She gave it some thought. "I can't think of anything Zeke could do that would make me tell Jeremy not to talk to him."
"What if he hit you?"
She opened her mouth to answer, then seemed to change her mind. "It's not about whether I would put up with it—it's about what Pauline would do." Faith was quiet, thinking. "Families are complicated. People put up with a lot of shit because of blood."
"Blackmail?" Will knew he was grasping at straws, but he continued, "Maybe the brother knew something bad about Pauline's past? There has to be a reason she changed her name at seventeen. Fast forward to now. Pauline has a lucrative job. She's good on her mortgage. She drives a nice car. She'd probably be willing to pay a lot of money to keep it that way."
Will shot down his own idea. "On the other hand, if the brother is blackmailing her, he needs her to keep working. There's no reason to take her."
"It's not like she's being held for ransom. Nobody cares that she's gone."
Will shook his head. Another dead end.
Faith said, "Okay, maybe Pauline's not involved in our case. Maybe she's got some kind of weird Flowers in the Attic thing going on with her brother. What do we do now? Just sit around and wait for a third—or fourth—woman to be taken?"
Will didn't know how to answer that. Fortunately, he didn't have to.
Faith looked at her watch. "Let's go talk to the Coldfields."
* * *
THERE WERE CHILDREN at the Fred Street Women's Shelter— something Will hadn't anticipated, though of course it made sense that homeless women would also have homeless children. A small area at the front of the shelter was cordoned off for their play. Their ages were varied, but he assumed they were all under the age of six, because the older kids would be in school this time of day. All the children were dressed in mismatched, faded clothes and playing with toys that had seen better days: Barbie dolls with short haircuts, Tonka toys with missing wheels. Will supposed he should have felt sad for them, because watching them play was much like a scene from his own childhood, but the exception here was that these kids had at least one parent who was looking out for them, one connection to the normal world.
"Good Lord," Faith mumbled, digging into her purse. There was a jar for donations on the counter by the front entrance, and she shoved in a couple of tens. "Who's watching these kids?"
Will looked down the hall. The walls were decorated with paper Easter cut-outs and some of the childrens' drawings. He saw a closed door with the symbol for a woman's restroom. "She's probably in the toilet."
"Anyone could snatch them."
Will didn't think many people wanted these children. That was part of the problem.
"Ring bell for service," Faith said, he supposed reading from the sign below the bell, which even a monkey could have figured out.
Will reached over and rang the bell.
She said, "They do computer training here."
"What?"
Faith picked up one of the brochures on the counter. Will saw pictures of smiling women and children on the front, a couple of corporate logos that named the big-money sponsors along the bottom. "Computer training, counseling, meals." Her eyes went back and forth as she skimmed the text. "Medical counseling with a Christian focus." She dropped the pamphlet back in with the others. "I guess that means they tell you you're going to hell if you have an abortion. Good advice for women who've already got one mouth they can't afford to feed." She tapped the bell again, this time hard enough to make it spin off the counter.
Will picked up the bell from the floor. When he stood, he found a large Hispanic woman behind the counter, an infant in her arms. She spoke in a distinctive Texas drawl, her words directed toward Faith. "If you're here to arrest someone, we ask that you don't do it in front of the children."
"We're here to talk to Judith Coldfield," Faith replied, keeping her voice low, mindful that the kids were not only watching but had guessed her occupation just like the woman.
"Walk around the side of the building to the store front. Judith's working retail today." She didn't wait for a thank you. Instead, she turned back around with the child and went back down the hallway.
Faith pushed open the door, heading out into the street again. "These places annoy the hell out of me."
Will thought a homeless shelter was a strange thing to hate, even for Faith. "Why is that?"
"Just help them. Don't make them pray about it."
"Some people find solace in prayer."
"What if they don't? Then they're not worthy of being helped? You may be homeless and starving to death, but you can't have a free meal or a safe place to sleep unless you agree that abortion is an abomination and that other people have the right to tell you what to do with your body?"
Will wasn't sure how to answer her, so he just followed her around the side of the brick building, watching her angrily hitch her purse up on her shoulder. She was still mumbling when they rounded the corner to the storefront. There was a large sign out front that probably had the name of the shelter on it. The economy was bad for everybody these days, but especially for charities who depended on people feeling flush enough to help their fellow man. Many of the local shelters took in donations that they sold in order to help pay for basic operations. Window lettering advertised various items inside the store. Faith read them off as they walked to the entrance.
"'House wares, linens, clothes, donations welcome, free pickup for larger items.'"
Will opened the door, willing her to shut up.
"'Open every day but Sunday.' 'No dogs allowed.'"
"I got it," he told her, glancing around the store. Blenders were lined up on a shelf, toasters and small microwaves underneath. There were some clothes on racks, mostly the kind of styles that were very popular during the eighties. Canned soups and various pantry staples were stored away from the sun streaming in through the windows. Will's stomach grumbled, and he remembered sorting cans of food that came into the orphanage over the holidays. Nobody ever gave the good stuff. It was usually Spam and pickled beets, just the sort of thing every kid wanted for Christmas dinner.
Faith had found another sign. "'All donations are tax deductible. Proceeds go directly to help homeless women and children. God blesses those who bless others.'"
He realized that his jaw was aching from clenching his teeth so hard. Luckily, he didn't have to dwell on the pain for long. A man popped up from behind the counter like Mr. Drucker from Green Acres. "How y'all doin'?"
Faith's hand flew to her chest. "Who the hell are you?"
The man blushed so hard that Will could almost feel the heat coming off his face. "Sorry, ma'am." He wiped his hand on the front of his T-shirt. Black finger marks showed where he had done this many times before. "Tom Coldfield. I'm helping my mom with . . ." He indicated the floor behind the counter. Will saw he was working on a push-style lawnmower. The engine was partially disassembled. It looked like he was trying to put on a new fan belt, which hardly explained why the carburetor was on the floor.
Will told him, "There's a nut on the—"