Genesis (36 page)

A shudder racked her body. She stood and left the room.

The cops in front of Anna's door stepped aside. Faith crossed her
arms over her chest, feeling a sudden coldness as she entered the room.
Anna was lying in bed, Balthazar in the crook of her bony arm. Her
shoulder was pronounced, the bone hard against the skin, the same as
the girls Faith had seen in the videos on Pauline McGhee's computer.

"Agent Mitchell has just entered the room," Amanda told the
woman. "She's been trying to find out who did this to you."

The whites of Anna's eyes were clouded, as if she had cataracts.
She stared unseeingly toward the door. Faith knew there was no etiquette
for these kinds of situations. She had handled rape and abuse
cases before, but nothing like this. She had to think the skills translated.
You didn't make small talk. You didn't ask them how they were
doing, because the answer was obvious.

Faith said, "I know this is a difficult time. We just have a few questions
for you."

Amanda told Faith, "Ms. Lindsey was just telling me she finished
a big case and took off work for a few weeks to spend time with her
child."

Faith asked, "Did anyone else know you were taking time off ?"

"I left a note with the doorman. People at work knew—my secretary,
my partners. I don't talk to the people in my building."

Faith felt like a large wall had been erected around Anna Lindsey.
There was something so cold about the woman that establishing a
connection seemed impossible. She stuck to the questions they
needed answered. "Can you tell us what happened when you were
taken?"

Anna licked her dry lips, closed her eyes. When she spoke, her
voice was little more than a whisper. "I was in my apartment getting
Balthazar ready for a walk in the park. That's the last thing I remember."

Faith knew there could be some memory loss with Taser attacks.
"What did you see when you woke up?"

"Nothing. I never saw anything again after that."

"Any sounds or sensations you can recall?"

"No."

"Did you recognize your attacker?"

Anna shook her head. "No. I can't remember anything."

Faith let a few seconds pass, trying to get hold of her frustration.
"I'm going to give you a list of names. I need you to tell me if any of
them sound familiar."

Anna nodded, her hand sliding across the sheets to find her son's
mouth. He suckled her finger, tiny gulping noises coming from his
throat.

"Pauline McGhee."

Anna shook her head.

"Olivia Tanner."

Again, she shook her head.

"Jacquelyn, or Jackie, Zabel."

She shook her head.

Faith had saved Jackie for last. The two women had been in the
cave together. This was the only thing they knew for certain. "We
found your fingerprint on Jackie Zabel's driver's license."

Anna's dry lips parted again. "No," she said firmly. "I don't know
her."

Amanda glanced Faith's way, eyebrows raised. Was this traumatic
amnesia? Or something else?

Faith asked, "What about something called thinspo?"

Anna stiffened. "No," she said, more quickly this time, her voice
louder.

Faith gave it another few seconds, letting the woman think. "We
found some notebooks where you were kept. They had the same
words over and over again—'I will not deny myself.' Does that mean
anything to you?"

She shook her head again.

Faith worked to keep the pleading out of her voice. "Can you tell
us anything about your attacker? Did you smell something, like oil or
gas on him? Cologne? Did you feel any facial hair or any physical—"

"No," Anna whispered, pressing her fingers along her child's
body, finding his hand and taking it in hers. "I can't tell you anything.
I don't remember any details. Nothing."

Faith opened her mouth to speak, but Amanda beat her to the
punch, saying, "You're safe here, Ms. Lindsey. We've had two armed
guards outside your door since you were brought in. No one can hurt
you anymore."

Anna turned her head toward her baby, making shushing sounds
to soothe him. "I am not afraid of anything."

Faith was taken aback at how certain the woman sounded. Maybe
if you survived what Anna had been through, you believed you
could endure anything.

Amanda said, "We think he has two more women right now.
That he's doing the same thing to them that he's done to you." She
tried again, "One of the woman has a child, Ms. Lindsey. His name is
Felix. He's six years old and he wants to be with his mother. I'm sure
wherever she is, she's thinking of him right now, wanting to hold
him again."

"I hope she's strong," Anna mumbled. Then, louder, she told
them, "As I have said many times now, I don't remember anything. I
don't know who did it, or where they took me or why they did it. I
just know that it's over now, and I'm putting it behind me."

Faith could feel Amanda's frustration matching her own.

Anna said, "I need to rest now."

"We can wait," Faith told her. "Maybe come back in a few hours."

"No." The woman's expression turned hard. "I know my legal
obligations. I'll sign a statement, or make my mark, or whatever it is
blind people do, but if you want to talk tome again, you can make an
appointment with my secretary when I'm back at work."

Faith tried, "But, Anna—"

She turned her head toward the baby. Anna's blindness had
blocked them from her vision, but her actions seemed to block them
from her mind.

S
ARA HAD FINALLY MANAGED TO CLEAN HER APARTMENT
.
She could not think of the last time it had looked this good—maybe
when she had first seen it with her realtor before she had even moved
in. The Milk Lofts had once been a dairy, serviced by the vast farmland
that used to cover the eastern part of the city. There were six
floors in the building, two apartments on each floor separated by a
long hallway with large windows either end. The main living area of
Sara's place was what was called an open plan, the kitchen looking
onto the enormous living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows that were
a bitch to keep clean lined an entire wall, giving her a nice view of
downtown when the shades were open. There were three bedrooms
in the back, each with their own bathroom. Sara, of course, slept in
the master, but no one had ever slept in the guest room. The third
room she used as an office and for storage.

She had never thought of herself as a loft person, but when Sara
had moved to Atlanta, she had wanted her new life to be as different
from her old as was humanly possible. Instead of choosing a cute
bungalow on one of the city's old, tree-lined streets, she had opted
for a space that was little more than an empty box. Atlanta's real estate
market was just hitting rock bottom, and Sara had a ridiculous
amount of money to spend. Everything was new when she'd moved
in, but she had renovated the entire place from top to bottom anyway.
The price of the kitchen alone would have fed a family of three
for a year. Add in the palatial bathrooms and it was downright embarrassing
that Sara had been so free with her checkbook.

In her previous life, she had always been careful with her money,
never splurging on anything except a new BMW every four years.
After Jeffrey's death, there had been his life insurance policy, his pension,
his own savings and the proceeds from the sale of his house.
Sara had left all of it in the bank, feeling like spending his money
would be admitting he was gone. She had even considered refusing
the tax exemption she got from the state for being a widow of a slain
police officer, but her accountant had balked and it wasn't worth the
fight.

Subsequently, the money she sent to Sylacauga, Alabama, every
month to help Jeffrey's mother came out of her own pocket while
Jeffrey's money compounded meager interest at the local bank. Sara
often thought about giving it to his son, but that would have been
too complicated. Jeffrey's son had never been told that Jeffrey was his
real father. She couldn't ruin the boy's life and then hand over a sum
that amounted to a small fortune to a kid who was still in college.

So, Jeffrey's money sat there in the bank, just like the letter sat on
Sara's mantel. She stood by the fireplace, fingering the edge of the envelope,
wondering why she hadn't put it back into her purse or
jammed it into her pocket again. Instead, during her rabid fit of
cleaning, she had only picked it up to dust under the envelope as she
made her way down the mantel.

Sara saw Jeffrey's wedding ring on the opposite end. She still wore
her wedding ring—a matching, white-gold band—but his college
ring, a hunk of gold with the Auburn University insignia carved into
the top, was more important to her. The blue stone was scratched
and it was too big for her finger, so she wore it on a long chain around
her neck the way a soldier wears his dog tags. She didn't wear it for
anyone to see. It was always tucked into her shirt, close to her heart,
so she could feel it at all times.

Still, she took Jeffrey's wedding band and kissed it before putting
it back on the mantel. Over the last few days, her mind had somehow
put Jeffrey in a different place. It was as if she was going through
mourning again, but this time, at a remove. Instead of waking up
feeling devastated, as she had for the last three and a half years, she
felt enormously sad. Sad to turn over in bed and not have him there.
Sad that she would never see him smile again. Sad that she would
never hold him or feel him inside of her again. But not utterly devastated.
Not like every move or thought was an effort. Not like she
wanted to die. Not like there was no light at the end of all of this.

There was something else, too. Faith Mitchell had been so horrible
today, and Sara had survived. She hadn't broken down or fallen to
pieces. She had not come undone. She had kept herself together. The
funny thing was, in some ways Sara felt closer to Jeffrey because of it.
She felt stronger, more like the woman he had fallen in love with
than the woman who had fallen apart without him. She closed her
eyes, and she could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck, his
lips brushing so softly that a tingle went down her spine. She imagined
his hand wrapping around her waist, and was surprised when
she put her hand there to feel nothing but her own hot skin.

The buzzer rang and the dogs stirred along with Sara. She
shushed them as she walked to the intercom and buzzed in the pizza
delivery guy. Betty, Will Trent's dog, had been adopted quickly by
Billy and Bob, her two greyhounds. When she was cleaning earlier,
all three dogs had settled onto the couch in a pile, glancing up occasionally
when Sara walked into the room, sometimes giving her a
sharp look if she made too much noise. Even the vacuum cleaner had
not dislodged them.

Sara opened the door to wait for Armando, who delivered pizza
to her apartment at least twice a week. The fact that they were on a
first name basis was something she pretended was normal, and she
routinely overtipped the deliveryman so that he wouldn't make a big
deal about seeing her more than he saw his own children.

"Doin' all right?" he asked as pizza and money changed hands.

"Doing great," she told him, but her mind was back in the apartment,
to what she was doing before the buzzer had sounded. It had
been so long since she'd been able to remember what it felt like to be
with Jeffrey. She wanted to dwell on it, to crawl into bed and let her
mind wander back to that sweet place.

"Have a good one, Sara." Armando turned to leave, then stopped.
"Hey, there's some strange guy hanging around downstairs."

She lived in the middle of a large city, so this was hardly unusual.
"Regular strange or call-the-cops strange?"

"I think he
is
a cop. Doesn't look it, but I saw his badge."

"Thanks," she said. He gave her a nod as he headed toward the elevator.
Sara put the pizza box on the kitchen counter and walked to
the far side of the living room. She pushed open the window and
leaned out. Sure enough, six stories down, she spotted a speck looking
suspiciously like Will Trent.

"Hey!" she called. He didn't respond, and she watched him for a
moment as he paced back and forth, wondering if he'd heard her. She
tried again, raising her voice like a soccer mom at a NASCAR race.
"Hey!"

Will finally looked up, and she told him, "Sixth floor."

She watched him go into the building, passing Armando on the
way out, who tossed Sara a wave and said something about seeing her
soon. Sara shut the window, praying Will had not heard the exchange,
or at least had the decency to pretend. She checked the apartment,
making sure nothing was too horrendously out of place.
There were two couches in the middle of the living room, one
packed with dogs, the other with pillows. Sara fluffed these up, tossing
them back onto the couch in what she hoped was an artful
arrangement.

Thanks to two hours of elbow grease, the kitchen was sparkling
clean, even the copper backsplash behind the stove, which was gorgeous
until you realized it took two different kinds of cleaners. She
passed the flat screen television on the wall and stopped cold. She'd
forgotten to dust the screen. Sara tugged down the sleeve of her shirt
over her hand and did the best she could.

By the time she opened her door, Will was getting off the elevator.
Sara had only met the man a few times, but he looked awful, like
he hadn't slept in weeks. She saw his left hand, noticed the skin on the
back of his knuckles was split apart in a way that might suggest his
fist had smashed repeatedly into someone's mouth.

Occasionally, Jeffrey had come home with the same kinds of cuts.
Sara always asked about them, and he always lied. For her part, she
made herself believe the lies because she wasn't comfortable with the
idea of his walking outside the law. She wanted to believe that her
husband was a good man in every way. Part of her wanted to think
that Will Trent was a good man, too, so she was prepared to believe
whatever story he came up with when she asked, "Is your hand all
right?"

"I hit someone. The doorman at Anna's building."

Sara was caught off-guard by his honesty. She took a second to
form a response. "Why?"

Again, he seemed to give her the truth. "I just snapped."

"Are you in trouble with your boss?"

"Not really."

She realized she was keeping him in the hall and stepped aside so
he could come in. "That baby is lucky you found him. I don't know
that he could've gone another day."

"That's a convenient excuse." He looked around the room, absently
scratching his arm. "I've never hit a suspect before. I've scared
them into thinking I might, but I've never actually done it."

"My mother always told me there's a fine line between never and
always." He looked confused, and Sara explained, "Once you do
something bad, it's easier to do it again the next time, then the next
time, and before you know it, you're doing it all the time and it
doesn't bother your conscience."

He stared at her for what felt like a full minute.

She shrugged. "It's up to you. If you don't like crossing that line,
then don't do it again. Don't ever make it easy."

There was a mixture of surprise in his face, then something like
relief. Instead of acknowledging what had just happened, he told
her, "I hope Betty wasn't too much trouble."

"She was fine. She's not yippy at all."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I didn't intend to dump her on you like that."

"It was no problem," Sara assured him, though she had to admit
that Faith Mitchell was right about Sara's motivations this morning.
Sara had offered to watch the dog because she wanted details about
the case. She wanted to contribute something to the investigation.
She wanted to be useful again.

Will was just standing there in the middle of the room, his three-piece
suit wrinkled, the vest loose around his stomach as if he'd lost
weight recently. She had never seen anyone look so lost in her life.

She told him, "Have a seat."

He seemed undecided, but finally took the couch across from the
dogs. He didn't sit the way men usually sit—legs apart, arms spread
along the back of the couch. He was a big guy, but he appeared to
work very hard not to take up a lot of space.

Sara asked, "Have you had supper?"

He shook his head and she put the pizza box on the coffee table.
The dogs were very interested in this development, so Sara sat on the
couch with them in order to keep them in line. She waited for Will to
take a slice, but he just sat there opposite, hands resting on his knees.

He asked, "Is that your husband's ring?"

Startled, she turned to the ring, which was flat on the polished
mahogany. The letter was on the other end of the mantel, and Sara
had a flash of concern that Will would figure out what was inside.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I shouldn't pry."

"It's his," she told him, realizing that she'd been pressing her
thumb into the matching ring on her finger, spinning it around in a
nervous habit.

"What about . . ." He touched his hand to his chest.

Sara mimicked the movement, feeling exposed as she found
Jeffrey's college ring beneath her thin shirt. "Something else," she
answered, not going into detail.

He nodded, still looking around the room. "I was found in a
kitchen trash can." His words were abrupt, surprising. He explained,
"At least that's what my file says."

Sara didn't know how to respond, especially when he laughed, as
if he'd made an off-color joke at a church social.

"Sorry. I don't know why I said that." He pulled a piece of pizza
out of the box, catching the dripping cheese in his hand.

"It's all right," she told him, putting her hand on Bob's head as the
greyhound's snout slid toward the coffee table. She couldn't even
comprehend what Will was saying. He might as well have told her
he had been born on the moon.

She asked, "How old were you?"

He waited until he'd swallowed, then told her, "Five months."
He took another bite of pizza and she watched his jaw work as he
chewed. Sara's mind conjured up an image of Will Trent at five
months old. He would've just started trying to sit up on his own and
recognizing sounds.

He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. "My mother put
me there."

"In the trashcan?"

He nodded. "Someone broke into the house—a man. She knew
he was going to kill her, and probably me, too. She hid me in the
trashcan under the sink, and he didn't find me. I guess I must've
known to be quiet." He gave a crooked half-grin. "I was in Anna's
apartment today, and I looked in every trash can. All the time, I was
thinking about what you said this morning, about how the killer put
the trash bags inside of the women to send a message, because he
wanted to tell the world that they were trash, meaningless."

"Obviously, your mother was trying to protect you. She wasn't
sending a message."

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

"Did they . . ." Her mind wasn't working well enough to ask
questions.

"Did they catch the guy who killed her?" Will asked, finishing
her sentence. He glanced around the room again. "Did they catch the
person who killed your husband?"