Triptych2

by Karin Slaughter

  "Once you get a taste for it," Michael was saying, his voice low, thoughtful, "you can't do it the other way. You need that fear, the way they push against you, the panic in their eyes."

  Angie tested the rope again. The bones in her broken wrist shifted against each other, made a clicking sound that echoed inside her head.

  "I got Johnny some credit cards," Michael continued. "Got this place." He meant the cabin. "You think I'm stupid, but I'm not." He tapped the side of his head. "Think, right? What's the first thing you do when you're trying to pin down a perp to the scene? Check their credit card receipts: gas bills, hotel bills, all that shit. Place the perp close to the scene, right day, right time, bingo, you've caught 'em." He shook his head. "They won't find nothin' on Michael Ormewood, that's for sure. Not in Alabama, not in Tennessee, sure as shit not in Atlanta. I'm just a family man, taking care of my poor retarded boy, looking after my wife, home every night in front of the tube."

  "You sold them drugs," Angie said, thinking about all those girls she'd met on the streets, all those addicts who did anything to feed their addiction. A cop had supplied them. A cop had exploited their need and filled his own. How many had he raped? How many had he killed?

  "I should be mad at you, but I'm not." He rubbed his jaw, kept his eyes on her. "Stupid people let their emotions get the better of them; that's when they make mistakes. I'm in control here, Angie. I'm the one who's going to decide how you die."

  He stood up from the couch and she braced herself for more pain, but he went over to the fireplace, rested his hand on the mantel. Angie remembered being with Will three nights ago. He had stood at the fireplace in her house and she'd looked at his back, his strong shoulders, and wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him. She would never have that moment with him again. He would never know how she felt.

  Michael said, "You don't know what it's like to have this dream in your head that you're gonna have a perfect life, a perfect family, and then something like Tim happens and you feel like you're just a fucking failure."

  She breathed in as much air as she could, tried to keep her thoughts clear. "How did it start?"

  "You know about Mary Alice."

  "The other ones." There had to be other ones.

  "How far do you want to go back? Eighty-five? Ninety-five? Last year?" The smile was on his face again. "Hell, I can't even remember which states they were in. Your boyfriend's into that profiling shit, right? I guess he'd say I escalated when old Johnny got out. Took the gloves off because I knew when the heat was turned up, all I had to do was point the finger back at him."

  "They were just kids."

  "Believe me, they were a lot more experienced than they let on. Real mature for their ages." He shook his head, as if he could not get over the irony. "Bunch of prick teases is what y all are."

  From out of nowhere, Angie felt shame welling up inside of her. How many of her mother's boyfriends had said the same thing about Angie? How many times had she accepted their stuffed animals or their nice meals out or their pretty clothes and then been told she was going to have to pay for it with her mouth?

  Michael told her, "Most of those girls have been drilled so many times they can't even feel it unless you pound it into them." He was looking at her again, appraising her. "You were exactly like Mary Alice. You know that? You tease me, let me kiss you, touch you for a while, and then you push me away like I'm not good enough for you." He snorted his disgust. "You play it all innocent, but then when I'm inside you, I feel like my cock's in a fucking vacuum."

  Angie stared at the gun on the couch.

  "The whores are good for that. You can do anything to them, right? I mean, that's what you pay for." He had turned his back to her, his hands pressed into the mantel. Angie kept her eyes on the Glock, hoping the weapon wasn't some kind of trick her mind had played on her. "All I wanted was to blow off a little steam with Aleesha before the game. And then she gets all uppity with me, chases me out of the apartment and into the stairway like I'm some kind of punk. I don't pay for that shit. She kept pushing me and pushing me, and then she learned the lesson. Michael Ormewood does not pay."

  Angie pressed her face to the floor, willing herself to endure this.

  "Yeah, I let her get my temper up." She heard his footsteps, could feel him standing inches from her face. "But, nobody really cares when a whore dies, right? Nobody cares about you."

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She had let him get into her head, let him have control, just like he wanted.

  Angie said, "All that John had to do was tell them." She took a chance, adding, "You're his cousin."

  "Oh, sweetheart," Michael tsked. "You actually think John would've had the chance to open his mouth in a courtroom?" He shook his head, telling her, "I've been playing with him all along, just tugging his strings whenever I wanted to." He chuckled to himself. "Sure, I almost shit in my pants when I opened that toolbox, saw what he put in there, but that's nothing compared to the shock I had planned for him. I was gonna have some wicked fun with that little girl, then lay it all back on Johnny's door—or, more specifically, that shithole room he lives in."

  "It wouldn't have worked," she said, knowing that it probably would have.

  " 'Hero cop catches serial killer in the act.' My DNA all over the room from holding the poor little dead thing in my arms. Cops busting in, seeing Johnny dead, me wailing in grief. I would've gotten a fucking promotion for killing that bastard. Do you know how much it costs to put a man on death row? I'd be saving the city twenty million bucks, easy."

  "They would've found out."

  "From who? All his friends? His loving family? His devoted, dead mother?"

  "People would remember you."

  "Nobody remembers me," Michael snapped, and she could tell she'd cut close to the bone. "John's the one who always stood out. I was just in the background—always in the background. Nobody ever noticed me, and you know what? Now, the only thing they're going to remember their precious Johnny for is being a killer."

  "But John's not a killer, is he?" When he didn't answer, she looked up.

  Michael was standing in front of a closed door that she assumed led to a closet. He reached up, feeling along the sill at the top, and pulled down a key.

  She saw the dead bolt. Her heart stopped mid-beat. "What are you doing?"

  "Enough talking," he said, slipping the key into the lock.

  Angle's leg muscles trembled as she forced herself to stand. She backed away from him, pushing toward the couch.

  Michael read her mind. He scooped up the gun. "Move." He used the muzzle to nudge her toward the closet. "Go on."

  Angie took small steps, the closet coming into view. It wasn't a closet at all. Stairs led down to what must be a cellar.

  "You fucked it all up," Michael told her. "That little girl and me, we were having a real good time."

  The stairs got closer. If he put her in that cellar, Angie knew she would be dead.

  "Move."

  She stopped walking and he bumped into her from behind. "Don't do this."

  His breath was hot in her ear. "I'm gonna fuck you, Angie. I'm going to fuck every hole you've got." He kept forcing her toward the cellar. "You sit down there and wait for me. Think about what I'm gonna do to you.

  "No!" She dug her bare feet into the floor, pushed back against him. Her soles skidded across the wood. She tried to twist away, but he grabbed her by the waist, lifting her, closing the distance in two steps. She screamed "No!" bracing her feet against the doorjamb, fighting as hard as she could.

  "Stop it!" he yelled, jerking her up again. Her legs swung wild as he threw her down the stairs. Angie careened against the walls as she fell. She landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, weeping from pain.

  The overhead light flicked on, a single bulb illuminating what must have been a root cellar at one point. Jasmine was in a corner, curled up into a lifeless ball. Angie tried to go to the girl, but something held her back. She looked down, saw t
he shard of glass that impaled her upper arm. More glass stuck up like shark's teeth where broken bottles had been cemented into the bottom stair.

  The glass made a sucking noise as she tried to move.

  "Think about it," Michael called from the open doorway above. "Think about what's going to happen to you."

  The light went out. The door closed. The bolt slid home.

  She was going to die.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Will kept his cell phone to his ear as he drove, praying that Amanda would be in her office. He had brought John with him because he needed to hear his story, wanted to know what kind of animal he would be dealing with when he reached Tennessee. For his part, John was more than willing to oblige. All of the man's recalcitrance had disappeared, and Will's head was spinning from his theories.

  Caroline finally answered the phone, saying, "Amanda Wagner's office."

  "I need Amanda now. It's urgent."

  She put him on hold. Will kept his eyes on the road, speeding up Interstate 75 in the HOV lane thirty miles over the posted speed limit.

  "Will?" Amanda said. "What's going on?"

  "I'm on my way to Tennessee."

  "I don't recall signing off on a vacation request."

  "I think Michael Ormewood is the killer."

  "All right," Amanda drawled. "Break it down for me, Will."

  Will told her John's story, how Michael had tried to lean on the parole officer, how John's sister had told him about the cabin in Tennessee. He finished with the oil stains in Michael's driveway and what the neighbor had told Leo Donnelly.

  "You checked Polaski's house?"

  "I had a cruiser go by. She's not there. Her car's not in the driveway."

  Amanda was silent. Will had introduced her to Angie once—not by choice. She had taken him to the hospital when Amanda had shot him with the nail gun. Inconceivably, the two women had gotten along.

  Finally, she spoke. "So, what you're saying is, based on some unanswered phone calls and a few spots on a driveway, you're taking a convicted felon over state lines to look for an Atlanta police detective who may or may not have snatched another detective in broad daylight?"

  "You need to search his house."

  "This is the house in DeKalb County's jurisdiction? How do you propose I get a warrant, Dr. Trent? Not that your mysterious oil stains in the drive aren't compelling, but I doubt there's a judge alive who would sign off on it."

  "Amanda," Will said, trying to control his voice. "You are a nasty, horrible person, but you have always had my back every time I worked a case. Don't do this to me now."

  "Well, Will," she countered. "You are a high-functioning dyslexic who reads on a second-grade level, but let's not throw stones."

  Will felt all the saliva in his mouth dry up. When had she found out?

  Amanda said, "I don't have many friends in Tennessee, Will. I can't reach out to them to help you with nothing more to go on than the bad feeling in your gut and we both know Yip Gomez would rather eat his own shit than give you a hand." Yip was Will's old boss in the northwest field office. She added, "This is why I keep telling you not to burn bridges," as if now was the time for one of her lessons.

  "I don't know what you want me to say," he admitted. "You're right. This could be nothing. I could get there and it could be just a waste of time, but I can't stand around not doing anything, Amanda."

  "You put out an APB on Polaski s car?" Yes.

  She was silent for a few seconds, then asked, "Tell me, this Detective Donnelly, he was the last person to leave Ormewood's house?" Yes.

  "Well, look at this," Amanda exclaimed, her voice raised in mock surprise. "Caroline just handed me a message. It's an anonymous tip. A concerned citizen has noticed that Detective Ormewood's back door has been busted open. I think I should check on it myself, don't you?"

  Will felt a wave of relief. Amanda was going to help him. He could almost hear her thinking it through over the phone.

  "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you."

  "I'll let you know when I get there."

  Will ended the call. He kept the phone in his hand as he drove, taking the exit onto 575 with an abrupt jerk of the wheel that made John Shelley grab the side of the door like he was afraid they were going to roll. Will had been in such a hurry that he hadn't even considered how he was going to find the cabin until John had asked for a map. The five-minute detour to the gas station had seemed like a lifetime. If what the neighbor had told Donnelly was right, Michael had about an hour on them. But, then, Michael was probably driving the speed limit, staying under the radar. Will wasn't being so careful.

  John asked, "What did she say?"

  "You could have prevented this," Will told him. "You could have stopped this four days ago."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Michael was with me when Cynthia Barrett died."

  John looked down at the map he had spread across his lap. "I heard she was running across the yard and tripped. Hit her head on a rock and died."

  "Then cut out her own tongue?"

  John didn't offer an answer.

  "You should have done something then."

  "What?" John demanded. "Gone to you? You don't even believe my story now, man. What am I going to do? Turn in a cop? Who's gonna believe an ex-con who works at a car wash?"

  Will kept his hands tight around the wheel. John had brought this down on Angie. She would be safe now but for the man's arrogance and stupidity. "You were baiting him. You knew exactly what you were doing."

  John snapped the map along a crease, folding it into a smaller section as he kept trying to defend himself. "You tell me what I should've done and I'll get back in my magic time machine and do it. Tell you what, though, let's don't stop at four days. Let's go back twenty years. Give me my youth back. Give me my mother and my grandparents and my family. Hell, throw in a wife and a couple of kids for me while you're at it."

  "She was running away from something in that yard."

  John was still working on the map, but Will could hear the anguish in the other man's voice when he said, "Don't you think I know that?"

  Will looked back at the road, watched the signs blur by, the mile markers with their bold numbers popping up along the landscape. He hadn't thought this through; hadn't considered that he might be endangering John.

  Will said, "It violates your parole to go over state lines."

  "I know."

  "You could be arrested. I can't help you in Tennessee."

  "You can't help me in Atlanta, either."

  Will chewed his lip, staring at the black pavement, the other cars on the road. He had driven back and forth between Atlanta and the mountains for the last two years, so he knew exactly where all the speed traps were. He slowed down through Ellijay, not resuming his speed until he crossed Miciak Creek. He coasted by the new Wal-Mart and the old one, then past several outdoor flea markets and a couple of liquor stores. At the town of Blue Ridge, he took a left. He was flying down Coote Mason Highway, just beyond the apple orchard, when the phone rang.

  He flipped it open on the side of his leg. "Amanda?"

  Her tone was grim. "We found blood in the garage. Two different types and lots of it."

  "Angie?"

  "She's not here, Will."

  His mouth opened, but words failed him.

  "Here's how this is going to work," Amanda said. "I've called Bob Burg at the Tee Bees." The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. "He's putting together a team right now. They're about forty minutes out from the cabin."

  “I’m closer.”

  "I figured you would be," she said. "Let me speak to the pedophile. I've got directions to Elton Road."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Angie had almost passed out when she lifted her arm off the shard of glass cemented to the bottom stair.—not so much from the pain, but from the sensation of the glass sliding out of her flesh. There wasn't much blood, and compared to the throbbing in her wrist, th
e wound was manageable. She had been lucky. Her right wrist was the one that was probably broken and she had by some miracle fallen on her right shoulder at the bottom of the stairs. Like Will, Angie was left-handed.

  "Jasmine?" she whispered, her voice echoing in the pitch-black cellar. "Jasmine?" There was no response.

  Angie pressed her good shoulder against the wall and stood. She took a moment to catch her breath, then carefully slid her bare feet across the dirt floor, searching for the girl.

  "Jasmine?" she repeated, her foot making contact. "Are you okay?"