Triptych (48 page)

He tucked the gun into the waist of his jeans, then reached into his back pocket.

“Go away,” Angie told him.

He put on a black ski mask, holes cut out for the eyes and mouth.

“Go away!” she screamed, backing into the wall, scrambling to stand.

He took out the gun and started down the stairs. Slowly, one tread at a time.

Angie’s shoulders tensed to their breaking point as she pulled at the rope. She had felt it give before. She had felt it give.

He kept up his steady pace down into the cellar. The ski mask was unnerving, more terrifying than anything he could have said. The gun stayed trained on her chest, and she saw the knife sheathed at his side.

Angie’s throat tensed. She could barely speak. “No…”

He stepped over the last stair and stopped. His eyes were dark, almost black. She could see dried blood around the mouth of the mask.

The sight of him sent an uncontrollable tremble through her body.

He looked at Jasmine lying in the corner, then took a step closer to Angie. They both stood there facing each other, the room quiet but for the short breaths Angie was taking.

His voice was so soft she could barely hear him. “Michael is going to hurt you.”

“I’ll kill you,” she breathed. “I’ll kill you if you touch me.”

“Lie down.”

She kicked out at him. “You sick fucker.”

He still spoke gently. “Lie down on the floor.”

“Fuck you!”

He brought up his gun and slammed it down on her head.

Angie slumped to the ground. She couldn’t keep her head up, couldn’t remember for a moment where she was.

He cupped her chin in his hand, his words still soft; the tone he would use with a child who was misbehaving. “Don’t pass out on me,” he whispered. “You hear me?”

She saw Jasmine lying behind him, her body limp. What had Michael done to her? What had the child endured before her body simply gave up?

“Look at me,” Michael said, gently, as if this was some kind of seduction. “Keep looking at me, Angie. Look at Michael.”

Her head rolled to the side. She couldn’t make her eyes focus.

“Come on, darlin‘, don’t pass out.” He cupped her chin with his hand again, tilted up her face. “You okay?”

She nodded, mostly to prove to herself that there was still some part of her body that she could control.

“That’s good,” he soothed, placing the gun on one of the shelves above her head, high out of the way. He took the knife out of the sheath and knelt down, holding the blade to her face so that she could see.

“No…” she begged.

He used his knife to cut open her shirt-Will’s shirt-pushing it back on her shoulders. She tried to watch him, tried to see his hand as he traced his fingers across her breasts, but she could only feel what he was doing.

“No,” she pleaded. “Don’t.”

“Lie down,” he coaxed. “Lie down and I’ll be sweet to you.”

She rolled back her head, trying to look at his face. Who was behind the mask? Was it John? Had she tricked her mind into thinking it was Michael when it was really John?

“Angie?” He was so calm. Like Will. He knew that was the best way to make her angry. She would fly off in a tantrum and he would just stand there, patiently waiting her out, staring at the floor. Oh, God, Will. How would he live with this? How would he live with himself knowing that he’d failed to stop this bastard?

“An-gie,” he sang. “Look at me.”

She knew that voice, knew that body.

“An-gie…”

She squeezed her eyes shut, seeing Will’s arm, the angry scar where the razor had cut into his flesh.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

She fell to her side, her uninjured shoulder thumping into the packed-dirt floor. He helped her lie flat on her back, tugging at her shirt when it got caught around her arms. All of her weight rested on her hands, her pelvis arching up as if it was on display for him.

“That’s good,” he whispered, straddling her legs. She saw his tongue dart out of his mouth as he traced the tip of the knife down her abdomen, stopping just shy of her snatch.

Where was the gun? Where had he put the gun?

“Look at me.” He leaned over her body, pressing the knife against her neck.

The shelf. He had put it on the shelf.

“Look at me.”

She looked at him.

“Kiss me.”

Too high. The shelf was too high.

“Kiss me,” he said.

Her whole body shook, but she leaned up, pulling at the rope as hard as she could as she brought her mouth to his. He was still trying to be tender, his lips soft against hers. She could taste her own blood, feel his heart pumping against her chest as he pressed against her. When he put his tongue in her mouth, she gagged, instinctively trying to jerk away, but he pressed the knife harder against her throat, and Angie had no choice but to let him kiss her.

He made a smacking noise as he sat back up, satisfied. “If you’d kissed me like that in the back of the car, maybe it would have gone differently.”

Angie looked up at him. The bare lightbulb made a halo behind his head. She turned, saw Jasmine, saw the blood in the girl’s mouth, the dead look in her eyes.

“Angie,” Michael whispered, tracing his fingers along her face, down her body. Will had touched her like this a long time ago. Why had he stopped touching her? When had she started pushing him away?

Michael leaned over her again, his weight pressing her into the ground.

“Please… Please don’t…”

He kissed her again. She pushed her weight into her right hand, pulling as hard as she could with the left to stretch the rope. Her stomach muscles shuddered, her breath caught, as the skin started to peel off her hand like a glove. He jammed his tongue farther down her throat, his teeth clashing against hers. She could feel the shattered bones in her right wrist grind against each other. The pain was so unbearable that she finally gave into it, let it rush through her body like a red tide.

Michael sat back on his heels, watching her.

“No…” she breathed. “Oh, God, no…” She was going
to
pass out. She couldn’t stop it. Her eyelids flickered. Her vision blurred.

She felt him press harder into her, excited by her pain.

“Take it off,” she panted. “Take off the mask.”

He shook his head.

“Let me see you.”

“No.”

“Will,” she whispered. Where was Will?

“What?”

She shook her head, blinking, forcing herself to stay lucid. “Oh, Will…”

“It’s not Will,” he said, using his free hand to peel off the ski mask. He threw it on the ground. “It’s Michael. I’m the one who’s doing this to you.”

“Will.”

He twisted her head, forced her to look at him. “Who’s doing this to you, Angie?”

“Will…”

“Look at me,” he repeated, his voice stern. “Look at me, Angie.” His weight shifted, pressing her harder into the dirt. Angie moaned as the broken bones shifted.

“Help…” she whispered, her voice nearly failing her.

“That’s it,” Michael said. “Yell for help.”

“No…” Angie writhed underneath him, whimpering, “Please don’t hurt me…please.”

He dropped the knife and fumbled with the button on his jeans. He was reaching into his pants when she reared straight up and slammed her head into his.

The blow stunned him, and she scooped up the knife in her left hand before he could regain his senses. She was the one straddling him this time. She was the one holding the knife at his throat.

“You stupid cunt,” she slurred, blood and saliva spraying his face. “The glass on the stairs. I cut the rope on the glass.”

He didn’t speak, but she saw it in his eyes.
No
.

Her body shook with rage as she pressed the blade harder against his flesh. Michael didn’t flinch, didn’t struggle; the brutal rapist, the violent murderer, and he’d given up just like that.

How many men, Angie thought. How many men’s faces were seared into her brain, their twisted mouths grinning as they pounded it into her, their big hands pressing into her wrists so hard that the next day she almost hurt more there than she did between her legs?

Even if Jasmine made it out of here alive, she would always have this bastard’s face in her head, always feel his hands on her body every time another man touched her. Even if she loved that man. Even if she wanted that man more than anybody else in the whole world, it would always be Michael’s face she would see when she closed her eyes.

Being raped wasn’t the hard part. Surviving was what killed you.

“Angie!”

There was a loud crash upstairs, splintering. The front door had busted open.

“Angie!” Will yelled. “Where are you!”

She put her face close to Michael’s, making him look into her eyes as she whispered, “Kiss this, you stupid motherfucker,” and jammed the blade up under his ribs.

Michael’s mouth opened just as Angie’s did. She let out a bloodcurdling scream, pulling out the knife and plunging it back in to the hilt, yelling, “Help! I’m down here!” She drew back the blade and slammed it home again and again, screaming until her throat was raw. “Will! We’re down here!”

“Angie!” The cellar door buckled as Will tried to break it down.

“Will!” she pleaded, twisting the blade into Michael’s gut. “Help me!”

Three gunshots splintered the lock off the door. She used the knife like a handle to shift Michael’s weight onto her just as footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Will grabbed Michael from behind and threw him against the wall like a bag of trash.

“Angie!” Will was breathing so hard he almost couldn’t speak. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” He tried to take the knife from her, but her hand would not let go. “Did he hurt you? Baby, please talk to me.”

“Will,” she whispered, wanting to touch his face, wipe away the tears streaming out of his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he told her, gently prying open her fingers so she would let go of the knife. “It’s okay now. I’m here.”

“Will…”

“Your hands,” he said, horrified. “What did he do to your hands?”

Someone else entered the room. She saw a man running down the stairs. John Shelley stopped just before the bottom tread. He looked at Michael, then Jasmine, as if he couldn’t make up his mind what to do.

“Angie.” Will held her in his arms, cradling her. She didn’t stop him even though it hurt all over. “Oh, Angie.”

John went to the girl. He checked her pulse, looked at the wound on her head.

Angie could only watch Michael. She wanted him to see her, wanted the image of her face to haunt him.

His eyes were open. He blinked once, twice. Blood pooled on the floor in front of him like a river flowing out of his body. Pink translucent bubbles sputtered on his lips as his lungs filled. His breath whistled through the holes Angie had made in his chest.

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.