Sara felt caught out by the question.
Faith added, “His juvenile files are sealed—trust me, I’ve tried—but there has to be something at Grady from when he was a kid.”
A deep blush worked its way up Sara’s chest and face. She’d actually considered this once, but common sense had won out. “It’s illegal for me to access anyone’s records without their permission. Besides—”
Sara stopped talking. She wasn’t being completely honest. She’d made it as far as the records department. One of the secretaries had pulled Will’s patient chart. Sara hadn’t touched the file, but the name on the label listed him as Wilbur Trent. Will’s license gave his legal name as William Trent. Sara had seen it the other night when he’d opened his wallet to pay for dinner.
So why had Amanda called him Wilbur?
“Hello?” Faith snapped her fingers. “You in there?”
“Sorry. I zoned out.” Sara shifted Emma onto her other shoulder. “I’m just …” She tried to remember what they’d been talking about. “I’m not going to spy on him.” That, at least, was the truth. Sara wanted to know about Will because they were lovers, not because she was writing a salacious exposé. “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”
“Good luck with that,” Faith said. “Meanwhile, if you find out anything good, let me know.”
Sara chewed her lip as she stared at Faith. The overwhelming urge to strike a bargain started to well up from deep inside. Amanda showing up at the children’s home. The hammer. Will’s unexplained anger. His sudden desire to be alone.
Faith was whip-smart. She’d worked as a homicide detective on the Atlanta police force before becoming a special agent with the GBI. She’d been Will’s partner for two years. Faith’s mother was one of Amanda’s oldest friends. If Sara shared what had happened at the children’s home tonight, maybe Faith could help Sara put together the clues.
And then Will really would be lost to her forever.
“Faith,” Sara began. “I’m glad we’re friends. I like you a lot. But I can’t talk about Will behind his back. He has to always know I’m on his side.”
She took it better than Sara expected. “You’re far too healthy to be in a relationship with a cop. Especially Will.”
The thought occurred to Sara that they might not even be in a relationship anymore, but she said, “Thank you for understanding.”
Faith waved to an older woman who was standing at the nurses’ station. No pantsuit—she was dressed in jeans and a flowery blouse—but there was the unmistakable air of a police officer about her. It was the way she looked around the room, noting the good guys, singling out the possible bad ones. The woman waved at Faith, checked the patient board, then escorted herself toward Amanda’s room.
“She trained with Mossad after 9/11,” Faith provided. “Two kids. Three grandkids. Divorced five times. Twice from the same man. And did it all without ever wearing a pantsuit.” Faith sounded reverential. “She’s my role model.”
Sara cradled Emma so she could look at her face. There was a soft, powdery scent coming off her, a mixture of baby wipes and sweat. “Your mom’s a pretty good role model, too.”
“We’re too different.” Faith shrugged. “Mom’s quiet, methodical, always in charge, and I’m ‘oh my God, we’re all going to die.’ ”
The evaluation was strange coming from a woman who kept a loaded shotgun in the trunk of her car. Sara said, “I feel safe knowing you’re with Will.” Faith would never know what kind of compliment Sara had paid her. “You’re pretty good under fire.”
“Once I stop freaking out.” She pointed toward Amanda’s room. “You could blow up a bomb right now and as soon as the dust cleared, all of them would still be right there, guns drawn, ready to fight the bad guys.”
Sara had seen Amanda in some tough situations. She didn’t doubt it one bit.
“Mom told me when they joined up, the first question on the polygraph was about their sex lives. Were they virgins? If not, how many men had they been with—was it more than one? Was it less than three?”
“Is that legal?”
“Anything’s legal if you can get away with it.” She grinned. “They asked mom if she was joining the force so she could have sex with policemen. She told them it depended on what the policeman looked like.”
Sara asked, “What about Amanda?” The fall in the basement had her recalling her early days on the force. Maybe there was a reason. “Was she always a cop?”
“Far as I know.”
“She never worked for children’s services?”
Faith narrowed her eyes. Sara could practically see her detective’s brain click on. “What are you getting at?”
Sara kept her attention on Emma. “I was just curious. Will hasn’t told me much about her.”
“He wouldn’t,” Faith said, as if she needed reminding. “I grew up with Amanda. She dated my uncle for years, but the idiot never asked her to marry him.”
“She never got married? Had kids?”
“She can’t have children. I know she tried, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
Sara kept her gaze on Emma. There was one thing she shared with Amanda Wagner. It wasn’t the kind of club you bragged about belonging to.
Faith said, “Can you imagine her as a mother? You’d be better off with Casey Anthony.”
Emma hiccupped. Sara rubbed her tummy. She smiled at Faith, wishing—longing—to talk to her, but knowing she could not. Sara had not felt this cut off in a long while.
Of course, she could always call her mother, but Sara wasn’t up for a lecture about right and wrong, especially because Sara could clearly see the difference, which made her less the subject of a torrid love affair and more like a woman who had resigned herself to being a doormat. Because that was exactly what Cathy Linton would say: why are you giving a man everything when he won’t or can’t give you anything in return?
Faith asked, “Was that you or Emma?”
Sara realized she’d grunted. “Me. I just figured out my mother was right about something.”
“God, I hate when that happens.” Faith sat up straight. “Speaking of …”
Evelyn Mitchell was standing by the nurses’ station. The woman was cut from the same cloth as her friends: matching pantsuit, trim figure, perfect posture even though she couldn’t stand without crutches. She was obviously looking for her daughter.
Faith reluctantly stood. “Duty calls.” Her feet dragged the floor as she headed toward the nurses’ station.
Sara held up Emma and touched her nose to the baby’s. Emma showed both rows of gums, squealing in delight. If there was any question about how good a mother Faith Mitchell was, one need only look at her happy baby. Sara kissed Emma’s cheeks. The little girl giggled. A few more kisses and she started snorting. Her feet kicked in the air. Sara kissed her again.
“His what?” Faith shouted.
Her voice echoed through the ER. Both mother and daughter stared openly at Sara. From this distance, they could’ve been twins. Both around the same weight and height. Both with blonde hair and a familiar set to their shoulders. Faith’s expression was troubled, and Evelyn’s was as inscrutable as usual. The older woman said something, and Faith nodded before heading toward Sara.
“Sorry.” Faith held out her hands for Emma. “I need to go.”
Sara passed her the baby. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it Ashleigh Snyder?”
“No. Yes.” Faith’s mouth opened again, then closed. Obviously, there was something wrong. Faith didn’t shock easily, and Evelyn Mitchell wasn’t one to casually dole out information.
Sara said, “Faith, you’re scaring me. Is Will all right?”
“I don’t—” She stopped herself. “I can’t—” Again, she stopped. Her lips pressed together in a thin white line. Finally, she said, “You were right, Sara. Some things we have to keep separate.”
For the second time that night, a person keeping a secret turned th
eir back on Sara and walked away.
seven
July 11, 1975
FRIDAY
Amanda scanned through her women’s studies textbook, marking the paragraphs she needed to know for her evening class. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat of Kyle Peterson’s Plymouth Fury. The police radio was turned down low, but her ear had been trained long ago to tune out anything but the pertinent calls. She turned the page and started to read the next section.
To understand the far-reaching effects of the sex/gender system, one must first deconstruct the phallic hypothesis in relation to the unconscious.
“Brother.” Amanda sighed. Whatever the hell that meant.
The car shook as Peterson turned over in the back seat. Amanda studied his reflection in the visor mirror, willing him not to wake. She’d already wasted nearly an hour this morning slapping away his hands, then another half hour had been consumed with apologies so that he would stop sulking. Thank God the flask in his pocket had been full enough to knock him out or Amanda would’ve never found time to read her assignment.
Not that she understood a word of it. Some of the passages were downright obscene. If these women were so eager to find out how their vaginas worked, they should start shaving their legs and find themselves husbands.
The radio clicked. Amanda heard the in-and-out of a man’s voice. There were pockets all over the city where the radios had little or no reception, but that wasn’t the problem. A black officer was calling for backup, which meant the white officers were blocking the transmission by clicking the buttons on their mics. In the next hour, a white officer would call for help and the blacks would do the same.
And then someone with the Atlanta Journal or Constitution would write an article wondering why there had been a recent spike in crime.
Amanda checked on Peterson again. He’d started snoring. His mouth gaped open beneath his shaggy, untrimmed mustache.
She read the next paragraph, then promptly forgot everything it said. Her eyes blurred from exhaustion. Or maybe it was irritation. If she never read the words “gynecocratic” and “patriarchy” again, it would be too soon. Send Gloria Steinem into Techwood Homes and see if she still thought women could run the world.
Techwood.
Amanda felt the panic rising up like bile. The pimp’s hand around her throat. The feel of his erection pressing against her. The scrape of his fingernails as he tried to pull down her hose.
She gritted her teeth, willing her heart to settle. Deep breaths. In and out. Slow. “One … two … three …” She whispered off the seconds. Minutes passed before she was able to unclench her jaw and breathe normally again.
Amanda had not seen Evelyn Mitchell in the four days since the awful ordeal. The other woman hadn’t shown up for roll call. Her name wasn’t on the roster. Even Vanessa couldn’t find her. Amanda found herself hoping that Evelyn had come to her senses and gone back home to take care of her family. It was hard enough for Amanda to force herself out of bed every morning. She couldn’t imagine the dread she’d feel leaving her family, knowing the sort of world into which she was thrusting herself.
But then, Evelyn wasn’t the only officer who’d disappeared. The new sergeant, Luther Hodge, had been summarily transferred. His replacement was a white man named Hoyt Woody. He was from North Georgia, and his thick hill accent was made all the more unintelligible by the toothpick he kept in his mouth at all times. The tensions around the squad were still there, but they were the usual kind. Everyone was more comfortable with a known entity.
At least Hodge’s disappearance wasn’t into thin air. Vanessa had made more phone calls, which revealed the sergeant had been transferred to one of the Model City precincts. Not only was it a downward move, it took him out of Amanda’s circle. Unfortunately, she hadn’t the nerve to go to Hodge’s new station and ask him why they’d been sent to Techwood Homes on such a fool’s errand.
Not that Amanda wasn’t capable of other useless errands. The last few days had been a test of her two warring sides. She longed to put the whole Techwood ordeal behind her, but her curiosity would not let it go. Her sleepless nights were not just filled with fear. They were filled with questions.
Amanda wanted to think that her cop’s curiosity had been piqued, but the honest truth was that she was coasting on nothing more than woman’s intuition. The whore who was living in Kitty Treadwell’s apartment had put the bug in Amanda’s ear. Something wasn’t right there. She could feel it in her bones.
Which is why Amanda had done some poking around that had exacerbated her already frayed nerves. Stupid poking around that would probably get back to her father and land her in hot water not just with Duke, but with the higher-ups in the police force.
Amanda closed her textbook. And she especially hadn’t the stomach to read Phyllis Schlafly’s rebuttal to the Equal Rights Amendment. Amanda was sick and tired of being told how to live her life by women who never had to write their own rent checks.
“What’s the skinny?”
Amanda jumped so hard she nearly slammed her book into her face. She shushed Evelyn Mitchell, then turned around to check on Peterson.
“Sorry,” Evelyn whispered. She put her hand on the door handle, but Amanda slammed down the lock. Evelyn stood outside the car, unmoved. “You know the window is down, right?”
Behind her, Vanessa Livingston giggled.
Reluctantly, Amanda unlocked the door and got out of the car. She whispered, “What do you want?”
Evelyn whispered back, “We’re trading. You for Nessa.”
“No way.” The brass wouldn’t care, but Amanda had no intention of ever partnering with Evelyn Mitchell again. She started to get back into the car. Evelyn caught her arm, and Vanessa squeezed past, slipping into the seat and carefully latching the door.
Amanda stood in the empty parking lot, wanting to slap them both.
Evelyn told Vanessa, “We’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Take your time.” Vanessa checked Peterson. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
Evelyn used her finger to swipe the side of her nose, à la Robert Redford in The Sting. Vanessa did the same.
“This is ridiculous,” Amanda muttered, reaching into the car to retrieve her purse and textbook.
“Oh, cheer up,” Evelyn said. “Maybe we’ll find some mud for you to stick in.”
Evelyn drove her Ford Falcon up North Avenue. The station wagon was now devoid of moving boxes and filled with various baby items. Except for the radio on the seat between them, there was nothing that would indicate a police officer drove this car. The vinyl seat felt sticky under Amanda’s legs. As an only child with no cousins, she was seldom around children. Amanda could not help but think that Zeke Mitchell had secreted a vile substance onto the vinyl.
“Pretty day,” Evelyn said.
She had to be joking. The noontime sun was so intense that Amanda’s eyes were watering. She shielded her eyes from the glare.
Evelyn reached into her purse and slipped on a pair of Foster Grants. “I think I have another pair.” She dug around in her bag.
“No, thank you.” Amanda had seen the same glasses at Richway. They cost at least five dollars.
“Suit yourself.” Evelyn zipped closed her purse. She drove like an old woman, slowing for yellow lights, letting anyone pass who showed the slightest desire. She kept one foot on the gas and one on the brake. By the time they pulled into the Varsity drive-in, Amanda was ready to grab the wheel and push her out of the car.
Evelyn mumbled, “Steady, Freddy.” With great concentration, she angled the Falcon into a parking spot close to the North Avenue entrance. The brakes squealed as she pumped the pedal, inching up slowly until she felt the tires bump against the barrier. Finally, Evelyn shifted the gear into park. The engine knocked when she turned off the ignition. The car shook.
Evelyn turned in her seat, facing Amanda. “Well?”
“Why did you bring me here? I couldn’t possibly eat.
”
“I think I prefer when you’re not speaking to me.”
“Your wish is my command,” Amanda snapped back. But then she couldn’t help herself. “You almost got me raped.”
Evelyn leaned back against the door. “In my defense, both of us were going to be raped.”
Amanda shook her head. The woman was incapable of taking anything seriously.
Evelyn said, “We made it through okay.”
“Spare me your positive energy.”
Evelyn was silent. She turned back around. She kept her hands in her lap. Amanda stared straight ahead at the menu board. The words jumbled around senselessly. In her head, Amanda listed again all the things she had to do before she could go to sleep tonight. The more she thought about it, the harder the tasks seemed. She was too tired to do any of it. She was too tired to even be here.
“Damn, gal.” Evelyn’s voice was deep, an approximation of the pimp’s baritone. “You a fine-lookin’ woman.”
Amanda gripped the textbook in her lap. “Stop it.”
Evelyn, as usual, was oblivious. “You is fi-ine.”
Amanda turned her head away, leaning her chin on her hand. “Please, be quiet.”
“Gone get me some’a that hog tush.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Amanda sputtered. “He didn’t say that!” Her lips were trembling, but for the first time in four days it wasn’t because she was forcing back tears.
“Mmm-hmm,” Evelyn goaded, moving her hips obscenely in the seat. “Fine-lookin’ woman.”
Amanda couldn’t stop her lips from curving upward. And then, she was laughing. There was no controlling it, even if she tried. Her mouth opened wide. She felt a lessening of pressure not just from the sound, but from the release of air that had been trapped in her lungs like a poison. Evelyn was laughing, too, which seemed the funniest part of all. Before long, they were both doubled over in their seats, tears streaming down their faces.
“Afternoon, ladies.” The carhop was at Evelyn’s window. His hat was rakishly tilted to the side. He slapped a number card on their windshield and smiled at them both as if he was in on the joke. “What’ll ya have?”
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 216
