by J. D. Barker
Father stared down at him. “This is not how we treat our neighbors. He appears to be in quite a pickle.”
I tried to respond, but my dry throat only let out a weak grunt.
Mr. Carter glared at both of us, thin whimpers behind the gag. Tears stained his cheeks and the collar of his shirt.
Mother rumbled down the stairs behind us. She glowered at Mr. Carter with a contempt and heat that broiled through the room. “That, that . . . man, and I use that term in the loosest possible sense, beat his beautiful wife earlier today, then thought it proper to come over here and wave his man-bits about while telling me how he would give me what he felt I had coming. Well, I didn’t believe I had anything coming, and I wasn’t about to stand for the treatment he bestowed on poor little Lisa. God knows she would never do anything to hurt anyone, not even this sorry excuse.”
Father pondered this for a moment. “So you beat him and chained him up in our basement?”
“Oh, I didn’t beat him. I pushed him down the stairs, chained him to the water pipe, then went to work trying to slice the evil out of him. It was messy work, and even after three hours I’m afraid I only made a dent in it. I worked up such an appetite, though. I figured I would continue after we ate dinner, a dinner that is getting cold as we speak.”
Father nodded slowly. Then he walked over to Mr. Carter and knelt at his side. “Is this true, Simon? Did you beat your wife? Did you come here, to my house, and threaten the woman I love? The mother of that beautiful little boy over there? Did you do these things, Simon?”
Mr. Carter shook his head violently, his eyes jumping from Father to Mother and back again.
Mother pulled a long knife out from behind her back and charged at the man. “Liar!” she screamed. She plunged the knife into the fat of the man’s abdomen, and he cried out from behind the gag. His face first flushed, then went pale, and she pulled the knife back out.
Surprisingly little blood flowed from the wound. I found it fascinating how I could now see past his pale flesh to the yellow fat and dark muscle beneath. The cut opened and closed with each breath as if drawing in air on its own. I took a step closer to get a better look.
Mother raised the knife again.
If Father wished to stop her, I had no doubt that he could. He didn’t, though. He watched her calmly from where he crouched beside Mr. Carter.
Mother brought the knife down into the man’s thigh with such force, the tip clunked as it passed through his leg and struck the concrete floor. He let out another shriek, then began to cry again. I found this to be a little funny. Grown men should never cry. Father told me so.
Mother twisted the knife nearly a full turn, then yanked the blade back out. This time there was blood, a lot of blood. A fresh pool began to form under his twitching leg.
I couldn’t help but smile. I didn’t like Mr. Carter. I didn’t like him one bit. And after what he did to Mrs. Carter? It was nice to see him get what he deserved. Women are to be respected and cherished, always. He would learn.
22
Porter
Day 1 • 1:38 p.m.
Whatney Vale High School was a squat three-story steel and glass building located just north of the University of Illinois at Chicago. Typically ranked in the top five high schools in Illinois, Whatney was one of the most sought-after schools in the city. A school security guard led Porter and Nash through the hallways to the main office and told them to wait there while he located the principal. Less than a minute passed before a short, bald man stepped inside. He was fidgeting with an iPad. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Principal Kolby. What can I do for you?”
Porter shook the man’s hand and showed his badge. “We need to speak with one of your students, Tyler Mathers. Is he in class today?”
Kolby glanced nervously at the two women standing behind the main counter. They were watching the men intently. Three glaring students occupied a group of chairs along the wall.
“Why don’t we step into my office?” He smiled, gesturing to a small room on the left.
After entering and taking a seat behind his desk, Kolby asked, “Tyler? Is he in trouble?”
Porter and Nash settled into the two chairs facing the principal. They were small and low to the ground, uncomfortable. Porter instantly felt as if he were in trouble, transported back to his own youth. His palms were sweaty. Although shorter by at least four inches, Principal Kolby looked down at him from his large leather seat. His gaze had an authoritative edge to it that made Porter feel like he was five minutes from detention. He shook it off and leaned forward. “Not at all. We just need to speak to him about his girlfriend.”
Kolby frowned. “Girlfriend? I wasn’t aware he had one.”
Nash loaded an image on his cell phone and slid it across the desk. “Her name is Emory Connors. Is she a student here?”
Kolby picked up the phone and studied it for a moment before keying the name into his computer and reviewing the results. “She is not.” He returned the phone to Nash, then pressed a button on his desk. “Ms. Caldwell? Can you locate Tyler Mathers and ask him to report to my office?”
“Yes, sir,” a disembodied voice replied.
Porter glanced over at Nash. He was never this quiet. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, and he didn’t make eye contact with the principal. Porter could only guess at the kind of trouble his partner created during his time as a student; he must have been a common fixture in the principal’s office. Kolby picked up on it too, but rather than saying anything he only smiled smugly and tapped away at his iPad. “Looks like he’s in calculus, on the third floor. It should only be a few minutes. Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?”
Porter shook his head.
“No, sir,” Nash replied. “No, thank you.”
Five minutes later there was a knock at the door and a boy of about sixteen stepped inside. He eyed the two detectives, then nodded at Kolby. “You asked for me, sir?”
Kolby stood. “Come on in, Tyler. Close the door behind you. These two gentlemen are with Chicago Metro. They would like to speak to you for a moment.”
Tyler’s eyes went wide. No doubt his brain was quickly sorting through everything he had done recently, trying to find the one event that would bring the police calling.
Porter put on his most reassuring smile. “Relax, son—you haven’t done anything. We just need to talk to you about Emory.”
He appeared puzzled. “Em? Is she okay?”
Porter turned back to Kolby. “Would you be kind enough to give us a few minutes to speak with Mr. Mathers?”
Kolby shook his head. “I’m sorry, but he is a minor. I’m afraid without a parent present, I’ll need to remain in the room.”
“Fair enough,” Porter replied. He rose out of the tiny chair and sat on the edge of the desk, blocking Kolby’s view of the student. Nash did the same. Behind them, Kolby cleared his throat but said nothing.
“When was the last time you saw Emory?”
Tyler shuffled his feet. “Saturday, I guess. We caught a movie and ate dinner downtown. Is she okay? You’re making me nervous.”
Porter glanced at Nash. “We believe she’s been kidnapped.”
The boy’s face went white. “Who would . . . why?”
“We believe she was taken from A. Montgomery Ward Park while jogging yesterday. It’s about a mile—”
Tyler nodded. “I know where it is. She runs there all the time. God, I told her not to go alone, but she never listens to me.” His eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them on his sleeve. “She’s such a pretty girl, and she wears these little jogging outfits. I’m always telling her it isn’t safe. This city is full of crazies, you know? Oh, God. I’ve been texting her nonstop and she hasn’t replied. That’s not like her. I usually hear back after a minute or two at the most. But she’s been quiet since yesterday. I planned to go over to her place right after school gets out.”
“Where does she go to school?”
“She doesn’t. I me
an, she does, but she’s homeschooled. Tutors, mostly,” Tyler said.
“Is that who lives there with her? A tutor?”
Tyler nodded. “Ms. Burrow.”
“What’s her first name?”
“I don’t know, sorry. She keeps to herself mostly when I go over there. I don’t talk to her that much.”
“Any idea where we might be able to find her?”
Tyler shook his head again. “Do you think she’s okay? Emory, I mean. I can’t believe someone would do this.”
Behind them, Kolby stirred. Porter had nearly forgotten he was in the room.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Tyler asked.
Porter pulled a card from his back pocket and handed it to him. “If you hear anything, call me.”
“Did you guys track her phone? You can do that, right?”
“Her phone hasn’t been on the network since yesterday,” Nash told him. “Most likely it’s been disabled.”
“Both of them?”
23
Diary
Freshly showered, all damp-haired and smelling of baby powder, I strutted out of my bedroom back to the kitchen. I’d worked up quite an appetite, and the beef stew smelled simply wonderful. Plopping down into my seat at the table, I scooped mouthful after mouthful, reminding myself to chew. The Ritchie Valens song Mother sang earlier had firmly planted itself between my ears, and I found myself humming along as I ate. I always had excellent rhythm even at such a young age.
Mother and Father were still in the basement. Their laughs climbed the steps and echoed as they reached the top. They were having such fun. I lost interest when Mr. Carter checked out for the third and final time. I think it was his ticker that gave out. He had lost a lot of blood, that was sure, but not enough to kill him. The human body can typically lose 40 percent of its total volume before shutting down. Someone the size of Mr. Carter easily carried nine or ten pints. I doubt he lost more than two or three pints in total. It can be difficult to tell sometimes, but when it puddles on concrete like it did downstairs, it’s an easy measure.
No, it wasn’t blood loss—the fear did him in.
I watched from the stairs as Father removed Mr. Carter’s eyes with a pop. I don’t think Mr. Carter realized it even happened at first, but then Father put the eyes in Mr. Carter’s own hand for safekeeping. He held them far too tight. Father laughed at this while Mother kept cutting. Little cuts at first, only a few deep ones. She was a tease like that—she would cut an inch or so at his shoulder, just enough to get his attention, then plunge the knife deep into his thigh with a twist (she loved to twist the knife). Without his eyes, he didn’t know where or when the next cut would come. I imagine such suspense tended to really get the old ticker pumping. When Mr. Carter started to slip into shock, Father sent me upstairs to fetch the smelling salts. Nobody wanted him passing out on us in the middle of all the excitement. What fun would that be? After a while, though, there was little we could do to keep him awake. Shock tends to be a spoiler.
In the end, he inhaled a deep gasp. His body contracted in a spasm, then went rigid, then fell limp against the concrete. I think he soiled himself again, but with such a mess already, I couldn’t really tell. Mother had started this one, so I knew Father would make her clean up. That was the rule. Father loved his rules.
Another round of laughter from downstairs. What could they still be doing?
I was reaching for another helping of stew when I heard the knock at the screen door in our kitchen. I turned to see Mrs. Carter standing on the other side. Both her eyes were a horrible shade of purple. A large bruise covered her left cheek too. She cradled her left wrist with her other hand. “Is my husband here?” she said in a soft voice.
I reached for my napkin and dabbed at the corners of my mouth. There was no reason, really; I wasn’t a sloppy eater, but I needed a moment to think.
“He hasn’t come home. It’s been hours.” Her voice was low, raw. She had been crying for a long time. I wondered just why she would want him to come home. He had done a number on her. Would she really let him waltz right back in as if nothing had happened?
I got up from the table and walked toward the door. I could see the lock—it wasn’t engaged. At no point did I consider inviting her in, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t come in of her own accord. She wasn’t a stranger to our home. Typically she’d rap a couple of times on the frame and come right in. Why not? She didn’t this time, though. She stood on the back stoop, swaying. She stood watching me from battered purple eyes that really wanted to close, little more than slits.
“Let me ask Mother. Give me a minute?” I said in my grown-up matter-of-fact voice, the one that implied complete casualness and confidence, the one that said, You can trust me. I’m here to help you in the fullest, kind ma’am!
She nodded. An act that must have pained her, because her face twisted into a slight grimace with the movement.
I offered a smile before bounding down the steps to the basement.
24
Porter
Day 1 • 3:03 p.m.
They found Kloz huddled at his workstation at the far back corner of the IT department. His desk was a cluttered mess of manuals, loose paper, fast food wrappers, and a large collection of Batman memorabilia. Nash reached for a replica of the Batmobile, only to get smacked with a ruler before he could pick it up. “When I come to your house, I don’t play with your Barbies. Don’t touch my stuff,” Kloz growled.
“What did you find?” Porter asked him.
“The second line’s a dead end,” Kloz said, “but check this out.” He pointed to the center screen of his five-monitor setup. A city transit bus was frozen at the far right of the screen. Near the left side, a handful of people stood at the corner, waiting to cross the street.
Porter leaned in close. “Do you see him?”
Kloz pointed at a small space on the screen between a large man in a dark suit and a woman pushing a stroller. “See that? It’s the top of his fedora.”
Nash squinted. “I can’t make it out.”
“I’ll roll the video forward.” Kloz tapped a few keys, and the image advanced. The woman leaned down and whispered something to the child in her stroller. For the briefest of seconds, he was visible standing behind her. The fedora was pulled down at a slight angle, shielding his face from the camera, but it was definitely him.
“Can you get in tighter?” Porter asked.
Kloz twisted a small control next to his mouse, and the image zoomed in. “The picture gets too grainy when I get up close. Doesn’t really matter, though—that hat is in the way. Check this out.”
He hit the Play button again, and the scene moved forward in slow motion. Porter watched the bus crawl across the screen at a fraction of the vehicle’s normal speed, inching toward the intersection. In the top right corner of the screen, a traffic light blinked green. “The driver wasn’t lying. The light was green when he approached.”
Kloz poked the screen with his pen. “Keep an eye on our guy.”
As the bus neared, the man in the fedora stepped in front of the others. His face shielded by the hat, he glanced down the road, then down at the pavement. In one quick motion, he pushed off the curb and launched himself into the street. His feet never touched the ground—his shoulder met the grill of the bus, and the impact threw him forward. Even at reduced speed, things happened fast. His body seemed to mold with the bus’s nose. Then he peeled away and sailed through the air, disappearing from the screen.
“Damn,” Nash muttered.
The bus rolled past, leaving the people at the corner staring in disbelief.
“Uniforms talked to all these people, and none remember the guy,” Kloz told them. “Most of them were buried in their phones, walking on autopilot. Nobody was able to provide a description. You’d think a guy in a fedora would stand out.”
“He clearly jumped. That’s for sure,” Nash said. “He never planned to reach the mailbox. Suicide by mass transit.”
“I’ve rolled the footage a hundred times, different speeds and zooms. There is no clear shot of his face,” Kloz said. “If you ask me, he played to the camera. The crazy outfit makes him stand out, yet he positioned the hat at just the right angle to block a good shot. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I think he wanted us to see him but not his face—hence the outfit.”
“So 4MK knows he’s dying, and rather than let nature take its course, he snags one last victim, puts on his best suit, and sets some kind of stage to ensure his legacy?” Porter pondered aloud. “He expected us to find the ear and make the connection. He leaves the diary because it spells out his history on his own terms, details where he came from. He wrote his own story so the history books get it right. He’s always been meticulous. Why leave something so important open to reporters and crazies on the web? None of this is as random as it first appeared. I’m not sure any of it is random. To me, that means the other items we found on him—the watch, the dry cleaner receipt, maybe even the change, all of it may have been intentional.”
Nash frowned. “I think you’re reaching, Sam.”
“A cheap suit, fedora, the shoes that don’t fit . . . I don’t think he left anything to chance. He’s still toying with us, playing some kind of game, telling a story. All of this fits together. Somehow, it all means something.”
“Or it could be random shit he happened to have on his person when he kissed that bus.”
Porter sighed.
“Not everything is a conspiracy, that’s all I’m saying,” Nash said.
“This guy operated for years without leaving a single clue. Now all this. It’s something.” Porter’s phone rang. He snatched it from his pocket and took the call. He nodded as the caller spoke. When he hung up, he grabbed his keys from Kloz’s desk. “That was Murray at Flair Tower. They picked up Burrow coming up the service elevator.”