He seemed to know everything about their lives, yet Lena had never met him before.
What did he really know, though? Anyone who had followed Hank and Lena in a grocery store would know that he called her Lee. The newspaper had run a front-page story when Sibyl had gotten her scholarship. As for the details about Angela Adams's early life… those could be made up. The story she was hearing now about her mother could be just as false as the stories Hank had spun to her as a child.
'You working it out?' the man asked.
'Am I supposed to recognize you?'
'Honey, right now, all you need to do is watch and learn.' He held up the cup as if to toast her. 'I'm going to show you what happens to people who don't mind their own business.'
He threw the contents of the cup at Charlotte, and Lena could smell it now.
Lighter fluid.
'What are you-'
He opened his door. There was a click, then a flame ignited from the silver lighter he held in his hand. He tossed the lighter at Charlotte as he left the car, and Lena lunged for it, screaming, 'No-' as she tried to catch it.
She wasn't fast enough. The lighter fell onto Charlotte 's lap, the flame ignited the liquid and Lena was blown back into the front seat as the woman caught fire.
Charlotte made an animal sound, her arms flailing as the flames began to consume her.
'No,' Lena gasped, unable to help, unable to do anything but watch Charlotte burn. 'No!' The car filled with smoke and the smell of burning meat. Lena clawed at the door, trying to get it open. Finally, she managed to find the handle and fell out of the car. She hit the ground hard, pain tearing through her shoulder as she scrambled to her feet.
Clint appeared. What she'd thought was a bucket was actually a gas can. He pushed past Lena and threw more fuel onto the SUV.
She pounced on him, flailing her arms wildly, scratching at his face, screaming gibberish as she took out her rage on him. Clint slammed his fist into the side of her head so hard that she reeled back, sick with pain. Hot bile roiled up her throat and Lena bent over, vomiting in the grass.
There was a small explosion as part of the SUV ignited. Lena rolled to her knees, trying to crawl away from the vehicle before the whole thing went up. The smoke and heat were too much. She fell onto her side, wheezing. She could hear a noise that could not be human: high-pitched screeching. Charlotte. She was still alive, still conscious of the flames that were devouring her.
Lena rolled onto her stomach, knowing it was too late for Charlotte, that she should get as far away from the car as possible. She tried to move, but her body gave out on her. Suddenly, she was scooped up by the waist of her pants, dragged toward the bleachers. The car exploded again, so loud that it must have been the gas tank. She was flung into the stands, her head banging against the metal. The thud vibrated in her ears; the gas can tumbled down beside her.
Clint was on top of her, his face inches from hers. 'You still alive?'
Lena coughed, feeling like her lungs had been burned. She could barely breathe with him on top of her. 'Why?' she managed. 'Why are you doing this?'
He sat back on his knees, brushing debris off his arms and legs, looking at it like he had just come home from church and couldn't understand why he'd gotten so dirty.
'Why?' she insisted, her voice thick with grief.
In the light of the fire, she could see his face, the way he looked down at her with something like pity. 'I can't tell you anything, Lena. You'll have to ask Hank.'
THURSDAY EVENING
TWENTY-ONE
Sara sat outside the Elawah County Hospital, the cold concrete of the bench penetrating her jeans. She was sick of hospitals, sick of the slow way everything moved in them. No wonder people were so furious at the healthcare industry. The tox screen, the blood work, the X-rays – everything had taken twice as long as it should have, and then a doctor had to be located, a pharmacist called in, a nurse found. All these slow machinations were designed specifically to cover everyone's ass in case a mistake was made; the wrong lab report delivered, the wrong drug administered, an incorrect diagnosis given. Meanwhile, the patient suffered in limbo. It was absolutely maddening.
The only saving grace was that Hank had not been aware of the wait; he had remained comatose during the short ride to the hospital and when they had triaged him in the ER and moved him to the ICU, not much about his condition had changed. Still, Sara did not hold out any great hope. His body was racked with infection. His heart was weakened from years of drug use and his lungs were showing mid-stage emphysema.
Sara's biggest concern was the burn marks around his wrists and feet. On first glance, they had seemed to match the other cuts and abrasions on Hank's body. Closer inspection proved that they were rope burns. She could tell from the sloping angle of the pattern on his wrists that his hands had been tied away from his body. His ankles had been bound together. What's more, he had been recently beaten. Two ribs were broken and there was a nasty bruise on his lower abdomen where someone had either punched or kicked him.
Surprisingly, the most immediate problem they'd had to deal with was drug withdrawal. For reasons of his own, Hank had stopped the meth cold turkey and his body's response had been to rebel completely. His organs were trying to shut down, to begin the cascade that would eventually lead to his death.
Working at Grady Hospital during her internship, Sara had seen her share of homeless addicts come through the emergency room doors. They were little more than the walking dead, their health so deteriorated that it was shocking that they were capable of standing upright. Pneumonia, hepatitis, scurvy, severe dehydration… Years had passed since she'd worked with these hopeless souls, and she had been so shocked to see Hank's condition when she'd first seen him lying in his backyard that for a moment, she hadn't been able to act.
The only thing she had been able to do for him tonight was help process him through the system. As long as he remained stable through the night, he would be transferred to a larger hospital first thing in the morning.
A silver car turned into the parking lot. Sara's heart sank when she saw it wasn't her BMW. Jeffrey should be here any minute now, and she was anxious to see him. He had called Sara at the hospital and told her about searching Lena's hotel room, the phone call she had made to Coastal State
Prison. According to the records, Lena had visited Ethan Green the same day the SUV was burned. There had to be a connection, but Jeffrey hadn't wanted to talk about it over the phone. He told her he would wait at the motel for the warden to call him back, then he would pick up Sara at the hospital.
She could tell just by listening to him that no matter what the warden said, Jeffrey had already decided to see Ethan for himself. He thought threats and intimidation would work on the con, but Sara knew better. Men like Ethan Green did not curl up into a ball when they were threatened. They coiled like rattlesnakes and prepared to attack.
Sara had made a pact with herself the night before that no matter what Jeffrey did, she was going to stand by him. After sixteen years, she knew that her husband was never going to see a person trapped in a burning building and sit back, leaving it to someone else to save them. Sara had to accept this facet of his personality and support his choice, because it was this goodness that had drawn her to him in the first place. It was against his nature to walk away.
The glass doors to the emergency room slid open and Fred Bart walked out, patting his pockets. 'Hey there, darlin',' he called, spotting Sara on the bench. He found his cigarettes, gave her a rueful grin and tucked them back in his pocket.