Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,94

are some kind of trooper,” Art had told him. The man had looked at John’s ashen face, seen the vomit on his shirt and shoved a fifty in his hand. Fifty dollars for less than two hours’ work. John would have jumped back into his own vomit if Art had offered to double it.

The fresh air felt good as he walked back to his room at the flophouse. There was always a smell on the street, no matter the weather or the time of day. John had come to associate the odor with poverty. His lungs were probably absorbing it, carcinogens clinging to the insides like the hair clinging to a vacuum tank.

“Hey, cowboy.”

John looked up to find Martha Lam sitting on the front stoop of the house. She was in head-to-toe black leather and her makeup was heavier than usual. He wanted to ask the parole officer something flip, like if a date had stood her up, but he said instead, “Hello, Ms. Lam.”

She stood, holding her arms out at her sides as she did a little turn. “I’m all dressed up for your random inspection.”

He didn’t know what to say. “You look nice,” seemed forward, something that might be construed as flirting.

He settled on, “Yes, ma’am,” opening the door and standing aside so she could go in first.

“Got Mr. George back in Bosticks this morning,” she told him.

“Who?”

“Your buddy from upstairs.”

John didn’t know who she was talking about. Then he did. “He’s not my buddy,” he told her, and she gave him a look that said he had better check his tone. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s been a long day. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“That’s why they call them random.”

There were thirteen stairs up to his floor, and John felt like he had to practically drag himself up each one. The truth was that he hadn’t really slept since he had followed Michael to Grady Homes two days ago and found out what his cousin was doing. The black woman’s terrified screams still echoed in his head. John was reminded of his own screams when Zebra started going at him that first night at Coastal. They were almost exactly the same.

John unlocked the dead bolt and pushed open his door. The first thing he noticed was that the window was cracked open about six inches, the construction-paper shade ripped at the bottom. The other thing he noticed was the smell. It took him a couple of seconds to realize the odor was coming off of his own body. It was fear.

“You’ve changed the place around.” Ms. Lam looped her purse around the doorknob so she could free her hands. “Like what you’ve done with it.” She started going through his clothes, but John could only stare at his bed, the way it had been angled out from the corner instead of left flat against the wall like he always had it.

Whoever had broken in wanted John to know he’d been here.

Ms. Lam was lifting up the cooler, checking inside. She said, “Your urine test came back okay.”

John could not answer. The photograph of his mother was altered. Someone had ripped it down the center, taken John out of the picture.

“John?”

His head snapped around to look at her.

“It was clean,” she said, then pointed to the bed. “Want to lift that for me?”

He leaned down to lift his mattress. His fingertips made contact with something solid, something cold.

John froze, one hand under the mattress, the other on top.

“John?” Ms. Lam asked. She clapped her hands together to spur him on. “Let’s go, sweetheart. I don’t have all night.”

Saliva fell out of his open mouth. His chest constricted. He started to shake.

“John?” Ms. Lam was beside him, her hand on his back. “Come on, cowboy. What’s going on?”

“S-s-sick,” he stuttered, tremors wracking his body. He felt his bowels loosen and was terrified they would let go.

“Let’s just sit you down,” she soothed, guiding him to sit down on the bed. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “You feel real clammy. You’re not getting sick on me, are you, boy?”

“I’m…” John couldn’t form a sentence. “I’m…” He looked at the open window, the six inches of space.

“You want some water?”

He nodded, quick up and down jerks of his head.

“I’ve got some bottled water in my purse.”

She turned her back to him to get her purse off the door and in one desperate motion he pulled the knife out from under the mattress and tossed