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“Yes, I should be with them.” He got to his feet. “Anything you need from me, my family, my firm to make certain Winfield Chase spends every last second of his life in prison, you have only to ask.” He held out his hand. “Thank you.”
Eve sat another moment after he’d gone, finished off her drink. Then she went into the washroom, scrubbed cold water over her face.
She went to face down Madeline Bullock.
Word had gone out, Eve imagined, as there
were only two lawyers with her.
“Record on,” Eve said and started the routine.
“Your son’s confessed to five counts of murder,” she began, watching Madeline’s eyes. “I see you’ve got wind of that. He’s also detailed your involvement in each of these murders, and in the abduction of Tandy Willowby.”
“Ms. Bullock is prepared to make a statement,” one of the lawyers said.
“Not dictating this load of crap, Madeline? Okay, let’s hear it.”
“I don’t expect you to understand my terror, my grief, my guilt.” Madeline pressed a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her lips. “My son…how can I not blame myself? He came from me. But something…twisted in him. Such violence, such rage. I’ve lived in fear of him for so long.”
“Please. You’re not afraid of anything but losing your grip on the foundation—its money and prestige and the operation you’ve been running through it almost since your husband died.”
“You can’t possibly understand. He’s forced me to…it’s unspeakable.”
“Have sex with him? See, it’s speakable. And that’s more crap. You’ve been abusing your son sexually most of his life.”
“What a horrible thing to say.” Madeline seemed to break down, and for a moment buried her face in the handkerchief. “Win is sick, and nothing I could do—”
“He came from you,” Eve said, feeling the rage rise up, seeing herself trapped in a cold room with the man she’d come from, the man who’d raped her repeatedly. “And you exploited and abused him. You made him exactly what he is.”
“You can’t possibly know the horrors I’ve lived through.”
“You don’t want to talk to me about horrors. I’ve got statements from your son, from Walter Cavendish, from Ellyn Bruberry, all naming you as the one in control, the one who made the decisions and gave the orders. You think because you didn’t get your hands dirty with murder, you’re walking away clean?”
“I did whatever Win told me. He might have killed me otherwise.”
Madeline reached across the table to grip Eve’s hands, and Eve allowed it though her skin felt tainted. You’re good, she thought, you’re damn good at this, Madeline.
“I appeal to you, woman to woman. I beg you to protect me. There’s a monster inside my son. I’m so afraid.”
“Ms. Bullock has been virtually a prisoner of her son’s sickness,” one of the lawyers began. “A victim of physical and emotional abuse. He used her—”
“He used you?” Eve interrupted, wrenching her hands free as she looked into Madeline’s face, and saw her father’s. “That’s just crap, Madeline. No one uses you. And I can’t think of anything more weak, more pitiful, than a mother who’d roll on her own son to try to save her ass. You’re done, you get that? You’ve got no way out.”
I want you to sweat, Eve thought. I want you to tremble, and suffer and fucking wail. “We’ve got the playback from the medical droid’s memory. You’re on there. The British authorities have picked up your Doctor Brownburn—who has already confessed, already stated that she took her orders straight from you. Nobody’s going to buy the weak, frightened little mother act, Madeline. You’re the power. More, you’re a fucking spider, a bloodsucker, and it shows.”
“I have nothing more to say to this person,” Madeline snapped. “I want to speak with the British consulate. I’ll be speaking to your President, who is a personal friend, and the Prime Minister.”
“Toss in the King of England, it’s fine with me.” Eve leaned forward. “They’re going to scramble back from you so fast they’ll get whiplash. And just wait until Global starts talking to the women whose babies you bought, the people who bought them. We’ve got the list, Madeline. We’ve got the names, the locations, and the international media’s going to do a tango when this hits.”
“That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?” Madeline sucked air through her nose. “Media attention. My name, the reputation of the Bullock Foundation, will stand against anything you manufacture against me. You’ll be crushed.”
“You think so?” Eve looked Madeline dead in the eyes, and she smiled. She kept smiling until she saw the first true glitter of fear. “They’ll crucify you while thousands cheer. And when I’m done with you here, you’ll have to answer to the Italian authorities for Sophia Belego—Chase told us where they’ll find her remains. You were with him, in Rome, when she went missing. You’ve got a home there, too, and they’ll find evidence she was held there.”
“My son is mentally ill. He needs professional help.”
“If he is, you made him that way, twisting his view of sex, of women, of himself so you could get your jollies.”
“Lieutenant.” The lawyer spoke up while Madeline simply stared at Eve with those arctic eyes. “Ms. Bullock has already stated that Mr. Chase was the aggressor.”
