Karin Slaughter - Triptych

“He’s retarded,” Michael told her, cutting the powder into four lines. He took a rolled dollar bill out of the tin and inhaled one of the lines. He made an “ahh” sound, then told Angie, “This is some good shit. You sure you don’t want some?”

She shook her head again.

“Don’t like being out of control? That’s what you said at Ken’s party when I handed you that drink.” He chuckled. “You drank it anyway, didn’t you? Could have put it down, but you gulped it like a damn fish.” He held out the mirror, offering, “Sure?”

“You broke my nose.”

“Your loss.” He put the mirror back on the table.

“Just let me go.” She was trembling so hard she could barely speak. “I won’t tell anybody.”

“You can’t honestly think you’re getting out of here.”

“Where’s Jasmine?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He leaned his head back on the couch, studying her. “Don’t you want to know about John?”

“What about him?”

“Half that prison plowed John’s ass. I bet he has AIDS.”

Angie took deep breaths, coughed from the effort. Her wrist was throbbing with every heartbeat. The rope was tightening around her skin as it dried in the heat of the cabin.

“So, Tim, right?” He let out a short breath. “We got the diagnosis six years ago.”

Angie tested the ropes around her wrists, gently pulling to see if there was any give. “That must have been… hard.”

“It’s always about money, isn’t it?” He indicated the mirror on the table, the lines of coke. “That’s how I paid for it. Give the girls a little bump, let them help pay for my boy to learn how to tie his fucking shoes. State insurance won’t cover half the shit he needs. What am I going to do, let my child waste away in some home?”

Angie didn’t answer. Her mind processed his words, tried to make sense of them. Had Michael been selling dope to the girls, taking it in trade when he felt like it? He had been in Vice for at least ten years. His son couldn’t be more than eight. Tim had nothing to do with it.

“Then I had all that cash and nowhere to park it. Can’t put it in my account because Uncle Sam might get curious. Can’t leave it lying around because Gina might ask questions.” He pointed his finger at Angie. “Then, I figured, why not open up some accounts for my good old cousin Johnny? I already had his social security number from all that court shit my mom had lying around.”

Cousin. Angie didn’t know if Michael meant they were related or he was just using slang.

Michael said, “Wasn’t like I had to worry about him getting out.”

She felt her eyes wanting to close and fought to stay awake.

“Where are your questions, Angie?” The coke had made him more alert, talkative. “Come on, girlie. Ask your questions.”

Angie’s mind reeled. She couldn’t think of anything but, “You knew Aleesha Monroe.”

“Yeah, we go way back.”

Angie waited for him to figure out that she had lied before, but he was too wrapped up in his own story to take apart hers.

He said, “First day in uniform, I got a call to the Homes-got stuck in the freaking elevator. All the old-timers were busting a gut by the time they got me out, and there was Leesha, laughing right along with them.

At least, she was laughing until she recognized me.“ He wagged his finger. ”Nobody laughs at Michael Ormewood, Angie. Nobody laughs at him, and sure as shit nobody pushes him away.“

Angie felt a trickle of blood sliding down the back of her throat. She gagged at the taste of it.

Michael said, “She was a whore in high school and she was a whore fifteen years later. Bitch would suck off a dog for the swill in a spoon.” He was smiling again, that smile that said he was in charge. “What they don’t realize is you have to control it. Take it when you want it, not when you need it.” He meant the coke. “Don’t smoke it, don’t shoot it, don’t get too greedy.”

Michael was stupider than she thought if he believed he could control an addiction. She asked, “Why did you kill Aleesha?”

“She pissed me off. Tried to change the rules.”

“You didn’t want to pay her.” Angie had been around enough prostitutes to know the score. “Did Jasmine piss you off, too?”

“Jasmine…” He smiled. “I wonder what your boyfriend would think if he found out I stashed her up in Aleesha’s place while I drove him back to the station?” He watched her closely, seemed to be feeding off her reaction. “Remember when we were going over my reports? You were wearing that tight skirt up to your slit, flashing your tits every time you leaned over? She was in my trunk the whole time, Angie. The whole time you were rubbing up against me, she was in the trunk of my car, pissing herself thinking about what was going to happen.”

Angie parted her lips, let some of the blood drip out. One of her back teeth was throbbing. It was probably broken.

He had stopped speaking, and she wondered if the coke was starting to wear off. She couldn’t tell how much time had passed since he’d snorted the line. Maybe he was one of those people who had the opposite reaction to the stimulant. Maybe he was so in control of himself that it didn’t matter.

He was silent for so long that Angie felt her eyes closing, felt her body relax into some kind of sleep. Michael started talking again and she jerked awake.

“They all act like they’re so fucking good, but all it ever takes is one hit, one snort, and they’re hooked. They keep coming back, begging at your feet. All of them. Especially John.”

Angie had to clear her throat a few times before she could talk. “Is that why you framed him?”

“That was Mom’s idea, but he got what he deserved. They all got what they deserved.” He glanced down at her. “Just like you.”

Angie felt her eyes wanting to shut again, her muscles start to loosen. She fought it off, biting her split lip until she tasted more blood, using the pain to keep her alive.

“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.