by J. D. Barker
I picked up the wagon’s handle and gave it an experimental tug. “It’s heavy.”
Father smiled. “It’s about a hundred eighty pounds of bad beef—should make our little fishy friends very happy, don’t you think?”
Do fish eat beef? I’d heard of exotic fish such as piranha that love to dine on a pound of flesh, but I was fairly confident there were no piranhas in our lake. Our lake had plenty of trout and bass, though I hadn’t been schooled on their dietary habits. I still harbored suspicion about whether or not they even ate worms.
“Do you still have your knife with you? Maybe cut a small slit in each package before you toss it into the water. Give them a little taste of the feast to be found inside. That would be splendid.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks.” He glanced over at the Carter house. “We still need to pack a couple bags and stage the house.”
“I can do it,” I told him earnestly.
He looked down at me and cocked his head. “Yeah?”
I nodded. “Absolutely, Father. You can count on me!”
His eyes grew narrow as he contemplated this. Then he nodded. “Okay, champ. I’ll leave this man’s work in your capable hands. Load some stuff in their car, and I’ll get rid of it tonight.”
“Where are you going to leave it?”
Father shrugged. “Not sure yet. The airport is a bit of a drive. I was thinking about the bus depot over in Marlow. I’ll come up with something.”
He started toward the front of the house, then paused. “One more thing, champ. Can you keep an eye on your mother? You know how she gets after . . .”
I nodded. I did, in fact, know how she gets.
He grinned. “My little boy is almost a little man. Who’da thunk it? Surely not me.” He turned and rounded the corner. “Surely not me, no sir,” he said as he disappeared from sight.
Mother tended to get a little emotional after a kill. She could be unpredictable. Sometimes she would shut down completely, just disappear into her room and not come out for days. When she did emerge, she would be right as rain, but for those few days it was best to leave her alone. Other times she’d overflow with joy, laughing and joking in the merriest of ways. She would dance in the kitchen and skip down the street. I liked this Mother best—Chipper Mother, Elated Mother, the Mother of Many Smiles. We never knew which Mother would emerge after a kill, only that one of them would, and no less than a handful of days would pass before Original Mother returned from her mental journey.
I considered checking on her before I left for the lake but decided against it. If today was the day for Chipper Mother, hearing what I was about to do might cause her to revert to one of the others, and nobody wanted that. Best to leave well enough alone until I completed my morning chores, then devote the remainder of the day to her company, helping her cope with the events of last night.
With a rough tug, the wagon fell into step behind me and I started down the path to the lake while whistling a merry little tune by Eddie and the Cruisers. Luckily, it was downhill. Mr. Carter had been a large man.
38
Porter
Day 1 • 6:18 p.m.
Porter followed Espinosa out of the kill room to the main subbasement. Three of Espinosa’s men were huddled in the far right corner, a stack of crates at their side. As Porter approached, he took note of the names stitched into their uniforms: Brogan, Thomas, and Tibideaux.
Tibideaux spoke first. “It was just like you said. We followed the rats, and most of them made a beeline from the body to this corner. They disappeared behind this mess of crap, so we figured something must be back here. We found the tunnel opening buried behind the crates.” He gestured to a wide mouth carved into the cement wall.
The rounded opening was about seven or eight feet tall and six feet wide, reinforced with a stone parameter. Small railroad tracks started just inside the passage and disappeared down its throat.
“My grandfather told me about these. They used them to transport coal from the river to buildings downtown in the early 1900s,” Brogan said. He shined his light into the opening, revealing a small railcar a little larger than a shopping cart. Although the car must have been a hundred years old, the wheels glimmered with newly applied oil.
“Do any of you have a printing kit? Someone’s been using that.”
Thomas nodded. “I’m on it.” He pulled a small pack from his belt, knelt down beside the cart, and began brushing powder. His fingers moved with the dexterity of a seasoned professional. Porter couldn’t help but wonder what previous assignments the man held before finding his way into SWAT.
Porter had lived in the city for more years than he cared to count, and before today he had no idea these tunnels existed. His mind began to race back through 4MK’s previous victims, where they were abducted, where they were found. If these tunnels did run throughout the city, it was feasible he had been using them this entire time to transport the bodies. It made sense. They’d never determined how he moved through the city unseen. After all, he deposited some of the bodies in heavily trafficked areas without a single witness. Susan Devoro had been positioned on a bench near the center of Union Station, covered in a filthy blanket. The odds that one of these tunnels intersected with Union was high. To get her body there aboveground, he would have passed through security, a dozen vendors, and who knows how many pedestrians. Even in the middle of the night the route was bustling. Underground, though? That had to be it.
“It’s been wiped,” Thomas said. “But I’ve got a partial down here at the left rear wheel. Should be enough to make a match if he’s in the system.”
“4MK never left a print behind. I guess if you’re planning on stepping in front of a bus, stealth no longer matters.”
Thomas lifted the print and handed the latent preservation tape to Porter in a plastic bag. “Here you go, sir.”
Porter held it up to the light—more than half of a fingertip. Enough for an ID. “Nice job, Thomas.” He dropped it into his pocket and turned to the sergeant. “Espinosa, is your radio working?”
The large man glanced down at his receiver and shook his head. “We lost communication the moment we descended those stairs. No cell service, either.”
“If we follow that tunnel, how do we keep from getting lost?”
Porter imagined dozens or more tunnels breaking off in numerous directions—an underground maze. He supposed the city had maps, but how accurate would they be? Particularly if some tunnels were constructed for bootlegging. There may be no record of them at all.
Espinosa pulled a small can of spray paint from a pouch on his pack. “Did I mention I used to be a Boy Scout?”
“All right then, lead the way.”
Espinosa went first, followed by Thomas and Tibideaux, then Porter with Brogan at the rear. Together they filed into the tunnel, squeezing past the railcar. The air immediately felt damp and cool. Porter figured the temperature must be in the mid-fifties. The tunnel walls were smooth, carved out of limestone. Even in today’s world, digging something like this would prove to be a difficult task. How had they managed such a feat more than a hundred years ago? How many men died down here?
At least one more soul joined them this week, Porter thought.
Water dripped from the ceiling in places. Not enough to be worrisome, but enough to make the ground slippery. Porter hadn’t dressed for spelunking; his black loafers offered little traction.
Twenty minutes later, when they arrived at a bend followed by an intersection, the five men stopped. Espinosa lifted his light high and pointed the beam down the three possible paths. “Any suggestions?”
Porter knelt down at the center. “Shine that down here?”
The light redirected, joined by flashlights from the others. Porter studied the tracks. Only one bore signs of recent use: the one veering off to the left. “That way.”
Espinosa gave his paint can a quick shake and drew an arrow on the wall pointing back the way in which they had c
ome; then they continued.
Porter peered into the darkness at their backs. Pitch-black. Not a single hint of light poked through. He imagined the entrance to hell was something like this. What would happen if the tunnel collapsed behind them? The air felt thin, desperate. How cut off from the real world were they?
He looked down at his iPhone. No signal.
Espinosa raised his right fist and froze, pointing his weapon ahead. “I see light up there,” he told them in a low voice.
“Outside?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t think so; not bright enough. Come with me. The rest of you hold here for a minute.”
Porter crouched low, pulled the Beretta from his shoulder holster, and disengaged the safety, pointing the barrel at the ceiling.
What if bullets started flying around in here? The ricochet off these stone walls would be deadly. Although he wore a vest, that left plenty exposed for a bullet to wreak havoc. A quick inventory of the other men’s eyes told him they were having similar thoughts. Brogan had pulled a large knife from a sheaf on his thigh, favoring the close-quarters weapon to the MP5 slung over his back. Tibideaux held a Glock.
“Porter!”
From up ahead, Espinosa’s voice echoed off the smooth stone.
Porter rose and sprinted down the tunnel toward the light, the other men at his back. They found Espinosa and Thomas standing at the center of some type of chamber. A floodlight illuminated the space from high atop the wall, somehow tapped into city power. In the far corner, a ladder was bolted into the limestone. A manhole cover rested at the top. Espinosa was pointing his weapon at the ground. “There.”
Porter followed his gaze.
Three white boxes stood side by side, each sealed with a black string. A single word was scrawled into the top of the middle box. PORTER.
“Gloves?”
Tibideaux pulled some from his jacket pocket. Porter slipped them on and carefully pulled the string on the first box. Then he removed the lid—
A human ear lying on a bed of cotton.
“Oh, that’s foul,” Brogan said, taking a step back.
Porter opened the next box, revealing a pair of eyes. Blue. Part of the optic nerve still dangled from the end of one of them, shriveled and crusted, dried and stuck to the cotton by a thin trail of blood.
The final box contained a tongue.
Porter hadn’t checked the body at Mulifax for a tongue. The eyes and ear were both missing, but he assumed the rats had gotten them. “I’m guessing these belong to our victim back in the basement. We’ll have to get them back to the medical examiner to find out for sure.”
“Not it,” Brogan spat. “I’m not carrying those.”
“Me either, boss. That’s bad juju right there,” Tibideaux said.
“Fucking pansies,” Thomas said. He pulled three plastic bags from his pack and handed them to Porter. “If you bag them, I’ll carry them.”
Porter shook his head. “Leave them as is for now. I’ll get CSI to run this entire room.”
He stood and gestured at the ladder. “He wants us to go up there. No other reason to place them here. X marks the spot.”
“On it.” Espinosa slung his weapon over his shoulder and started up the ladder. “Cover me, Brogan.”
“Yes, sir.” Brogan knelt down at the base and pointed his MP5 at the manhole.
When he reached the top, Espinosa pushed at the metal cover. It was difficult to get leverage on the thick steel from that position. Porter knew from experience that they weighed about a hundred pounds. With a loud grunt, he slid the cover to the side. Daylight streamed in. Porter shielded his eyes.
Espinosa pulled a Glock from a thigh holster and readied the weapon, then in one quick, fluid motion he pulled himself through the hole and rolled off to the right.
Brogan stood at the ladder’s base, his weapon pointed at the sky.
“Clear!” Espinosa’s voice came back.
“Go ahead, Detective,” Brogan said.
Porter pulled his tired frame up the ladder, the warmth of the sun forcing the cold from his bones. As his head broke the surface, he found himself at the center of a residential intersection. There was no traffic, the houses still in various stages of construction.
“The Moorings Lakeside, I presume.”
39
Diary
The cat no longer smelled, which was a welcome surprise. As I approached, I gave the furry remains a little tap with the tip of my shoe. An assortment of flies took wing, and a couple of creepy-crawlies darted out from the carcass. What little meat remained had the appearance of rotten jerky matted with black and white hair. The skull appeared smaller, as if shrunken by the elements. That was silly, of course. Cats don’t shrink, even when exposed to water. But smaller it appeared, defying such logic. Something had absconded with the cat’s tail. Of all things, why would something want its tail? Mother Nature and her critters never failed to surprise me.
I tugged at the wagon, the precariously stacked parcels threatening to tumble as one of the wheels bounced over an exposed root. I reached for them and held them in place. The contents were squishy under my touch, like the surface of a water balloon. My mind’s eye sent me the image of my finger bursting through and sinking into one of the bags, and I cursed myself for not taking a moment to fetch a pair of gloves. I considered running home for some but realized Father probably preferred that I complete this task barehanded. If I wore gloves, evidence might gather on them or because of them, then the question of disposal would come into play. I couldn’t bring gloves home and chance the wrong person finding them (never mind the large Mr. Carter stain drying into our basement floor), nor could I throw them into the lake and risk someone finding them there and tracing them back to me. Father had once told me the police could lift prints from the inside of a pair of gloves. Best to go without and simply wash my hands of whatever muck happened to accumulate.
Reaching the water’s edge, I dropped the wagon handle and peered out around the lake. Fishermen, swimmers, or some other spectators might be wandering about, none of whom were welcome at my little party. The lake appeared quiet, though— not another soul to be found either in the water or along the edge.
Satisfied I was alone, I withdrew my knife and snapped open the blade, then picked up the first package. I sliced it open and turned my head as the putrid aroma crept out and tickled at my nose.
Well, Father, here’s to hoping the fish enjoy a yummy snack. I heaved the package toward the middle of the lake with all the strength I could muster. I would never make the school football team, but it sailed a respectable distance before plunging into the water and disappearing beneath the surface.
“Skipper doodles!” I cursed. I’d forgotten to tape rocks to it.
I watched the lake, expecting the plastic-wrapped parcel to float back up, but it never did. A few minutes passed and the water grew still.
Turning back to the wagon, I counted at least thirty more packages. I would need rocks, many rocks. I began to gather a pile beside my wagon. Once I had enough, I secured them to the packages with the duct tape, double-wrapping to ensure they would remain together. Then, one at a time, I cut the packages open and heaved them out toward the center of the water. The extra weight limited my distance, but they still traveled far enough. I had swum here before (and I was fairly certain after today, I never would again), and I knew the bottom dropped off significantly just a few feet from shore. I didn’t know how deep the lake was at the center, but I could only walk out about ten feet before the water reached my chin—another step and I would be forced to swim or sink. The packages were landing anywhere from fifteen to twenty feet out and no doubt sinking to the bottom.
It took me nearly forty minutes to complete my assignment. By the time I looked down at an empty wagon, my shoulders and back were both screaming from the exercise, and my knife was shiny with crimson. I dipped the blade into the water and rubbed it off with my thumb and forefinger, scrubbing until the metal glistened. I
dropped it into my pocket and took one last gander out at the lake. I was fairly confident none of the bags would float back up, but I’d be lying if I said that very first bag didn’t concern me. Perhaps I would take a walk back out here later today for a little double check.
Dropping the remainder of the duct tape into my wagon, I scooped up the handle and started back down the path toward home, where the Carter house awaited.
40
Porter
Day 1 • 9:12 p.m.
Porter emerged from the dark, cavernous mouth of the Mulifax Publications Building with Nash at his back. Both men drew in long breaths of fresh air, tasting the acidic scent of fish rolling in from the lake, decaying trash in the alley to their right, and a damp sleeping bag left to rot outside the door.
It was wonderful.
It was the best air Porter had ever breathed.
After reaching the end of the tunnel and the manhole, he instructed Espinosa and his team to search the Moorings housing development from top to bottom. He retraced his steps back to the kill room in the subbasement, where he found Watson diligently processing the scene while the medical examiner looked over the body.
He’d spent an additional three hours inside the building, and Porter had no intention of stepping back inside in the foreseeable future.
Clair had her back to him, pacing as she spoke into her phone. “It all revolves around Talbot; we’ve got to bring him in. There’s more than—” She lifted her phone up over her head and swore a string of words Porter wouldn’t have anticipated coming from a longshoreman.
She rolled her eyes and brought the phone back to her ear. “But Captain, I—”
“Could the captain really be fighting her on this?” Nash asked, his eyes locked on Clair.
Porter wanted to talk to Talbot—not a chat on the golf course but a sit-down, bright-light-in-your-face, one-way-mirror-at-your-side kind of talk. The man was clearly in the middle of all this. Not only had 4MK kidnapped his illegitimate daughter, but now he linked that kidnapping directly to the Moorings Lakeside, one of Talbot’s real estate developments. As much as Porter despised the killer, he knew the man didn’t operate without a plan, without reason. Every previous victim had been kidnapped as retribution for some illegal activity perpetrated by a family member.