Unseen (33 page)

Lena took out her phone and pulled up Denise Branson’s number. She could see the Chick-fil-A building through the windshield. The distance was too great for detail, but she could tell that Snitch was still on the playground. He had returned to the bench, arms and legs spread wide. The sunglasses were back on. Lena couldn’t see his expression, but she gathered he was feeling pretty pleased with himself. He knew he was safe now. The minute he’d gotten Waller to talk about the house, Snitch’s immunity deal was set in stone.

Lena heard Denise Branson’s voicemail. She ended the call. Denise was probably in a meeting. Lena pulled up the text messaging and typed out a quick note:
Baldy will have package within the hour
.

Baldy was their nickname for the judge who kept telling them no. Lena was probably being paranoid, but she didn’t want to take the chance that her phone was hacked.

She checked over her shoulder. The men were still celebrating, trying to one-up one another with crass jokes about prison rape.

Lena rolled her eyes as she turned back around. Mr. Snitch was still on the playground bench. The sun was in his face. Kids were playing on the swings in front of him. He didn’t have a care in the world.

She hated this part of the job. The junkie had been caught selling pills to kids, and he would go back to selling them pills because the police had let him go. There was no way for her to sit on him, wait for the inevitable fuckup. No criminal would ever deal with Lena again if they knew she couldn’t be trusted. She would have to sit back and wait for Mr. Snitch to screw up on his own.

Or maybe she wouldn’t.

Lena pulled up email on her phone. She selected the Google account that she used for ordering off the Internet. The email address could probably be traced back to her, but she didn’t really care. She was going to take the advice she had just given Denise Branson. No cop should go it alone. There was no shame in asking for help. Besides, Mr. Snitch’s immunity deal was with Macon, not the state of Georgia.

Lena couldn’t touch Anthony Dell, but Will Trent could.

W
ill stumbled out of the hospital. Even outside, he could still hear Sara crying. Could feel the marks she’d left on his skin. Could smell her. Taste her.

He passed his bike, crossed the parking lot. His foot hit the curb. He stepped up, walking into the woods behind the building. Will didn’t get far. He fell to his knees. He opened his mouth, tried to bring up the acid eating him inside.

What had he done?

He pressed his forehead to the cold ground. His mind kept flipping through the last twenty-four hours. All the violence. All the pain. What Will had seen. What he had wrought. Lena with the hammer. Tony with his knife. And then there was Sara.

What had he done to Sara?

He had lost her. In that one brutal moment, he had lost her forever.

“Hey, asshole!”

Will looked up. Paul Vickery was barreling toward him. Before Will could react, the man kicked him in the head.

Will slammed to the ground. Stars burst in front of his eyes. The air was knocked out of his chest.

Vickery jumped on him. He rained down punches like a windmill. Will bucked, trying to heave him off. Vickery grabbed Will’s neck. The man put all of his weight into it, crushing Will’s windpipe. Will tried to pry away his fingers. His mouth gaped open. Vickery pressed harder, strangling him. Will’s tongue swelled. His eyes burned. He started to black out. Was this how it was going to happen? After all he had survived, was this how he was going to die?

Suddenly, the pressure stopped. Will gagged on the sudden rush of air.

Paul Vickery flew off him. He landed hard on the asphalt. His head thumped against the curb.

Will coughed so hard his feet kicked out.

“Are you okay?” Faith was there. She had a twenty-inch-long steel police baton in her hand. She asked Will again, “Are you okay?” She kept looking at Vickery, then back at Will. “Can you see me?”

Will saw two of her, then three.

Vickery tried to push himself up.

Faith slammed the baton into Vickery’s kidneys. Two brutal blows, one after the other.

“Bitch!” he screamed, writhing on the ground. “Jesus!” Faith jammed the baton in Vickery’s face. “Stay down.”

“He murdered a cop!”

The baton stayed in Vickery’s face. She drew her Glock on Will. “Get up.”

Will blinked at the gun. Her finger was on the trigger guard. He wasn’t sure he could move. He hurt so bad. Everything hurt so bad.

“Black,” Faith said. “I told you to get the fuck up.”

Black
.

Will didn’t understand what she was saying. Was it some kind of a code?

“Up,” Faith repeated. She was using her cop voice, the one that
said she had drawn down on a suspect before and was ready to do it again. “I said get the fuck up.”

Finally, Will’s brain managed to make contact with his arms, his legs. He pushed himself to sitting. The effort almost wasted him.

“Stay there,” Faith ordered, as if Will had a choice. “Bill Black, I’m placing you under arrest for parole violation.”

“Parole?” Vickery shouted. “He killed a fucking cop!”

“You got proof?” When Vickery didn’t offer an answer, she told Will, “You have the right to remain silent.”

Vickery muttered, “Stupid cunt.”

Faith talked over him. “Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law.”

Will leaned over and threw up. Peas. Something white. Green beans. He couldn’t remember eating any of it.

“You have a right to consult with an attorney.”

Will sniffed. The sensation almost made him vomit again.

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you by the courts.”

“Okay.” Will held up his hand for silence. The sound of her voice was an ice pick in his brain. “I waive my rights.”

Faith holstered her Glock, but kept the baton at the ready. She tossed Will her handcuffs. “Put those on.”

Vickery saw an opportunity. He tried to stand.

Faith flicked the baton, cracking it against Vickery’s ankle. The sound was like a twig snapping.

“Bitch!” Vickery screamed in agony. “You fucking bitch!”

“Stand up.” Faith grabbed Will’s arm. She couldn’t move him. “Come on.” She leaned down to help. Her whisper in his ear felt like she was talking underwater. “Please.”

From somewhere deep inside, Will summoned the strength to stand. He staggered like a colt taking its first steps. Faith wrapped her hand around his arm, pulled him toward the parking lot. He tripped over the curb again. Faith labored to keep him upright.

She coached, “Keep walking. Just keep walking.”

Will tried to do as he was told. His feet were floppy, like the tendons had come undone. The ground looked strange. Everything was too large or too small. He was walking through a fun-house mirror. If not for Faith propping him up, he would’ve fallen flat on his face.

Paul Vickery wouldn’t give up. “I got a witness puts him in the back room at Tipsie’s tonight.” He limped after them, keeping his distance. “Same place as the shooters who went after Lena.”

Faith didn’t answer. She pulled Will, urging him to go faster.

“Ask him where he went afterward,” Vickery said. “Ask him where he was when my fucking team was being attacked.”

Faith raised the baton in warning.

Vickery hung back. “I’ll get him at the station.”

“He’s not going to the station.” Faith leaned Will against a black Suburban. “I’m taking him to the field office. He’s in state custody.”

“You won’t be able to hold him there.”

Faith opened the back door. She kept her body turned toward Vickery as she tried to help Will into the seat. He was too heavy for her to manage. In the end, all Will could do was fall in.

“You’ll have to process him,” Vickery warned. “You send him to county, you send him to Fulton, I’ll get at him somehow.”

Will’s wrists were still cuffed. He clenched his stomach muscles so he could straighten up in the seat. The pain was excruciating. He opened his mouth. He was going to be sick again.

“Stay back, Vickery. I mean it.” Faith closed the door. She used the remote to lock it. The baton stayed out as she walked around the front of the Suburban.

“You’re dead, Black!” Vickery punched the door. He banged his fists against the glass. “You hear me? I will fuck you up!”

Will closed his eyes. Everything was spinning. The car kept shaking. Vickery was putting his shoulder into it, like he thought he could roll a five-thousand-pound vehicle.

“Back the fuck up!” Faith yelled. She was at the front of the car. She said something else, but Will’s hearing was going in and out. He heard Vickery call her every name a man could use against a woman. Faith cussed him right back, giving as good as she got.

The driver’s-side door opened.

Faith yelled, “Bet on it, cocksucker.” She slammed the door shut. The sound was like a cannon. The engine turned over. The car jerked as she put it in gear. The wheels squealed against pavement.

Will leaned forward. He rested his head on his knees. His hands were clasped together, trapped between his chest and legs. Spit and blood dripped from his open mouth. He waited for Faith to say something. To yell at him. To ask him what the hell he’d been doing.

She rolled down the windows a few inches. Will felt the cold night air swirl around him. He closed his eyes. Breathed through his mouth. The light grew softer. The tires hummed against the road.

Faith kept driving. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t even turn around.

Will’s breathing started to even out. Eventually, the nausea passed. Unfortunately, so did the numbness. His body came alive with pain. His nose felt broken. His eyelids throbbed. His lip was split. His neck felt as if it had been scraped with a razor, and his head pounded along with the beating of his heart.

Faith accelerated. They were on the highway. Will could tell from the steady, low grind of the engine. He didn’t know how much time passed before she finally slowed for a turn. The sound inside the Suburban changed from a gentle hum to a fragmented crunch. The brakes squeaked as Faith slowed to a stop. She put the gear in park. The emergency brake clicked when she pushed down the pedal.

Faith opened the door. Will heard her walk around the car.

He pushed himself up. He had to move slowly. He winced at
the pain in his head. His throat felt raw. He couldn’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

The back door opened. Faith still didn’t speak. She turned on the dome light. Will blinked, squinting. The handcuffs came off. Will rubbed his wrists, trying to get the circulation to come back. Faith opened the first aid kit from under the seat. She pulled out a roll of cotton squares, various packets, antibiotic ointment, Band-Aids. Will heard cars on either side of them. Faith had parked in a restricted area that cut across the highway median. Trees surrounded them. Broken beer bottles and used condoms littered the ground.

She said, “Look at me.”

Will turned his head toward her. He closed his eyes. Packets were ripped open. Alcohol wipes. Disinfectant. He kept his eyes shut as Faith tended his scrapes and cuts. She was efficient if not gentle. Will was grateful. Sara had doctored him before. She always touched him so softly. She caressed him, kissed the places she said needed extra help to heal.

Faith wiped underneath his eyes with a tissue.

Will parted his lips to help get more air in his lungs. He wanted to thank her, to acknowledge how much her silence meant to him. Faith had always been a bull in the china shop of his life. Will was too broken now to tell her what had happened with Sara tonight.

Faith scrubbed at the blood around his nose. She said, “Eric Haigh is dead.”

“I know.” Will could barely speak. He tried to clear what felt like a wad of cotton trapped in his esophagus.

Faith said, “We found the body an hour ago.”

“His front yard,” Will whispered. “I helped Tony Dell put him there.”

Faith’s hand stopped.

Will opened his eyes. “I watched him kill him. Tony Dell kill Eric.” Will coughed. The cotton had turned into razors. “It was at Tipsie’s. Hunting knife. Dell wears it in his boot. Wore it.” Will
tried to swallow, but his throat refused. “We threw the knife in the river. I don’t know which one. Concrete bridge. No houses around.”

“We’ll find it.”

“You need to find Tony.”

“He’s gone. His house is empty. His car’s still in the impound lot.” Faith tore open a packet of antibiotic. “He used his ATM card to clean out his bank account.” She squeezed some ointment onto a Q-tip. “We’ve got a BOLO on him.”

Will still couldn’t swallow. There was only an empty clicking noise. “Three men were there. Rednecks. Big guys. Fat.” Will couldn’t remember whether or not he’d told her where this had happened. “At Tipsie’s. That’s where Tony killed Eric Haigh.”

She dabbed the Q-tip to his forehead. “I’ll put somebody on the club.”

“They were in the back room. Dell took me there to meet them. I didn’t know until we were inside that that’s what he wanted.”

Faith squirted more ointment onto the Q-tip.

“They knew my Bill Black cover. All of it. They were watching me. Not when I went back to Atlanta—they couldn’t follow me on my bike—but they knew about the hotel, my habits.” Will felt in his pocket for his phone. He looked down at the shattered glass.

Sara had thrown her phone against the wall. Will had watched it break into pieces. He had never seen her throw anything like that before.

Faith asked, “Will?”

His phone was in his hand. The glass was shattered. Will slid it back into his pocket. “One of them was called Junior.” He finally managed to swallow. The pain nearly made him pass out. “He had a gun to my chest. Pearl-handle Smith and Wesson. The knife had a pearl handle. The redneck’s, not Tony’s. We threw that off a bridge.”

Faith ringed the Q-tip underneath Will’s eye. He remembered the redneck cutting him; the first cut of the night.

He said, “My clothes are in a trash bag in my locker. I had to
change, take a shower. Tony was in the ER. He cut his hand when he stabbed Haigh. They had to stitch it up.” He felt the need to add, “I don’t know how many stitches.”