the men’s room at the Mall of Georgia.”
“Sam—”
“I haven’t talked to him,” he interrupted. “I just wanted to see if I could track him down when no one else could. I’m tired of Rockdale squeezing my balls. I much prefer it when you do.”
Faith let that comment go, too. “Give me the morning to talk to him.”
“I told you, I’m not looking for a story.” He grinned, showing all his teeth. “It was an exercise in faith.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I wanted to see if I could do your job.” He tore off the piece of paper, giving her a wink. “Pretty easy stuff.”
Faith grabbed the address before he changed his mind. He held her gaze as the doors closed, then Faith found herself staring at her reflection on the backs of the doors. She was sweating already, though she supposed in a pinch that could pass for a pregnant glow. Her hair was starting to frizz because, even though it was only April, the temperature was inching up the thermometer.
She looked at the address Sam had given her. There was a heart around the entire thing, which she found annoying and endearing in equal parts. She didn’t quite trust that he wasn’t looking for a story in Jake Berman. Maybe the Atlanta Beacon was doing a down-low exclusive, outing married churchgoers who were trolling glory holes and finding raped and tortured women in the middle of the road.
Could Berman be Pauline’s brother? Now that she had an address, Faith wasn’t so sure. What were the odds that Jake Berman had hooked up with Rick Sigler, and both men just happened to be on the road at the same time the Coldfields’ car hit Anna Lindsey?
The doors opened and Faith walked out onto her floor. None of the hall lights were on, and she flipped the switches as she walked toward Will’s office. No light seeped from under his door, but she knocked anyway, knowing from his car that he was in the building.
“Yes?”
She opened the door. He was sitting at his desk with his hands clasped in front of his stomach. The lights were off.
She asked, “Everything okay?”
He didn’t answer her question. “What’s up?”
Faith shut the door and opened the folding chair. She saw the back of Will’s hand, and that some new scratches had been added to the cuts he’d received while beating Simkov’s face. She didn’t mention this, instead going to the case. “I got Jake Berman’s address. He’s in Coweta. That’s about forty-five minutes from here, right?”
“If the traffic’s good.” He held out his hand for the address.
She read it off to him. “Nineteen-thirty-five Lester Street.”
He still had his hand out. For some reason, all Faith could do was stare at his fingers.
Will snapped, “I’m not a fucking idiot, Faith. I can read an address.”
His tone was sharp enough to make the hair on the back of her neck rise. Will seldom cursed, and she had never heard him say “fuck” before. She asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just need the address. I can’t do the interview with Simkov. I’ll go find Berman and we’ll meet back here after your appointment.” He shook his hand. “Now give me the address.”
She crossed her arms. She would die before she gave him the piece of paper. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, but you need to get your head out of your ass and talk to me about this before we’ve got a real problem.”
“Faith, I’ve only got two testicles. If you want one, you’re going to have to talk to Amanda or Angie.
”
Angie. With that one word, all the fight seemed to go out of him.
Faith sat back in the chair, her arms still crossed, studying him. Will looked out the window, and she could see the faint line of the scar going down the side of his face. She wanted to know how it had happened, how his skin had been gouged from his jaw, but as with everything else, the scar was just another thing they did not talk about.
Faith put the paper on his desk and slid the address across to him.
Will gave it a cursory glance. “There’s a heart around it.”
“Sam drew it.”
Will folded the paper and put it in his vest pocket. “Are you seeing him?”
Faith was loath to use the words “booty call,” so she just shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
He nodded—the same nod they always used when there was something personal that wasn’t going to be discussed.
She was sick of this. What was going to happen in a month when she started showing more? What was going to happen in a year when she collapsed on the job because she had miscalculated her insulin? She could easily see Will making excuses for her weight gain or simply helping her up and telling her she should be careful where she stepped. He was so damn good at pretending the house wasn’t on fire even as he ran around looking for water to put it out.
She threw up her hands in surrender. “I’m pregnant.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“Victor’s the father. I’m also diabetic. That’s why I passed out in the garage.”
He seemed too shocked to speak.
“I should’ve told you before. That’s what my secret appointment is in Snellville. I’m going to the doctor so she can help me with this diabetes thing.”
“Sara can’t be your doctor?”
“She referred me to a specialist.”
“A specialist means it’s serious.”
“It’s a challenge. The diabetes makes it more difficult. It’s manageable, though.” She had to add, “At least that’s what Sara said.”
“Do you need me to go to your appointment with you?”
Faith had a glimpse of Will sitting in the waiting room of Delia Wallace’s office with her purse in his lap. “No. Thank you. I need to do this on my own.”
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 117
