Triptych

by Karin Slaughter

  Woody’s bedroom was next, a huge master suite with a king-sized bed where the fucker probably made love to his wife every night. The bathroom was enormous, bigger than John’s room back at the hovel. Even the kid’s room was large, a racecar for a bed, toys spilling out of the chest under the window. John felt odd being in the kid’s room. The little bed would be changed for a big one soon. The kid would start growing up, wanting his privacy more. He’d go to school, meet a girl, take her to the prom. It was just too depressing to be in there, so John backed into the hall again.

  He returned to the master bedroom, certain he had missed something. He tried to think like his parole officer, Ms. Lam, looking for contraband. He checked under the mattress, felt the pillows for hard lumps. He went through the shoes in the closet and the shirts in the drawer.

  Shirts. All designer labels. Soft cottons, some silk. Woody’s underwear was Calvin Klein, his pajamas Nautica.

  “Christ,” John whispered, so caught up in hating Woody that he couldn’t breathe. “Think,” he said, like that would make it happen. “Think.”

  Two bottles of men’s cologne were on the dresser. John wasn’t interested in the brands, but what had been placed in front of them. A large folding knife. Woody had carried this same knife when they were teenagers. He said it was because he dealt with some badass motherfuckers in his drug dealings, and John had believed him, imagining tense standoffs and risky drug deals as his cousin brandished the sharp, serrated blade.

  Woody carried a knife. How had he forgotten that?

  “Who are you?”

  John spun around, shocked to see the next-door neighbor standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She was wearing a silky white nightgown with a robe. The outfit hung from her child’s body like a wet sack on a pitchfork. Her voice was a little girl’s, high-pitched, almost squeaky.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, but he could tell she was scared.

  “I might ask you the same thing,” he said, palming the knife, trying to call up the authoritative tone adults used when they spoke to kids.

  “This isn’t your house.”

  “It’s not yours, either,” John pointed out. “You live next door.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Woody told me.”

  She glanced down at his hands, the latex gloves, the knife. “Who’s Woody?”

  The question tripped him up, and she must have sensed his hesitation, because she bolted down the hall.

  “Hey!” John called, chasing after her through the living room, the kitchen. “Hold up,” he yelled, but she had already flown through the open door and into the yard.

  She chanced a look over her shoulder as she made for the fence. He remembered that he still had Woody’s knife in his hand, realized how that must look to her, and stopped. She hesitated again, but her body was still moving. Moving forward.

  He watched her fall in slow motion, her bare foot catching on the broken fence, her head slamming into the ground. John waited. She didn’t get up. He waited some more. She still did not move.

  Slowly, he stepped into the backyard, the grass soft under his feet. He remembered how it had felt when he got out of Coastal to walk on grass for the first time in twenty years. His feet were used to solid concrete or red Georgia clay packed hard as brick from thousands of men pacing it every day. The grass in the cemetery had felt so soft, like he was stepping on clouds as he followed his mother’s coffin toward her grave.

  Twenty years and he had forgotten what grass felt like. Twenty years of loneliness, of isolation. Twenty years of Emily suffering the bimonthly degradation of visiting her son. Twenty years of Joyce being eaten up inside by the knowledge of what kind of monster her brother was.

  Twenty years of Woody living on the outside, getting a good job, marrying, having a kid, making a life.

  John stepped carefully over the fence. He realized he still had Woody’s folding knife in his hand, and he put it on the ground beside him as he knelt by the girl. He had learned how to check a pulse at the prison hospital. She didn’t have one. Even without that evidence, he could see from the way her skull was broken that she had probably died the minute her head had slammed against a large rock on the other side of the fence. Her blood was smeared across the quartz, pieces of long blonde hair sticking into the wet.

  He sat back on his heels, his mind going over the last time he had seen Mary Alice. Her eyes. He would never forget her eyes, the way she had stared into nowhere. Her body told the real story, though. She had endured horrible things, unspeakable things. In his mind, he could still recall the blown-up pictures from his trial, the photographs showing Mary Alice Finney’s violated body splayed out for the world to see. He remembered his aunt pacing back and forth in front of the jury, and how he’d thought at the time that Lydia’s pacing was bad because all it did was draw their attention to the pictures that were right behind her.

  “It’s okay,” John had told Lydia when she’d come to Coastal and explained that their appeals were exhausted, that he would more than likely die in prison. “I know you did everything you could.”

  Lydia had told him not to talk about drugs with the police, not to mention Woody because bringing her son into it would open up John’s past drug abuse and they didn’t want that, did they? If Woody was put on the stand, he’d tell the truth.

  They didn’t want Woody telling the truth, did they?

  That night at the party, Woody had said, “No hard feelings,” tossing him the baggie. Was that when he had decided to hurt Mary Alice?

  No hard feelings. John didn’t have any feelings left—just rage that burned like he’d swallowed gasoline and lit a match.

  He looked down at the girl. She was a child, but she was also a messenger.

  John’s stomach clenched as he slid his gloved fingers into her mouth, pinched her tongue between his thumb and forefinger.

  Woody had brought all of this to John’s door. John would put it right back on his. The most important thing he learned in prison was that you never touched another man’s property unless you were willing to die for it.

  “Woody,” he had called him, but that was a boy’s name and Woody wasn’t a boy anymore. Like John, he was a man. He should be called by a man’s name.

  Michael Ormewood.

  John picked up the knife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  JUNE 15, 1985

  You need to walk it off,” John told Mary Alice. “You can’t go home like this.”

  “Have you ever kissed a girl?”

  He blushed and she laughed.

  “Mark Reed,” she told him. “He thinks he’s my boyfriend because he kissed me after the game.”

  John kept quiet, saying a silent prayer of death for Mark Reed, quarterback of the football team, driver of a red Corvette, and proud owner of much body hair, which the fucker liked to show off around the locker room like he was working at freaking Chippendale’s.

  “You didn’t answer me,” Mary Alice said, and John thought about Woody’s bag of white powder in his pocket.

  She could read his mind. “Let me try it.”

  “No way.”

  “I want to.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Come on.” She reached into his pocket and her hand brushed against him. John sucked in air so hard he was surprised his lungs didn’t explode.

  Mary Alice was holding the bag up to the streetlight. “What’s so good about it?”

  John couldn’t answer. He had more pressing matters requiring his attention.

  She opened the bag.

  He came to his senses. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not? You do.”

  “I’m a loser,” he said. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

  There was a noise behind them and they both turned to look.

  “Cat,” Mary Alice guessed. “Come on.”

  She had taken his hand and John let her lead him down the street toward her house. John stayed quiet as she to
ok him through her backyard. He knew her bedroom was on the bottom floor, but he hadn’t been expecting her to open the window and climb in.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shh.”

  A twig snapped behind him. He turned again, but all he could see was shadows.

  Mary Alice said, “Come on.”

  He climbed up, stopping halfway over the sill, whispering, “Your mom will kill me if she finds me in here.”

  “I don’t care,” she whispered back, turning on a Hello Kitty lamp that cast a thin halo of light.

  “You sleep with a nightlight?”

  She playfully slapped his shoulder. “Just get in.”

  John landed softly. Her bed was pushed up underneath the window. They were both sitting on her bed. Mary Alice’s bed. John felt his erection return with a vengeance.

  If Mary Alice noticed, she didn’t say. “Show me how to do it,” she asked, handing him the bag of coke.

  “I’m not going to.”

  “I know you want to.”

  He did. God, he did. Anything that would give him the ability to get past his own idiotic personality and kiss her.

  “Show me,” she repeated.

  He unknotted the bag and used his finger to scoop some out.

  “You snort it,” he said. “Like this.”

  John coughed, almost a gag, as the powder hit the back of his throat. It tasted bitter, metallic. He tried to get enough spit to swallow but his mouth was too dry. His heart did something funny, like a flop, then he felt as if a knife had slammed into it.

  Mary Alice looked scared. “Are you—”

  The coke hit his brain. Two seconds, tops, and he was so fucked up he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He saw stars—actual stars—and he fell forward, right into Mary Alice. She put her hands on his face to steady him and he tilted his chin up, his lips meeting hers.

  The next thing he remembered was waking up with the worst headache he’d ever had in his life. There were shooting pains in his chest and he felt cold, though sweat covered his body. He rolled over, his skin sticking to the sheets. He was thinking that his mother was going to kill him for wetting the bed when he felt her body beside him.

  Mary Alice was completely naked. Her neck was twisted to the side, her mouth open and filled with blood. He saw bruises on her legs and other parts of her. Patches of her pubic hair had been ripped out. Bite marks were all over her small breasts.

  John was too freaked out to make any noise. He was panting, his bladder pressing for release as he pushed himself back away from her body. The open window was behind him. He reached up, his fingers sliding against the frame. Blood. He had blood all over his hand. He had lain in it all night, his clothes soaking it up like a sponge.

  He heard a noise, a “huh-huh-huh,” but it was coming from him. Her face. He couldn’t stop looking at her face. So much blood. His bladder released, a warm, wet liquid flooding down his leg.

  He had to get out of here. He had to leave.

  John pressed himself against the wall, using his legs to push himself up over the window ledge. He fell through the open window and into the backyard flat on his back, the air puffing out of his lungs in a sharp cough.

  He looked up at the sky. It wasn’t yet morning, the sun making the trees gray shadows against black. His legs shook, but he managed to stand, his pants sticking to his thighs, his bloody shirt like a second skin on his back where he had lain beside Mary Alice all night.

  John ran, his heart pulsing in his throat.

  He had to get out of there.

  He had to get home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  FEBRUARY 6, 2006

  8:02 PM

  Will Trent was brushing his dog when the doorbell rang. Betty started barking, her body nearly skittering off the table from the force. He shushed her and was rewarded with a curious look. Will had never told the dog no.

  A full minute passed. Will and Betty waited, hoping whoever was at the door would go away, but the doorbell rang again, then three more times in rapid succession.

  The dog started barking in earnest. Will sighed, put down the brush and rolled down his shirtsleeves. He scooped up the dog in his hand. The doorbell rang again—six times in a row—as he walked to the front door.

  “What the fuck took you so long?”

  He looked into the street to see if she was alone. “I’ve been plagued by Jehovah’s Witnesses lately.”

  “Might be a good way for you to meet women.” Angie wrinkled her nose. “God, that is one ugly dog.”

  Will followed Angie into his house, holding the dog close to his chest, feeling the slight even if the animal hadn’t. Angie was still dressed for work and he remarked, “You look like a prostitute.”

  “You look like a corpse in a coffin.”

  He pressed his hand to the tie. “You don’t like the suit?”

  “What happened to those jeans I bought you?” She flopped onto his couch and let out a sigh of relief, not waiting for his answer. “These fucking shoes,” she complained, sliding out of the six-inch heels and letting them hit the rug. She unpinned her long brown hair and shook it out so it fell around her shoulders. “I am so sick of this fucking job.”

  Will put Betty down on the floor. The Chihuahua’s nails clicked across the hardwood as she headed toward the kitchen. He heard her drink some water, then nibble on what was left of her supper. The dog was an unwelcome and, hopefully, temporary companion. Two weeks ago, Will had come back from his morning run to find his elderly neighbor being loaded into an ambulance. The woman had some sort of speech impediment and, judging from the timbre of her voice, a five-pack-a-day habit.

  “Watch Betty!” she had screamed across the front lawn, though Will had heard it as Wash Betty!

  “What do I do with her?” he had asked, somewhat horrified at the prospect. The woman just glared, so he pointed to the tiny Chihuahua standing on her front porch. “The dog. What about the dog?”

  “Brush her!” the woman had screeched, and the ambulance doors had slammed shut.

  Will didn’t know the neighbor’s name. Other than her love of listening to The Price Is Right at full volume, he knew little about her. He had no idea where the ambulance had taken her or if she had any family or, for that matter, if she was ever coming back. The only reason he knew the dog’s name was because the woman had a habit of yelling at it.

  “Betty!” he would hear in the middle of the night, her voice a deeper baritone than any man’s. “Betty, I told you not to do that!”

  Angie had her arms crossed over her chest as she stared up at Will. “You realize you look absolutely ridiculous carrying that little dog around.”

  Will sat across from her, leaning back in his chair. He picked up the remote control for the stereo and stopped the audio book he had been listening to. Two very long years had passed since he had talked to Angie Polaski, and now here she was back in his living room like they hadn’t missed a day. She had always been like that, ever since they were children. Pretend nothing was surprising and you would never be surprised.

  He said, “Thanks for helping me with the vending machine this morning,” leaving out that he’d almost had a heart attack when he saw her standing in the hallway at City Hall East today.

  “What were you doing with Michael Ormewood, anyway?” Again, she didn’t let him answer. “Jesus, I can’t believe that about his neighbor. How weird is that?”

  He tried to settle on one topic at a time. “He pulled a case that interested me. How do you know him?”

  “Used to work Vice,” she told him. “Do you have anything to snack on?”

  Will got up to check the refrigerator, Betty close on his heels. He ate most of his meals out, but the dog liked cheese and he kept some on hand for her.

  Angie had followed him into the kitchen. He asked, “When did Ormewood get transferred to Homicide?”

  “About six months ago.”

  Will had been living in north Georgia six months ago, exiled
to busting abandoned chicken farms that had been turned into methamphetamine labs while his boss decided what to do with him.

  “Vice was his first big assignment when he got his gold shield,” she said. “He worked it about ten years.”

  Will figured she was trying to tell him something. “Why did he leave?”

  “Me.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “I told him he had to leave or I’d report him.”

  “For?”

  “He was diddling some of the girls.”

  Will put the cheese down on the counter. “That’s interesting.”

  “I thought it was pretty fucking disgusting, but to each his own.”

  Will mulled this over a moment, his picture of Michael Ormewood changing yet again. The man was certainly hard to pin down. “Was he doing this the whole ten years he worked Vice?”

  “I only worked on his team for a few months. If I had to guess, I’d say yeah.”

  He asked, “Is that common?”

  She shrugged. “Happens sometimes, especially with the married guys. Free pussy, who’s gonna say no?”

  Will turned to get a plate out of the cabinet so she couldn’t read his expression, but Angie had known him since he was eight years old and she laughed anyway.

  She said, “You’re such a prude, William.”

  “Not much has changed in two years.”

  She didn’t take the bait. Two years and a handful of months was more like it. They had been in this same kitchen, Angie screaming at him and Will looking down at his shoes while he waited for her to stop. She had stopped finally, only it was when she slammed the door on the way out.