“Ain’t say nothin’. Honess.” Jane could barely speak from terror. “They jes’ show up.”
He shoved her out into the hall. Jane stumbled, falling against the wall before she found her footing.
“We’re leaving now.” Evelyn’s voice was shaking. She edged toward the door, motioning Amanda to follow. “We don’t want trouble.”
The man shut the door. The sound was like a gunshot. He stared at Amanda for a few intent seconds, then Evelyn. His eyes looked as if they were on fire.
Evelyn said, “Our sergeant knows we’re here.”
He turned around and slowly slid the chain into the track. And then he locked the deadbolt. And then the next one.
“We talked to dispatch before we—”
“I hear ya, Mrs. Pig. Lessee can the mayor get here ’fore I’m through.” He took the key from the lock and slid it into his front pocket. His voice went into a deep baritone. “You a fine-lookin’ woman. You know that?”
He wasn’t talking to Evelyn. His eyes were trained on Amanda. He licked his lips, his gaze lingering on her chest. She tried to back up, but he followed. Her legs hit the arm of the couch. His fingers touched the side of her neck. “Damn, gal. So fine.”
Amanda fought a wave of dizziness. She reached down to her purse, fidgeting with the zip, trying to get it to open. “Call for backup.”
Evelyn already had her radio in her hand. She clicked the button.
The man’s hand circled Amanda’s neck. His thumb pressed under her chin. “Radio ain’t gone work up here. We too high for the antennies.”
Evelyn furiously clicked the button. There was only static. “Shit.”
“We gone have some fun, ain’t we, Fuzzy?” His hand tightened around Amanda’s throat. She could smell his cologne and sweat. There was a birthmark on his cheek. A patch of hair showed where his shirt was unbuttoned. Gold chains. A tattoo of Jesus with a crown of thorns.
“Ev …,” Amanda breathed. She could feel the outline of the revolver inside her purse. She tried to force her finger into the trigger guard.
“Mmm-hmm,” the pimp moaned. He unzipped his pants. “Fine-lookin’ woman.”
“Eh-eh-ev …,” Amanda stuttered. His hand slipped under her skirt. She could feel his fingernails scrape her bare flesh, the pressure of him against her thigh.
Evelyn jammed the radio back into her purse and zipped closed the bag as if she was preparing to leave. Amanda panicked. And then gasped as Evelyn gripped the straps with both hands, swung around and smashed her bag into the side of the man’s head.
Gun. Badge. Handcuffs. Kel-Lite. Radio. Nightstick. Nearly twenty pounds of equipment. The pimp collapsed to the floor like a rag doll. Blood spurted from the side of his head. There were deep cuts across his cheek where the Indian tassels had sliced open the skin.
Amanda grabbed her revolver out of her purse. The bag fell to the floor. Her hands shook as she tried to grip the gun. She had to lean against the arm of the couch so she wouldn’t fall down.
“Christ.” Evelyn stood over the man, mouth agape. The blood was really flowing now.
“My God,” Amanda whispered. She pushed down her skirt. Her pantyhose were ripped from his prying fingernails. She could still feel his hand on her throat. “My God.”
“Are you okay?” Evelyn asked. She put her hands on Amanda’s arms. “You’re okay, all right?” Slowly, she reached down for Amanda’s revolver. “I’ve got this, okay? You’re fine.”
“Your gun …” Amanda was panting so hard she was going to hyperventilate. “Why didn’t … Why didn’t you shoot him?”
Evelyn chewed her bottom lip. She stared at Amanda for what seemed like a full minute before finally admitting, “Bill and I agreed that we shouldn’t keep a loaded gun in the house because of the baby.”
Words clogged Amanda’s throat. She screamed, “Your gun isn’t loaded!”
“Well …” Evelyn dug her fingers into the back of her hair. “It worked out, right?” She let out a strained laugh. “Sure, it worked out. We’re both fine. We’re both just fine.” She looked down at the pimp again. His pants were splayed open. “I guess it’s not true what they say about—”
“He was going to rape me! He was going to rape both of us!”
“Statistically …” Evelyn’s voice trailed off before she admitted, “Well, yes. It was bound to happen. I didn’t want to tell you before, but …” She picked up Amanda’s purse from the floor. “Yeah.”
For the first time in two months, Amanda wasn’t hot anymore. Her blood had turned cold.
Evelyn kept babbling. She zipped Amanda’s gun inside her purse, looped the strap over her shoulder. “We’re both okay, though. Right? I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re all okay.” She spotted a telephone on the floor by the couch. Her hand was shaking so hard that she dropped the receiver. It rattled in the cradle, dinging the bell. She finally managed to pick up the phone and put it to her ear. “I’ll call this in. The boys will come running. We’ll get out of here. We’re both fine. All right?”
Amanda blinked sweat out of her eye.
Evelyn stuck her finger in the dial. “I’m sorry. I talk when I get nervous. It drives my husband crazy.” The rotary slid back and forth. “What about those missing girls the whore mentioned? Do you recognize any of their names?”
Amanda blinked away more sweat. Her mind flashed up strange images. The disgusting bathroom. The shampoo bottles. The piles of makeup.
Evelyn said, “Lucy. Mary. Kitty Treadwell. Maybe we should write that down somewhere. I’m certain I’ll forget the minute I get a drink in me. Two drinks. A whole bottle.” She huffed out a short breath. “It’s weird that Jane was worried about them. These girls usually don’t worry about anything but keeping their pimps happy.”
Three used toothbrushes in the glass. The long, dark hair clumped in one of the combs.
Amanda said, “Jane’s hair is blonde.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Evelyn looked down at the unmoving man. “His wallet’s in his back pocket. Could you—”
“No!” The panic came back in full force.
“You’re right. Never mind. They’ll ID him at the jail. I’m sure he has a record. Hey, Linda.” Evelyn’s voice wavered as she spoke into the phone. “Ten-sixteen, my location. Hodge sent us in on a forty-nine and it turned into a fifty-five.” She looked at Amanda. “Anything else?”
“Tell them you’re twenty-four,” Amanda managed.
Duke Wagner was wrong about Evelyn Mitchell being pushy and opinionated.
The woman was just plain crazy.
five
Present Day
SUZANNA FORD
Zanna fell back on the bed, her feet still on the floor. She held up her iPhone and checked her messages. No texts. No voicemail. No email. The asshole was already ten minutes late. If she showed up downstairs without any money, Terry was going to beat her ass. Again. He seemed to forget it was his job to screen these losers. Not that Terry ever took the blame for anything.
She looked out the window at the downtown skyline. Zanna was born and raised in Roswell, half an hour and a lifetime away from Atlanta. Except for the buildings that had names on them, she had no idea what she was looking at. Equitable. AT&T. Georgia Power. All she knew was she was going to be seriously screwed if her john didn’t show.
The plasma TV on the wall flashed on. Zanna had rolled over on the remote. She saw Monica Pearson behind the news desk. Some girl was missing. White, blonde, pretty. They sure as shit wouldn’t care if Zanna was gone.
She flipped around the channels, trying to find something more interesting, finally giving up when she got into the triple digits. She tossed the remote onto the bedside table. Her arms itched. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted more than that.
If she thought about the meth long enough, she could taste the powder in the back of her throat. Her freaking nose was rotting from the inside, but she couldn’t stop snorting the stuff. Couldn’t stop thinking about the smash c
ut to her brain. The way it shook through her body. The way it made the world so much more bearable.
That wasn’t going to happen for at least an hour. To tide herself over, she went to the minibar and took out four small bottles of vodka. Zanna downed them in quick succession, then filled the empties in the bathroom sink. She was stacking the bottles back in the refrigerator when there was a knock at the door.
“Thank Jesus,” she groaned. She checked herself in the mirror. Not too bad. She could still pass for sixteen if the lights were turned down low enough. She twisted the wand to close the blinds and turned off one of the bedside lamps before answering the door.
The man was massive. The top of his head almost touched the doorway. His shoulders were nearly as wide as the frame. Zanna felt a stir of panic, but then she remembered Terry was downstairs, and that he had cleared this guy, and that whatever was about to happen wouldn’t matter when that first huff of meth snaked into her brain.
She said, “Hey, Daddy,” because he was older. Zanna didn’t want to think about the geezer using his social security check to pay for this. She looked at his face, which was pretty smooth considering his age. His neck was a little scrawny. You could really tell it in his hands. Liver spots. The hair on his arms was white, though what was left on his head was sandy brown.
Zanna threw open the door. “Come in, big boy.” She tried to swing her hips as she walked, but the carpet combined with her new high heels wasn’t a good mix. She ended up having to brace herself against the wall. She turned around and waited for him to come in.
He took his time. He didn’t seem nervous and God knew you didn’t pop your first whore at his age. He glanced up and down the hallway before finally shutting the door behind him. He was still in good shape despite the years on him. His hair was in a military cut. His shoulders were square. World War II, she thought, then her middle school history came back to her and Zanna figured he wasn’t old enough for that. Probably Vietnam. A lot of her customers lately were young guys just back from Afghanistan. She didn’t know which was worse—the sad ones who tried to make love or the angry ones who wanted to hurt her.
She got straight to the point. “You a cop?”
He said what they always said. “Do I look like a cop?” But he unzipped his pants without prompting. It was the last vestige of democracy. Even undercover, a cop wasn’t allowed to show you his junk. “All right?”
Zanna nodded, suppressing a shudder. He was huge. “Damn,” she managed. “That looks fun.”
The man zipped back up. “Have a seat.” He indicated the chair. Zanna sat, legs apart, so he’d have a good view from the bed. Only, he kept standing. His shadow stretched across the room, nearly reaching the edge of the door.
“How do you like it?” she asked, though Zanna had a sneaking suspicion he liked it rough. She pulled in her shoulders, tried to look smaller than she already was. “You wanna be gentle with me. I’m just a girl.”
His lip quivered, but that was the only reaction she got. He asked, “How did you get here?”
She thought he meant the literal path she’d taken—up Peachtree, left on Edgewood. Then she realized he meant her current state of employment.
Zanna shrugged. “What can I say? I love sex.” That’s what they wanted to hear. That’s what they tried to tell themselves when they ripped you apart and threw money in your face—that you loved it, couldn’t live without it.
“No,” he said. “I want the real story.”
“Oh, you know.” She blew out a puff of air. Her story was so boring. You couldn’t turn on the television without seeing some iteration of the same. Zanna hadn’t been tossed out on the streets. She hadn’t been abused. Her parents were divorced, but they were good people. The problem was Zanna. She’d started smoking weed so a boy would think she was cool. She’d started taking pills because she was bored. She’d started smoking meth to lose weight. And then it was too late to do anything else but hang on by her fingernails until the next hit.
Her mom let her live at home until she figured out Zanna was smoking more than Marlboros. Her dad let her live in his basement until his new wife found the blackened pieces of tinfoil that smelled like marshmallows. Then, they put her up in an apartment. Then they got all tough love, and two failed stints in rehab later, Zanna was out on the street, earning her fix between her legs.
“Tell me the truth,” the man said. “How did you get here?”
Zanna tried to swallow. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t tell if it was from withdrawal or from the scary feeling she was getting off this guy. She told him what she knew he wanted to hear. “My daddy hurt me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” She sniffed and looked down at the floor. She used the back of her hand to wipe away fake tears. Her jaw could’ve come unhinged like a boa constrictor’s, so bored was Zanna with spinning this story. “I didn’t have anywhere to go. I was sleeping on the streets. Sex is something I like. And I’m good at it, so …”
He kneeled down to look at her. Even on his knees, he was taller than her. Zanna glanced at him, then quickly looked away. It was shame this guy was looking for. Older generation. They lapped it up. Zanna could give him plenty of shame. Valerie Bertinelli. Meredith Baxter. Tori Spelling. Zanna had seen the look in every single Lifetime movie she’d ever watched.
She said, “I miss him. That’s the sad part.” She looked back up at the man, blinked her eyes a few times. “I miss my daddy.”
He took her hand, gently sandwiching it between both of his. Zanna couldn’t see anything but her wrist. His touch was light on her skin, but she felt like he’d trapped her. Her breath stuttered in her chest. Panic was a natural instinct she thought she’d learned to control. There was something about this man that set off what little warning system she had left.
He said, “Suzanna, don’t lie to me.”
Bile boiled up into her mouth. “That’s not my name.” She tried to pull away. His fingers clamped around her wrist. “I didn’t tell you my name.”
“Didn’t you?”
She was going to kill that fucking pimp. He’d sell his mother for an extra twenty. “What did Terry tell you? My name is Trixie.”
“No,” the man insisted. “You told me your name is Suzanna.”
She felt pain rush up her arm. She looked down. He held both her wrists in one hand. He leaned into her legs, trapping her against the chair. “Don’t fight,” he said, his free hand wrapping around her neck. The tips of his fingers touched in the back. “I want to help you, Suzanna. To save you.”
“I-I-I’m not—” She couldn’t speak. She was choking. She couldn’t breathe. Panic jerked through her body like a live wire. Her eyes rolled upward. She felt a stream of urine dribble down her leg.
“Just relax, sister.” He hovered above her. His eyes going back and forth as if he did not want to miss a second of her fear. A smile creased his lips. “The Lord will guide my hand.”
six
Present Day
MONDAY
Sara walked through the Grady Hospital emergency room, trying not to get pulled away on cases. Even if she tattooed “off duty” on her forehead, the nurses wouldn’t leave her alone. She shouldn’t blame them. The hospital was notoriously understaffed and overburdened. There had not been a time in Grady’s 120-year history when supply was able to keep up with demand. Working here was tantamount to signing away your life, which had been just what Sara needed when she’d taken the job. She hadn’t really had a life back then. She was newly widowed, living in a different city, starting over from scratch. Throwing herself into a demanding job was the only way she’d been able to cope.
It was amazing how quickly her needs had changed in the last two weeks.
Or the last hour, for that matter. Sara had no idea what was going on between Will and Amanda. Their relationship had always puzzled her, but the exchange in the hallway before the stairs collapsed had been downright bizarre. Even after the f
all, when it was clear that Amanda had been badly injured, Will seemed more intent on questioning the woman than helping her. Sara still felt shocked by his tone of voice. She’d never heard such coldness from him before. It was like he was another person, a stranger she did not want to know.
At least Sara had finally figured out the root of their conversation, though it was through no brilliant deduction of her own. The television over the nurses’ station was always tuned to the news. Closed captioning scrolled mindlessly day and night. The missing girl from Georgia Tech had made the jump to the national news, courtesy of CNN, whose world headquarters was just down the street from the university. The video of Amanda leading the press conference played on an endless loop, reporters flashing up statistics and the sort of non-information required to fill twenty-four-hour programming.
The latest speculation held that perhaps Ashleigh Renee Snyder had faked her own abduction. Students claiming to be close friends of the missing girl had come forward, giving details about her life, Ashleigh’s fears that her grades were slipping. Maybe she really was hiding somewhere. The theory was not completely without foundation. Georgia had a short history of women pretending to be kidnapped, the most famous being the so-called Runaway Bride, a silly woman who’d wasted several days of police time hiding from her own fiancé.
“Sara.” A nurse rushed up with a lab report. “I need you to—”
“Sorry. I’m off duty.”
“What the hell are you doing back here?” The woman didn’t wait around for an answer.
Sara checked the board to see if Will had been assigned a room. Generally, a case as mundane as sutures would take hours to get to, but before Sara dealt with Amanda, she’d made certain the admitting nurse hadn’t abandoned Will to the waiting room. He’d been assigned one of the curtains in the back. Sara felt her spine stiffen when she saw Bert Krakauer’s name instead of her own adjacent to Will’s.
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 214
