by J. D. Barker
“He’s clearly trying to tell you something. Why else would he bother?”
“Where do you think he got it?”
Watson thumbed through the pages. “The city has its share of vintage bookstores, but I don’t know of any dealing in textbooks.”
“Who would want an old math book?”
“A math teacher?”
“Do you think it came from a school?”
Watson thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. “If this book ever circulated through the school system, it wouldn’t be in this condition. Textbooks don’t just sit around. They get used and abused.”
“Okay, how about a supplier?”
Watson flipped back through the pages at the beginning. He skimmed some text on the second page, tapped it with his finger, then spun the book around so Porter could see. “It was manufactured here in Chicago. That address is less than three miles from here—in Fulton.”
Porter frowned. “Did you dog-ear that page?”
“No, sir.”
Somebody had. The corner of the page had a soft crease, barely visible but there nonetheless. 4MK wanted them to find this.
Porter pulled out his phone, dialed Kloz, and read the address off to him. He hung up a moment later. “The address belongs to a condemned warehouse scheduled to be torn down day after tomorrow.”
Porter and Nash understood the significance. The Four Monkey Killer had left the body of his third victim, Missy Lumax, under a tarp at the center of an abandoned warehouse. It too had been set for demolition. It too had been in the Fulton River District.
31
Diary
I don’t recall falling asleep, but I must have drifted off at some point because I found myself in bed wearing my best pajamas, with the headache to end all headaches throbbing at my temples. The morning sun squeezed between my blinds and pecked at my eyes so ferociously, I thought the light would render me blind.
Last night, Father scolded me for drinking and I tried to explain why I had done so, but he wasn’t willing to listen. Or maybe he did. Much of the evening was a blur.
Peeling back the blankets, I lowered my feet to the floor.
Although I did so with the most tender of motions, the impact radiated through my body and went straight to my aching head. I considered climbing back under the warm sheets and sleeping for perhaps another year or so, but I knew if I didn’t rise soon, my parents would surely come in search of me. In our house, if you weren’t at the breakfast table by nine, service would close and you’d find yourself standing at the refrigerator with nothing but an empty plate and a grumbling tummy. Mother locked it, you see. Promptly at nine, she would latch the refrigerator closed and fasten the door tight with a shiny new Stanley padlock. It would remain locked until lunchtime, and the process would repeat again for supper. While I was perfectly capable of fasting until the noon hour, something told me a little sustenance in my belly would help with the lingering effects of the previous night’s bender and possibly set me right for the remainder of the day.
Yesterday’s clothes were piled at my feet, and I considered putting them on until the scent of vomit drifted up from my T-shirt. I didn’t recall throwing up, but I had no reason to believe the foulness came from anyone but me. Why would someone else take the time to vomit in my room? The thought was ludicrous. No, most likely I had gotten sick. Apparently some of the bourbon felt the need to vacate my small premises via the entrance ramp.
I left the pile of clothes on the floor, making a mental note to burn them at my first chance, and pulled a clean shirt and pair of jeans from my dresser. Then I made my way down the hall to the kitchen.
“There’s my boy!” Father beamed from behind a heaping plate of eggs and sausage. “Take a seat, son. A little greasy food will help settle that angry stomach of yours. You’re a little young for a hangover, to be sure, but a hangover is surely what ails you if you consumed the amounts of alcohol you boasted about last night.”
I found my way into my chair and did my best to hold back the contents of my churning stomach. Bourbon was a man’s drink, and I had put away every drop like a man. I had no intention of showing weakness under Father’s watchful eye.
He reached across the table, picked up a carafe of orange juice, and filled a glass for me. Then he produced a shot glass from beneath a napkin with the fanfare of a magician pulling a bunny from his black felt hat. “I prepared this just for you. This is Kentucky’s finest, and perhaps the fastest method for banishing a hangover known to the civilized world.” He slid the glass over to me with a Cheshire grin.
I stared down upon the shot glass no doubt with bloodshot eyes and pale cheeks, waiting for him to follow up with a punch line to his little joke, but none came. He nudged the glass closer. “Drink up, champ. I promise a little ‘hair of the dog’ will make you feel better.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
I reached for the glass and gently raised it to my lips, my head throbbing. The scent of warm caramel and toasted vanilla tickled at my nose.
“Quickly now. Real men put away a shot in a single gulp without a drop spilled.”
Taking a deep breath, I dumped the glass into my mouth and forced a swallow, wincing as the burn worked down my gullet to my stomach. I found it odd how I could feel it every inch of the way. Never before had I thought about the journey taken by my meals and drink. Alcohol was strange indeed.
“Now, slam the glass back down on the table,” Father instructed with glee.
I did as I was told, ramming the shot glass against the wood so hard, I thought for sure it would shatter in my hand.
Father clapped with joy. “That’s my boy!”
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, the bourbon lingering on my breath. It reminded me of burnt toast and molasses.
Father took up the glass and poured another shot. He drank this one himself, then also brought the glass down hard on the table. He let out a grunt and shivered with an audible sigh, then turned to me, his face suddenly serious. “I want you to remember this moment as your first drink. Do you think you can do that, champ? When you grow older and reminisce back upon your life, I want you to think of our little moment as your first taste of the forbidden fruit juice, a simple shot with your old man. A true father and son moment. Forget last night. Forget the drinks you shared with our lovely little neighbor. Forget the reason for those drinks. When you grow old, I don’t want you to think about getting drunk with Mrs. Carter. I don’t want you to think about her at all, I only want you to remember this. What do you think, champ? Can do, or no way, nohow?”
I thought on his words and nodded my head. “Can do, Father,” I said with a grin. “Can do for sure.”
“Pinky swear?”
I held up my tiny hand to his, and we swore on it.
“Good, because that is how your first drink should be remembered—a happy moment with your pops, not drinking yourself silly with the crazy bitch neighbor.” I had never heard him use foul language before; Mother either. They never cursed. The word wasn’t new to me; I had heard it many times before at school and from other adults, but never from Father, never in his voice.
“Oh, I’m sorry, champ. I probably shouldn’t use such terms around you. You should never call someone such things, particularly a woman. I’m setting a horrible example. As I’ve often said, women should be cherished and treated with the utmost of respect.”
I glanced around the room. I hadn’t seen Mother yet this morning.
“She’s downstairs with our guest,” Father said. Sometimes he seemed to read my mind.
I had wondered if Mrs. Carter was still alive. Frankly, the fact that she was surprised me. Although Mother and Father weren’t in the best of mind last night, they were typically careful when it came to their indiscretions. They didn’t leave loose ends.
“Will Mrs. Carter be staying with us awhile?”
Father pondered this. “Yes, champ, I think she will. You see, we can’t blame Mrs. Carter for her husband’s
actions, not really, but she must have done something to put him into such a tizzy. If she hadn’t, he would have never come over here and threatened your mother, and she wouldn’t have found herself in that little predicament. Your mother wouldn’t have had to hurt him. Mr. Carter would probably be sitting on his porch right now enjoying the summer breeze with his lovely wife, and Mother wouldn’t be spending the morning on her hands and knees scrubbing the basement floor of all things nasty.” He shook his head and laughed. “That man sure was a bleeder, wasn’t he?”
I couldn’t help but agree. I found myself smiling.
Father ran his hand through his hair. “Now, the question is, just what did Mrs. Carter do to make her husband so upset? Did he see something? Did you see something, champ?”
He spoke the words so fast, they took me by surprise.
The breath seized in my throat, and when I tried to speak, nothing wanted to come out. I shook my head and finally said, “I don’t think so, Father.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think so?”
To this I said nothing. My tongue felt like it was swelling in my mouth, blocking the words that wanted to come out. Father stared at me intently. There was no anger in his gaze, but he read every blink of my eyes and every twitch of my nose. I did not look away, for he would surely take that as a sign of forthcoming lies. “I meant I don’t think he saw anything, Father. I certainly haven’t.”
He tilted his head and stared at me for a long while. Finally, he smiled and patted my hand. “Well, the truth will come out soon enough. It always does, and at that point I will deal with the situation posthaste. For now, though, the sun is shining, the air is alive, and I do not intend to waste such a glorious summer day.”
I reached across the table for a piece of toast. It wasn’t hot anymore, but it was good to get something in my stomach.
“How’s your head?”
I realized that my headache had nearly retreated, gone now but for a dull thump behind my left eye. The queasiness too. “Much better!”
He reached over and ruffled my hair. “There you go. Eat up. When you’re done, I want you to take a plate downstairs to our guest. Perhaps a glass of orange juice as well. I imagine she’s worked up quite an appetite. I’m going to take a walk over to the Carter house and straighten up a bit. I think I’ll pack her a bag. Best if it looks like they went on a little road trip, should someone take it upon themselves to check in on them.”
“Maybe you should move their car,” I suggested, nibbling on my toast.
He ruffled my hair again. “You sure are a chip off the old block, aren’t you?”
I grinned.
32
Emory
Day 1 • 5:00 p.m.
The music stopped.
Just like that.
One second, “Sweet Home Alabama” beat at her head with the ferocity of a storm shutter caught in a hurricane, then nothing.
The room wasn’t silent, though. A loud ringing had replaced the music, and although Emory knew the tone existed only in her mind, it might as well have been blaring from the largest of speakers. The tone didn’t increase or decrease in volume; it remained steady.
Tinnitus.
Ms. Burrow had taught her all about the dangers of loud noises nearly three years earlier before sending her off to her first concert, Jack’s Mannequin at the Metro. She’d wanted to scare her; looking back, Emory could see that that was obvious. Ms. Burrow had told her how easily prolonged exposure to loud music might lead to permanent problems, particularly in a closed environment. Something about the tiny hairs in your ear getting damaged like frayed wires, causing your brain to perceive sound that wasn’t there. Most of the time the condition was temporary.
Most of the time.
When Ms. Burrow handed her a pair of earplugs, she gladly accepted them before heading out the door. She hadn’t used them, of course. She refused to let her friends see her with those silly pink things sticking out of her head. Instead, they remained in her pocket, and she had finished the night with a ringing in her ears much like now.
That was nothing like now, sweetie. Don’t you remember? That was barely audible and only lasted a little bit. After all, the concert wasn’t loud, not long, either. Not like the barrage you were just subjected to. How long did that music blare? Five hours? Ten? You’re down one ear already. I’m sure that doesn’t help.
“Shut up!” Emory tried to shout. Instead, the words came out in a muffled garble, her dry throat protesting each syllable.
I’m only saying, an earplug might do you some good. The one side is wrapped up good and tight. If that dreadful music comes back, you should consider taking a little piece of that bandage and shoving a wad into the ear canal. Better safe than sorry, right? If you get out of this pickle, you’ll be a one-eared Jane—best you keep the other one in tip-top working order, don’t you think? You know what’s worse than a girl with one ear? Do you?
“Please be quiet.”
Do you know what’s worse?
Emory closed her eyes, plunging from black to blacker, and began to sing “It’s My Party” by Jessie J.
The only thing worse than a girl with one ear is a girl with one ear and no eyes. I think that may be the next stop on your little journey, my love, because if the music stopped, that means somebody stopped it.
Emory’s breath caught in her throat, and her head swiveled quickly from right to left, then back again, as she peered at the wall of darkness.
Her eyes tried to adjust to the black, but they were losing the battle. Emory sat perched atop the gurney with her knees pulled up tight against her chest, and she couldn’t even make out her own feet. The shiny silver of the gurney appeared to be nothing more than a dim blur. That didn’t mean there was no movement, though. Things moved all around her. The dark swirled in waves, floating through the air with a murky thickness she could almost taste.
He might be in the room with her right now, and she wouldn’t know. He might be standing a foot or two away with a knife in hand, ready to plunge the tip into her eyes and pop them out with a twist. She wouldn’t have time to react or fight him off, not until after he began to carve the sight from her.
Emory continued to sing, but the rhythm and cadence of the song were all wrong.
“I keep da-dancing alone, da-dancing,” she sang softly. “Da-dancing till I say stop.” She reached her free arm out in front of her and slowly swiped back and forth, groping at the darkness. “Are . . . are you there?”
In her mind’s eye, she saw him. A tall, thin man leaning against the far wall with a knife in one hand and a spoon in the other. His fingers flexed against the handle of the knife as he ran the blade against the edge of the spoon. Both were caked with dried blood, remnants of those who had come before her. Even through the darkness, she knew he could see her. He could see her perfectly. A white box rested on the floor at his feet, a black string waiting at its side. With his right hand, he spread his index finger and middle finger in the shape of a V, pointed at his eyes, then pointed at hers, a grin edging his lips—chapped lips all dry and cracked from lack of water. His tongue ran across them, slow and deliberate. “There’s nothing left worth seeing,” he told her in a low voice. “Your young eyes have been tainted by the evil in the world, and they need to come out. It’s the only way to unsee—the only way to cleanse you, make you pure.”
Emory backed up, scooting closer to the wall. “You’re not real,” she told herself. “I’m alone in here.”
She wanted the music to come back.
If he was here, if he truly stood in this room ready to hurt her, she didn’t want to hear him coming. It would be better that way.
The ringing in her ears had lessened, and she forced herself to ignore the pounding of her heart at her damaged ear; she forced herself to listen to the room around her.
Would she hear him breathing?
“If you’re going to hurt me, get it over with, you sick shit!” she shouted. Only it wasn’t a shout
—her throat had gone so dry, her voice came out high and cracked.
A sound came.
Had that been there earlier?
A steady plop, plop, plop every second or so.
Where, though?
She had walked around the room when she first woke. She’d checked every wall. She was barefoot—if there was a leak, standing water somewhere, she would have found it, right?
Her throat ached at the thought of water.
You might be hearing water because you’re so thirsty, dear. The mind is funny like that. I think if he wanted you to have water, he would have given you water.
Emory closed her eyes and tried to listen harder. She knew it was silly; she couldn’t see anyway, but somehow closing her eyes helped. Sounds became a little louder, a little clearer.
Plop . . . plop . . . plop.
She tilted her head, positioning her good ear, turning slightly with each drip until it was at its loudest. When the sound began to fade again, she stopped and turned slowly back.
It came from her left.
Emory slid off the gurney and stood on the icy concrete. Goose bumps ran over her skin, and she wrapped her left arm around herself in an attempt to warm up. Her right hand tugged at the gurney.
Don’t forget the rats, dear. Those little guys are probably scurrying around you right now. They probably found the water a long time ago; now they want a little dinner to wash down with it, a little chunk of girl-meat. If I were a rat, I’d probably set up base right next to the water. I’d protect that water too; I’d protect it with my life.
Emory took a step forward, followed by another, the gurney dragging behind her.
She didn’t want to abandon the wall. The wall brought her comfort, like a big safety blanket, but she left anyway. She left the wall behind her and took another step, a little step, more of a shuffle. Without knowing what was in front of her, she couldn’t permit herself any more than that.
Can you imagine if he scattered broken glass? Or rusty nails? What about a hole in the floor? If you fell and broke your leg you’d be in all kinds of trouble—much worse than your current predicament, that’s for sure. By the way, not to be a pest, but I feel this is worth mentioning. Have you figured out who turned off the music yet? Because if he’s nearby, then fetching a drink shouldn’t be your number one priority right now.