“How did it happen?” asked Buckley.
“Excuse me, but who are you folks?” asked Wanda suspiciously. Buckley said, “We’re trying to find a woman named El Cain, but you might know her as Rebecca Atkins.”
“How do you know anything about all that?” demanded a stunned Atkins.
“May we come in?” asked Buckley.
“No, no, I don’t want any visitors now.”
Buckley took out his wallet and pulled out a fistful of cash. “It will be worth your while, Mrs. Atkins. We just have some questions. You are Wanda Atkins, correct?”
“Yes, yes I am, and I don’t care who knows it. I got nothing to hide. But what do you want with Becky?”
“This would be much better discussed privately,” said Buckley smoothly.
“Well, all right,” said Atkins, staring at the bills clutched in his hand.
She led them into the living room. Len was sleeping in his wheelchair.
“Mr. Atkins?” said Buckley.
“Yes, he’s had a stroke. I don’t want to wake him. He can’t talk anyway—he just grunts,” she said bluntly.
“All right,” said Buckley, with a glance at Spector, who was drilling Atkins with a hard look.
They all sat down, and Buckley said, “Have you seen Cain lately? Might she have been the one to knock down your lamppost?”
Spector added, “That would have taken a lot of force.”
“Well, she’s a big woman, bigger than you,” said Atkins before she caught herself.
“So she has been here then?” interjected Buckley.
“You mentioned money?” said Atkins.
Buckley placed two thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills on the coffee table. “And depending on what you can tell us, I’ll double that amount.”
“But what I don’t get is why everyone’s all so interested in Becky now.”
“Like who?” asked Buckley.
“The FBI has been here. Couple of gals.”
“Female FBI agents?” said Spector quickly.
“Well, one was I guess. The other woman was too old. I think the agent said she was an assistant.”
“Interesting,” noted Spector. “That’s not usually how the Bureau conducts investigations. What was the agent’s name?”
“She left me her card.” Atkins rose, went into the other room, and came back out with one of the business cards Pine had left her and handed it to Buckley. He looked at the name and then passed it to Spector.
“Did you know this Atlee Pine?” asked Buckley.
“No, but there’re almost three thousand female special agents at the Bureau.”
“Are you with the FBI, too?” asked Atkins, who was listening closely to this.
“No, but I know some of the agents.”
Buckley said, “What did you tell Agent Pine?”
“She already knew a lot, but I filled in some blanks.”
When she didn’t seem inclined to say any more, Buckley pushed the pile of cash toward her. “And we look forward to you doing the same for us, filling in blanks.”
“But what’s your concern in all this?”
“We have been tasked with finding El Cain. She’s wanted in connection with a crime.”
“What sort of crime?”
“The worst of all, I’m afraid—murder.”
“Murder? Who was killed?”
“We can’t go into that right now. But she is wanted by the police. What we’re trying to do is find her and convince her to turn herself in. That way no one gets hurt.”
“My God. She never mentioned a murder.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t.”
“Wait a minute, you’re not talking about my son, Joe, are you? Because Becky didn’t kill him.”
“No, I’m talking about a murder that just happened recently. Now, we’ve made inquiries. And we need you to validate our conclusions.”
Atkins’s face screwed up in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“That your son and daughter-in-law kept Rebecca prisoner in a cabin in the woods and, from the looks of things, abused her emotionally and physically. She escaped from there. Your son was killed by, perhaps, his wife. And both his wife and Rebecca disappeared. And that you and your husband knew about it. And that you left Georgia after it all happened. And Rebecca is now calling herself El Cain.”
Atkins said accusingly, “You’ve talked to that Agent Pine, haven’t you?”
“Because that’s what she said as well, you mean?” interjected Spector.
“Yes. She seemed to have it all figured out.”
“How was Cain tortured?” asked Spector, drawing a sharp glance from Buckley.
“I . . . I’m not sure . . . ” Atkins stammered.
“We need the truth, Mrs. Atkins,” said Spector. “Or it will not turn out well for you. We are working with the authorities on this.”
Atkins glanced at her sleeping husband and said, “Desiree liked to burn things. And stick things with needles and carve . . . things with knives.”
“By ‘things’ you mean Cain?” said Spector sharply.
“Yes. When she was here Becky, I mean Mercy—”
“Mercy?” said Spector sharply.
“Yes. Agent Pine told me her real name was Mercy, and she was kidnapped from her parents and brought to us in Crawfordville, Georgia.”
“And her last name?” asked Buckley.
“She didn’t say.”
“Why would the kidnapper bring the girl to you?” asked Spector.
“He was an old friend of my husband’s. They fought in Vietnam together. But he said Mercy’s parents wanted her to die. But . . . but I guess that was a lie. The thing is, we believed him. And since we were too old to take care of a child, my son and Desiree took her.” She shuddered. “Mercy showed me some of the scars from what Desiree did to her.”
“The mental scars will be far worse,” said Spector, staring the woman down.
With another curious glance at his companion, Buckley interjected, “Do you know where Cain is now? Did she say where she was going after she left here?”
“I gave her Desiree’s phone number.”
“Do you know where Desiree is living?”
“No, I just had her number.”
“We’re going to need that,” said Buckley.
“I gave it to Becky. I don’t remember it.”
“Mrs. Atkins, let me remind you this is a murder investigation. If you obstruct the investigation in any way, you could go to prison.” He glanced at Len Atkins. “And then who would take care of your husband?” Buckley knew that if Atkins looked at this with calm reason, his explanation for their being here would seem ridiculous. He wasn’t the police. She needn’t tell him anything. And yet most people, particularly in stressful situations, were not even remotely calm or rational; they were, instead, vulnerable. And the power of suggestion went a long way with vulnerable people. As did a pile of cash.
But Atkins said, “I don’t have it. I gave my only copy to Becky.”
“I’ll give you another thousand dollars.”
She looked agonized by this. “You can give me all the money you have and I still won’t have the number.”
“Do you at least remember the area code?”
She gummed her lips and looked at the ceiling. “My short-term memory is just about shot. Comes with getting old.”
“All right,” said Buckley, looking frustrated.
“Do you think she’s going after Desiree?” asked Atkins.
“Wouldn’t you?” said Spector.