Criminal

by Karin Slaughter

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.”

  He gave her a forced grin. “That sounds really nice.”

  “Then let’s do it. Right now.”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll drop y
ou off at your place, then go run some errands.”

  Sara stopped pretending. “I’m not going to let you do it.”

  Will sat back in his chair. The nervous energy was gone. She watched it slowly leave his body. Now there was only the grief and sorrow that had broken her heart the day before.

  “Will—”

  He cleared his throat. The sound turned into a cough. His throat worked as he fought back tears. “She was just a student.”

  Sara bit her lip.

  “She was walking to class one night, and he saw her, and he took her, and that was it. Her life was over.” He put down his fork. “You know what was done to her. You saw the girl yesterday. He did the same thing to both of them.”

  Will’s cell rang. He grabbed the phone out of his pocket. “Did you arrest him?” The devastation on his face told Sara the answer. “Where?” He listened a few seconds longer, then hung up. “Faith’s waiting in the driveway.”

  “What happened?” Even as she said the words, Sara knew they were pointless. Another body had been found. Another life destroyed. Will’s father had killed again.

  Will stood. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. He wouldn’t look at her. She could practically hear his thoughts: He should’ve gone through with it. He should’ve taken his gun and gone to the hotel the minute he heard that his father was free.

  He said, “Amanda wants you to come, too.”

  Sara didn’t want to be a burden. Amanda had dragged her into this once before. “Do you want me there?”

  “Amanda does.”

  “I don’t care about Amanda. I only want to do what’s best for you. Easiest for you.”

  Will stood in the doorway. He seemed about to say something profound, but then he reached down and retrieved her gym bag. “Try to hurry. I’ll be outside.”

  twenty-five

  July 15, 1975

  James Ulster grabbed Amanda by the back of the neck. She felt like a kitten snatched by its scruff. Her arms went slack. Her toes lifted from the ground.

  And then she remembered the revolver in her hand.

  She snaked the gun around her side and pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. His body jerked as he was hit, but his grip only tightened. She pulled the trigger again. The muzzle flash singed Amanda’s side. The gun was ripped from her hand. Ulster grunted. The muzzle was hot enough to burn his flesh. The gun clattered to the ground.

  Amanda dropped to her knees, feeling blindly for the weapon. Ulster jerked her up by her arm. She felt like the bone was cracking. Her feet left the ground again. Her back slammed against the house. The breath was knocked out of her. She kicked and clawed as Ulster’s hand wrapped around her neck. She dug her fingernails into his skin. His face contorted in rage. Amanda felt dizzy. There wasn’t enough breath to fill her lungs.

  “Let her go!” Evelyn screamed. She had her Kel-Lite crossed under her revolver. “Now!”

  Ulster didn’t believe her. He tightened his grip on Amanda.

  Evelyn pulled the trigger. Ulster’s grip loosened around Amanda’s neck. Evelyn fired again. The bullet hit his leg. He dropped Amanda. His arm was bleeding. His side was bleeding. Still, he didn’t go down.

  “Don’t move,” Evelyn ordered. But Ulster didn’t listen. He walked straight toward Evelyn. She pulled the trigger, but the shot went wild. He slapped the gun out of her hand. His fist swung. Evelyn stepped back, but not fast enough. His knuckles grazed her chin. Evelyn collapsed to the driveway.

  “No!” Amanda screamed. She jumped on his back. Her fingernails scratched into his eyes. Instead of spinning around blindly, Ulster fell to his knees, rolled onto his back. His weight crushed Amanda. Breath huffed out of her chest. Still, she wrapped her arm around his neck, locked it tight with the other one. Choke hold. She’d seen it done before. It looked so easy, but no one was really fighting back. No one had over two hundred fifty pounds of muscle to leverage out of the hold. Ulster pulled Amanda’s arms apart as easily as a child untying a bow. She fell back hard, her head smashing into the concrete drive.

  She kicked and punched. Her blows were useless. He easily pinned her to the ground, trapping her arms at her sides, the weight of his body grinding her tailbone into the concrete. Blood soaked the front of Ulster’s shirt, dripped from his mouth. “You must repent, sister.” He pressed harder. He was pushing the air out of her body. “Repent to me your sins.”

  “No,” Amanda whispered. “Please.”

  “Our Father.”

  She struggled, gulping for air.

  “Our Father,” he repeated, pressing harder.

  Her ribs flexed back into her stomach. Something was tearing inside. She couldn’t fight anymore. She could only look up at his cold, soulless eyes.

  “Our Father,” he said a third time, the beginning of the Lord’s Prayer.

  Amanda huffed out, “Father.”

  “Who art in Heaven.”

  “Who art …” She couldn’t get enough air to speak.

  “Who art in Heaven.”

  “Who—” She pushed up against him, but his weight was like a mountain. “Please,” she panted. “Please.”

  Ulster lifted up just enough so her chest could draw breath.

  “Who art—”

  “Who …,” she tried. “Who art …”

  She felt her arms moving of their own volition. Ulster stopped her at first, pressing down his weight again, but then he understood. Carefully, he shifted back a fraction of an inch. Amanda slid out her arm, feeling her flesh scrape against the inseam of his pants. She pulled out the other arm, then clasped her hands together. Fingers laced one into the other. Palms tight. Thumbs outside.

  Ulster stared at her intently. There was a smile on his lips. He rocked slowly, his pelvis grinding into hers. She felt as if her hipbone might crack in two. He leaned over more. He wanted to see her, wanted to enjoy the pain on her face.

  She whispered, “Our Father …”

  “That’s right.” His voice slow, as if he was teaching a child. “Who art in Heaven.”

  “Who art in Heaven.” She stopped, gasping for breath.

  “Hallowed be—”

  The words rushed out. “Hallowed be thy name.”

  “Thy kingdom come.” He leaned over farther, staring down at her face. “Thy kingdom come?”

  “Thy—”

  Amanda didn’t finish the prayer.

  Instead, she drove her clenched hands as hard as she could straight up into his neck. Her knuckles smashed into cartilage and bone. His throat flexed. Something snapped. It sounded like a stick breaking.

  Hyoid. Just like Pete had shown her.

  Ulster dropped on top of her like a pile driver. Amanda tried to push him off. He groaned, but wouldn’t budge. He was too heavy to shift. She had to crawl out from under him. His weight was suffocating her. She forced herself to not pass out. To not throw up. To not give in.

  Amanda’s palms scraped for purchase. She pressed her toes into the concrete. The going was slow, painstaking. Her heart was in her throat. Bile was in her mouth. And then, with one final push, she finally managed to wrench herself free.

  Evelyn was still out cold. Her revolver lay in her open hand. The Kel-Lite had rolled to the side.

  Amanda reached for the gun, but Ulster grabbed her ankle, jerking her back. Amanda kicked as hard as she could. She felt his nose break under her heel. He let go. Amanda scrambled, pulling herself to her knees, but he grabbed her again. His arms went around her waist. Amanda slammed back her head, going for his broken nose. He faltered, which gave her time to twist around, take aim, and drive her elbow straight into the soft meat of his throat.

  The loud crack sounded like a shotgun blast.

  Ulster’s hands went to his neck. Air whistled into his mouth. Amanda slammed her elbow a second time. Another crack. She did it again. Ulster fell onto his side. He rolled onto his back, wheezing for air. Amanda pushed herself up again. Her arms ached. Her head was pounding. Her chest hurt. Her throa
t hurt. Everything hurt.

  She managed to stand, clutching at the van so that she would not fall back down.

  Ulster made a gurgling sound. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose.

  Amanda pressed her bare foot into his neck. The sensation was just as Pete had described, bubbles crackling against the arch of her foot. She leveraged her weight back and forth, watching Ulster’s eyes widen in terror, wondering if hers had done the same when he was pressing the life out of her.

  “ ’Manda,” Evelyn murmured. She was sitting up. Her lip was split. She had her hand to her face. Her jaw was so swollen that the lump showed through her fingers.

  “Hey!” A patrolman ran around the van. He screeched to a stop when he took in the scene. “Jesus fucking Christ.” His gun was drawn, though it hung limply out in front of him. “What the fuck did you broads do?”

  “Amanda.” Evelyn’s voice was stilted, as if it hurt to talk. She said, “The girl.”

  twenty-six

  Present Day

  WEDNESDAY

  News vans and reporters scurried like ants on the outer motor court of the Four Seasons. This wasn’t just a hotel. High-priced lawyers and money managers filled the office spaces on the upper levels. The residence floors were packed with the rich and famous. Rap singers. TV reality stars. Fame-seeking socialites.

  Crime scene tape had been strung along the marble fountain fronting Fourteenth Street. Someone noticed that Faith’s turn signal was on. The reporters thronged forward. Will could hear their questions shouted through the closed window. What happened? Why are you here? Can you tell us who the victim is?

  They would get the story soon enough. A woman murdered in a high-class hotel room. A paroled killer on the loose. There was not one part of the city this crime didn’t touch, from the mayor’s office to the Convention and Visitors Bureau.

  Will had seen these stories spin out of control before. Every salacious detail would be discussed and analyzed. Rumors would be fed into the machine and regurgitated as fact. The obvious questions would be asked: Who did he kill? Why was he released? The Sunshine Law would be invoked. Files would be photocopied and couriered and Sam Lawson, Faith’s ex who worked at the newspaper, would probably be on CNN before night fell.