[Georgia 01] Genesis (aka Undone)

by Karin Slaughter

  Every year when she got her tax rebate, she told herself she was going to have something done to the paneling, and every year Jeremy magically managed to need something around the same time as the check came in. Once, she thought she was going to get away clean, but the little scamp had broken his arm while trying to prove to his friends that he could jump his skateboard off the roof of the house and onto a mattress they had found in the woods.

  She put her hand to her stomach. That paneling was going to be up until she died.

  Faith fished in her purse for her ID as she walked to the front door. She was wearing heels and one of her nicest dresses, because for some reason this morning it had seemed important to look respectable in front of Delia Wallace—a silly affectation, since Faith had spent their entire time together in a thin paper gown.

  She turned around, looking out into the empty street. Still no sign of her partner. She didn't understand what was taking him so long. Tom had told Faith on the phone that he'd already given Will directions to his house. Even taking into account the left/right thing, Will was good at finding his way. He should be here by now. Regardless, he should definitely be answering his phone. Maybe Angie had called again. The way Faith was feeling toward Will right now, she hoped his wife was being every bit her pleasant self.

  Faith rang the doorbell and waited much too long for the door to be answered, considering she had been parked in the driveway for nearly a quarter of an hour.

  "Hi." The woman who came to the door was thin and angular, but not pretty by any stretch. She gave Faith an awkward, forced smile. Her blonde hair was lank across her forehead, the dark roots growing in. She had that run-down look you get when you have small children.

  "I'm Special Agent Faith Mitchell," Faith said, holding up her badge.

  "Darla Coldfield." The woman's voice was one of those breathy whispers that implied delicacy. She picked at the collar of the purple blouse she was wearing. Faith could see the edge was worn, threads sticking up where she had picked open the seam.

  "Tom said he'd meet me here."

  "He should be home any second." The woman seemed to realize she was blocking the doorway. She stepped aside. "Won't you come in?"

  Faith walked into the foyer, which was lined with black and white tile. She saw that the tile went all the way through to the back of the house, into the kitchen and family room. Even the dining room and study on either side of the front door was tiled.

  Still, she made the perfunctory noise about the woman having a lovely home, her own footsteps echoing in her ears as they made their way to the family room. The furnishings were more masculine than Faith would have guessed. There was a brown leather couch and matching recliner. The rug on the floor was black with not a speck of dirt of fuzz showing. There were no toys, which was odd considering the Coldfields had two children. Maybe they weren't allowed in the room. She wondered where they spent their time. The part of the house she had seen was hot and uncomfortable even though it was cool outside. Faith felt her skin on the edge of breaking into a sweat. Sun was streaming through the windows, yet every light in the place was on.

  Darla asked, "Would you like some tea?"

  Faith was looking at her watch again, wondering about Will. "Sure."

  "Sweet? Unsweet?"

  Faith's answer was not as automatic as it should have been. "Unsweet. Have you lived here long?"

  "Eight years."

  The place looked about as lived in as a vacant warehouse. "You have two kids?"

  "A boy and a girl." She smiled uncertainly. "Do you have a partner?"

  The question seemed strange, given the conversation. "I have a son."

  She smiled, putting her hand to her mouth. She had probably picked up the gesture from her mother-in-law. "No, I meant someone you work with."

  "Yes." Faith looked at the family photos on the mantel. They were taken from the same series as the one Judith Coldfield had shown them at the shelter. "Maybe you could call Tom and see what's keeping him?"

  Her smile faltered. "Oh, no. I wouldn't want to bother him."

  "It's police business, so I really do need you to bother him."

  Darla pressed her lips together. Faith couldn't read her expression. She was almost completely blank. "My husband doesn't like to be rushed."

  "And I don't like to be kept waiting."

  Darla gave her that same weak smile from before. "I'll go get that tea for you."

  She started to leave, but Faith asked, "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?"

  Darla turned again, her hands clasped in front of her chest. Her face was still blank. "Down the hall, on the right."

  "Thank you." Faith followed her directions, her heels clicking like a drum major's on the tile as she walked past a pantry and what must have been the door to the basement. She was getting a creepy feeling off of Darla Coldfield, but she couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe it was Faith's instinctive hatred of women who constantly deferred to their husbands.

  Inside the bathroom, she went straight to the sink, where she splashed cold water on her face. The lights were just as intense in the powder room, and Faith flipped down the switches, but nothing happened. She flipped them back up and then back down again. Still the lights stayed on. She looked up. The bulbs were probably a hundred watts each.

  Faith blinked her eyes several times, thinking that looking directly into a burning lightbulb was probably not the smartest thing she had ever done. She grabbed the doorknob to the linen closet to keep herself steady as she waited for the feeling to pass. Maybe she would wait in here for Will instead of sitting on the sofa drinking tea with Darla Coldfield, straining to make small talk. The bathroom was nice if sparsely furnished. The room was L-shaped, with a linen closet filling in the void between the top and bottom of the L. Faith guessed the laundry room was on the other side of the wall. She could hear the gentle rumble of a clothes dryer through the partition.

  Because Faith was a nosey person, she opened the closet door. There was a slow squeak from the hinges, and she stood there waiting for Darla Coldfield to come in and chastise her for being rude. When this did not happen, Faith looked inside. The space was deeper than she would've guessed, but the shelves were narrow—stacked with towels that were neatly folded and a set of sheets with racecars on them that probably belonged to the children.

  Where were the children? Maybe they were outside playing. Faith closed the closet door and looked out the small window. The backyard was empty—not even a swingset or tree house. Maybe the kids were taking naps in preparation for Granma and Grandpa's visit. Faith had never let Jeremy sleep before her parents came to visit. She'd wanted her mother and father to run him ragged so that he was tired enough to sleep in the next morning.

  She groaned out a long sigh as she sat on the toilet beside the sink. She was still feeling lightheaded, probably from the heat. Or maybe from her blood sugar. She had been on the high side at the doctor's office.

  She put her purse on her lap and dug around for her monitor. There had been a huge display for different blood glucose monitors on the wall in the doctor's office. Most of them were either cheap or free, because the real money came from the specialized strips they all used. Each manufacturer had a different one, so once you chose a monitor, you were locked in forever. Unless you dropped it on the bathroom floor and broke it.

  "Shit," Faith mumbled, leaning down to pick up the monitor, which had slipped out of her hand and skittered over by the wall. She heard a faint, sonorous noise coming from the machine.

  Faith picked up the monitor, wondering what damage she had done. The readout on the machine was still at zero, waiting for a strip. She shook the device, holding it to her ear and listening for the sound again. She leaned down, trying to duplicate the motion that had caused the monitor to make the noise. The sound repeated, more like the kind of thing you would hear on a playground this time— loud and frenzied.

  And not coming from the monitor.

  Could it be a cat? Some animal
caught in the heating ducts? Jeremy's gerbil had been killed in the dryer one Christmas, and Faith had sold the machine to a neighbor rather than deal with the carnage. But whatever this thing was, it was alive, and obviously intended to stay that way. She leaned down a third time, hovering near the heating grate at the base of the toilet.

  The noise was clearer this time, but still muffled. Faith got down on her knees, pressing her ear to the grate. She thought of all the animals that could make that sort of noise. It sounded almost like words.

  Help.

  It wasn't an animal. It was a woman calling for help.

  Faith's hand went into her purse, pulling out the velvet bag where she kept her Glock when she wasn't wearing it on her hip. Her hands were sweating.

  There was a sudden, loud knock on the door; Darla. "Are you okay in there, Agent Mitchell?"

  "I'm fine," Faith lied, trying to keep her voice normal. She found her cell phone, tried to ignore that her hands had started shaking. "Is Tom here yet?"

  "Yes." The woman went silent. Just that one word hanging in the air.

  "Darla?" There was no answer. "Darla, my partner is on the way. He's going to be here any minute." Faith's heart was pounding so hard that her chest hurt. "Darla?"

  There was another bang on the door, but this one was sharper. Faith dropped the phone and held the gun with both hands, ready to fire at whoever came into the bathroom. The Glock did not have a conventional safety. The only way it could be fired was if you pulled the trigger all the way back. Faith aimed at the center of the doorway, bracing herself to yank back the trigger as hard as she could.

  Nothing. No one came through the door. The knob was not turning. Quickly, she glanced down, looking for her cell phone. It was behind the toilet. She kept her gun trained on the door while she reached down for the phone, snatching it up.

  The door stayed closed.

  Faith's hands were sweating so badly that her fingers couldn't stay on the buttons. She hissed a curse as she dialed in the number wrong. She was trying again when she heard the closet door squeak open behind her.

  She spun around, her gun pointing straight at Darla's chest. Faith took in everything at once—the false door in the closet wall, the washing machine on the other side, the Taser in Darla's hands.

  Faith lurched to the side, not bothering to aim as she pulled back on the trigger. The Taser hooks sailed past her, the thin metal wires shimmering in the bright light as the hooks bounced off the wall.

  Darla stood there, the spent Taser in her hands. A chunk of sheetrock had been taken out over her left shoulder.

  "Don't move," Faith warned, keeping the gun trained on Darla's chest as she fumbled for the doorknob. "I mean it. Don't move."

  "I'm sorry," the woman whispered.

  "Where's Tom?" When she didn't answer, Faith screamed, "Where the fuck is Tom?"

  Darla would only shake her head.

  Faith threw open the door, still pointing the gun at Darla as she backed out of the room.

  "I'm so sorry," the woman repeated.

  Two strong arms wrapped around Faith from behind—a man, his body hard, his strength palpable. It had to be Tom. He lifted her off the floor and, without thinking, Faith pulled the trigger again, firing the Glock into the ceiling. Darla was still standing in the closet, and Faith pulled the trigger with purpose this time, wanting to put a bullet in the woman that could be traced back to her gun. The Glock missed, and Darla ducked away, shutting the false door behind her.

  Faith fired again and again as Tom backed her out into the hallway. His hand clamped around Faith's wrist like a vise, the pain so sharp that she was sure her bones had snapped. She held onto the gun as long as she could, but she was no match for his strength. Dropping the weapon, she started kicking with all her might, reaching out to grab anything she could find—the edge of the door, the wall, the knob on the basement door. Every muscle in her body screamed from pain.

  "Fight," Tom grunted, his lips so close to Faith's ear that she felt like he was inside of her head. She could feel his body responding to the struggle, the pleasure he was deriving from her fear.

  Faith felt a surge of fury tighten her resolve. Anna Lindsey. Jacquelyn Zabel. Pauline McGhee. Olivia Tanner. She would not be another one of his victims. She would not end up at the morgue. She would not abandon her son. She would not lose her baby.

  She twisted around and scratched Tom's face, digging her fingernails into his eyes. She used every part of her body—her hands, her feet, her teeth—to fight him. She would not give in. She would kill him with her bare hands if she had to.

  "Let me out of here!" someone screamed from the basement. The noise was a surprise. For a split second, Faith stopped struggling. Tom stopped, too. The door shook. "Let me the fuck out!"

  Faith came to her senses. She started kicking again, flailing, doing everything she could to free herself. Tom held on, his powerful arms like a clamp around her body. Whoever was behind the basement door was beating it, trying to break it down. Faith opened up her mouth and screamed as loud as she could. "Help! Help me!"

  "Do it!" Tom yelled.

  Darla stood at the end of the hallway. The reloaded Taser in her hands. Faith saw her Glock at the woman's feet.

  "Do it!" Tom demanded, his voice barely audible over the banging behind the door. "Shoot her!"

  All Faith could think about was the child inside her, those tiny fingers, that delicate heartbeat pressing up and down against her baby's tissue-thin chest. She went completely limp, relaxing every muscle in her body. Tom hadn't been expecting her to give in, and he stumbled as he took on her full weight. They both dropped to the floor. Faith scrambled across the tile, reaching for the gun, but he yanked her back like a fish on a line.

  The door splintered open, shards of wood flying. A woman half-fell into the hallway, screaming obscenities. Her hands were at her waist, her feet chained, but she moved with almost laser precision as she slammed her body into Tom's.

  Faith took advantage of the distraction and grabbed the Glock, twisting around, aiming at the bodies thrashing on the floor.

  "Fucker!" Pauline McGhee screeched. She was kneeling on Tom's chest, leaning over him. Her hands were cuffed tight to a belt around her waist, but she had managed to wrap her fingers around his neck. "Die!" she screamed, blood spraying from her torn mouth. Her lips were shredded, her eyes wild. She was forcing all of her weight into Tom's neck.

  "Stop," Faith managed, her breath rasping between her lips. She felt a deep, searing pain in her belly, like something had torn. Still, she kept her gun trained at Pauline's chest. There was at least half a magazine left in the Glock; she would use it if she had to. "Get off him," Faith ordered.

  Tom bucked, hands clawing at Pauline's. Pauline pressed harder, pivoting on her knees, putting her full weight into his neck.

  "Kill him," Darla begged. She was curled into a ball by the bathroom door, the Taser on the floor beside her. "Please . . . kill him."

  "Stop," Faith warned Pauline, willing her hand not to shake as she gripped the gun.

  "Let her do it," Darla pleaded. "Please, let her do it."

  Faith groaned as she staggered to her feet. She put the gun to Pauline's head, made her voice as steady and strong as possible. "Stop right now or I will pull this fucking trigger, so help me God."

  Pauline looked up. Their eyes locked, and Faith willed every ounce of resolve into her face, even though all she wanted to do was fall to her knees and pray that the life inside of her was going to continue.

  "Let him go right now," Faith demanded.

  Pauline took her time obeying the order, as if she hoped that one more second of pressure would do the trick. She sat back on the floor, her hands still clenched. Tom rolled over, coughing so hard that his entire body spasmed from the effort.

  "Call an ambulance," Faith said, though no one seemed to be moving. Her mind raced. Her vision kept blurring. She had to call Amanda. She had to find Will. Where was he? Why wasn't he here?

/>   "What's wrong with you?" Pauline asked, giving Faith a nasty look.

  Faith's head was spinning. She sagged against the wall, trying not to pass out. She felt something wet between her legs. There was another twinge in her belly, almost like a contraction. "Call an ambulance," she repeated.

  "Trash . . ." Tom Coldfield muttered. "You're all nothing but trash."

  "Shut up," Pauline hissed.

  Tom rasped, " 'Put now this woman out from me . . . and bolt the door after her . . . ' "

  "Shut up," Pauline repeated through clenched teeth.

  A guttural sound came from Tom's throat. He was laughing. "'Oh, Absolom, I am risen.'"

  Pauline struggled to get to her knees. "You're going straight to hell, you sick bastard."

  "Don't," Faith warned, raising the gun again. "Get a phone." She glanced over her shoulder at Darla. "Get my phone out of the bathroom."

  Faith snapped her head around as Pauline leaned over Tom.

  "Don't," Faith repeated.

  Pauline smiled a grotesque Jack-o-lantern sneer down at Tom Coldfield. Instead of wrapping her hands around his throat again, she spit in his face. "Georgia's a death penalty state, motherfucker. Why else do you think I moved here?"

  "Wait," Faith said, bewildered. "You know him?"

  Raw hatred flashed in the woman's eyes. "Of course I know him, you stupid bitch. He's my brother."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WILL LAY ON HIS SIDE ON JUDITH COLDFIELD'S KITCHEN floor, watching Judith sob into her hands. His nose was itching, which was a funny thing to bother him, considering the fact that he had a kitchen knife sticking out of his back. At least he thought it was a kitchen knife. Every time he tried to turn his head to look, the pain got so bad that he felt himself start to pass out.

  He wasn't bleeding badly. The real threat came from the knife moving, shifting away from whatever vessel or artery it was damming and causing the blood to start flowing in earnest. Just thinking about the mechanics of the thing, the metal blade pressing between muscle and sinew, made his head swim. Sweat drenched his body, and he was starting to get chills. Oddly, holding up his neck was the hardest part. The muscles were so tense that his head throbbed with every heartbeat. If he let go for even a second, the pain in his shoulder brought the taste of vomit into his mouth. Will had never realized how many parts of his body were connected to his shoulder.