twenty-seven
July 15, 1975
“Amanda,” Evelyn repeated.
Amanda stared down at Ulster. Her foot was still jammed into his neck. With the slightest pressure, she could crush his windpipe.
“Amanda,” Evelyn said. “The girl.”
The girl.
Amanda stepped back. She told the patrolman, “Take him.” The man took out his cuffs. He called dispatch on his shoulder mic, sounding as scared as Amanda had felt ten minutes ago.
She wasn’t afraid now. The steeliness was back. The fury. The anger. She headed toward the house.
“Wait.” Evelyn put her hand on Amanda’s arm. The lower half of her face was swollen. It obviously hurt to talk, but she whispered, “There could be someone else.”
Not another girl. Another killer.
Amanda found her revolver on the ground. The wooden grip was cracked. She opened the cylinder. One bullet. She looked at Evelyn, who checked her own revolver and held up four fingers. Five bullets between them. That was all they had.
That was all they needed.
The front door was unlocked. Amanda reached in with her hand and turned on the switch. A single bulb hung from an old fixture in the ceiling. The house was shotgun style, one story with a front door that lined up to the back. There were two chairs in the front room. A Bible was open on one of them. A silver bowl of water was on the floor. She was reminded of Easter church services. The women would bring bowls of water and wash the men’s feet. She’d washed Duke’s every year since her mother died.
The distant wail of a siren broke the silence. Not just one siren. Two. Three. More than she could decipher.
Evelyn joined Amanda as she walked down the hall. The kitchen was straight ahead. Two doors were on their right. One on the left. All closed.
Evelyn indicated the first door. She gripped her revolver in her hand. She nodded that she was ready.
They stood on either side of the closed door. Amanda reached down and turned the knob. She pushed open the door. Quickly, she reached in and flipped up the light switch. A floor lamp came on. There was a metal bed in the middle of the room. The mattress was soiled. Threads jutted up. Broken threads. A washstand. A sink. A chair. A bed table.
On the table was a pair of nail clippers. Cuticle nips. Buffer. Three types of metal files. An emery board. Tweezers. Red Max Factor nail polish with a pointy white cap. A glass vial filled with the crescent-shaped clippings of women’s fingernails.
Jane Delray.
Mary Halston.
Kitty Treadwell.
Lucy Bennett.
Filthy rooms. Cracked plaster walls. Bare bulbs in the ceiling. Animal droppings on the floor. The stench of blood and terror.
This house was where he’d kept them.
Evelyn gave a low hiss for her attention. She nodded toward the next door. Amanda saw the patrolman enter the front room. She didn’t wait for him. They did not need his help.
She stood to the side of the closed door and turned the knob. The light was already on in the room. Washstand. Sink. Manicure kit. Red polish. Another glass vial of nail clippings.
The girl was slumped against the headboard. Blood spilled in a steady stream down her abdomen. Pink foam bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was wrapped around the large knife in her chest.
“Don’t!” Amanda lurched forward, dropping to her knees beside the bed. She covered the girl’s hand with her own. “Don’t take it out.”
Evelyn yelled to the patrolman, “Call an ambulance! She’s still alive!”
The girl’s throat made a sucking sound. Air whistled around Amanda’s hand. The blade was angled to the left, piercing the lung, possibly the heart. The knife was huge, the kind of weapon hunters used to skin their kill.
“Ha …,” the girl breathed. Her body was shaking. Torn threads hung from holes around her tattered lips. “Ha …”
“It’s okay,” Amanda soothed, trying to keep the knife steady as she peeled away the girl’s fingers.
Evelyn asked, “Is she having a seizure?”
“I don’t know.”
The girl’s hand dropped. The fingers twitched against the mattress. Her breath was stale, almost sour. Amanda’s muscles burned as she gripped the handle of the knife, trying desperately to hold it in place. No matter what she did, blood poured steadily from the wound.
“It’s all right,” Amanda mumbled. “Just hold on a little bit longer.”
The girl tried to blink. Pieces of eyelid stuck to her brow. Her arm reached out, fingers flexing as she tried to point to the open door.
“That’s right.” Amanda felt tears streaming down her face. “We’re going to take you out of here. He’s not going to hurt you anymore.”
She made a noise, a sound between a breath and a word.
“We’ll get you out of here.”
Again, she made the sound.
“What is it?” Amanda asked.
“Laa …” The girl breathed. “Vah …”
Amanda shook her head. She didn’t understand.
Evelyn got down beside her. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“Laa,” she repeated. “Laa … vah …”
“Lover?” Amanda asked. “Love?”
Her head shook in a trembling nod. “Him …”
Her breath stopped. Her body went limp as the life drained out of her. Amanda couldn’t hold her up anymore. Gently, she let the girl fall back onto the bed. Her eyes took on a blank stare. Amanda had never seen another person die before. The room got cold. A breeze chilled her to the bone. It felt as if a shadow hovered above them, then just as quickly, it was gone.
Evelyn sat back on her knees. She spoke quietly. “Lucy Bennett.”
“Lucy Bennett,” Amanda repeated.
They stared at the poor creature. Her face. Her torso. Her arms and legs. The horrors of the last year were writ large across her body.
“How could she love him?” Amanda asked. “How could she …”
Evelyn used the back of her hand to wipe away tears. “I don’t know.”
Amanda stared into the dead girl’s eyes. She had seen her through the window just moments ago. The image flashed into Amanda’s mind like a scene from a horror movie. The girl on the bed. Her hand at her chest. It was a knife she had been holding. Amanda realized that now.
The sound of the sirens got louder.
“House is clear.” The patrolman came up behind them. “What did you—” He saw the body. His hand slapped to his mouth as he ran from the room, retching.
Evelyn said, “At least we were here for her.”
Tires screeched in the street. Blue lights flashed.
“Maybe we brought her … I don’t know. Comfort?”
Amanda said, “We were too late to save her.”
“We found her,” Evelyn said. “At least we found her. At least the last few minutes of her life, she was free.”
“It’s not enough.”
“No,” Evelyn said. “It’ll never be enough.”
The sirens wound down as the cruisers pulled up. They heard talking outside; gruff voices barking orders, the usual palaver of men taking charge.
And something else.
Evelyn obviously heard it, too.
Still, Amanda asked, “What’s that noise?”
twenty-eight
Present Day
SUZANNA FORD
She knew what the noise was now. The elevators rushing up and down. She heard the wind whistling like a train—up and down, down and up—as the doctor cut the threads with a pair of office scissors.
“You’re going to be okay,” the woman said. She was obviously in charge. She’d been the first to come to Suzanna’s side. The only one who wasn’t afraid of what she had seen. The other guys hung back. She could hear their breathing like steam pushing out of an iron. And then the doctor told one to call an ambulance. Another to get a bottle of water. Another to get a blanket. Another to find some scissors. They jumped to obey, running off so fast that Suzanna could feel the ghosts of their presence long after she could no longer hear their sneakers pounding against the floor.