Faith had missed something Victor said. “What?”
“I said, your brother’s kind of an asshole.”
Faith snapped, “It’s not exactly an easy time for him, Victor. Our mother is missing. God knows whether she’s dead or alive. Zeke dropped everything to be with Jeremy. I’m sorry if you thought he was rude. It’s kind of hard to be friendly right now.”
“Hold on, all right? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Her breathing was revved up again. Faith tried to get her control back. She wanted to yell at someone. That person probably didn’t need to be Victor.
“Are you there?” he asked.
Faith couldn’t drag this out any longer. “I know that Jeremy showed you Emma’s picture.”
He cleared his throat.
“What you’re thinking about her …” Faith pressed her fingers to her closed eyelids. “You’re right.”
He was silent for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he said, “She’s beautiful.”
Faith dropped her hand. She looked up at the ceiling. Her hormones were so out of whack that the stupidest thing could set her off. She cradled the phone against her shoulder and tried to reload Jeremy’s Facebook page again.
“I’d like to meet her when this is all over.”
Faith watched the wheel spin on the computer screen as the processor worked. She couldn’t think about seeing Victor with Emma. Holding her in his arms. Stroking her hair. Pointing out that looking into her light brown eyes was like looking into a mirror. Faith could only think about right now, and how every second that ticked by made it less likely that Evelyn Mitchell would see her granddaughter’s first birthday.
“Your mom’s a fighter,” Victor said. Then, almost ruefully, “Just like you.”
The page finally loaded. GoodKnight92 had posted a comment eight minutes ago.
“I have to go.” Faith hung up the phone. Her hand hovered over the laptop. She stared at the words on the screen. They had a familiar ring.
You must be feeling cooped up. Why don’t you get out of the house and take some fresh air?
They had contacted Jeremy again, and her son, her little boy, had been ready to walk out the front door and put his life on the line so that he could get his grandmother back.
She raised her voice, calling, “Jeremy?”
Faith waited. There were no footsteps overhead, no squeaks on the stairs or floorboards.
“Jeremy?” she called again, going into the living room. An eternity passed. Faith grabbed the back of the couch so she wouldn’t fall down. Her voice trilled in panic. “Jeremy!”
Her heart stopped at the thumping sound from upstairs, heavy footsteps across the floor. But it was Zeke who called from the top of the landing. “Jesus, Faith, what’s wrong?”
Faith could barely speak. “Where’s Jeremy?”
“I told him he could go for a walk.”
Ginger came in from the kitchen, a puzzled look on his face. Before he could say anything, Faith grabbed the gun out of his shoulder holster and bolted from the room. She didn’t remember opening the front door or running down the driveway. It wasn’t until she was in the middle of the street that Faith stopped. She saw a figure up ahead. He was about to turn the corner onto the next street. Tall, lanky, baggy jeans and a yellow Georgia Tech sweatshirt.
“Jeremy!” she yelled. A car pulled up to the intersection, stopping a few feet from her son. “Jeremy!” He didn’t hear her. He walked toward the car.
Faith ran all out, arms pumping, bare feet pounding the pavement. She gripped the gun so tightly in her hand that it felt like part of her skin.
“Jeremy!” she screamed. He turned around. The car was in front of him. Dark gray. Four doors. New-model Ford Focus with chrome trim. The window rolled down. Jeremy turned back to the car, bent down to look inside. “Stop!” Faith yelled, her throat clenching around the word. “Get away from the car! Get away from the car!”
The driver was leaning toward Jeremy. Faith saw a teenage girl behind the wheel, mouth agape, obviously terrified by the armed madwoman running down the street. The car screeched off as Faith reached her son. She bumped into him, almost pushing him down.
“Why?” she asked, gripping his arm so tight that her fingers hurt.
He pulled away, rubbing his arm. “Jesus, Mom, what is wrong with you? She was lost. She needed directions.”
Faith was dizzy from fear and adrenaline. She bent over and put her hand on her knee. The gun was at her side. So was Ginger.
He snatched the weapon back. “Agent Mitchell, that was not cool.”
His words filled her with anger. “Not cool?” She thumped her open palm against his chest. “Not cool?”
“Agent.” His tone of voice implied she was acting hysterical, which only served to amp up her fury another notch.
“How about letting my son walk out the door when you were assigned to watch him? Was that not cool, too?” She pushed him again. “How about you and your partner standing around holding your dicks while my boy is gone?” Another push. “Is that cool?”
Ginger held up his hands in surrender.
“Faith,” Zeke said. She hadn’t noticed her brother standing there, maybe because for once he wasn’t making things worse. “Let’s just go back to the house.”
She held out her hand to Jeremy, palm up. “iPhone.”
He looked appalled. “What?”
“Now,” she ordered.
“That’s got all my games on it.”
“I don’t care.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Read a book!” she screamed, her voice screeching. “Just stay offline. Do you hear me? No Internet!”
“Jesus.” He glanced around for support, but Faith didn’t care if God Himself came down and told her to give the kid a break.
She said, “I’ll tie you to my waist with a rope if I have to.”
He knew she wasn’t bluffing; she’d done it before. “This isn’t fair.” He slapped the phone in her hand. She would’ve thrown it to the ground and crushed it with her foot if the damn thing hadn’t cost so much.
“No Internet,” Faith repeated. “No phone calls. No communication of any kind, and you stay in the fucking house. Do you hear me?” He walked toward the house, giving her his back. Faith wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “Do you hear me?”
“I heard you!” he yelled. “God!”
Ginger shoved his gun back into the holster, adjusting the straps like a haughty cheerleader. He followed Jeremy down the street. Faith limped along after them. Her feet were bruised from the rocky asphalt. Zeke fell in beside her. His shoulder brushed against hers. Faith braced herself for some kind of tirade, but he was mercifully silent as they walked up the driveway and entered the house.
Faith threw Jeremy’s iPhone onto the kitchen table. No wonder he wanted to leave. The space was beginning to feel like a prison. She leaned heavily against the chair. What had she been thinking? How could any of them be safe here? Evelyn’s kidnappers knew the layout of the house. They had obviously targeted Jeremy. Anyone could’ve been in that car. They could’ve rolled down the window, pointed a gun at Jeremy’s head, and pulled the trigger. He could’ve bled out in the middle of the street and Faith wouldn’t have known until his stupid Facebook page loaded that something was wrong.
“Faith?” Zeke was standing in the middle of the kitchen. His tone indicated this wasn’t the first time he’d said her name. “What’s wrong with you?”
Faith crossed her arms low on her stomach. “Where have you been staying? You weren’t sleeping at Mom’s. I would’ve seen your stuff.”
“Dobbins.” She should’ve known. Zeke had always loved the soulless anonymity of base housing, even if Dobbins Air Reserve was an hour drive from the VA hospital where he was doing his inservice.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
He was instantly skeptical. “What?”
“I want you to take Jeremy and Emma back
to the base with you. Today. Right now.” The Atlanta police couldn’t protect her family, but the United States Air Force could. “I don’t know how long it’ll be for. I just need you to keep them on the base. Don’t let them off until I tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know that they’re safe.”
“Safe from what? What are you planning?”
Faith checked the backyard to make sure the detectives weren’t listening. Ginger stared at her, his jaw rigid. She turned her back to him. “I need you to trust me.”
Zeke snorted a laugh. “Why would I start doing that?”
“Because I know what I’m doing, Zeke. I’m a police officer. I was trained to do this kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing? Run into the street barefooted like you’re escaping from the loony bin?”
“I’m going to get Mom back, Zeke. I don’t care if it kills me. I’m going to get her back.”
“You and what army?” he scoffed. “You gonna call in Aunt Mandy and go smear lipstick all over them?”
She punched him in the face. He looked more shocked than hurt. Her knuckle felt like it might be broken. Still, she got some satisfaction when she saw a thin line of blood drip onto his upper lip.
“Christ,” he muttered. “What the hell was that for?”
“You’ll need to take my car. You can’t fit a car seat in the Corvette. I can give you some money for gas and groceries and I—”
“Wait.” His voice was muffled by his hand as he felt the bridge of his nose for damage. He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time since she’d walked through her own front door. Faith had hit her brother before. She’d burned him with a match. She’d beaten him with a clothes hanger. To her recollection, this was the first time any violence between them actually seemed to work.
“All right.” He used the toaster to check his reflection. His nose wasn’t broken, but a deep, purple bruise was working its way underneath his eye. “But I’m not taking your Mini. I’m going to look retarded enough as it is.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WILL HAD NEVER BEEN QUICK TO ANGER, BUT ONCE HE got there, he held on to it like a miser with a pot of gold. He didn’t throw things or use his fists. He didn’t rage or even raise his voice. Actually, the opposite happened. He went quiet—completely silent. It was as if his vocal cords were paralyzed. He kept it all on the inside because, in his vast experience with angry people, Will knew that letting it out meant that someone could end up very badly hurt.
Not that this particular expression of anger didn’t have its drawbacks. His stubborn silence had gotten him suspended from school on more than one occasion. Years ago, Amanda had transferred him to the nether regions of the north Georgia mountains for his refusal to respond to her questions. Once, he’d stopped speaking to Angie for three whole days for fear of saying things to her that could never be taken back. They’d lived together, slept together, dined together, done everything together, and he hadn’t uttered one word to her for a full seventy-two hours. If there had been a category in the Special Olympics for functionally illiterate mutes, Will would’ve had no problem cinching the gold.
This was all to say that not speaking to Amanda during the five-hour drive down to Coastal State Prison was nothing in the scheme of things. The worrying part was that the intensity of Will’s anger would not dissipate. He had never hated another human being as much as he did when Amanda told him that, by the way, Sara had almost been murdered. And that hatred would not go away. He kept waiting to feel that click of it letting up, the pot going from a boil to a simmer, but it wouldn’t come. Even now as Amanda paced back and forth in front of him, going from one end of the empty visitors’ waiting room to the other like a duck in a shooting gallery, he felt the rage burning inside him.
The worst part was that he wanted to speak. He yearned to speak. He wanted to lay it all out for her and watch her face crumble as she realized that Will truly and irrevocably despised her for what she had done to him. He had never been a petty man, but he really, really wanted to hurt her.
Amanda stopped pacing. She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but sulking is not an attractive trait in a man.”
Will stared at the floor. Grooves had been worn into the linoleum by the women and children who had wiled away their weekends waiting to visit the men inside the cells.
She said, “As a rule, I only let someone call me that word once. I think you picked an appropriate time.”
So, he hadn’t been completely mute. When Amanda had told him about Sara, he’d called her the word that rhymes with her name. And not in Spanish.
“What do you want, Will, an apology?” She huffed a laugh. “All right, I’m sorry. I apologize for not letting you get distracted so that you could do your job. I apologize for making sure your head didn’t get blown off. I apologize—”
His mouth moved of its own accord. “Could you just shut up?”
“What was that?”
He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t care whether or not she heard him, or if his job was in jeopardy, or if she was going to unleash a new kind of hell on him for standing up to her. Will could not remember the last time he had experienced the kind of agony he’d suffered this afternoon. They’d sat outside that damn warehouse for a full hour before the Doraville police released them. Will understood intellectually why the detectives wanted to talk to them. There were two dead bodies and bullet holes everywhere. There was a stockpile of illegal machine guns on a shelf in the back. There was a large safe in Julia Ling’s office with the door swinging open and hundred-dollar bills scattered on the floor. You didn’t just roll up on a scene like that and release the only two witnesses. There were forms to be filled out, questions to be answered. Will had to give a statement. He’d had to wait while Amanda gave hers. It seemed like she had taken her time. He’d sat in the car, watching her talk to the detectives, feeling like an earthquake was going off in his chest.
His cell phone had been in and out of his hand a dozen times. Should he call Sara? Should he leave her alone? Did she need him? Wouldn’t she call him if she did? He had to see her. If he saw her, he would know how to react, to do what she needed. He would wrap his arms around her. He would kiss her cheek, her neck, her mouth. He would make everything better.
Or, he would just stand there in the hallway like a jackass, molesting her hand.
Amanda snapped her fingers for his attention. Will didn’t look up, but she talked anyway. “Your emergency contact is Angela Polaski. Or I should say Angie Trent, I suppose, since she’s your wife.” She paused for effect. “She is still your wife?”
He shook his head. He had never wanted to punch a woman so badly in his life.
“What did you expect me to do, Will?”
He kept shaking his head.
“So, I tell you that your—I don’t know, what is Dr. Linton to you these days? Mistress? Girlfriend? Pal?—is in trouble, and then what? We drop everything so you can go make googly eyes at her?”
Will stood up. He wasn’t going to do this. He would hitchhike back to Atlanta if he had to.
She sighed like the world was against her. “The warden will be here any minute. I need you to pull up your big-girl pants so I can prep you for your conversation with Roger Ling.”
Will looked at her for the first time since they’d left the hospital. “Me?”
“He asked for you specifically.”
This was some kind of trick, but he couldn’t see where it was going. “How does he even know my name?”
“I imagine his sister filled him in.”
As far as Will knew, Julia Ling was still on the run. “She called him at the prison?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Roger Ling is in solitary confinement for hiding a razor blade in his rectum. He doesn’t get phone calls. He doesn’t get visitors.”
Isolation had never deterred the prison message system. There were so many ill
egal cell phones inside the walls that last year during a statewide prisoner strike, The New York Times had been flooded with calls from inmates making their demands.
Still, Will said, “Roger Ling asked for me specifically?”
“Yes, Will. The request came through his lawyer. He asked for you specifically.” She allowed, “Of course, they called me first. No one knows who the hell you are. Except for Roger, apparently.”
Will sat back down in the chair. He felt his jaw ratcheting tight. The silence wanted to come back. He could feel it like a shadow looming behind him.
She asked, “Who do you think the cop is who confronted Dr. Linton in the hospital?”
He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Sara anymore. He felt sick every time he thought about what she’d been through today. Alone.
Amanda repeated herself. “Who do you think the cop is?” Again, she snapped her fingers to get his attention.
He looked up. He wanted to break her hand.
“This isn’t about me. This is about Faith and getting back her mother. Now, who do you think the cop is?”
He cleared the glass out of his throat. “How do you know all of these people?”
“What people?”
“Hector Ortiz. Roger Ling. Julia Ling. Perry the bodyguard who drives a Mercedes. Why are you on a first-name basis with all these people?”
She was silent, obviously debating about whether or not to answer. Finally, she relented. “You know I came up in the job with Evelyn. We were cadets together. We were partners before they got tired of us busting all their cases.” She shook her head at the memory. “These are the bad guys who were on the other side. Drugs. Rape. Murder. Assault. Hostage negotiation. RICO cases. Money laundering. They’ve been around as long as we have.” She added ruefully, “Which is a very, very long time.”
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