by J. D. Barker
25
Diary
I found Mother and Father rolling around on the bloodstained floor, their limbs twisted in an embrace. They howled like schoolchildren at the height of recess. I held my finger up to my mouth and shushed them both.
“What is it, champ?” Father said, stopping long enough to wipe a long strand of Mother’s hair from her face, leaving behind a crimson trail, perhaps a little fatty tissue. It was difficult to tell; she was a mess.
“Mrs. Carter is upstairs, at the back door,” I said softly. “She’s looking for Mr. Carter. She saw him come over earlier. She saw him come inside with Mother. I watched her from the yard.”
Father’s face was difficult to read, always had been. He turned to Mother. “Is that true? Did she see?”
Mother shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. He acted completely unreasonable, violent even. I simply defended myself. Lisa will understand. She’s a very understanding woman.”
Father’s eyes quickly glanced around the basement, taking in the scene. Mr. Carter lay in a bloody heap, still chained to the pipe, his body ravaged far worse than when I had grown bored and returned upstairs. They’d continued after he died—slicing, cutting. What remained was no longer a man; it was a pile of meat, the discarded plaything of a predator.
“She’s upstairs,” I repeated. “Right now.”
Mother sighed. “Well, we’re in no condition to receive visitors.”
Father chuckled at this. “Perhaps we should ask her to stop by later?”
“I think the back door is unlocked. She could come in,” I said. “She might be inside right now.”
Father detangled himself from Mother and stood. “That would be unfortunate.”
I had to agree.
“Do you think you can send her away?” Father asked me.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammered.
“You’re a big boy now, champ, practically a man of the house. You’re smarter than her, I have no doubt about that. Puzzle it out, find a way.”
She couldn’t see Mother and Father, not like this. And they’d never sneak past her. The back door was in direct sight of the basement door.
Part of me hoped she had come in, that she stood on the steps right now, listening. I thought of her at the lake; I thought about what it would be like to have her chained in the basement.
“What do you say, champ? Think you can handle her?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
26
Emory
Day 1 • 3:34 p.m.
Emory huddled in the corner under the gurney with one hand pressed to her ear, the other ear against the wall. She couldn’t block out the music, though. It was too loud, louder than any stereo she had ever heard. She had gone to the Imagine Dragons concert last spring at the Allstate Arena with Kirstie Donaldson, and they stood about three feet from the stage and directly in front of the largest stack of amplifiers she had ever seen. They were so powerful, the sound actually blew their hair back over their shoulders, which made for some epic selfies.
This was much louder. Not only louder, the music echoed off the walls. It reverberated. The rhythm rattled her bones.
When the music first started—hours ago, it seemed—she screamed at the top of her lungs, but the music drowned her out. Her voice had been lost behind Pink Floyd, then Janis Joplin, followed by a dozen other bands she recognized but didn’t know by name. She screamed anyway, the anger, hatred, and fear burning within her and needing a way out. She screamed until her throat went raw, and she was sure her voice was gone, whether she could hear it or not. She screamed until her tongue turned into sandpaper and a migraine sliced at the back of her eyes.
Emory tried to bury her head between her knees and that helped for a little while, but now her right shoulder burned from the awkward angle. She pulled at the handcuffs in frustration, but they only cut further into her wrist. She wanted to cry but had run out of tears hours earlier.
She was so cold.
Against her naked body, every surface felt damp and chilled.
“Mom?” Although she spoke the word aloud, she didn’t hear it. It vanished behind the theme song from CSI by the Who. Or the What . . . “Are you still there, Mom?”
She lifted her head from between her knees and looked up. The music came from somewhere far above her. Over the hours, Emory’s eyes had adjusted slightly to the darkness. Although still almost absolute, she could discern subtle shapes. She saw the legs of the gurney, the ones near her anyway. She could make out her hand above her cuffed to the railing, and even a little of the railing itself. She tried sliding the cuffs from one end to the other, hoping the strand would slip off the end, but instead it just rounded a slight corner before clanking against another bar, which crisscrossed it, blocking the cuff from moving any more. Then she—
Something scurried over her foot and Emory screeched, pulling her legs in close.
What was it? A roach?
No. It was too big to be a roach. Maybe a mouse or a—
Please don’t let it be a rat. She hated rats. She saw them sometimes poking out of the sewers. Beady little eyes and sharp yellow teeth clattering with hunger as they scurried out to back-alley dumpsters in search of food. They would eat anything. She’d heard they sometimes attacked the homeless people in herds or packs, only that wasn’t what they were called. She knew the term; it had been on a science test a few years ago. A mischief. That was it. A group of rats was called a mischief. It sounded like a silly name to her then and seemed even more ridiculous now, but there it was. The only thing worse than one rat was more than one rat. A mischief.
“Mom?”
Something brushed against her thigh, and she jumped up, banging her head on the gurney. Please no, not rats. They could see in the dark, probably really well. She pictured the furry little creature standing in the corner of the room glaring up at her, its tiny mouth filled with drool and disease.
I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer, but I have to ask. What does a rat trapped in a cement box with a naked girl tend to eat?
Emory groaned, and for a second she heard herself. Then a guitar solo started and burned away any trace of other sounds. She scrambled on top of the gurney.
I know rats are not picky eaters. They tend to be grateful for any food offered up. I imagine a nice tender young girl would be the highlight of the dinner menu, though, don’t you agree? You would be like Kobe beef compared with a dried up old homeless person.
Emory peered down into the darkness around her. She felt it down there watching her, but she couldn’t see it.
I wonder if they can climb.
The gurney squeaked as she shuffled on her butt to its center.
I bet if there are a lot of them, they can make a little rat pyramid and get right on up. They’re resourceful little critters. I’ve been told they’ll sometimes bite their victim in the cheek to get them to open their eyes so they can pluck one right out of the socket. A little bait and switch. Mischievous. Hey, that might be where that term comes from. Mischievous little critters are full of mischief.
“It’s not a rat,” Emory told herself. “How would a rat get in here?”
Ah, there’s the rub. Although he did put you in here. Maybe he dropped in a rat or two or three. After all, the man cuts off body parts and mails them back to their families; his choice in entertainment is questionable at best. He may not be playing with a full deck.
Emory’s heart pounded—a rhythmic thump, thump, thump at her damaged ear.
This time when the rat scurried past, she saw it for sure, if only for a second before the plump little rodent disappeared into the gloom.
27
Diary
I ascended the steps at a snail’s pace as my brain churned away, attempting to devise a believable story. Just how to keep her from entering the house, or worse—going down into the basement?
I found her sitting at the kitchen table. She had been crying again. She dabbed at her eyes with a damp napkin wh
ile picking at a slice of bread.
As I reached the top of the steps, I pulled the door closed at my back. The frame tended to swell during the summer months, and I had to give the knob a good tug before it would shut properly.
I crossed the kitchen and sat at the table, my eyes fixed on the cold stew. “There’s a problem with our water heater, and Mother is downstairs helping Father try and fix it.”
I spoke the words softly, so low I barely heard them. It wasn’t the most creative of lies, but it would have to do. I looked up at her, at her tired face.
Mrs. Carter returned the gaze. The bruises had grown darker in just the past few minutes; the swelling had worsened. How could a man do such a thing to someone he loved? Her knee bounced under the table. When she spoke, her voice was weak and distant. “He’s dead, isn’t he.”
It was more of a statement than a question, spoken flatly, without even a hint of emotion.
“They’re working on the water heater. That old beast can be a bear to fix,” I said.
She shook her head and sighed. “You can tell me the truth. It’s okay.”
Father asked me to handle her. He wanted me to puzzle it out. If I told her, would they kill her too? If she had to die, would it be my fault?
She needed to know, though. She had every right to know. If I didn’t tell her, what would she do? Go home and call the police? Worse still, tell them Mr. Carter had come over here and not returned home? I had to tell her. “He tried to hurt Mother. She defended herself. Nobody would blame her for doing so.”
She sighed again. Her hand tightened on the crumpled napkin in her palm. “No, I suppose not.”
“I should take you home,” I told her.
Mrs. Carter wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “What about . . . what did they do with . . . oh, God, is he really dead?”
The tears came again. Years later I would ponder this. Women seemed to have an endless supply. They came so easily and in such force at the drop of an emotional cue. Not men, though. Men rarely cried, not from emotion, anyway. For them, pain brought on the waterworks, pain turned that spigot all the way to full blast. Women were perfectly capable of handling pain but not emotion. Men handled emotion but not pain. The differences were sometimes subtle, but they were there nonetheless.
I never cried. I doubted I even could.
I stood up from my chair and offered my hand to Mrs. Carter. “Come on. Let me get you home.”
28
Porter
Day 1 • 4:17 p.m.
Officer Thomas Murray met Porter and Nash at the front door of Emory’s apartment with a cup of coffee in one hand and a ham sandwich in the other. Murray had mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth, and another blotch was slowly dripping down the front of his uniform shirt. Porter considered telling him about the errant condiment, then decided to let it go. He was curious how long it would take to slide all the way down the front and drip to the floor. Nash caught it too but said nothing. The two exchanged a knowing glance. “Making yourself at home?” Porter asked him, stepping inside.
Murray took a bite of the sandwich and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Beats being trapped in a patrol car for eight hours,” he muttered between chews. He nodded his head back toward the living room. “That couch over there has Magic Fingers or something built in. You just sit down and the cushions give you a massage. The television somehow knows when you’re there too—it snaps on when you enter the room. Not that I’m sitting down on the job or anything—not for more than a minute or two, anyway. Oh, and downstairs they’ve got a full restaurant and deli. That’s where I got this. It may be the best sandwich I ever had.” He took another bite. A chunk of ham fell from the bread and landed on his shoe.
“Where is she, Tom?” Porter asked, his patience thin.
Murray pointed down the hallway, nearly spilling his coffee. “She’s in her room, left door, not the right. First name’s Nancy, by the way. Nancy Burrow. She’s a real firecracker.”
Porter pushed past him and started down the hall. Murray followed.
As Nash walked by, he said: “I want one of those.”
Murray frowned. “The sandwich or a coffee?”
“The couch,” Nash replied.
“Ah yeah, me too.” Murray took another bite and swore as the mayonnaise finished its trek and landed on the hardwood floor with a decisive splat.
The bedroom door was closed. Porter rapped softly. “Ms. Burrow? I’m Detective Sam Porter with Chicago Metro. May I come in?”
“It’s open, Detective,” a woman’s voice replied from the other side. She had a slight Australian accent, which reminded him of Nicole Kidman’s.
Porter twisted the knob and opened the door.
Okay. A large Nicole Kidman. At least 250, possibly more.
Nancy Burrow was sitting at the desk in the corner, with a book resting in her plump lap. She frowned as he stepped inside. “That Neanderthal out there locked me in my quarters while he pillaged the kitchen and God only knows what else. You better believe I’ll be filing a complaint with your supervisor, not to mention Mr. Talbot. He will not stand for this, that is for sure. Somebody even had the nerve to go through my clothing, my personal items. What gives you the right to do such a thing?”
Porter offered his best we come in peace smile. “I apologize, Ms. Burrow. We’re all just trying to do our best to find Emory. Mr. Talbot gave us permission to enter the premises. Nobody was here, and we went about searching for anything that could help us find his little girl. If we rifled through your personal items, we had the best intensions at heart.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you expected to find a clue or two in my underwear drawer?”
Porter had no response to that. He glanced at Nash, who only shrugged. He decided to ignore the question. “How about you tell us where you were earlier?”
“I went shopping.”
“She had groceries on her when she came back,” Murray said from the doorway. “But I don’t get how anyone spends seven hours in the Food Mart.”
She let out a deep sigh. “If you must know, today is my personal day. I had my hair done and ran a few other errands. Since when is leaving one’s own apartment a crime?”
Porter shifted his weight to his other leg. “When was the last time you saw Emory, Ms. Burrow?”
“She went out for a run last night around six. Quarter after at the latest,” she said. “It looked like rain, but she wanted to go anyway.”
“And you weren’t concerned when she didn’t come back?”
Burrow shook her head. “I assumed she went to her boyfriend’s house. The two of them have been spending a lot of time together of late.”
“At what point did you realize something was wrong?”
Her eyes shifted to the book in her hands. “I’m not sure I did. Like I said, she sometimes visits with her boyfriend.”
“She’s fifteen,” Nash said. “Eight o’clock? Nine o’clock? Ten? What’s her curfew? I’ve got a daughter her age. There’s no way I’d let her run around the city after dark, especially with some boy.”
“I’m not her mother, Detective.”
Porter gestured to the pictures on her nightstand. “You played a big part in raising her. You obviously care about her.”
Burrow studied the pictures, then turned back to the detectives. “I’ve done my best to be there for her, and I’ll be the first to admit, over the years we have grown quite close, but her father has made it clear I am simply a member of his staff, nothing more, one who could be easily replaced should I step over any particular line. My own feelings about Emory aside, I enjoy the job and harbor no desire to see my employment come to an end.”
“What exactly is your job, Ms. Burrow?” Nash asked.
“Primarily, I am Emory’s tutor. I’ve been with her since her mother passed. I oversee her studies as well as the household staff.”
“Like Mrs. Doubtfire?”
She frowned. “Who?”
Porter pushed
him aside. “Never mind. Emory doesn’t go to school?” Porter asked.
The woman let out another long sigh. “The school system in your country leaves much to be desired, Detective. Mr. Talbot wanted Emory to receive the best possible education. Such a level can only be obtained on a one-on-one basis. I graduated at the top of my class at Oxford. I hold two doctorate degrees, one in psychology, another in literature. I also spent three years at the Center for Family Research at Cambridge. I’ve created an environment where Emory’s intellect can flourish rather than be held back by the incompetence of your schoolteachers and the peers she would encounter in a local school. She was reading at a fifth-grade level by the age of six. Her math skills exceeded your high school levels by the time she was twelve. She’ll be prepared to leave for university next year—two years earlier than most students in your country.”
She stated these facts as if reading from her own résumé, Porter noted. She had most likely defended homeschooling on more than one occasion.
“Who disciplines her? Who tells her not to drink? Who screens her boyfriends? Why does she even have a boyfriend at fifteen?” Nash asked.
Ms. Burrow rolled her eyes. “If you instill the right values in a child at a young age, you’ll find her maturity far exceeds most. Such a child deserves trust.”
“So if she wants to run around the city at all hours of the night, it’s okay to turn a blind eye?” Nash growled.
“Nash, that’s enough,” Porter said.
“I’m sorry, but to me it seems if this girl had a parental figure in her life, she wouldn’t be out jogging alone so close to dark. Why wasn’t somebody keeping better tabs on her?”
Burrow frowned. “Emory is a special girl. She is intelligent and resourceful. Much more so than I was at her age, far more than most. As long as she keeps up with her studies, there is no reason to cross her.”
Nash’s face was red. “Cross her? Who the hell is in charge here?”