The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  In 1977, the United States Supreme Court handed down a decision that led to the establishment of adequate law libraries in all state and federal prisons. No one knew exactly what adequate meant, but the library at Coastal rivaled any law school’s, and every man in the joint eventually ended up with his head tucked into some case book, searching for an obscure passage, an arcane edict, any loophole they could exploit. Most cons knew more about the law than the lawyers the state had appointed to represent them—a good thing, since you usually got what you paid for.

  John picked up the vase of flowers on the mantel.

  Lydia stood, spine stiff as a board. “Put that down.”

  He hefted the vase in his hand. Leaded crystal, heavy as a brick. Probably worth its weight in gold. That was the only thing Lydia cared about now—money: how much she could make, how much she could hold on to. Four marriages, a son, a grandson, and all she had to show for it were these cold little objects scattered around her pristine mansion.

  He said, “You’ve got a nice place, Aunt Lydia.”

  “Both of you. Get out of my house this instant.”

  “Your house,” John repeated, sliding out the flowers, dropping them one by one on the expensive white rug. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

  “I’m going to call the police.”

  “Better duck first.”

  “Wha—” She was old but she moved fast when she saw John raise the vase. He threw it well over her head, but the shards of glass that shattered off the wall rained onto the couch where she had been sitting.

  Lydia shrieked, “How dare you!”

  The vase was probably worth more than he’d made since leaving the joint, but John didn’t give a shit about money. There were rich people all over the world who were living in their own prisons, trapped by greed, shut off from the world around them. All he wanted right now was his freedom, and he was going to do whatever it took to get it back.

  He asked his sister, “How much do you think this house is worth?”

  Joyce stood frozen in place, her mouth gaping open. Any conflict in her life usually consisted of heated negotiations and thinly veiled threats made across a polished conference table or martinis at the club. A veiled threat didn’t count for much at Coastal State Prison.

  John guessed, “Quarter of a million dollars? Half a million?”

  Joyce shook her head, too shocked to respond.

  “You!” Lydia said, her voice shrill with anger. “You have exactly one minute to get out of this house before I call the police and have you arrested.”

  “A million bucks?” John prodded. “Come on, Joycey. You handle real estate closings all day. You know how much a house is worth.”

  Joyce shook her head like she couldn’t understand. But then she did something that surprised him. She glanced nervously around the room, took in the two-story cathedral ceiling, the large windows looking onto the graciously manicured back lawn. When she looked back at John, he could tell that she was still confused. But she trusted him. She trusted him enough to say, “Three.”

  “Three million,” John echoed, incredulous. He’d thought he was rich when he cleaned out the thirty-eight hundred dollars Michael had left in the fake John’s banking account.

  He said, “Divide that by twenty years, you get—what—about a hundred fifty thousand bucks a year?”

  Joyce was slowly getting it. “Yeah, Johnny. That’s about right.”

  “Doesn’t seem like nearly enough, does it?”

  His sister’s eyes sparkled. She smiled. “No.”

  “What do you think she has in the bank?” He turned back to Lydia. “Maybe I should be directing these questions to you?”

  “You should be walking out of that door if you know what’s good for you.”

  “What kind of car do you drive? Mercedes? BMW?” He felt like a lawyer on a television program. Maybe he could have been a lawyer. If Michael Ormewood had never entered his life, maybe John Shelley could have been a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or a … what? What could he have been? He would never know. No one would ever know.

  “John?” Joyce sounded concerned. He had gone too quiet.

  His voice was not as strong when he asked Lydia, “How about that ring on your finger? What’s that worth?”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “You’re a lawyer,” John told her. “You’ve obviously made a very good living by suing people for everything they’ve got.” He indicated the house, her useless things.

  “I want you out of here,” Lydia commanded. “I want you out of here right now.”

  “I want this house,” he told her, walking around the room, wondering what would make her break. He pulled a monochromatic canvas off the wall. “I want this,” he said, dropping it to the floor as he continued his stroll. “I want that piano.”

  He walked over to Joyce’s side, thinking that no matter what happened, nothing would be more valuable to him than knowing she believed in him. Michael had tried to destroy him, but he was gone now. Nothing could change the past. All they could focus on now was their future.

  He asked his sister, “How many times did Mom yell at us about practicing our scales?”

  “All the time.”

  John trailed his hand along the keys. “She’d like this,” he said, playing a couple of notes he remembered from a million years ago. “She’d like the idea of me taking up the piano again.”

  “Yeah,” Joyce agreed, a sad smile on her face. “I think she would.”

  “You can stop right there,” Lydia barked.

  John warned, “I think you should be careful how you talk to me.”

  Lydia tucked a hand onto her hip. “You don’t have nearly the grounds you need for a criminal conviction. Even with this recent … innuendo … you have leveled against my son, you don’t have proof of anything.”

  “The burden of proof is lower in a civil suit. You know that.”

  “Have you any idea how many years I can hold up depositions and hearings?” She gave a crocodile grin that showed pearly white teeth. She made her voice softer, frail. “I’m an old woman. This has been a terrible shock. I have my good days and my bad …”

  “I can freeze your assets,” John told her. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of bad days living in a one-room condo on Buford Highway.”

  “You can’t threaten me.”

  “What about the press?” he asked. “Joyce found you. I’m sure the reporters can, too. Especially if she gives them a little help.”

  “I am calling the police,” Lydia warned him, walking stiffly to the phone.

  “All I’m asking for is a sworn statement. Just tell them Michael framed me, that he killed Mary Alice, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “I’m calling the police right now to remove you from my house.”

  “How would you like a bunch of reporters camped out on your doorstep? How would you like to explain to them how you knew your son was a killer and you didn’t do anything to stop him?”

  She took off one of her chunky gold earrings and put the receiver to her ear. “I knew nothing of the sort.”

  “Michael told me a funny thing in that cellar, Aunt Lydia.” Her fingers hovered over the keypad but she did not dial. “He knew he was going to die. He was absolutely certain that he was going to die and he wanted to tell me something.”

  The cord slapped against the metal table as Lydia let the receiver slide to her shoulder.

  “Michael told me that he killed Mary Alice and that you knew all about it. He said it was your idea to frame me. He said that you planned the whole thing from the very beginning.” He gave her a wink. “Deathbed confessions aren’t considered hearsay, right? Not if the person knows for sure he’s going to die.”

  She clutched the receiver in her bony hand. “No one will believe you.”

  “You know that cop he took—the one he kidnapped, nearly beat to death and was about to rape and kill?” He lowered his voice as if he was telling her i
n confidence. “I think she heard him say it, too.”

  The table banged against the wall as she sagged against it. Her eyes blazed with outrage.

  John asked, “Who do you think the prosecutor is going to listen to when he’s trying to make the decision about whether or not to file charges against you for obstruction of justice, false imprisonment and conspiracy after the fact?”

  A noise came from the receiver, a recorded voice advising her that if she would like to make a call, to please hang up and dial again.

  “The prosecutor will come to us,” John continued. “He’ll ask me and he’ll ask Joyce whether we want to pursue criminal charges against you or just drop it.” The phone started to make a loud busy signal that echoed in the cavernous room. “Let me tell you one thing I’ve figured out, Lydia: Michael was a predator, but you were his gatekeeper. You were the one who knew what he was and still let him out in the world.”

  “No …”

  “Go ahead,” he dared her. “Dial the number. Make the call.”

  Lydia stared at him, nostrils flared, eyes wet with angry tears. He could almost see her thinking it out, that fine legal mind of hers working all the angles, considering all of the options. Somewhere in this pristine white prison of a house, a clock was ticking. John silently counted the ticks in his head, biding his time.

  “All right,” she finally agreed. “All right.”

  John knew what she meant, but he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to be the one who made her say it. “All right what?”

  Her hand trembled so badly that she could barely replace the phone in the cradle. She could not look at him. Her voice was choked with humiliation. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  FEBRUARY 18, 2006

  Will was listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Devils & Dust as he brushed the dog. He wasn’t certain why his neighbor had insisted on the brushing. Betty’s fur was short. She didn’t shed much. Will had to assume the origin of the task was somehow connected to the little dog’s pure pleasure in the sensation; however, the neighbor had never struck him as particularly interested in the animal’s comfort.

  Not that he was assigning a personality to the thing, but there was no denying she liked a good brush.

  The doorbell rang and Will stopped mid-stroke. It rang again, and then there was a staccato of knocking.

  Will sighed. He put down the brush and rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. He scooped up Betty in his hand and walked to the door.

  “What the fuck took you so long?”

  “I assumed it was you.”

  Angie grimaced, which was hard considering her face was still healing. She had butterfly bandages on her forehead and her cheek had turned from black to yellow. Band-Aids on each of her fingers covered more sutures. A neon pink plastic cast was wrapped around her right arm, metal bolts sticking out around her wrist where the bones had been screwed back together.

  He looked over her shoulder and saw her car parked in the street. “Did you drive here?”

  “Arrest me.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Do I need to lock you up so you won’t skip town?”

  “Not this time.”

  “You’re not leaving me for John?”

  She laughed. “He’s already had half of his life fucked up by some asshole. I figured I’d let him live the other half in peace.”

  “You didn’t sleep with him?”

  “Of course I slept with him.”

  Will’s chest fell, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Let’s stay out here,” she suggested, awkwardly bending down to sit on the porch.

  Reluctantly, Will joined her. He kept the dog close to his chest, and Betty tucked her head down, her snout dipping inside his vest.

  “It’s Saturday,” Angie told him. “Why are you wearing that suit?”

  “It’s a good look for me.”

  She bumped her shoulder into his, teasing, “You think?”

  He tried to make a joke of it. “You know, I’m not wearing any underwear.”

  She gave a deep, bawdy laugh.

  He smiled, relishing the ease between them. “How come it’s sexy when you say it, but not when I do?”

  “Because the type of man who doesn’t wear underwear usually hangs around playgrounds with lots of candy in his pockets.”

  “I’ve got candy in my pockets,” he told her. “You want to put your hand in and see?”

  She laughed again. “You are all talk, Mr. Trent. All talk.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “You’re probably right.”

  They both stared out at the street. Traffic noise from Ponce de Leon followed the breeze; car horns blaring, people shouting. Will heard wind chimes clanging in the distance, and a bicyclist rode by the house.

  “I love you,” Angie said, very quietly.

  Betty stirred. He felt a flutter in his chest. “I know.”

  “You’re my life. You’ve always been there.”

  “I’m still here.”

  She gave a heavy sigh. “I talked to you when I was in the cellar. Before you came.” She paused, and he knew she was thinking back to that awful place. “I promised you that I would leave you if I got out of there alive.”

  “I’ve never expected you to keep your promises.”

  She was quiet again. Another cyclist rode by, the metallic whiz of the turning wheels sounding like a field of grasshoppers. Will thought about putting his arm around her shoulders, then remembered the gash from the glass. He was about to put his arm around her waist instead when she turned to him.

  “I’m really bad for you.”

  “Lots of things are bad for me.” He listed some examples. “Chocolate. Artificial sweetener. Secondhand smoke.”

  “Passion,” she said, holding her fist to her heart. “I want you to have passion, Will. I want you to know what it’s like to fall in love with somebody, to stay awake at night thinking you’re going to die if you don’t have them.”

  All he could say was, “I’ve stayed awake plenty of nights thinking about you.”

  “Worrying about me,” she corrected. “I’m not an old pair of shoes you can wear for the rest of your life just because they’re comfortable.”

  Will didn’t know that there was anything wrong about being comfortable, but he held his tongue on the subject, asking instead, “Where am I going to find another woman with your low standards?”

  “Isn’t Amanda Wagner available?”

  “Oh,” he groaned. “That’s just hurtful.”

  “You deserve it, you illiterate shit.”

  He laughed, and Betty stirred.

  “God, that thing is ugly.” She patted Will’s leg. “Help me up.”

  Will hooked his hand under her good arm to help her stand. “Where are you going?”

  “To look through the want ads.” She indicated her broken wrist, her torn hands. “I’m not going to sit behind a desk for the next twenty years and even the city of Atlanta isn’t desperate enough to give me a gun.” She shrugged. “Besides, it’d be nice to find a job where I don’t have to dress like a whore unless I want to.”

  “You don’t really need a job,” he offered.

  She barked a surprised laugh. “You jackass. Do you really think I’m going to stay at home cooking and cleaning while you go to work?”

  “Worse things could happen.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Betty could use a mother.”

  “She could use a plastic bag over her head.”

  “I—”

  Quickly, Angie stood on her toes and pressed her mouth to his neck. Her lips were soft against his skin. He could feel her warm breath, the soft tips of her fingers pressing into his shoulders.

  She said, “I love you.”

  He watched her walk down his driveway, the pink cast held out at her side. She turned around once to wave at him, then got into the car and pulled away.

  She was almost proud of
the cuts that riddled her face and hands. It was as if she had finally found a way to show on the outside what she’d been feeling on the inside all along. He had not asked her about what happened in that cellar, had not wanted to look too closely at the angle of Michael’s wounds or count the number of times the man had been stabbed. Will had just wanted to hold her, to lift her up in his arms and carry her up the stairs and keep her safe for as long as he could.

  And for at least a couple of hours, she had let him.

  Will wasn’t sure how long he stood there looking into the empty street. The Boss was singing “Leah” and Betty was snoring against his chest when a tan Chevy Nova pulled into his neighbor’s driveway.

  Betty woke up when the car door slammed.

  Will walked across his yard toward the woman, who was hammering a wooden stake into the ground with the heel of her shoe.

  He asked, “Can I help you?”

  She startled, putting her hand to her throat. “God, you scared me to death.”

  “I’m Will Trent.” He indicated his house. “I live next door.”

  She was looking at the dog, her lip curled in distaste. “I thought Mother said that thing was dead.”

  “Betty?”

  “Yes, Betty. We moved her to a home.”

  Will felt his brow furrow. “I’m sorry?”

  “Betty, my mother.” The woman was impatient; she clearly didn’t want to be here and she sure as hell didn’t want to explain herself to Will. “She’s living in a home now. We’re selling the house.”

  “But,” Will tried, “I heard her …” He looked down at the dog. “At night sometimes,” he began. “She—your mother—would yell at someone she called Betty.”

  “She was yelling at herself, Mr. Trent. Did you never notice that my mother is nutty as a fruitcake?”

  He thought about the midnight yelling, the way she would sometimes spontaneously burst into show tunes while watering the plastic plants on her front porch. These things had not struck Will as particularly odd, especially considering the eccentricities of the neighborhood. It was hard to stick out on a street that had six hippies living in a one-bedroom, rainbow-colored house; an abandoned Weiner Mobile up on blocks in front of a Mennonite church; and a six-foot-four functional illiterate who walked a toy dog on a hot pink leash.