The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  The green van turned onto Juniper. They stayed hunched down as it passed. Evelyn cranked the key. The engine sputtered, then caught. She pushed the knob to make sure the headlights were off, then swung the nose out into the street and smoothly entered the opposite lane.

  “You’re getting better at this,” Amanda said.

  “Last hurrah,” she muttered.

  There were no streetlights on Juniper. The moon was enough to drive by, and where she couldn’t see, Evelyn coasted her way through.

  Ulster took a left onto Piedmont Avenue. He drove deep into Bedford Pine. The stench of Buttermilk Bottom filled the car, but they kept the windows down.

  “Where is he going?” Evelyn asked.

  Amanda shook her head. She had no idea.

  The van braked at the last minute, taking a sharp turn onto Ralph McGill. Amanda directed, “Cut over to Courtland.”

  Evelyn had to reverse to make the turn. “Do you think he spotted us?”

  “I don’t know.” Their headlights were still off. The car’s interior was dark. “Maybe he’s just being careful.”

  “Why would he be careful?” Evelyn sucked in her breath. The green van was up ahead. “There he is.”

  They followed the van up Courtland. The road was a straight shot. Evelyn hung back at least a hundred yards. When the van turned onto Pine, the lights from Crawford Long Hospital illuminated the interior. They saw Ulster’s unmistakable frame. Evelyn slowed, peering down the street before making the turn to follow him. The lights from the expressway made the going more difficult. He turned onto Spring Street.

  “Evelyn,” Amanda said.

  “I know.” She followed him up North Avenue. Past the Varsity. Over the expressway. He was going to Techwood. “Get my radio.”

  Amanda found Evelyn’s purse on the back seat. The revolver was cold in her hands. She passed this to Evelyn, who kept one hand on the wheel as she slid the gun underneath her leg.

  Amanda clicked the radio. “Dispatch?”

  There was no answer.

  “Dispatch, this is unit sixteen. Over?”

  The radio clicked. “Unit twenty-three to unit sixteen,” a man’s voice said. “You gals need some help?”

  Amanda gripped the radio in her hand. She had called for dispatch, not some hillbilly out on patrol.

  “Copy sixteen?” the man asked. “What’s your locale?”

  Amanda spoke through gritted teeth. “Techwood Homes.”

  “Repeat, please.”

  Amanda enunciated the words. “Tech. Wood. Homes.”

  “Copy that. Perry Homes.”

  “Jesus,” Evelyn hissed. “He thinks this is a joke.”

  Amanda clutched the radio as hard as she could, wanting to break it over the man’s head. She put her finger to the button, but couldn’t bring herself to press it.

  “Amanda,” Evelyn mumbled. Her voice had a tone of warning.

  Up ahead, the green van didn’t slow to turn on Techwood Drive. Instead, it continued straight, going into the heart of the ghetto.

  “This isn’t good,” Evelyn said. “There’s no reason for him to be here.”

  Amanda didn’t bother to vocalize her agreement. They were in a part of town that no one—black, white, cop, or criminal—willingly entered after dark.

  The van turned again. Evelyn slowed, nosing into the turn, making sure they weren’t sitting ducks. Just ahead, they saw the van’s taillights glowing softly. Ulster obviously knew where he was going. His pace was slow and deliberate.

  Amanda tried the radio again. “Dispatch, sixteen going north on Cherry.”

  The man in unit twenty-three answered. “What’s that, sixteen? You wanna gimme your cherry?”

  There was more clicking as the radio was jammed.

  Dispatch cut through the chatter. “Ten-thirty-four, all units. Sixteen, repeat your ten-twenty.”

  Evelyn said, “That’s Rachel Foster.” The women in dispatch were the only ones who could override the nonsense. Evelyn grabbed the radio. “Sixteen heading north on Cherry. Possible thirty-four on a green Dodge van. Georgia license plate—” She squinted at the van. “Charlie, Victor, William, eight-eight-eight.”

  Rachel said, “Verify ten-twenty, unit sixteen?”

  Amanda took the radio so Evelyn could return both hands to the wheel. “Verify Cherry Street, Dispatch. Heading north.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Rachel’s tone was terse. She knew the streets better than most cops on the road. “Sixteen?”

  The car was silent. They both stared at the green van heading deep into the ghetto. Was Ulster leading them into a trap?

  “Sixteen?” Rachel repeated.

  Amanda said, “Verify heading North on Cherry.”

  Static filled the seconds. Rachel said, “Give me five minutes. Hold your location. Repeat, hold.”

  Amanda put the radio in her lap. Evelyn kept driving.

  Amanda asked, “Why did you report the van as possibly stolen?”

  “All we need is whoever that cowboy is on unit twenty-three rushing in here with lights and sirens.”

  “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” Amanda had never been in this part of town. She doubted any white woman ever had. There were no street signs. No lights on inside the houses that dotted either side of the street. Even the moon seemed to glow less brightly here.

  The van took another left. The air felt too thick. Amanda had to breathe through her mouth. The street was lined with junker cars on both sides. If Evelyn followed Ulster, there would be no way to hide the station wagon from him. In the end, they didn’t need to. The van’s brake lights flashed as he slowed down and turned into the driveway of a clapboard house. As with the others, there were no lights on inside. Electricity was a luxury in this part of town.

  “Are they abandoned?” Evelyn asked, meaning the houses. Some of them were boarded up. Others were so dilapidated that the roofs had caved in.

  “I can’t tell.”

  They both sat in the car. Ulster got out of the van and entered the house. Neither woman knew what to do. They couldn’t very well kick down the door and go in guns blazing.

  Amanda said, “Rachel should’ve radioed back by now.”

  Evelyn kept her hands gripped around the steering wheel. They both stared at Ulster’s house. A light came on in one of the back rooms. It cut a sliver of white across the front of the green van parked in the driveway.

  Evelyn’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Would you think I was a coward if I said we should call in unit twenty-three?”

  Amanda had been wondering how to ask the same question. “He could tell Ulster the van was reported stolen.”

  “And ask to look around inside the house.”

  And get shot in the face. Or chest. Or punched. Or stabbed. Or beaten.

  “Do it,” Evelyn said.

  Amanda pressed the button on the radio. “Twenty-three?” There was only static. Even the clicks were gone. “Dispatch?”

  “Shit,” Evelyn cursed. “We’re probably in a pocket.” There were dead spots all over the city. Evelyn put the car in reverse. “It was working the last block over. We can—”

  A scream pierced the air. It was feral, terror inducing. Something inside of Amanda recoiled. Her body broke out in a cold sweat. Every muscle tensed. The sound triggered a primitive urge to flee.

  “My God,” Evelyn gasped. “Was that an animal?”

  Amanda could still hear the sound echoing in her ears. She’d never heard anything so terrifying in her life.

  Suddenly, the radio came to life. “Sixteen? Twenty-three here. You foxes reconsider my offer?”

  “Thank God,” Evelyn whispered. She pressed the button, but didn’t have time to speak.

  The second scream was like a knife cutting straight through Amanda’s heart. It wasn’t an animal. It was the desperate cry of a woman begging for help.

  The radio crackled. “Sixteen, what the hell was that?”

  Amanda’s purse w
as on the floorboard. She reached inside and pulled out her revolver. She grabbed the door handle.

  Evelyn’s foot slipped off the brake. “What are you doing?”

  “Stop the car.” It was rolling back. “Stop the car.”

  “Amanda, you can’t—”

  The woman screamed again.

  Amanda pushed open the door. She stumbled as she got out of the car. Her knee dug into the asphalt. Her hose ripped. She couldn’t stop herself. Wouldn’t stop herself. “Get twenty-three. Get everybody you can.” Evelyn yelled for her to wait, but Amanda kicked off her shoes and started running.

  The woman screamed again. She was in the house. Ulster’s house.

  Amanda tightened her grip on the revolver as she ran down the street. Her arms pumped. Her vision tunneled. She slipped as she rounded into Ulster’s driveway. Her hose bunched up at the balls of her feet. She slowed. The front door was shut. The only light was toward the back of the house.

  Amanda tried to quiet her breathing, keeping her mouth open, taking in gulps of air. She squeezed past the van. She crouched down low, though no one could see her. The house blocked the moonlight, painting everything in shadow. She pointed her revolver straight ahead, finger on the trigger, not on the side like they had taught her, because she was going to shoot anybody who walked into her path.

  The scream came again. It wasn’t as loud this time, but it was more desperate. More frightened.

  Amanda steeled herself as she approached the open window. The light was coming through a pair of heavy black curtains. She could hear the woman moaning with each breath. Almost mewing. Carefully, Amanda peered through the part in the curtains. She saw an old washstand. A sink. A bed. The woman was there. Sitting up. Blonde hair streaked red. Emaciated but for her distended belly. The skin on her arms and shoulders was a bloody pulp. Her lips and eyelids were torn where she’d ripped them open. Blood coated every inch of her skin—her face, her throat, her chest.

  The girl screamed again, but not before Amanda heard something behind her.

  A shoe scuffing on concrete.

  Amanda started to turn, but a large hand grabbed her from behind.

  twenty-three

  July 15, 1975

  LUCY BENNETT

  Her shoulders were free, but she did not care.

  Her arms were free, but she did not care.

  Her waist, her hips—free for the first time in over a year.

  But she did not care.

  Could not care.

  There was only the baby delivered from her body. The beautiful little boy. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Perfect blond hair. Perfect little mouth.

  Lucy ran her finger along his lips. The first woman to touch him. The first woman to open her heart and feel the absolute joy that was this creature.

  She wiped the slime from his nose and mouth. She lightly rested her palm on his chest and felt his beating heart. Flutter, flutter, like a butterfly. He was so beautiful. So tiny. How had something so perfect grown inside of her? How had something so sweet come out of something so utterly spoiled?

  “You’re dying.”

  Lucy felt her senses sharpen.

  Patty Hearst.

  The second girl. The other woman from the other room.

  She stood in the doorway, afraid to come in. She was dressed. He let her wear clothes. He let her walk around. He let her do anything but come into Lucy’s room. Even now, both of them alone, her toes would not cross the threshold.

  “You’re dying,” the woman repeated.

  They both heard the noises outside the window. Yelling. Gunfire. He would win. He would always win.

  The baby cooed, legs kicking up.

  Lucy looked down at her child. Her perfect baby. Her redemption. Her salvation. Her one good thing.

  She tried to concentrate on his beautiful face, the light flowing back and forth between their bodies.

  Nothing else mattered. Not the pain. Not the smell. Not the wheezing breaths coming from her own mouth.

  Not the sucking of wind around the large knife sticking out of her chest.

  twenty-four

  Present Day

  WEDNESDAY

  Sara woke to the smell of Betty’s hot breath. The dog was curled on the couch in front of her, body twisted, snout inches from Sara’s face. Sara rolled the little thing over like a baker making bread. Betty’s collar tinkled. She yawned.

  Will’s clothes were on the floor, but he wasn’t in the room. Sara put her hand to her face. Touched her lips where Will had touched them. Stroked her throat. Her mouth felt bruised from his kisses. Her skin tingled at the thought of him.

  She was in it now. Maybe it had happened back when Will was washing dishes in her mother’s kitchen. Or that day at work when Sara had felt completely inconsolable until he gently caressed her hand. Or last night when he had stared at her so intently that she felt as if everything inside her was opening up to him.

  No matter when it had happened, the possibility had been rendered fact. Sara was deeply and profoundly in love with Will Trent. There was no walking back from it. No denying it. Her heart had made the decision while her brain was making excuses. She knew it the minute she saw him last night. Sara would do anything to keep him. Accept his secrets. Tolerate his silences. Put up with his awful wife.

  Help send his father to death row.

  Pete Hanson would be dead by the time the case went to trial. Sara would be called to testify. It would be a capital case. The girl had been kidnapped and murdered, the combination of which met Georgia’s legal requirement for seeking the death penalty.

  Will’s father had meticulously cleaned Ashleigh Snyder, but the man had been behind bars for the last three decades. Television and prison science would’ve educated him on the forensic progress happening outside his cellblock, but it was highly unlikely that he’d ever heard of hair extensions. Which was ironic, considering the killer’s predilection for needle and thread.

  The process of weaving hair took hours. A thin cornrow, or “track,” was braided in a tight half circle around the back of the head. Then a needle and thread were used to sew in patches of new, longer, fuller hair. Several more rows were added one at a time, depending on how much money and time the woman was willing to spend. It wasn’t cheap. The natural hair eventually grew out. The weave had to be tightened every two weeks. More stitches were added each time. Simple shampooing couldn’t clean out all the nooks and crevices between the old hair and new.

  This was where Sara had recovered traces of semen—tiny dried specks trapped between thin strings of thread. She would eventually have to walk the jury through her discovery, describe the weaving technique and explain why the proteins in seminal fluid fluoresce under black light.

  And then the judge would likely hand down a sentence of death by lethal injection.

  Sara let out a heavy sigh. She looked at the clock. Six-thirty in the morning. She was supposed to be at work by eight. She found Will’s shirt and put it on, buttoning it as she walked into the kitchen.

  He was standing at the stove making pancakes. He smiled at her. “Hungry?”

  “Very.” Sara kissed the back of his neck. His skin was warm. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him and declare her love. Will’s life was complicated enough right now without Sara putting him on the spot. Telling someone you loved them was tantamount to asking them to repeat the words back.

  Will said, “Sorry I don’t have any coffee.”

  Sara sat down at the table. Will didn’t drink coffee. He drank hot chocolate every morning, and because that wasn’t enough sugar, he usually complemented his beverage with a Pop-Tart. “I’ll get some later.”

  He offered, “I can make eggs if you want.”

  “No, thank you.” Sara rubbed her face with her hands. Her brain wasn’t awake yet, but she could tell that there was something wrong. Will was already dressed for work in a navy suit and tie. His jacket was draped over the kitchen chair. His hair was combed. His face was freshly
shaven. He seemed happy, which wasn’t that unusual, but he was too happy. Too bouncy. He couldn’t stand still. His foot tapped as he stood at the stove. When he slid the pancakes onto a plate, his fingers drummed on the counter.

  Sara had seen this kind of attitude before. It usually came when someone had made up their mind. The pressure was off. The decision was made. They were all in. Ready to get it over with.

  “Madam.” He put the plate in front of her.

  She smelled it then—oil and cordite. On his hands. On the table.

  “Thanks.” Sara stood from the chair. She washed her hands at the sink. The smell was stronger now that she was awake and thinking. Will had cleaned up after himself, but not well enough. She wiped her hands with a paper towel. When she opened the cabinet for the trash, she saw the dirty cleaning patches.

  Sara closed the cabinet door. She’d grown up around guns. She knew the smell of cleaning oil. She knew Will kept a backup weapon in his safe. She knew the look of a man who’d made up his mind.

  She turned around.

  Will was sitting at the table, fork in his hand. His plate was dripping with syrup. He talked around a mouthful of pancakes. “I got your gym bag out of the car.” He used the fork to point to the bag on the floor. “Sorry about tearing your dress.”

  She leaned against the sink. “You’re working at the airport today?”

  He nodded. “Mind if I borrow your car? Mine’s acting up.”

  “Sure.” They would be looking for Will’s car around the hotel. Sara’s BMW was practically nondescript in that part of town.

  “Thanks.” He shoved another forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

  She said, “Let’s call in sick today.”

  His chewing slowed. He met her gaze.

  “I want us to go away together,” she said. “My cousin has a house on the Gulf we can use. Let’s just get out of here. Leave town.”

  He swallowed. “That sounds nice.”

  “We can take the dogs and run on the beach every morning.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “And then we can go back to bed. And then we can eat lunch. And then we can go back to bed.”