Triptych2

by Karin Slaughter

  He knew what was happening to him.

  He was terrified.

  Will pressed his lips to her forehead. "You're all right," he whispered. "You're okay."

  Michael's eyelids fluttered. A gurgling noise filled the room as he began to choke on his own blood. His mouth gaped open, a thin line of blood tracing a path down his cheek.

  Angie pursed her lips and blew him a kiss good-bye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  FEBRUARY 13, 2006

  “You" was all Lydia Ormewood said when she'd opened her front door to find John and Joyce standing there.

  Michael's mother had aged well, or more likely she'd spent enough money to make sure she looked like it. Though John knew the woman was in her late sixties, the skin on her face was smooth and healthy-looking. Even her neck and hands, the usual giveaway, were as smooth and young as Joyce's.

  Life had obviously been very good to her. She lived in Vinings, one of Atlanta's more expensive suburbs, in a brand-new, three-story house. White walls loomed over everything, white carpets scattered around the bleached oak floors. A gleaming white grand piano was in the living room, and two black leather couches faced each other by a marbled fireplace. Cream silk curtains hung in the windows. Abstract art with bold primary colors hung on the walls, all of it probably original work. Lydia herself was monochromatic. She wore black. John did not know if this was her regular attire or if she was in mourning for her son.

  Joyce had been at the DeKalb County courthouse when John was arrested, going page by page through old records, looking for Lydia. Since then, she had taken days off work, digging through all the public records she could find. Lydia had married and divorced twice since her husband Barry had died. Her surname had changed each time, but Joyce had finally managed to trace Michael's mother through a contact who worked at the social security office. Uncle Barry had been fully vested in the system when he died. Lydia had started to collect his social security checks four years ago.

  Joyce had the woman's address in her hand three days later.

  They sat in front of the fireplace, Joyce and John on one uncomfortable couch, Lydia on the other. Their aunt sat with her spine straight, knees together, legs tilted to the side, like a photograph out of Miss Manners. She looked at John with open distaste.

  He knew he looked like hell. Ms. Lam had knocked on his door at five o'clock that morning. She'd handed him the specimen cup, then started searching his room for contraband. He'd come back from the toilet to find her holding the picture of his mother in her hands. John had stood there holding his own piss, feeling a slow shame burning inside him. This was just one more degradation he had forced on Emily. When would it end? When would his mother be able to rest in peace?

  Joyce said, "We're here about Michael."

  "He was my son," Lydia told them, as if it was that simple.

  Joyce stiffened beside him, but John shook his head, willed her to be patient. He loved his sister, but she lived in a world of black and white. She didn't know how to deal with the grays.

  John told Lydia, "The little girl he kidnapped is going to be okay."

  "Well," she said, dismissing this with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. John waited, but she didn't ask about Angie Polaski, didn't seem interested in the health of her son's last victim. As a matter of fact, she didn't seem interested in anything.

  John cleared his throat. "If you could just—"

  "He hated you, you know."

  John had already figured that out, but he needed to know. "Why?"

  "I don't know," she answered, smoothing her skirt with her hand. She had a large diamond ring on her finger, the gold band at least half an inch wide. "He seemed quite obsessed with you. He kept a scrapbook." She stood suddenly. "I'll get it."

  She left the room, her slippers gliding across the white carpet.

  Joyce hissed out air between her teeth.

  "Calm down," John told her. "She doesn't have to do this."

  "She's holding your life in her hands."

  "I know," John said, but he was used to having other people control his life, whether it was his father or Michael or the guards at the prison or Martha Lam. John had never known a moment in his adult life when he wasn't trying to keep somebody happy just so he could live through another day.

  Joyce started to tear up again. He had forgotten what a crier she was. "I hate her, John. I hate her so much. How can you stand to be in the same room with her?"

  He used the back of his finger to wipe away her tears. "We need something from her. She doesn't need anything from us."

  Lydia returned, holding a large photo album to her chest. She put it on the low leather ottoman between the couches as she sat down.

  John saw a photograph of himself pasted to the outside of the book. At least, he thought it was his photograph. The face had been scratched out with an ink pen.

  "My God," Joyce murmured, sliding the album over. She opened the cover to the first page, then the second, as John looked over her shoulder. They were both speechless as they saw pictures of John from junior high—class pictures, team photos, John running in his track uniform. Michael had catalogued each moment of John's teenage life.

  "It was Barry who made it worse," Lydia said. Uncle Barry, her husband, their mother's brother. "Barry talked about you all the time, used you as an example."

  "An example of what?" Joyce demanded, obviously horrified by the scrapbook.

  "Michael went down the wrong path after his father left. He had problems at school. The drugs... well, I don't know. There was an older boy at school who got him interested in the wrong things. Michael would have never done anything like that on his own."

  Joyce s mouth opened but John squeezed her hand, warning her not to speak. You didn't get what you wanted from someone like Lydia Ormewood by telling her what to do. You came with your hat in your hand and you waited. John had done this all of his life. He knew that one false word could ruin everything.

  Lydia continued, "Barry thought you would be a good role model for Michael. You always did so well in school." She sighed. "Michael was a good boy. He merely gravitated toward the wrong crowd."

  John nodded, like he understood. Maybe, on some level, he did. John himself had gotten sucked into Michael's crowd. So had Aleesha Monroe. She had hung around Michael's house all the time, had even been there the night of the party. She'd had good parents, siblings who were always at the top of their classes. Would John have ended up like Aleesha if Mary Alice hadn't died? Would his life have been wasted like hers no matter what had happened?

  Lydia's chest rose and fell as she sighed again. "I made him join the military," she told them. "I didn't let him sit around after you went away. He fought in the war. He tried to help keep those Arab people safe and got shot in the leg for his trouble."

  Joyce was so tense John could almost hear her humming like a piano wire.

  Lydia picked at a speck of fuzz on her skirt. "And then he came back to Atlanta, settled down, had a family." She looked up at Joyce. "That girl he married, she obviously had something wrong with her. Tim was not Michael's fault." She spoke vehemently, and John looked around the room again, trying to find photographs of Michael or his son. The mantel over the fireplace was bare but for a glass vase of silk flowers. The stark metal table on the back wall held nothing but a neat stack of magazines and one of those princess phones like Joyce had in her room when they were growing up. Even the thick cord dangling from the telephone hung in a straight line, as if it, too, was afraid to displease Lydia.

  The whole place was like a tomb.

  "He got a commendation for saving a woman's life," Lydia continued proudly. "Did you know that?"

  John's reply almost caught in his throat. "No. I didn't."

  "She was in a car accident. He pulled her from the car before it exploded."

  John didn't know what to say. Michael may have saved one woman, but he had ruined countless others, selling drugs to the working girls, raping and murdering for h
is own sick pleasure.

  "Michael was good," Lydia insisted. "That other part of him"—she waved her hand, dismissing the evil her son had wrought—"that wasn't my Michael. My Michael was a good boy. He had so many friends."

  So many friends he got hooked on hard drugs, John thought. Like Aleesha.

  "And such promise," she continued.

  "You can't do this." Joyce's voice shook with anger. "You cannot sit there and tell us what an angel Michael was. He was an animal."

  "Joyce," John tried. She didn't know the rules, didn't know how to give up her control. She had never had someone throw feces in her face just for looking the wrong way. She had never tried to go to sleep while the sixty-year-old man in the next cell whispered about what a beautiful body you had, told you in minute detail what he wanted to do to it.

  Lydia raised a thin eyebrow. "You should mind your brother, young lady."

  "Don't you dare talk about my brother."

  Amusement flashed in Lydia's eyes. John knew they had lost. In that one moment, they had lost everything.

  Lydia asked, "Are you threatening me?"

  Joyce exploded off the couch, yelling, "You knew John didn't kill Mary Alice!"

  "I knew no such thing."

  "How can you defend him?" John tried to pull her back to the couch, but Joyce slapped his hand away. "How can you just sit there—"

  "You don't have children so you don't know," Lydia snapped. "You and your... lady friend."

  Joyce clenched her fists. "No," she answered. "I don't have children. You're right. I didn't raise a child. I didn't raise a rapist and murderer, either."

  Lydia looked as if she had been slapped. "You've no right to speak to me in that tone."

  "Did you tell Mama?" Joyce demanded. "When you went to the hospital, is that when you told her what happened, that your child murdered Mary Alice, not hers?"

  Lydia advised, "Let the dead rest in peace."

  John didn't know if she meant Emily or Michael. For his part, John wasn't sure if Michael's death brought him any peace. Standing there in that cellar, he had wanted with every ounce of his being to fall to his knees, beat the life back into Michael's chest, do whatever it took to bring him back to life so he could kill him again with his own hands.

  But, he hadn't. John had saved Jasmine instead. She had stopped breathing, and John had breathed for her, giving her CPR for over forty minutes until the ambulance had arrived at the little cabin Michael had bought in John's name. The same hands that had mutilated Cynthia Barrett had given life to another little girl. There had to be some kind of justice in that. There had to be some kind of peace.

  John watched his sister as she walked to the other side of the room, putting some space between herself and the woman who had destroyed her family. Joyce was just trying to defend him. He knew that. He also knew that she had ruined any possibility they had of clearing his name.

  Still, he had to try. John had learned patience in a way his sister never had to. He had also learned how to talk to the people in charge.

  "She's upset," he told Lydia, a half-apology he knew she was waiting for. "It's been hard for her."

  "You've got your freedom," Lydia pointed out. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm an old woman. I just want to be left alone."

  "It's not that easy."

  "You're out, aren't you?" She said it as if it was a simple thing, as if John wasn't always looking over his shoulder, always waiting for those cuffs to be put back on, for those guards to throw him into a cell with Zebra. He had nearly shit his pants when Will Trent slammed him into the wall. There were some prisons you never got out of.

  John took a deep breath, made himself explain to the former criminal lawyer how the justice system worked. "I'm a registered sex offender. A pedophile. I can't get a decent job, buy a home. I'll never have a life."

  "What about Michael?" she demanded. "He doesn't have a life, either."

  Joyce made a noise of disgust. She was standing by the piano, arms crossed over her chest. She looked just like their father.

  John turned back to Lydia, speaking gently, trying to lead her through it. "Michael killed a woman named Aleesha Monroe."

  "She was a prostitute."

  So, she had been watching the news.

  "He kidnapped a police officer," John continued. "The bones in her wrist are so badly broken that she may be permanently disabled."

  Lydia didn't have an answer for that one.

  "He kidnapped a little girl and raped her, nearly beat her to death."

  "From what I've gathered," she said tartly, "the girl was hardly inexperienced."

  "He bit off her tongue."

  Lydia smoothed her skirt again, keeping silent.

  "Michael bit off her tongue, just like he bit off Mary Alice's."

  If John hadn't been looking at Lydia, he would've missed her reaction. For just an instant, he was certain she had been surprised.

  John said, "I know about the report the state's dental expert wrote."

  Her chin went up in challenge. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "I think you do."

  "I have no recollection of a report." She added, "And even if I did, there's nothing I can do about it now."

  "You can give me my life back." John tried, "All you'd have to do is make a sworn statement—"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "That's all I want, Lydia. Swear under oath that it was Michael who killed Mary Alice and not me. Convince them to clear my record and I'll just—"

  "Young man," she interrupted again, her tone clipped. He could tell from her posture that it was over. She pointed to the door. "I want you and your sister out of my house right now."

  John stood automatically, always one to follow orders. Joyce was still at the piano. Tears of defeat welled into her eyes. She had fought so hard for him and now she had finally realized that there was nothing more that she could do.

  She mouthed, "I'm sorry."

  He looked around the house, the mausoleum Lydia had built with the money she'd earned from suing corporations and doctors and anyone else who had made a mistake she could profit on. She'd spent hours with John at the county jail trying to fabricate his defense. Twenty years ago, she had told him not to testify on his own behalf. She had handled the lab tests, the experts, the character witnesses. Lydia was the one who came to Coastal that day to tell him that it was over, that there were no other legal avenues left to explore. She'd started crying, and he had tried to comfort her.

  John also remembered another day at Coastal, that first visit his mother had made after Zebra had ripped him in two.

  "You will not give up," Emily had ordered, gripping John's hands so hard across the table that his fingers started to go numb. "Do you understand me, Jonathan? You will not give up."

  You didn't go through twenty years of hard time without learning something. Prison was nothing but a big clock that never stopped ticking. All any of them had was time, and they spent that time talking. There was trash-talk—plans of escape, plans to shiv the bastard who disrespected you in the lunch line—but you could only bullshit for so long. Invariably, everyone ended up talking about how they'd wound up in the joint. All of them were innocent; framed by some crooked cop, fucked over by the system. All of them were working some angle, some way to snatch that get-out-of-jail-free card.

  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."