The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle Page 16

  He took another napkin so he’d have something to do with his hands.

  “What changed, John? Was it Mom? You didn’t want to disappoint her? Is that what it is, John? Now that Mom’s gone, you could finally tell the truth?”

  “She wasn’t gone when I said it.”

  “She was wasting away,” Joyce hissed. “She was in that hospital bed wasting away and all she could think about was you. ‘Look after Johnny,’ she kept saying. ‘Don’t let him be alone in there. We’re all he has.’ ”

  John heard himself sob, a bark like a seal that echoed in the restaurant.

  “Tell me, John. Just tell me the truth.” Her voice was quiet. Like their father, she didn’t like to show her feelings. The more upset she got, the lower her tone tended to be.

  “Joyce—”

  She put her hand on his. She had never touched him before, and he could feel her desperation flowing through her fingertips and needling under his skin. “I don’t care anymore,” she said, more like a plea. “I don’t care if you did it, Johnny. I really don’t. I just want to know for myself, for my own sanity. Please—tell me the truth.”

  Her hands were beautiful, so delicate, with such long fingers. Just like Emily’s.

  “John, please.”

  “I love you, Joyce.” He reached into his back pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “Something is going to happen,” he said. “Something bad that I don’t think I can stop.”

  She took her hand away, moved back in her chair. “What are you talking about, John? What have you gotten mixed up in?”

  “Take this,” he said, putting the credit report on top of the Christmas card. “Just take this and know that whatever happens, I love you.”

  John hadn’t brought the Fairlane with him, but he didn’t want Joyce to see him waiting at the bus stop outside the entrance to the mall so he jogged up the street toward Virginia-Highland, catching MARTA there. He didn’t want to go home, couldn’t face his roach-infested hovel or his fellow rapists in the hallway, so he went to the Inman Park station and picked up the Fairlane.

  He didn’t normally follow Woody until the evenings on the weekend. John’s first two weeks of reconnaissance had proven the guy pretty much stayed inside unless his wife made him take out the trash. John had been thinking, though, that maybe Woody was more clever than he seemed. Maybe he had another car somewhere. It wasn’t much of a stretch, considering the post office box and the credit cards. Maybe John Shelley had purchased a car during the last six years.

  This close to Christmas, Woody’s neighborhood was decked out with colorful lights and decorations. Luminaries made of old milk jugs lined the street. Just the week before, John had watched an old lady walking her dog go around and light each one.

  It was a nice neighborhood.

  John tucked his car between an SUV and a station wagon parked in the church lot, glancing at the times on the sign outside to check when the services were over. Woody’s wife always took the kid to church on Sundays, then spent most of the time with a woman who was probably her mother.

  From the church, John walked down a side street that ran parallel to Woody’s house, whistling as if he was just a guy taking a walk. He plotted the distance in his head, cutting across a field until he could see what had to be the back of Woody’s house. There weren’t many trees for cover and John felt exposed. Anybody could come out their back door and see him. He was about to turn around when that very thing happened. A woman came out, standing in the open doorway. John froze because he was right in her line of sight, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was turned toward Woody’s house next door, her hand held up in a salute as she shielded her eyes from the sun.

  John dropped flat to his stomach. The girl’s backyard was overgrown with weeds, but anybody who was looking could have seen him lying there. Thankfully, her eyes were following something more interesting. John saw Woody walk across his yard, hopping over a chain-link fence that had been taken down by a tree. He went right to the girl, not even tossing a look in John’s direction, picked her up and started kissing her.

  John watched as she wrapped her skinny legs around him, their lips locked together as Woody carried her into the house and slammed the door closed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JUNE 15, 1985

  John waited all night for Mary Alice to show at the party, smoking enough pot to make his lungs ache in his chest. Woody kept catching his eye, giving him the thumbs-up like he was cheering him on. John could have kicked himself for telling his cousin that he’d invited a girl to the party. It was bad enough Mary Alice wasn’t here, but looking like an idiot in front of Woody made it a million times worse.

  John had already given up hope when around midnight, she walked through the front door. The first thing he noticed was how out of place she looked in her freshly ironed Jordache jeans and high-collared white shirt. She looked beautiful, but everybody else was dressed in varying degrees of black: filthy jeans, stained heavy metal T-shirts, greasy hair.

  She was about to turn right around and leave when he grabbed her arm.

  “Hey!” She sounded surprised and giddy and wary all rolled into one.

  “You look nice,” he told her, raising his voice over Poison blaring from the stereo.

  “I should go,” she said, but she didn’t make to leave.

  “Come have something to drink.”

  He could see her thinking it out, wondering what he meant by drink, wondering if she should trust him.

  “Woody has soft drinks in the kitchen,” he said, thinking he’d never used the words “soft drink” in his life. “Let’s go.”

  She still hesitated, but when John stepped aside so he could walk behind her to the kitchen, blocking her exit, she finally relented.

  He saw Woody as they passed the stairs. His cousin was leaning against the banister, his pupils blown, a lazy smile on his face. One of the girls from the only black family in the neighborhood was stuck to him like Velcro, her arms wrapped around his neck, leg snaked around his. They kissed long and deep while John watched. She was gorgeous, with creamy dark skin and exotically braided hair. Leave it to Woody to score with the best-looking girl at the party.

  He gave John the thumbs-up again, but this time he wasn’t smiling.

  The kitchen was filled with smoke and Mary Alice coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. In the corner, a couple was making out, and John found himself stopping to stare because the guy had his hand right down the front of the girl’s jeans.

  “Cool party,” another guy said, bumping into John. His drink spilled over John’s hand, and he apologized, passing John the half-full plastic cup as a peace offering. John had already had more than enough alcohol that night, but he took a large gulp from the cup, the liquid burning his throat as it went down.

  When John looked around for Mary Alice, she was already heading out the back door.

  “Hey,” John said, chasing after her.

  She stood by a tall oak, looking up at the stars. Her hair was messed up and she looked nervous. Maybe he could hold her hand. Maybe he could kiss her.

  She laughed for no reason. “I couldn’t breathe in there.”

  “Sorry.”

  She saw the cup in his hand. “Give me that.”

  “I don’t know what’s in it,” he said. “You’d better not.”

  “You’re not my father,” she said, taking the drink from him. She kept her eyes on his as she took a healthy swallow of the dark liquid. “Tastes like Coke and something else.”

  He hoped to God it wasn’t something else. Woody was nineteen years old and all of his buddies were a couple of years older than that. Some of them were into hard drugs, stuff John didn’t even want to know about. There was no telling what was floating around.

  John said, “Sorry about this. I didn’t think it would be that wild here.”

  She took another swig from the cup and gave him a sloppy smile. God, she was so pretty. He had been hating her so long
that he’d forgotten she was gorgeous.

  She lifted the cup again and he stopped her. “You’re going to get sick.” He was actually thinking that even if she puked, he would still kiss her.

  “Are you stoned?”

  “No,” he lied. He was so nervous he would have smoked a goat’s ass if he thought it’d help calm him down.

  She took another swallow and he didn’t try to stop her. “I want to get stoned.”

  He would have been less shocked if she’d said she wanted to fly to the moon. “Mary Alice, come on. Take it easy on that stuff. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

  “It’s good enough for you,” she said, draining the cup. She turned it upside down to show him it was empty. “I want another one.”

  “Let’s just stay out here for a while.”

  “Why?” she asked. She was swaying a little and he reached out to steady her. “I thought you hated me.”

  He could smell her perfume and the hairspray in her hair. Her skin felt hot under his hand. He could hold her, just pull her into his arms and hold her all night. “I don’t hate you.”

  “You say nasty things to me all the time.”

  “I don’t,” he said with such conviction that he almost believed himself.

  She pulled away from him. “My parents think I’m at home.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “Did you get suspended from school?”

  “No.”

  “They should suspend you,” she said. “My dad says you’re a total loser.”

  “Yeah,” he said, wishing she hadn’t finished the drink. “My dad, too.”

  She said, “He moved out of the house tonight.”

  “Your dad?”

  “He just packed his bags and left while I was at the mall. My mom said he was moving in with that woman from work.” She hiccupped softly. “She wouldn’t stop crying.”

  Mary Alice was crying, too, but he was still at a loss as to how to comfort her. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I called him at the number he left,” she told John. “Some girl answered.”

  John’s tongue wouldn’t move in his mouth. What should he say?

  “He said he’d see me on the weekends. He says Mindy will take me shopping.”

  John repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  “Why do you hang around with that jerk?” Mary Alice asked.

  “Who?” John turned around, following her gaze to Woody. His cousin practically fell off the back stairs as he walked toward them. He laughed at his lack of coordination, so John laughed, too.

  “Wet your whistle,” Woody said, handing John another drink.

  John took a sip, trying to pace himself because his head was already swimming.

  “Hey, girlie,” Woody said, leaning against John as he stared at Mary Alice. “What took you so long? I was beginning to think my cousin here made you up.”

  John started to make introductions, but something stopped him. He didn’t like the way Woody was looking at her, the open lust in his eyes. The guy already had Alicia back in the house ready to do whatever he wanted and now he was going after Mary Alice. It wasn’t fair.

  “We were just going,” John said, taking Mary Alice’s hand as if she belonged to him.

  “So soon?” Woody asked, and John realized he was blocking their way. “Come on back inside with your old cousin Wood. I got something for you.”

  “I don’t think so.” John threw the empty cup into the yard. “I should take her home. Her mom will be looking for her.”

  “Just a little hit,” Woody insisted. “Or another, I guess I should say.” He winked at Mary Alice. “Think you can handle a drink, sweetheart? Might help dry those pretty blue eyes of yours.”

  Mary Alice looked odd. She was smiling, almost flirting. “I wasn’t crying.”

  “Sure, babydoll.”

  “Woody,” John began, but Woody put his hand over John’s mouth to stop him, telling Mary Alice, “This one likes to talk too much.”

  She laughed, and John felt his anger spark up. She was laughing with Woody. She was laughing at him.

  Woody asked, “You think you can handle a little drink, little girl?”

  Her lips went into this sexy kind of half-smile. “I can handle it.”

  “Mary Alice,” John said.

  Woody had taken away his hand and wrapped his arm around Mary Alice’s shoulders. He licked his lips as he looked down her shirt, telling John, “Shut up, Cousin.”

  Mary Alice laughed. “Yeah, John, shut up.”

  Woody pulled her closer in and she tilted up her head. He kept his eyes locked on John’s as he pressed his open mouth to Mary Alice’s.

  She started to kiss him back and John felt like somebody had ripped his heart out of his chest. He stood helpless as Woody’s hand went down Mary Alice’s blouse, cupped her breast like groping her was something he did every day. His mouth got wider against Mary Alice’s and she jerked away, coming to her senses a second later than she should have.

  She yelled, “Stop it!” as she tumbled toward John.

  John caught her, holding her up. The button had ripped off her shirt where Woody’s hand had reached inside.

  “You’re disgusting,” she told Woody, clasping the blouse closed, tears springing into her eyes.

  Woody was smiling. “Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.”

  “I can’t believe you,” she cried. “Your tongue is disgusting.”

  His smile became more sinister. “Watch it now.”

  She curled in closer to John, crying, “Please, take me home.”

  John started to lead her away, his eyes on Woody, not liking the way his cousin was staring at them.

  “Get back here,” Woody ordered, reaching out for her again.

  “Leave her alone!” John yelled, fists clenched. Woody had about a hundred pounds on him but John firmly believed he could and would kick his ass if he so much as touched another hair on Mary Alice’s head.

  “Whoa.” Woody held up his hands, taking a step back. “Didn’t know you’d already claimed her, little man. Go on. Take her home to her mommy.”

  “Stay away from her,” John warned. “I mean it.”

  “No hard feelings,” Woody said, but he was still leering at Mary Alice like a lion who had been denied its prey. “Best man wins.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Here,” Woody said, digging into his front pocket. “Parting gift.” He tossed a bag of powder to John. “No hard feelings, right, Cousin?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FEBRUARY 6, 2006

  John had found out about the news story by accident. He had been vacuuming out the cargo space of a mud-splattered Subaru Forrester. He picked up a stack of newspapers to throw in the trash and the whole pile fell from his hand like playing cards scattered on a table. He bent down to gather up the pages and saw two words he had never noticed before: Local Edition.

  The Subaru’s owner was from Clayton County, but John knew if there was a special insert for one town, there had to be one for the others.

  He had told Art he was having stomach problems so he could leave work early and headed straight downtown to the main branch of the Fulton County Public Library. The newspaper’s online archive required a credit card for access, so instead he requested microfiche of the Gwinnett County local editions going back the last three months. Two hours later, he’d found what he was looking for. The story was dated December 4,2005.

  SNELLVILLE GIRL ABDUCTED

  FROM LOCAL NEIGHBORHOOD.

  There weren’t many details. No name was mentioned, just the age—fourteen—and that she had been walking from her home to visit an aunt down the street. Obviously, the family wasn’t talking to the press and there was no mention of suspects or leads the police were following. John scanned the next few weeks and found only one more story. This one added the detail that the girl had been found hiding in a ditch the next day.

  John’s heart had been in his throat from t
he moment he’d found the article. Slowly, he put the pieces of the puzzle together. Ben’s game of what-if kept coming back to mind. What if Woody had been using John’s identity to cover his tracks for the last six years? What if Woody had assumed John would never get out of prison? What if Woody found out John was walking among the free and had decided to do something about it?

  The car behind beeped its horn and John sped up, taking the first side street he came to and pulling up behind a parked cable truck. His heart was pounding so hard that he felt dizzy. Vomit swirled in the back of his throat, threatening to come up in a hot rush of panic and fear.

  He put his head on the steering wheel, playing out the night before. Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday. The fucking Falcons were playing that night and John didn’t want to watch it on TV, didn’t want to hear the game on the radio. He wanted to see what Woody was doing, wanted to watch him like he could stop what had happened from happening again. And again.

  The wife had gone to work and Woody had waited thirty minutes before heading out. He had taken his usual route into Atlanta, but this time he’d turned into Grady Homes. John had followed him, so tense he’d forgotten to keep back, a couple of times thinking for sure Woody had seen him, that he’d been caught.

  A white guy driving a dark blue Ford Fairlane through the projects on a late Sunday afternoon was too conspicuous, but John had followed him in anyway. When Woody had stopped in front of a row of hookers, John had driven past him, thinking he’d be better served keeping an eye on his cousin in the rearview mirror. Nothing ever worked out as planned, though, and when Woody drove with the hooker to the back of the complex, John got out of his car and followed on foot.

  Now, John broke into a cold sweat when he thought about what had happened next, what he had seen. He could still hear it, those piercing screams, the primal fight for life.

  John got out of the car, nodding to the guy in the cable truck. Casual. Cool. He belonged here.

  He tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked down Woody’s tree-lined street, trying to convey the image that he was just a normal guy going for a stroll, even though having his hands in his pockets made him uncomfortable; they didn’t allow pockets in prison.