Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,82

flophouse, he had cut at the soles with a kitchen knife, altering the waffle pattern. Not trusting his luck, he had then gotten on the bus, paying cash so his Trans Card wouldn’t track him, and ridden to Cobb Parkway all the way up in Marietta. There he had walked around for an hour, dragging his feet on the hot asphalt, scoring the soles some more.

At the Target, he’d bought a new pair of sneakers—twenty-six dollars he could ill-afford—then tossed his old shoes into a Dumpster behind a shady-looking Chinese restaurant. His stomach had rumbled at the smells coming from the kitchen. Twenty-six dollars. He could have bought a nice meal, had a waitress bring him food, keep his glass filled with iced tea, talked to her about the crazy weather.

All the tea in the world wasn’t worth going back to prison.

God, he was in such a fucking mess. He shuddered, thinking how that girl’s tongue had felt when he’d pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Even through the latex glove, he could feel the texture of the thing, the warmness to it from being in her mouth. John put his hand to his own mouth, trying not to vomit. She’d been an innocent, just a little girl who had been too curious, too easily swayed.

John’s only consolation was the thought of Michael Ormewood’s face when he went into his garage in search of the porn he kept in the bottom of his toolbox and found his trusty knife sitting beside his teenage victim’s tongue.

“Shelley!” Art yelled. John bolted up. He had been kneeling beside a sedan, rubbing bug guts off the front bumper.

“Sir?”

“Visitor.” Art jerked his head toward the back of the building. “Make sure you’re off the clock.”

John stood frozen in place. A visitor. No one visited him. He didn’t know anybody.

“Yo, yo,” Ray-Ray mumbled. They had worked out an uneasy peace since the hooker incident.

“Yeah?”

“It’s a girl.” Not a cop, was what he meant.

A girl, John thought, his mind reeling. The only girl he knew was Robin.

He told Ray-Ray, “Thanks, man,” tucking in his shirt as he headed to the back of the car wash. As John punched out, he caught his reflection in the mirror over the clock. Despite the chill in the air, sweat had plastered his hair to his head. Jesus, he probably smelled, too.

John ran his fingers through his hair as he opened the back door. His first thought was that the girl who stood there wasn’t Robin, then that the girl wasn’t really a girl. It was a woman. It was Joyce.

He felt more nervous than if it had actually been the prostitute come to see him, and ashamed by the cheap clothes he was wearing. Joyce was in a nice suit jacket with matching slacks that she sure as shit hadn’t bought at a discount store. The sun was picking out auburn highlights in her hair and he wondered if it was streaked or something she’d always had. He remembered the way Joyce’s face used to twist up when she got angry with him, the smile on her mouth when she gave him an Indian burn and the sneer she’d give when she slapped him for pulling one of her braids. He didn’t, however, remember the color of her hair when they were children.

She greeted him with a demand. “What are you mixed up in, John?”

“When did you start back smoking?”

She took a long drag on the cigarette in her hand and tossed it to the ground. He watched her press the toe of her shoe into it, grinding the butt, probably wishing she was grinding his head in its place.

She let out a stream of smoke. “Answer my question.”

He looked back over his shoulder, though he knew they were alone. “You shouldn’t be here, Joyce.”

“Why won’t you answer my question?”

“Because I don’t want you involved.”

“You don’t want me involved?” she repeated, incredulous. “My life is involved, John. Whether I like it or not, you are my brother.”

He could feel her anger like a heat radiating from her body. Part of him wished she would just haul off and hit him, beat him to a bloody pulp until her fists were broken and her rage was spent.

She said, “How can you have credit cards when you’re in prison?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it allowed?”

“I…” He hadn’t even considered the question, though it was a good one. “I suppose. You can’t have cash, but…” He tried to think it through. You could get