"I baptize you with water for repentance." The liquid was freezing. Grace shut her eyes and gasped for breath. When she opened her eyes, she saw Williams unscrewing a plastic gas can. Slowly, he began to pour a snail's trail of the viscous liquid over Grace's clothes and hair. "But a second baptism is at hand. A baptism by fire. The winnowing fork is in the hand of the Lord. He will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn." Gavin's voice grew louder, more excited. He climbed off Grace, flinging open the passenger door and clambering to safety. Grace's arm was still handcuffed to the door. As it swung open she roared in agony, feeling her shoulder joint dislocate. Williams was still incanting. "He will burn the chaff with unquenchable fire." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a book of matches.
Grace didn't think. On instinct, she propelled herself forward, kicking Williams hard in the groin. He bellowed in pain, dropping the matches.
"You bitch!" He ran at her like a maddened bull, throwing himself back into the car, hands clawing her face, fingernails gouging deep, bloody grooves in the skin. Grace sank her teeth into his arm. Gavin yelped and let go of her for a moment, but his anger was stronger than his pain. I must destroy her. I must rid America of the wicked, cut out the cancerous scourge of greed before it devours us all.
"Repent!" His hands gripped Grace's cheek like a vise. He was trying to press his thumbs into her eyeballs. Grace felt her skull fill with blood. The pain in her shoulder was so excruciating she was surprised she hadn't passed out. "Repent, sinful daughter of Eve!"
"You repent, asshole!"
With all her remaining strength, Grace brought her free arm down hard in a karate-chop motion on the back of Gavin Williams's neck. She heard a crack, like a snapping branch. Williams's hands went slack, a toy robot whose batteries just died. As he slid to the floor of the car, his head dangled from his torso at an absurd angle, like a flower on the end of a broken stem. His eyes were still open, frozen for all eternity in an expression not of hatred, but of intense surprise.
With her free arm, Grace got hold of the lapel of his jacket and pulled the slumped corpse toward her. It was slow work, but eventually he was close enough for Grace to reach into his jacket pocket. Inside, glinting like nuggets of gold in a stream, were the keys to her handcuffs.
The cuffs opened easily, but moving her arm was agony. Grace screamed as she staggered out of the car, tears of pain coursing down her cheeks, mingling with the blood from where Williams had scratched her. She'd seen girls dislocate their shoulders during her gymnast days, and knew what to do. Slumped down in the mud, leaning back against the side of the car, she gritted her teeth.
One. Two...three.
The pain was indescribable. But the relief was instant and sweet. Grace savored it. She laughed, the deep, heartfelt laugh of the survivor. When her strength had returned, she went over to Williams's body, retrieving his wallet and everything else he had of value. Then she stood up, lit a match and tossed it into the sedan. She watched the flames engulf Gavin Williams's body, and stood there, warming herself in their heat. It felt good.
She was alive.
She was free.
But her work wasn't over.
Chapter Thirty-Two
CAROLINE MERRIVALE SAT DOWN AT HER dressing table, pulled back her hair and slathered Creme de la Mer moisturizer over her face. At forty, she still had the skin of a woman half her age, which pleased her. Caroline had never been a classic beauty, not like the Grace Brooksteins of this world. But she had style and presence, she dressed well and she knew how to take care of herself.
She wondered what she would do with the rest of the day. John had left early for the airport. Harry Bain was sending him to Mustique of all places, in search of another piece of the giant Quorum jigsaw puzzle. But not before Caroline had forced him to have sex with her, photographing him in a series of humiliating and graphic poses. Dominating John was always a pleasure, but today she'd enjoyed it more than usual. In recent weeks, Caroline had noticed a change in her pathetic, milquetoast of a husband - a growing confidence that made her uneasy. He practically skipped out of the house in the mornings, excited to get to work. He'd even taken to telling her things about his day - as if she were interested! - "Harry Bain said so-and-so," or "the agency were delighted with my work on such-and-such."
Caroline had deliberately waited until this morning to teach John a lesson. He'd been full of this trip to Mustique for days, and she wanted the bursting of his bubble to have as much impact as possible. When he got home, she would tell him flat out: he'd acted as the FBI's unpaid lackey for long enough. It was time to get back to work, start a fund of his own and bring in some more money. Billy Joel's estate in East Hampton was up for sale after his third divorce. Caroline had had her eye on that house for years.
"Mrs. Caroline?" Cecilia, the Merrivales' housekeeper, knocked nervously on her employers' bedroom door. "Is a gennelman downstairs to see you."
Caroline turned and glared. Naked from the waist up, with a thick white layer of cream on her face, she looked like a Maori warrior minus the tattoos. "Do I look like I'm ready to receive guests?" she snarled.
Cecilia tried to avert her gaze from her boss's nipples, large and dark and repellent, like two rotting mushrooms. "He ask for Mr. John. Is from police. He said he will wait."
Meanwhile, downstairs, Mitch looked around the Merrivales' sumptuous living room. The most striking object in it was probably the solid gold Louis XV carriage clock over the mantel. It was vulgar and hideous, but it must have cost a fortune. But everything about the room bespoke serious money: the heavy, brushed-silk drapes, the antique French furniture, the Persian rugs, the Ming vases. This is what they had left after the Quorum fraud wiped them out? How much did they have before?