Criminal

gasped. “Was that an animal?”
    Amanda could still hear the sound echoing in her ears. She’d never heard anything so terrifying in her life.
    Suddenly, the radio came to life. “Sixteen? Twenty-three here. You foxes reconsider my offer?”
    “Thank God,” Evelyn whispered. She pressed the button, but didn’t have time to speak.
    The second scream was like a knife cutting straight through Amanda’s heart. It wasn’t an animal. It was the desperate cry of a woman begging for help.
    The radio crackled. “Sixteen, what the hell was that?”
    Amanda’s purse was on the floorboard. She reached inside and pulled out her revolver. She grabbed the door handle.
    Evelyn’s foot slipped off the brake. “What are you doing?”
    “Stop the car.” It was rolling back. “Stop the car.”
    “Amanda, you can’t—”
    The woman screamed again.
    Amanda pushed open the door. She stumbled as she got out of the car. Her knee dug into the asphalt. Her hose ripped. She couldn’t stop herself. Wouldn’t stop herself. “Get twenty-three. Get everybody you can.” Evelyn yelled for her to wait, but Amanda kicked off her shoes and started running.
    The woman screamed again. She was in the house. Ulster’s house.
    Amanda tightened her grip on the revolver as she ran down the street. Her arms pumped. Her vision tunneled. She slipped as she rounded into Ulster’s driveway. Her hose bunched up at the balls of her feet. She slowed. The front door was shut. The only light was toward the back of the house.
    Amanda tried to quiet her breathing, keeping her mouth open, taking in gulps of air. She squeezed past the van. She crouched down low, though no one could see her. The house blocked the moonlight, painting everything in shadow. She pointed her revolver straight ahead, finger on the trigger, not on the side like they had taught her, because she was going to shoot anybody who walked into her path.
    The scream came again. It wasn’t as loud this time, but it was more desperate. More frightened.
    Amanda steeled herself as she approached the open window. The light was coming through a pair of heavy black curtains. She could hear the woman moaning with each breath. Almost mewing. Carefully, Amanda peered through the part in the curtains. She saw an old washstand. A sink. A bed. The woman was there. Sitting up. Blonde hair streaked red. Emaciated but for her distended belly. The skin on her arms and shoulders was a bloody pulp. Her lips and eyelids were torn where she’d ripped them open. Blood coated every inch of her skin—her face, her throat, her chest.
    The girl screamed again, but not before Amanda heard something behind her.
    A shoe scuffing on concrete.
    Amanda started to turn, but a large hand grabbed her from behind.

twenty-three
    July 15, 1975
    LUCY BENNETT
    Her shoulders were free, but she did not care.
    Her arms were free, but she did not care.
    Her waist, her hips—free for the first time in over a year.
    But she did not care.
    Could not care.
    There was only the baby delivered from her body. The beautiful little boy. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Perfect blond hair. Perfect little mouth.
    Lucy ran her finger along his lips. The first woman to touch him. The first woman to open her heart and feel the absolute joy that was this creature.
    She wiped the slime from his nose and mouth. She lightly rested her palm on his chest and felt his beating heart. Flutter, flutter, like a butterfly. He was so beautiful. So tiny. How had something so perfect grown inside of her? How had something so sweet come out of something so utterly spoiled?
    “You’re dying.”
    Lucy felt her senses sharpen.
    Patty Hearst.
    The second girl. The other woman from the other room.
    She stood in the doorway, afraid to come in. She was dressed. He let her wear clothes. He let her walk around. He let her do anything but come into Lucy’s room. Even now, both of them alone, her toes would not cross the threshold.
    “You’re dying,” the woman repeated.
    They both heard the noises outside the window. Yelling. Gunfire. He would win. He would always win.
    The baby cooed, legs kicking up.
    Lucy looked down at her child. Her perfect baby. Her redemption. Her salvation. Her one good thing.
    She tried to concentrate on his beautiful face, the light flowing back and forth between their bodies.
    Nothing else mattered. Not the pain. Not the smell. Not the wheezing breaths coming from her own mouth.
    Not the sucking of wind around the large knife sticking