by J. D. Barker
Cheap suit
Fedora
.75 in change (two quarters, two dimes, and a nickel)
Pocket watch
Dry cleaner receipt (ticket 54873)—Kloz is narrowing down stores
Dying of stomach cancer—meds: octreotide, trastuzumab, oxycodone, lorazepam
Tattoo, right inner wrist, fresh—figure eight, infinity?
Info needed:
Was Emory enrolled in school? If yes, where?
Emory and Tyler relationship
Facial reconstruction
Assignments:
Clair—A. Montgomery Ward Park, check cancer centers
Nash and Porter go to see Tyler
Kloz, research the dry cleaner ticket, get security camera footage—can we see his face?
Watson, visit uncle regarding the watch. Background on Emory’s mother
* * *
19
Diary
Father arrived home from work promptly at 5:43 p.m. His black Porsche crawled up the driveway like a jungle cat hunting its evening prey, the engine purring with excitement. He hopped out of the driver’s seat and set his briefcase on top of the car. “Whatcha doing, champ?”
The top must have been down at some point, because his hair was askew. Father’s well-groomed pompadour was never askew. He ran his hand through his thick mane, and all was right again.
I glanced nervously at our house. Hours had passed, but Mr. Carter had not come out. Mrs. Carter had vanished too, though for that I was grateful. Crying on one’s front porch is unbecoming a lady, even one as pretty as Mrs. Carter.
“I’m hungry,” Father said. “Are you hungry? I bet your mother has quite a feast waiting for us inside. What do you say we head in and get something to eat? How would that be?”
He mussed my hair with one of his burly hands. I tried to shake him off, and he did it again, this time adding a little chuckle. “Come on, champ.” With one hand grabbing his briefcase and the other on my shoulder, he steered me toward the house.
My stomach twisted and I thought I might toss my cookies, but the feeling passed. I tried to walk slowly, to slow him down, but my efforts did little good. He tugged me along.
We walked up the back steps and pushed through the door into the kitchen. I felt eyes on my back. I turned for a moment and saw Mrs. Carter standing at a window, watching us. She held something against the side of her face. It looked like a bag of frozen peas.
Mother stood at the kitchen sink, drying dishes. As we entered, she smiled warmly and gave Father a little peck on the cheek. “How was your day, sweetie?”
Father returned the kiss and set his briefcase on the counter. “Oh, same old . . . something smells wonderful. What is that?” He took in a deep breath and walked over to the large pot on the stove.
Mother wrapped her arm around him. “Why, I made beef stew, your favorite! What else would it be?”
My eyes darted wildly. First the kitchen, then the living room, the hallway. The doors to both bedrooms and the bath stood open. There was no sign of Mr. Carter. I knew he hadn’t left. I was certain of this. He would have had to pass me. He would have—
“Well, it smells delicious,” Father crooned. “Why don’t you set the table, champ? I’m going to pour myself a little something nice on the rocks.”
Mother grinned at me. “Soup bowls and dinnerware, dear. Maybe those pretty red ones?”
I imagine my eyes were saucers, but Mother didn’t seem to notice. She started to whistle, donned oven mitts, and carried the stew pot over to the dining table.
I stood frozen for a moment, my gaze fixed on her, then I went to the silverware drawer and pulled out three soup spoons. Although I had grown tremendously over the past year, I still couldn’t reach the cabinet that housed the bowls. We kept a small stepladder in the kitchen for such moments. I climbed up, retrieved three, and proceeded to set the table.
Father returned with his drink and took a seat, tucking a napkin into his shirt. “So, what did you do today, buddy?” he asked me.
I glanced back at Mother. She was busy slicing a loaf of bread.
Mr. Carter wasn’t in the kitchen, the bedrooms, or the living room. Father would have seen him. He hadn’t left. I knew he hadn’t.
“Just hung around. Not much,” I replied.
Mother set the bread on the table and sat. She scooped a ladleful of stew and filled my bowl to the brim. “Large helpings all around!” She beamed.
I stared at the stew.
Father grinned at Mother. “What about you? How was your day?”
Mother filled his bowl with a portion equal to mine. “Oh, things were fairly quiet around here. Not much worth mentioning.”
I stared at the stew.
Mr. Carter was nowhere to be seen.
She wouldn’t . . . she couldn’t. Right?
As I reached for my spoon, my stomach lurched. I felt as if I were about to vomit the mother of all vomits. I tried not to breathe in the beefy aroma drifting up from my bowl, the spices and scents. The stew actually did smell wonderful, and that thought made the vomit climb a little closer to the exit door.
I watched Father take a heaping spoonful and shove it into his mouth, chewing with delight. Mother watched us both as she also ate a spoonful, much more delicately than Father. I watched her smile, then dab at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Do you like it?” she asked. “I tried a new recipe.”
I was aghast.
Father nodded happily. “This may be the best beef stew you have ever created. You are a culinary wizard, my dear.”
“May I be excused?” I said, my gut twisting.
Mother and Father both turned to me as they chewed poor Mr.—
A loud moan came from the basement.
Father and I both turned toward the sound. Mother did not. She continued eating, her eyes fixed on her bowl.
“What was—”
Then it came again, unmistakable this time—a man moaning downstairs.
Father stood. “It came from the basement.”
“You should finish your dinner, sweetie,” Mother said.
Father walked slowly toward the door leading downstairs. “What’s going on? Who is that?”
“Your stew will get cold. Nobody likes cold stew.”
I got up and stood behind Father as he reached for the doorknob and twisted the worn brass.
I didn’t like to go down into the basement. The stairs were steep and creaked under the slightest weight. The walls were damp and grimy. The ceiling harbored more spiders than the forest behind our house. There was only a single fixture: a bare bulb hanging at the center of the room. I always feared it would go out while I was down there. If it did, there would be no escape. I’d be trapped down there forever, the spiders descending on me one by one by one.
Monsters lived in the basement.
Father opened the door and flicked on the light switch. The bulb came to life with a yellowish glow at the base of the long staircase.
Another moan. This one louder, more urgent.
“Stay here, champ.”
I wrapped my arms around him and shook my head. “Don’t go down there, Father.”
He pulled my arms off. “Stay up here with your mother.”
Mother was still sitting at the dining table, humming a little ditty to herself. I think it was a Ritchie Valens song.
Father started down the steps. He was halfway down before I decided to go after him.
20
Clair
Day 1 • 1:17 p.m.
Clair stood beside a large stainless steel sculpture in A. Montgomery Ward Park. According to the plaque, it was called COMMEMORATIVE GROUND RING. She had seen it a number of times from a distance as she drove across Erie, but now, standing so close, she had to admit she had no fucking idea what the pile of metal was supposed to be. To Clair, it looked like Godzilla had eaten the inventory of a stainless steel appliance shop before taking a shit in the middle of this pristine park.
&
nbsp; Clair shielded her eyes from the sun and surveyed her surroundings.
The park wasn’t large, but Clair understood the appeal, particularly for a runner like Emory. A trail followed the perimeter, skirting along the river’s edge on the west side. She spotted a playground to her left and a large fenced-in area to her right. Inside, at least ten dogs ran around with their owners chasing balls, Frisbees, and the occasional small child.
She counted twelve people in with the dogs. At the other end of the park, six adults were positioned around the playground in various states of child monitoring. Clair flipped a mental quarter, decided it landed on heads, and started toward the swing sets.
As she approached, the various mothers and two men eyed her warily.
“Hello, there!” she said in her most disarming tone. Not disarming enough—the two men forced smiles while nervously glancing around the group. Three of the mothers took their children by the hand. One even positioned her daughter behind her. You clearly needed a kid to get invited to this party—strange adults wandering the park alone were not welcome. Clair was beginning to reconsider her decision. These people seemed as if they might bite far worse than the dogs at the other end of the park. She held up her ID. “My name is Detective Norton; I’m with Chicago Metro. I’m going to need your cooperation.”
Behind her, three patrol cars and a CSI van screeched to a halt, lights flashing but no sirens. A dozen officers piled out of them. The back of the van opened up, and three techs joined the group.
A woman dressed in black slacks and a gray sweater pulled her daughter from a swing and walked over. “What’s going on?”
Clair knew if she mentioned 4MK, this group would grab their children and disappear into the bustling afternoon streets before she’d get the chance to ask a single question. Vague is not lying, she told herself. I can be vague. “We believe a girl disappeared from this park yesterday. If you can give us a few minutes, we’d like to ask you some questions.”
A heartbeat ticked by, and they all started speaking at once—first to one another, then at her. She couldn’t make out a single word. Three of the children started crying for no reason other than to be heard over the adults. Clair raised her hands above her head. “I need everyone to be quiet, please!” A fourth child started to scream. At the other side of the park a dog barked, followed by another and two more after that. Within moments, they had joined the voices in an earsplitting mess of noise. “Enough!” she shouted in a tone she typically reserved for boyfriends just before she ended the relationship and sent them on their merry way.
The adults fell silent, with the children quickly following suit. All but one little chubby boy who stood near the teeter-totter. He continued to cry in big lumbering sobs, his face bright red and covered in a mix of snot and tears.
Gray Sweater Woman picked up her daughter and bounced her gently in her arms. “Did someone take her from here? We do our best to keep an eye on the kids, as a group. This is a nice neighborhood, but you never know who you’re dealing with anymore; so many crazies out there.” She paused for a second, then her mouth went wide. “Oh God, did somebody take the Andersons’ little girl? I haven’t seen Julie and her mother at all today. She’s such a sweet baby. I hope nothing—”
Clair raised her hand. “It’s not a child.”
Hushed murmurs of relief swept the crowd. Gray Sweater gave the others an I got this look and turned back to Clair. “Who, then?” Apparently she was Queen of the Mothers, because the group yielded to her. Even the crying of the children began to peter out.
Clair loaded the photo she had received from Kloz onto her phone’s screen and held it out to the woman. “Her name is Emory Connors. She’s fifteen years old. We believe she came to the park last night around six for a run and was abducted. Do you recognize her?”
The woman reached for the phone. “May I?”
Clair nodded and handed it to her.
Her forehead crinkled as she squinted at the display. Her eyes narrowed and she turned back to the crowd. “Martin?”
The two men were standing at the back of the crowd. The one on the right, wearing khaki pants and a light-blue dress shirt, pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose and walked over. The woman handed him the phone. “That’s her, right?”
He bobbed his head. “God, I told you something was wrong. We should have called the police.”
Clair retrieved her phone and clipped it to her belt, then pulled a small notepad and pen from her back pocket. “Martin? What’s your last name, Martin?”
“Ortner. Martin R. Ortner.” He began to spell it, but she waved him off.
“And you?” she asked, returning her gaze to the woman.
“Tina Delaine,” she said. “Most of us are here a few times a week. This time of year, though, I try to get out daily. You know, while it’s still warm. Better for these kids to burn off the energy here than at home.”
Clair took inventory of the children. Aside from the few clinging to their parents, they were huddled around the swing set. All but Teeter-Totter Boy, who was busy wiping the snot from his face with his sweater. Where were his parents? She turned back to Tina Delaine. “What did you see?”
Tina took the lead. “She runs here almost every day. Yesterday, when she circled that back corner, I lost her in the trees. She usually pops out the other side a few seconds later, but she didn’t. I told Martin, and we decided to check on her. We got about halfway there and this guy came out of the trees, cradling her in his arms. He said he saw her twist her ankle and fall, banging her head on the way down. He said he knew her and he’d take her to the hospital, said that would be faster than calling an ambulance. Before either of us could respond, he rushed away, loaded her into the passenger seat of his car, and took off.”
“And you didn’t call the police?” Clair asked, frowning.
“He said he knew her,” Martin replied, his voice soft.
“What kind of car was he driving?”
Tina pursed her lips. “A white Toyota.”
Martin shook his head. “His car wasn’t white. It was beige.”
“No, he had a white Toyota. I’m sure of it.”
“It definitely wasn’t white. It was beige, or possibly silver. He wasn’t driving a Toyota, though. I think it was a Ford, a Focus or a Fiesta.”
“Where was he parked?”
Martin pointed to a small row of parking spaces at the end of Erie. “Right over there, under that lamppost.”
Clair glanced over; she didn’t see any security cameras. “Okay, all of you stay here for a minute. I’ll send one of the officers back to take your statements.”
“Will we get to do one of those things with a sketch artist?” Tina asked. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”
“How about a lineup?” Martin chimed in.
“Please, just wait here,” Clair told them, before turning and stomping toward the group of officers.
Lieutenant Belkin recognized her and waved her over. “I’ve got officers canvassing up and down Erie and Kingsbury. What’s the story here?”
Clair tilted her head back toward the mother brigade. “Those two standing out in front said they’ve seen her running in the park regularly. Yesterday she followed the path back behind those trees, disappeared for far too long, and then some guy carried her out. She may have been unconscious. He told them she fell and sustained a head injury, and he was taking her to the hospital. Told them he knew her.”
Belkin pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his thinning blond hair. “Christ, so he snatched her like that? Did they get a good look at him?”
“They saw him load her into a white, beige, or possibly silver Toyota or Ford,” Clair said. “If their recall is that bad on the vehicle, good luck getting a physical description. I only talked to the two out in front. We need to speak to all those people over at the dog park too. Get someone over there to make sure nobody tries to sneak out of here.”
He pointed to two of the officers
huddled in front of the CSI van and issued instructions to his team.
Clair nodded a thanks to him, then turned away to call Porter and fill him in. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
21
Diary
Father was nearly downstairs before I mustered the courage to follow him. He frowned, his eyes first telling me to retreat to the kitchen, then rolling as he realized I would do no such thing.
As Father reached the bottom of the staircase, there was another moan—this one more urgent than the others. Father froze at the base of the steps, staring at something in the far corner of the basement. “Oh my. Mother? What have you done?”
Upstairs, Mother now sang rather than hummed, dishes clattering. Was she getting a second helping of stew? She did not respond to Father, although I was sure she had heard him as clearly as I heard her.
I came down the last of the steps and followed Father’s gaze to the pile of a man huddled in the corner. He was handcuffed to a thick water pipe. A cloth stuck out of the corners of his mouth from under two long pieces of duct tape, which wrapped all the way around his head.
His hair will come out with those when they’re finally pulled off, I thought. Yanked from his scalp, roots and all.
Mr. Carter’s eyes were pleading. His white dress shirt had been torn open, the buttons no doubt lost among the dust bunnies and dirt littering the floor. His chest was riddled with long cuts, some starting as high as his shoulder and stretching all the way to his belly button. One appeared to go much lower, and I tried not to think about that one. It hurt to think about that one.
His tattered shirt and pants were dark with blood. It pooled under him so thick, the sweet scent of copper hung in the air. Both eyes were bruised, well on their way to black, and his nose was surely broken.