by J. D. Barker
Burrow had had enough. “Detective Nash, ultimately I work for Mr. Talbot. The extent of my duties ends with that girl’s grades. If he wished for me to fulfill some type of parental role, I would be more than willing to do so, but that is not what he wanted when I was hired, nor is it a role he wishes me to perform now. If you have questions or concerns regarding Emory’s upbringing or her environment, I suggest you express those concerns directly to Mr. Talbot. Do not expect me to sit here and be berated for circumstances beyond my control. I am speaking to you voluntarily, and you are giving me little reason to continue.”
Nash was ready to open his mouth and retort when Porter squeezed his shoulder. “Why don’t you take a little walk and blow off some steam? I’ll finish this up.”
Nash gave them both a frustrated glance, then stormed out of the room.
“I apologize, Ms. Burrow. That was unprofessional and completely unwarranted.”
She rubbed her chin. “I understand his concerns, but without knowing Mr. Talbot or Emory—”
Porter raised his hand. “There’s no need to explain.”
“I do care for her, I really do. It pains me to think she may be in trouble.”
“When did you first learn she had been abducted?” Porter asked.
“Mr. Talbot reached me about an hour ago,” she replied. “He was upset, near hysterics. He said he was golfing with his attorney and two detectives tracked him down to tell him the news.” She paused. “Because it’s my personal day, my phone was switched off. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have heard sooner. I came straight back after receiving the news.” She took a deep breath. “Had I heard earlier—”
Porter placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Ms. Burrow. You’re here now.”
She nodded and forced a smile.
“How is her relationship with her father?”
Burrow sighed. “You know, until this morning the only emotion that man has ever expressed was anger. Normally he is very distant, guarded, particularly with Emory. He rarely comes by to visit her. I’m required to complete weekly progress reports regarding her studies. That is how he monitors her, always from a distance. I understand there is a certain need for discretion, but he is still her father. You would think he would wish to be more involved.”
“They speak on the phone, though, right?”
She shrugged. “They do, but their conversations do not sound like a father and daughter. That girl has a benefactor, nothing more, and she is very much aware of that fact. She fears him and wishes to please him, but there is little love there. That is why his reaction surprised me so.”
She bent forward and lowered her voice. “Had you asked me a week ago, I would have told you that man was more likely to smile than shed a tear at the news of her abduction. Having an illegitimate daughter hanging over his head all these years, it’s a problem money can’t necessarily fix, and that eats at him. He is not fond of anything he cannot control. He can be a cold, cold man.”
“Do you think he could be involved?”
She thought about this for a moment, then sat up straight. “No. He’s a heartless bastard of a man, but I don’t think he’d be willing to hurt his own flesh and blood, or anyone else, for that matter. If he wanted her out of the picture, he would have done something years ago. That girl wants for nothing. He ensures she has the best this world has to offer.”
“In exchange for silence?” Porter asked.
“In exchange for cooperation,” she replied. “I’ve never heard him ask her to keep their relationship a secret. There is an understanding between the two of them, simple as that.”
From the doorway, Murray crunched on a potato chip. Porter shot him a nasty look, and the officer raised his hands in surrender and left the room. He returned his gaze to Ms. Burrow. “Did you see anything strange in the days or weeks leading up to her abduction yesterday? Did she mention anything? Somebody following her, or strange calls on her phone? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Burrow shook her head. “I do not recall anything.”
“Would she tell you?”
“Contrary to what your partner may believe, Emory and I were, I mean are, close. She has confided in me regarding other matters. If something were troubling her, I think she would have mentioned it.”
“Other matters?”
Her face grew red. “Girl issues, Detective. Nothing worth mentioning.”
“There’s a good chance the man who took her may have observed her for some time. Is there anyone new in her life? Have you seen anyone in the building lately you didn’t recognize? Or maybe someone you saw here, and again someplace else, like the grocery store today?”
“You think he followed her?”
Porter shrugged. “We don’t know. I can tell you he’s extremely careful. He doesn’t leave anything to chance. I don’t think nabbing her in the park was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Most likely he kept tabs on her, learned her routine, plotted out where she’d likely be and when. Most likely he followed you too.”
She looked down at her hands, shaking her head. “I don’t recall anyone like that. This building is extremely secure. Do you think he could have gotten inside?”
“He has breached far more secure buildings in the past. I think if he had reason to get in here, he would find a way.”
Ms. Burrow pursed her lips. “The book.”
Porter frowned. “What book?”
Burrow stood and pushed past him through the doorway, nearly running into Murray in the hallway. As Porter followed quickly after her, he couldn’t help but marvel at her speed. She was a rather large woman, after all. He found her standing at the desk in the den. She was holding the calculus book they had found earlier.
“I saw this three days ago and asked Emory about it. She completed calculus two years ago. I thought it odd she would purchase a book on the subject, particularly one this trite. Her studies progressed far beyond whatever this text has to offer. She told me she didn’t buy it, she didn’t know where it came from.”
Porter eyed the text warily. “Please put the book down, Ms. Burrow.”
29
Diary
The screen door at the back of the Carters’ house had been left open. The wind owned it now, banging it against the white-paint-flaked frame. I reached for the handle and held it still for Mrs. Carter. She walked past me into the dark kitchen. She hadn’t said a word the entire walk back. Neither of us had. If it hadn’t been for the sound of her sniffling, I wouldn’t have known she was behind me.
I pulled the door shut and flipped the lock. The wind outside howled in protest.
Mrs. Carter pressed her hands on the countertop and bowed her head, facing the sink. Her eyes glossed over, lost in thought. I spied a bottle of bourbon on the kitchen table next to a glass with Snoopy and Woodstock emblazoned on the side, the colors faded and worn after years of washes. I walked over and poured about an inch of bourbon. Two fingers, Father would have said.
“Aren’t you a little young for that?” Mrs. Carter said. She had turned and was facing me now.
I handed the glass to her. “It’s for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“I think you should.”
Father never shied away from a drink after a long day at work. I knew a cocktail or two helped him relax. If anyone needed to relax, it was Mrs. Carter.
She hesitated, eyeing the brown liquid, then took the glass and brought it to her swollen lips. She swallowed the bourbon in one swift gulp before setting the glass down hard on the counter. Her entire body shivered, and she let out a soft gasp. “Oh my.”
I couldn’t help but smile. We were sharing a rather adult moment. Just a couple of drinking buddies knocking back a few in the kitchen. I had a hankering to give it a try, but I told myself now was not the time. I had to keep my wits about me. The night was far from over.
“Would you like another?” I asked her.
When she nodded, I poured her another glass, adding another finge
r or so.
She put this one away even faster than the first, this time without the shiver and with a little bit of a smile, then sat at her table. “Simon was a good man, most of the time. He didn’t really mean to hurt me. It is . . . was . . . all the pressure, that’s all. He didn’t deserve to . . .”
I took a seat beside her.
In school it could take me an hour to summon the courage to ask a girl if I could borrow a pencil. There was something about Mrs. Carter, though, something that set me at ease. There was no sign of the usual churn in my stomach or fever on the back of my neck. I reached up and touched the bruises on her cheek. They had darkened considerably in the past twenty minutes or so. “He would have hurt you more, maybe even killed you.”
She shook her head. “Not my Simon. He wasn’t like that.”
“Sure he was. Look at what he did to you.”
“I deserved it.”
The image of Mrs. Carter with Mother flashed in my mind. Did she know I witnessed that? “Nothing you could have done was deserving of a beating like the one he put on you. A man should never lay hands on a woman. Not a real man.”
She snickered. “Did your father teach you that?”
I nodded. “Women are to be respected, cherished. They are gifts bestowed upon us.” He also told me they were weak and incapable of defending themselves against a beating, physical or verbal, but I left that part out.
“Your father is a sweet man.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Carter reached for the bourbon and refilled her glass, then slid the bottle over to me. “Why don’t you give it a shot? Have you ever drunk alcohol before?”
I shook my head. This was a lie. My father made me a martini for my last birthday. Mother poured a glass of her favorite red wine, and we toasted in celebration. I spit most of it out on the table, and the rest burned at my throat so badly, I dared not finish. Mother laughed and Father patted me on the back. “It’s an acquired taste, champ. One day you’ll love it. I’m afraid that day is not today, though!” Then he laughed too. “Perhaps you’re more of a beer man,” he joked.
She gave the bottle another nudge. “Come on, don’t be afraid. It won’t bite. You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you? That would be so rude.” Her voice had lost the sharp edges of earlier. She wasn’t slurring her words yet, but even a boy with limited experience such as myself could tell she was well on her way.
Puzzle it out, champ.
I took the bottle and removed the cap. EVAN WILLIAMS KENTUCKY BOURBON, the black label read. The light above the table made the brown liquor glisten like liquid candy. I raised the bottle to my lips and took a small drink. It burned, but not as much as the martini had. Perhaps I was prepared this time, or maybe I’d built up a tolerance. It wasn’t . . . bad. It wasn’t my first choice of beverage, but I wouldn’t call it bad. In fact, it warmed me up a little, a heat growing in my belly. I took another drink, this one a little more than the last.
Mrs. Carter laughed. “Look at you! You’re like an old pro. If I gave you a cigar and a nice newsboy cap, you’d be all set for poker night with the boys.”
I smiled and tipped the bottle back at her. “Want some more?”
“Why, are you planning to get me drunk?”
“No, ma’am. I just thought—”
“Give me that,” she said, reaching for the bottle. This time she didn’t bother with the glass. She drank straight from the bottle, as I had. When she set it back down on the table, her whole body shivered again.
“Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker,” I said.
She laughed. “Where did you hear that?”
“Father said it once. He got quite drunk that night.”
“This father of yours seems like a very interesting man.”
I considered another drink. The first had made me feel warm, calm. Calm was good. I nodded toward the bottle, and she handed it back to me. A grin filled her face, and she burst out laughing.
“What is it? What did I do?”
She waved her hand at me, her laughter growing to a cackle. I felt a smile at my own lips and couldn’t help but laugh along with her, even though the joke was lost on me. “Tell me!” I said. “You gotta tell me!”
Mrs. Carter placed both of her hands palm down on the table and stopped laughing, her lips pursed tight. Then she said, “I was thinking, if I send you home drunk, your parents might kill me.”
I stared at her for a moment, my eyes locked with hers. Then we both burst into a round of roaring, tear-filled laughter, the kind that makes your belly hurt.
She picked up the bottle and took another drink. “This was Simon’s favorite, but bourbon always made him so mean. It doesn’t make you mean, does it?”
I shook my head.
“It doesn’t make me mean, either. So why did it make him so mean? Why did he have to get angry and hurt me whenever he touched this bottle? Why couldn’t it have been like it is with us right now? Fun. Oh God, he’s really dead. My Simon is really gone. They really killed him, didn’t they?”
Perhaps the second drink was a bad idea. Two Mrs. Carters sat across from me now. If I squinted just right, they merged back together into one, but then there were two again. I covered one eye, then the other, then back to the first.
Mrs. Carter quieted, then suddenly spoke in a low voice. “I know you saw me the other day, out by the lake.”
Adrenaline burst through me, and the two Mrs. Carters became one and stayed that way. “You . . . you do?”
She nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”
My face flushed. My eyes fell from her and landed on the table, on the bourbon. I reached for the bottle, but before I could grasp it, Mrs. Carter’s hand took mine. She was shaking. “I think I wanted you to see. I watched you walk out there with your fishing pole. I knew you’d be there.”
“Why would you—”
“Sometimes a woman wants to be desired, is all.” She took another drink. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
I nodded. She was one of the prettiest women I had ever seen. And she was a woman. Not like the girls at school, barely out of training bras and princess parties, and passing notes and lusting after the latest and greatest pop band. She was a woman—a woman talking to me, about this. That feeling down below returned, warm blood rushing. I knew she couldn’t see under the table, but I grew embarrassed nonetheless. I pulled my hand out from under hers and lifted the bottle to my lips; there was no burn this time. I found it simply delightful.
I handed the bottle to her, and she didn’t hold back. Nearly a quarter of the bottle disappeared before she finally tried to set it down on the table, missing entirely. It crashed to the floor and burst with a bang, glass and bourbon spreading out at our feet.
“Oh my, I . . .” she said. “It’s a mess I made. Bad.”
“It’s okay, I’ll clean it.” I stood up, looking for a dishrag. The room spun around me. I steadied myself on the back of my chair and took deep, slow breaths until the kitchen righted itself. Mrs. Carter watched me from her yellow vinyl and metal chair, then laid her head down on the table within her folded arms.
I stood there in complete silence. I remained still until I heard her breathing fall into the rhythm of sleep. Then I pushed out the door into the ever-increasing cold of night.
I had to get Mother and Father. I would need help tying her up.
30
Porter
Day 1 • 4:49 p.m.
“It’s old. Out of print.” Watson was reading the tiny display on his iPhone as he, Porter, and Nash hovered over the book on Emory’s desk. “Calculus in the Modern Age by Winston Gilbert, Thomas Brothington, and Carmel Thorton. First published in 1923, looks like the final edition went out in 1987.”
He leaned down to the black Pelican case at his side and came back up with a small brush and fingerprint powder. He dipped the brush into the powder and began to run the bristles over the top of the text, his hand twisting in a circular motion, spreading the dark powder even
ly over the cover.
“Good luck returning that to the library,” Nash frowned.
Watson ignored him.
Reaching back into the bag, he withdrew a large flashlight, flicked it on, and crouched back over the book.
“Is that standard issue?” Porter asked.
Watson shook his head. “It’s a Fenix 750. Has an LED array capable of putting out twenty-nine hundred lumens. That’s nearly twice the brightness of the ones we get from Supply. It also does infrared and has a strobe function.”
Nash whistled. “That’s one fancy fucking flashlight. I guess we cops ask Santa for a new gun at Christmastime, you guys ask for flashlights. Makes perfect sense to me.”
“Anything?” Porter asked.
Watson leaned in closer. “I only see one set of prints, probably Burrow’s. I’ll need a sample to rule her out. And check out the spine.” He pointed at the edge of the book. “There’s not a single crease. I’d say this book has never been used. It’s in remarkable condition.”
“Not to sound all conspiracy theory, but do you think it could be rigged?” Nash asked.
Porter frowned. “Rigged?”
“Yeah, like a bomb or something. Maybe hollowed out?”
Watson began to open the cover.
“No, don’t—” Nash shouted, before backing up into the wall.
The cover flapped against the desk with a soft thud. Nash squeezed his eyes shut.
Porter read the first page. “It’s just a book. No boom.”
“I’m getting some water,” Nash said, before disappearing down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Porter flipped through the pages. Watson was right—for a book last published in 1987, it looked new. The glossy pages stuck together. That “new book” smell still lofted from it, bringing back memories of third-grade English class—the only time he ever received a new textbook. “If 4MK placed this here, what do you think it means?”
Watson sighed. “I don’t know. Has he ever left a clue behind?”
“Not one.”