[Georgia 01] Genesis (aka Undone) Read online

  Faith pushed open the door, heading out into the street again. "These places annoy the hell out of me."

  Will thought a homeless shelter was a strange thing to hate, even for Faith. "Why is that?"

  "Just help them. Don't make them pray about it."

  "Some people find solace in prayer."

  "What if they don't? Then they're not worthy of being helped? You may be homeless and starving to death, but you can't have a free meal or a safe place to sleep unless you agree that abortion is an abomination and that other people have the right to tell you what to do with your body?"

  Will wasn't sure how to answer her, so he just followed her around the side of the brick building, watching her angrily hitch her purse up on her shoulder. She was still mumbling when they rounded the corner to the storefront. There was a large sign out front that probably had the name of the shelter on it. The economy was bad for everybody these days, but especially for charities who depended on people feeling flush enough to help their fellow man. Many of the local shelters took in donations that they sold in order to help pay for basic operations. Window lettering advertised various items inside the store. Faith read them off as they walked to the entrance.

  "'House wares, linens, clothes, donations welcome, free pickup for larger items.'"

  Will opened the door, willing her to shut up.

  "'Open every day but Sunday.' 'No dogs allowed.'"

  "I got it," he told her, glancing around the store. Blenders were lined up on a shelf, toasters and small microwaves underneath. There were some clothes on racks, mostly the kind of styles that were very popular during the eighties. Canned soups and various pantry staples were stored away from the sun streaming in through the windows. Will's stomach grumbled, and he remembered sorting cans of food that came into the orphanage over the holidays. Nobody ever gave the good stuff. It was usually Spam and pickled beets, just the sort of thing every kid wanted for Christmas dinner.

  Faith had found another sign. "'All donations are tax deductible. Proceeds go directly to help homeless women and children. God blesses those who bless others.'"

  He realized that his jaw was aching from clenching his teeth so hard. Luckily, he didn't have to dwell on the pain for long. A man popped up from behind the counter like Mr. Drucker from Green Acres. "How y'all doin'?"

  Faith's hand flew to her chest. "Who the hell are you?"

  The man blushed so hard that Will could almost feel the heat coming off his face. "Sorry, ma'am." He wiped his hand on the front of his T-shirt. Black finger marks showed where he had done this many times before. "Tom Coldfield. I'm helping my mom with . . ." He indicated the floor behind the counter. Will saw he was working on a push-style lawnmower. The engine was partially disassembled. It looked like he was trying to put on a new fan belt, which hardly explained why the carburetor was on the floor.

  Will told him, "There's a nut on the—"

  Faith interrupted. "I'm Special Agent Faith Mitchell. This is my partner Will Trent. We're here to meet with Judith and Henry Coldfield. I assume you're related?"

  "My folks," the man explained, a prominent pair of buckteeth sticking out as he smiled at Faith. "They're in the back. Dad's kind of unhappy about missing his golf game." He seemed to realize how inconsequential this seemed to them. "Sorry, I know what happened to that woman was awful. It's just that—well—they told that other detective everything that happened."

  Faith kept up her sweet side. "I'm sure they won't mind telling us again."

  Tom Coldfield seemed to disagree, but he motioned for them to follow him to the back room anyway. Will let Faith go ahead of him, and they all had to pick their way around boxes and various piles of items that had been donated to the shelter. Will guessed Tom Coldfield had been athletic at one point in his life, but his early thirties had beaten that out of him, giving a round spread to his waist and a stoop to his shoulders. There was a bald spot on the crown of his head, almost like a tonsure that a Franciscan monk would sport. Without even asking, Will guessed that Tom Coldfield had a couple of kids. He looked like a textbook soccer dad. He probably drove a minivan and played online fantasy football.

  Tom said, "Sorry about the mess. We're short volunteers."

  Faith asked, "Do you work here?"

  "Oh, no. I'd go crazy if I did." He gave a chuckle at what must have been Faith's surprised reaction. "I'm an air traffic controller. My mom guilts me into helping out when they're shorthanded."

  "Were you in the military?"

  "Air Force—six years. How'd you guess?"

  Faith shrugged. "Easiest way to get training." Then, probably to bridge a rapport with the man, she added, "My brother's in the Air Force, stationed in Germany."

  Tom moved a box out of their way. "Ramstein?"

  "Landstuhl. He's a surgeon."

  "That's a bad mess over there. Your brother's doing the Lord's work."

  Faith was in cop mode now, her personal opinions set aside. "He certainly is."

  Tom stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. Will looked down the hallway, seeing the other end of the shelter, the counter they'd stood in front of while they waited for the woman to come out of the bathroom. Faith noticed this, too, and she rolled her eyes at Will as Tom opened the door.

  "Mom, this is Detective Trent and—I'm sorry, is it Mitchell?"

  "Yes," Faith confirmed.

  Tom introduced his parents, though this was certainly a formality as the room contained only two people. Judith was sitting behind a desk, a ledger opened in front of her. Henry was in a chair by the window. He had a newspaper in his hands, and he shook the paper, creasing it carefully before he gave Will and Faith his attention.

  Tom hadn't been lying when he'd said his father was annoyed about missing his golf game. Henry Coldfield looked like a parody of a grumpy old man.

  "Should I get some more chairs?" Tom offered. He didn't wait for a response, disappearing before anyone could answer. The office was regular-sized, which was to say it was big enough for four people to occupy without knocking elbows. Still, Will stood in the doorway while Faith took the only other vacant chair in the room. Normally, they figured out ahead of time who would do the talking, but they were going into this interview cold. When Will looked to Faith for guidance, she only shrugged. The family was hard to read. They would have to figure this out as they went along. The first step in an interview was to make the witness feel comfortable. People didn't tend to open up and start being helpful until you made them realize that you weren't the enemy. Since she was sitting closest to them, Faith started.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Coldfield, thank you for meeting with us. I know you already spoke to Detective Galloway, but what you went through the other night was very traumatic. Sometimes it takes a few days before you remember everything."

  "We've never really had anything like this happen to us before," Judith Coldfield said, and Will wondered if she thought people routinely rammed their car into women who had been raped and tortured in an underground cavern.

  Henry seemed to realize this as well. "Judith."

  "Oh, dear." Judith put her hand to her mouth, covering the embarrassed smile on her face. Will saw where Tom had gotten his buckteeth as well as his easy blush. The woman explained, "I meant to say, we've never talked to the police before." She patted her husband's hand. "Henry got a speeding ticket once, but once was enough. When was that, dear?"

  "Summer of '83," Henry answered, the set to his jaw indicating he still hadn't gotten over the experience. He looked at Will as he spoke, as if only a man would understand. "Seven miles over the limit."

  Will tried to think of something that sounded commiserating, but his mind drew a blank. He asked Judith, "You're from up North?"

  "Is it that obvious?" She laughed, putting her hand to her mouth again, covering her smile. She was painfully self-conscious about her protruding teeth. "Pennsylvania."

  "Is that where you lived before you retired?"

  "Oh, no," Judith said. "Henry's job
moved us around a bit. Mostly in the northwest. We lived in Oregon, Washington State, California—but we didn't like that, did we?" Henry made a grumpy sound. "We were in Oklahoma, but not for long. Have you ever been? It's so flat there."

  Faith cut to the chase. "How about Michigan?"

  Judith shook her head, but Henry supplied, "I saw a football game in Michigan back in '71. Michigan and Ohio State. Ten to seven. Nearly froze to death."

  Faith lighted on the opportunity to draw him out. "You're a football fan?"

  "Can't stand it." His frown seemed to indicate he was still unhappy about the situation, though most people would kill to see a rivalry game.

  "Henry was a salesman" Judith supplied. "He traveled around quite a bit even before that. His father was in the army for thirty years."

  Faith took over, trying to find a way to open up the man. "My grandfather was army."

  Judith jumped in again. "Henry had a college deferment for the war." Will guessed she meant Vietnam. "We had friends who served, of course, and Tom was in the Air Force, which we're really proud of. Isn't that right, Tom?"

  Will hadn't realized Tom was back. The Coldfields' son smiled an apology. "Sorry, no more chairs. The kids are using them to build a fort."

  "Where were you stationed?" Faith asked him.

  "I was at Keesler both tours," he answered. "I started out my training, then worked my way up to the Three-Thirty-Fourth's Master Sergeant in charge of tower class fundamentals. They were talking about sending me to Altus when I put in for discharge."

  "I was going to ask you why you left the Air Force, then I remembered Keesler's in Mississippi."

  The blush came back in full force, and Tom gave an embarrassed laugh. "Yes, ma'am."

  Faith turned her attention to Henry, probably guessing that they wouldn't get much from Judith without Henry's blessing. "Ever leave stateside?"

  "Always stayed in the U.S."

  "You have an army accent," Faith noted, which Will gathered meant he had no accent at all.

  Henry's reticence seemed to slowly melt away under Faith's attention. "You go where they tell you to go."

  "That's exactly what my brother said when he shipped overseas." Faith leaned forward. "If you want the truth, I think he likes moving around all the time, never putting down roots."

  Henry started to open up some more. "Married?"

  "Nope."

  "Lady in every port?"

  "Lord, I hope not." Faith laughed. "As far as my mother's concerned, it was the Air Force or the priesthood."

  Henry chuckled. "Most mothers feel that way about their sons." He squeezed his wife's hand, and Judith beamed proudly at Tom.

  Faith turned her attention to the son. "You said you're an air traffic controller?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he answered, though Tom was probably younger than Faith.

  Tom told them, "I work out of Charlie Brown." He meant the general aviation airport just west of Atlanta. "Been there about ten years. It's a nice gig. Sometimes we handle Dobbins traffic overnight." Dobbins was an Air Force base just outside the city. "I bet your brother's flown out of there before."

  "I bet he has," Faith agreed, keeping eye contact with the man just long enough to make him feel flattered. "You live out in Conyers now?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Tom smiled openly, his buckteeth jutting out like tusks on an elephant. He was more relaxed now, talkative. "I moved to Atlanta when I left Keesler." He nodded toward his mother. "I was real happy when my parents decided to move down here."

  "They're on Clairmont Road, right?"

  Tom nodded, still smiling. "Close enough to visit without having to pack a suitcase."

  Judith didn't seem to like the easy rapport that was developing between the two. She quickly inserted herself back into the conversation. "Tom's wife loves her flower garden." She started to rummage around in her purse. "Mark, his son, is obsessed with aviation. Every day, he looks more and more like his father."

  "Mom, they don't need to see—"

  He was too late. Judith pulled out a photograph and handed it to Faith, who made the proper appreciative noises before passing it to Will.

  He kept his expression neutral as he looked at the family photo. The Coldfield genes were certainly strong. The girl and boy in the picture were carbon copies of their father. Making matters worse, Tom had not found himself an attractive wife to dilute the Coldfield gene pool. She had stringy-looking blonde hair and a resigned set to her mouth that seemed to indicate this was as good as it would ever get.

  "Darla," Judith supplied, naming the wife. "They've been married for almost ten years. Isn't that right, Tom?"

  He shrugged in that embarrassed way children shrug at their parents.

  "Very nice," Will said, handing the picture back to Judith.

  Judith asked Faith, "Do you have children?"

  "A son." Faith didn't offer any more information. Instead she asked Judith, "Is Tom an only child?"

  "That's right." Judith smiled again, covering her mouth. "Henry and I didn't think we'd be able to . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she just stared at Tom with obvious pride. "He was a miracle."

  Again, Tom shrugged, obviously embarrassed.

  Faith subtly shifted the topic onto the reason they were all here. "And you were visiting Tom and his family the day of the accident?"

  Judith nodded. "He wanted to do something nice for our fortieth anniversary. Didn't you, Tom?" Her voice took on a distant quality. "Such a horrible thing to happen. I don't think another anniversary will go by without remembering . . ."

  Tom spoke. "I don't understand how this could happen. How could that woman—" He shook his head. "It makes no sense. Who the hell would do something like that?"

  "Tom," Judith shushed. "Language."

  Faith gave Will a glance that indicated she was using every ounce of willpower in her body not to roll her eyes. She recovered quickly, directing her words toward the elderly couple. "I know you've already told Detective Galloway everything, but let's start fresh from the beginning. You were driving down the road, you saw the woman, and then—?"

  "Well," Judith began. "At first I thought it might be a deer. We've seen deer on the side of the road many times. Henry always goes slow if it's dark in case one darts out."

  "They see the lights and it just freezes them," Henry explained, as if a deer caught in headlights was an obscure phenomenon.

  "It wasn't dark," Judith continued. "It was dusk, I suppose. And I saw this thing in the road. I opened my mouth to tell Henry, but it was too late. We had already hit it. Her." She took out a tissue from her purse and pressed it to her eyes. "Those nice men tried to help her, but I don't think—surely, after all that . . ."

  Henry took his wife's hand again. "Has she . . . is the woman . . . ?"

  "She's still in the hospital," Faith provided. "They're not sure if she'll ever regain consciousness."

  "My Lord," Judith breathed, almost a prayer. "I hope she doesn't."

  "Mother—" Tom's voice rose in surprise.

  "I know that sounds mean, but I hope she never knows."

  The family went quiet. Tom looked at his father. Henry's throat worked, and Will could tell the man was starting to get overwhelmed by his memories. "Thought I was having a heart attack," he managed around a harsh laugh.

  Judith lowered her voice, confiding as if her husband were not right beside her, "Henry has heart issues."

  "Nothing bad," he countered. "Stupid air bag hit me square in the chest. Safety device, they call it. Damn thing almost killed me."

  Faith asked, "Mr. Coldfield, did you see the woman on the road?"

  Henry nodded. "It's what Judith said. It was too late to stop. I wasn't speeding. I was going the posted limit. I saw something— thought it was a deer, like she said. Jammed my foot on the brake. She just appeared out of nowhere. Right out of nowhere. I still didn't think it was a woman until we got out of the car and saw her there. Awful. Just awful."

  "Have you always worn glasses?"
Will broached the subject carefully.

  "I'm an amateur pilot. Get my eyes checked twice a year." He took off the glasses, his feathers ruffled but his tone steady. "I may be old, but I'm flight ready. No cataracts, corrected to twenty-twenty."

  Will decided he might as well get it all out of the way. "And your heart?"

  Judith intervened. "It's nothing really. Just something to keep an eye on, make sure he's not straining himself too much."

  Henry took over, still indignant. "Nothing that concerns the doctors. I take some horse pills. I don't do any heavy lifting. I'm fine."

  Faith tried to soothe him, changing the subject. "An Army brat flying airplanes?"

  Henry seemed to be debating whether or not to let the topic of his health go. Finally, he answered, "My dad got me lessons when I was a kid. We were stationed up in Nowhere, Alaska. He thought it was a good way to keep me out of trouble."

  Faith smiled, helping him relax again. "Good flying weather?"

  "If you were lucky." He laughed, wistful. "Had to be careful landing—cold wind would whip that plane around like a flyswatter. Some days, I'd just close my eyes and hope I touched down on the field and not in the ice."

  "Cold field," Faith pointed out, making a play on his name.

  "Right." Henry said, as if he'd heard the pun many times. He put his glasses back on, all business. "Listen, I'm not one to tell other people how to go about their business, but why aren't you asking us about that other car?"

  "What other car?" Faith echoed. "The one that stopped to help?"

  "No, the other one we saw streaking down the road, opposite. It must have been about two minutes before we hit that girl."

  Judith filled their stunned silence. "Surely you know this already. We told the other policeman all about it."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE DRIVE TO THE ROCKDALE COUNTY POLICE STATION WAS a blur that Faith filled with every expletive she could think of.

  "I knew that jackass was lying to me," she said, cursing Max Galloway and the entire Rockdale police force. "You should've seen that smug way he looked at me when he left the hospital." She slammed her palm into the steering wheel, wishing she were slamming it into Galloway's Adam's apple. "Do they think this is some kind of game? Didn't they see what was done to that woman? For the love of God."