"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.
"He's a good boy," Judith told Will, her voice muffled by her hands. "You don't know how good he is."
"Tell me. Tell me why you think he's good."
The request startled her. She finally looked up at him, seemed to realize he was in danger of eventually dying. "Are you in pain?"
"I'm hurting pretty badly," he admitted. "I need to call my partner. I need to know if she's okay."
"Tom would never hurt her."
The fact that she felt compelled to make the statement sent an icy dread through Will. Faith was a good cop. She could take care of herself, except the times when she couldn't. She had passed out a few days ago—just dropped to the pavement in the parking garage at the courthouse. What if she passed out again? What if she passed out and when she finally came to, she opened her eyes to see another cave, another torture chamber excavated by Tom Coldfield?
Judith wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't know what to do . . ."
Will didn't think she was looking for suggestions. "Pauline Seward left Ann Arbor, Michigan twenty years ago. She was seventeen years old."
Judith looked away.
He took a calculated guess. "The missing persons report filed on her said that she left home because her brother was abusing her."
"That's not true. Pauline was just . . . she made that up."
"I've read the report," he lied. "I saw what he did to her."
"He didn't do anything," Judith insisted. "Pauline did those things to herself."
"She hurt herself ?"
"She hurt herself. She made up stories. From the moment she was born, she was always making trouble."
Will should have guessed. "Pauline's your daughter."
Judith nodded, obviously disgusted by the fact.
"What kind of trouble did she get into?"
"She wouldn't eat," Judith told him. "She starved herself. We took her to doctor after doctor. We spent every dime we had trying to get help for her, and she repaid us by going to the police and telling them awful stories about Tom. Just awful, awful things."
"That he hurt her?"
She hesitated, then gave the slightest of nods. "Tom has always had a sweet nature. Pauline was just too—" She shook her head, unable to find words. "She made things up about him. Awful things. I knew they couldn't be true." Judith kept coming back to the same point. "Even when she was a small child, she told lies. She was always looking for ways to hurt people. To hurt Tom."
"His name isn't really Tom, is it?"
She was looking somewhere over his shoulder, probably at the handle on the knife. "Tom is his middle name. His first is—"
"Matthias?" he guessed. She nodded again, and for just for a moment Will let himself think about Sara Linton. She had been joking at the time, but she had also been right. Find the guy named Matthias and you find your killer.