The latch scraped free and the door opened. She greeted him with a wide smile. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy,” she said.
He looked from side to side, fearing someone might be watching. “Can I come in?”
“I don’t know, baby doll. You weren’t so kind to me.”
“We have a mutual problem, thanks to that little car accident of yours.”
“Shit happens.”
Of course, she would be gloating. She never could resist. “If you want to stay out of prison, let me in.”
Her smile widened as she stepped back. “You don’t have to get all pissy with me, Sonny. You know I would never leave you out in the cold.”
He stepped over the threshold, brushing past her as well as her comment. He searched the room, saw a pair of men’s underwear.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“I am now. You picked a good bail bondsman. Full service.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing that didn’t leave a smile on his face.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. I took a few pictures. He’s not going to say anything. He would end up in trouble with his boss and his missus if the pictures got out.”
Ignoring her comment, he locked the door and slid the chain into place. From inside his coat pocket, he removed the pair of new gardening shears.
Bonnie inhaled her cigarette, and as she blew out the smoke, that trademark grin faded. She took a step back but to her credit showed no fear. She carefully stabbed out the glowing tip. “There’s no reason for that, baby doll.”
“It’s long overdue,” he said more to himself.
“You think killing me is going to make you right in the head? It won’t. In fact, it will drive you over the edge. There won’t be enough women in the world to kill if I die.”
He advanced on her.
Instead of shrinking back, she took a step forward and put her face within inches of his own. “You’ve been pissed at me since I left your sister on the side of the road.”
The image knifed through him. “Shut up.”
“I still remember how she used to scream when she didn’t get her way. That kid could shake the bloody rafters with those lungs of hers.”
“It wasn’t her fault. She just wanted attention.”
“Who doesn’t want attention?” Bonnie asked. “We all want it. Those first months on the road with the three of us were pretty sweet. We had some good times. Remember that yellow Cadillac we picked up in Salt Lake City?”
Picked up. Bonnie had hot-wired it. But it had been one sweet car. With the top down and the warm air on his face, it was the first time in his life that he had felt free and really alive.
She grinned, staring at him intently. “You remember, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You could have it again,” she said. “That freedom and that fun.”
The pain that he had so carefully locked away crawled out of the shadows and howled, its doleful sound scratching the underside of his skin. God help him. He had dreamed of those days.
She pointed at him. “And you want it all back, don’t you?”
He dropped his gaze, feeling weak and ashamed. Yes. He wanted it.
“All we have to do is get Elena, you give me the key, and I get the money.”
“There is no money,” he said.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I spent it a long time ago.”
She stared at him with narrowing eyes for a long moment, and he knew this would be the moment she sent him away. She held out her arms to him. “That’s okay, honey. We’ll get more money. We’re good at that.”
He stepped into the embrace, and she wrapped her arms around him. For a moment he remained stiff with all the anger that had left him rigid. She tightened her hold.
And he relaxed into her. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“That’s my boy,” she said, close to his ear. “Let Bonnie worry about everything, and the three of us will be a family again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, August 28, 7:00 a.m.
Sarah had been up since 4:00 a.m., though she really had not slept well in weeks. Two of her charges were missing, and though most of the world did not give a second thought to a missing prostitute, she cared deeply. She thought she’d grasped the evil these women faced each day, but after hearing Melina’s description of the Key Killer’s van, she wondered if the devil himself now walked among them.
She knew the Lord had sent her a series of tests over her thirty-four years, and she felt like she had risen to the challenge each time. She hoped she could again.
After refilling her coffee cup, she returned to her desk, determined to accomplish something productive today. With some effort, she shifted her mind to the reconciling of the Mission’s accounts.
The house was scheduled to wake up in the next half hour, and if she hustled, she could get the task completed.
The doorbell of the Mission rang, pulling Sarah gratefully from the obstinate numbers that were refusing to reconcile. She glanced at the security screens and saw a tall lean man who appeared to be in his early sixties. He was nicely dressed in a gray tailored suit, a white shirt, and polished wing tips. Dark hair was streaked with gray and combed back off his face.
Curious, she rose from her desk, walked down the hallway to the front door to the intercom.
“Can I help you?” Sarah said.
“I’m here on behalf of my client. She would like to make a donation to the Mission.”
Although grateful for new donations, Sarah was puzzled. “You’re here kind of early, aren’t you?”
“You’re a mission, so I assumed you’re always open. Besides, I have an early-morning meeting downtown. Thought I’d drop this off.”
Sarah had a trusting heart but a suspicious mind. And this man made her feel uncomfortable. “You could have mailed it.”
The man’s grin held little warmth. “My client wanted it hand delivered.”
“Hold up some form of identification, please?”
He removed a long slim wallet, pulled out a driver’s license, and held it up to the camera. Edward Mecum. Age sixty-two, and he lived in Franklin.
As Sarah started to throw the locks, Mr. Mecum carefully replaced his driver’s license into his wallet that he tucked into his jacket’s breast pocket. The door opened, and the spicy scent of expensive aftershave wafted over the threshold.
“Sorry for the questions. I have to be careful down here. My name is Reverend Sarah Beckett.”
He removed a gold card holder from his pocket, clicked it open, and selected a single card. “As you know, I’m Edward Mecum.”
Sarah stared at the card, moving her thumb over the fine linen paper stock. “You said you had a donation?”
“I do.” From the same breast pocket, he removed an unsealed envelope.
Sarah accepted it, and in a move that would have made her sainted mother roll over in her grave, looked at the amount on the check. $100,000. She blinked once. Twice. “Wow.”
“My client is impressed with your work.” Mr. Mecum had a unique accent, but Sarah couldn’t place it. It was not a southern drawl, but the way he emphasized the w in work hinted at New England. Boston, maybe?
“This is very generous.” A pan rattled in the kitchen, reminding Sarah that Sam was around if necessary. “Can I give you a tour of the place? The ladies aren’t all up yet, but I could show you the library and the kitchen.”
Interest sparked in his gaze. “I would like that.”
Sarah led Mr. Mecum down the center hallway, digging through her memory files for her canned presentation. She had done over a hundred in the last year, but none of those donors had come close to one hundred grand. “I founded the facility five years ago. We serve women who have worked on the streets or who are addicted to drugs and alcohol. Usually, the two go hand in hand.”
“How many women have you helped in the last five years?”
“Over one hundred.” Pride came before the fall, but this next statistic always made her stand a little taller. “We have a seventy percent success rate.”
“Enviable numbers.”
“Yes, they are.” Sarah led him into the library and switched on the light. “We put an emphasis on education, vocation, and prayer. This is a multipurpose room where everything happens, including Sunday supper, mass, Bible study, and math lessons, to name a few. I’m working on a brochure for the Mission, but it’s still a draft on my computer right now.”
Mr. Mecum’s gaze sharpened as he walked to a collection of lotions the ladies had made. “Very nice.”
“Let me show you the kitchen.”
“Of course.”
Down the hallway, they entered the industrial kitchen that had been donated by a restaurant undergoing a massive renovation. Sam stood behind the long stainless steel table and was cutting carrots. “Sam, this is Mr. Mecum. I’m giving him the grand tour.”
Sam chopped a large carrot in half. “Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
An alarm clock rang from one of the dorm rooms. The house was waking up, and soon the quiet would turn into controlled chaos.
As Sarah led Mr. Mecum back down the hallway, Sam’s chops echoed behind them. Sam was rough around the edges, naturally was suspicious of anyone new, but he had a heart of gold. “I’d like to acknowledge the donation with a proper thank-you letter.”