by J. D. Barker
“Not exactly getting richer,” Hosman replied, shuffling through various stacks of paper. When he found the sheet he wanted, he handed it to Nash.
Nash took a quick glance and handed it back to him. “Not a financial analyst, remember?”
Hosman rolled his eyes. “Talbot has sixteen large-scale projects going on right now, everything from residential construction to retail, to condos and luxury office space. All of them are months away from completion, and they’re bleeding money—the towers with the structural problems in particular. As soon as his backers got wind of the problem, they started pulling out. He’s paid back more than three hundred million in the past month. He owes another hundred eighty million in the next two weeks, and from what I can tell, he doesn’t have it. It appears he’s been using the money coming in from new investors to pay out the old while attempting to float loans to cover the construction.”
“Okay, so Ponzi scheme,” Nash said.
“No, that’s not a Ponzi scheme,” Hosman replied.
“Then what is a—?”
Clair placed her hand over Nash’s mouth. “In order for this to be a Ponzi scheme, he’d have to solicit funds for a bogus project and use the proceeds to pay off the investors of the other projects.”
“That brings us back to the Moorings.” Hosman produced a copy of the brochure found on the body of Gunther Herbert, Talbot’s CFO. “This place is a sham.”
“But he’s building out there,” Nash pointed out.
“You saw houses in phase one, six in total, none of which have sold yet. The real problem is in phase two. He’s been selling lots, future homes, even stakes in an upscale golf and country club with an estimated completion date of fall of next year. I called Terry Henshaw at FBI White-Collar, and he said they’ve been monitoring Talbot for a few months now. He’s been routing the money from phase two through a series of sub accounts overseas, then bringing it back in under the Talbot Enterprises umbrella in order to pay back investors from the other projects.”
Clair was shaking her finger. “That’s still not a Ponzi scheme. It may be unethical, but if his corporation owns all these projects and they’re legit, he probably covered his ass with some fine print in the paperwork.”
Hosman spun his chair in a slow circle, a grin playing at his lips. “You’d be right, but I found one other thing.”
“What?”
“The land where they plan to build phase two, he doesn’t own it. He’s selling a development on somebody else’s land.”
“If he doesn’t own it, then who does?”
A grin spread across Hosman’s face, and his eyes darted back and forth between the two detectives. “Wait for it . . .”
Nash’s face grew red. “Spit it out, math boy.”
“Emory Connors.” Hosman slapped his hand on the desk. “Her mother left it to her in her will. That little girl is worth some serious coin. Since she owns the land, not Talbot, we’ve got something worse than a Ponzi scheme. There’s more, look at this.” He pointed to a highlighted paragraph in a legal document.
Nash read it and whistled. “Think the captain will let us bring him in now?”
47
Diary
The steps creaked as I descended with Mother’s large salad bowl in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Mother had watched me intently as I went about the business of collecting these items; at one point she even mouthed the words “Don’t let him do it.” Of course, I paid her no mind because I didn’t “let” Father do anything and I wasn’t about to ruin his good mood by passing on such a message from Mother. He had asked me to bring the bowl, and I knew Mrs. Carter hadn’t drunk anything in hours. I imagined she must be parched, so I brought water too. If Mother took pause at anything that was about to happen, she was perfectly capable of communicating her position. Father was already downstairs, kneeling next to the cot. As I drew closer, I realized he was tying Mrs. Carter’s feet to the frame with a length of three-strand nylon rope. He had already secured her free hand. She yanked at the bindings to no avail. Father knew how to tie a strong knot.
A rag was stuffed in her mouth, held in place by a gag made from a piece of Mr. Carter’s shirt. Little crimson specks were caught up in the cloth.
Father tugged at the last knot and patted Mrs. Carter’s leg. “Snug as a bug.” He turned to me, his eyes shining like a child’s at Christmas. “Do you have your knife on you?”
Mother still had my knife. I had searched the house high and low but found no sign of it. I shook my head.
Father frowned. “You should always carry your knife.” He reached into his back pocket, retrieved his own, and handed it to me.
“Are we gonna kill her?”
“You should say ‘going to,’ not ‘gonna.’ Smart boys don’t use language like that.”
“Sorry, Father.”
“The only time you should talk like that is when you want those around you to think you’re less intelligent than you are. Sometimes it’s best not to be the smartest guy in a room. Some people are scared of those with a higher intellect. If you dumb yourself down to their level, they’ll accept you. Makes it easier to blend with the crowd. No need for false pretenses when it’s just your old man and our lovely neighbor, though. If you can’t be yourself around friends and family, what’s the point, right?”
I couldn’t help but agree. “Are we going to kill her, Father?”
Father took the knife from my hand and held the blade up to the light. “That’s an excellent question, champ, but it’s not mine to answer. You see, Mrs. Carter holds the cards for that particular game of chance, and she’s playing them close to the vest. Personally, I’d rather not kill her. I’d prefer to keep her around for a little while. I hear Mrs. Carter is quite the party girl, and I have yet to experience her virtue firsthand.” He tapped her leg again. “Isn’t that right, Lisa? You’re a little burst of pleasure?”
Her eyes were locked on the knife blade. It shimmered nicely under the glow of the sixty-watt hanging from the ceiling.
Father’s paper bag sat on the floor at his side, skittering softly against the concrete. He handed the knife back to me. “You’re a big boy now. How about you take the honors?”
Mrs. Carter squirmed, her feet kicking and eyes bulging. She shouted something behind the gag, but it was impossible to make it out. I wasn’t sure why Father had gagged her. Wasn’t half the fun in hearing the reaction?
Father tugged Mrs. Carter’s white blouse out from her jeans. “I want you to cut this off her. It’s a shame to ruin such a pristine garment, but unfortunately there’s no other way to get the job done with her secured to the cot like this. Too bad she didn’t wear a nice button-down.”
Mrs. Carter was shaking her head furiously, but she didn’t get a vote where Father was concerned. I gave her my most reassuring smile, then slipped the blade into the thin fabric of her blouse and gave it a little tug. The sharp edge cut through the cotton with little effort, and I pulled it along. My knuckles brushed against the smooth skin of her belly, and I felt my face flush. I couldn’t look at Father or Mrs. Carter for fear of revealing the flood of emotions surging through me. I’m sure I was warm to the touch—my temperature rose by the second. When the back of my hand rubbed against her brassiere, I thought I might explode. I forced the knife past and sliced until the blade came out at her collar—the blouse split in two. Mrs. Carter was crying now.
“Cut off the arms and shoulders too. Get that pesky thing out of the way,” Father instructed.
I did as I was told, and soon the blouse was lying in a tattered pile at my side. Mrs. Carter grew increasingly anxious, her breathing labored by the gag. Her chest rose and fell with increased urgency. Would she pass out?
“Should we take the gag off?”
Father glanced down at Mrs. Carter for a brief second before shaking his head. “A person screaming in fear is one thing, but someone screaming in pain? That’s a whole other animal. And this is going to hurt. I’m quite certain
of that.” He took another length of rope and wrapped it around her stomach just below her breasts, then circled the cot and tied a tight knot. He repeated this four more times until he ran out of rope.
This did nothing to calm Mrs. Carter. She kicked at her restraints and bucked at the cot with renewed vigor. Father placed his large hand on her knees and forced them down before tying them to the cot as well with another length of rope. When he was through, Mrs. Carter could no longer move. “Best to get on with it. Can you hand me that bag and the salad bowl?”
I nodded and reached for the paper sack. It was heavy. Whatever was inside weighed at least half a pound. I felt it sliding around inside. It had peed too. The bottom of the bag was soaked in urine and stank of warm ammonia.
Father took the bag from me and set it on Mrs. Carter’s stomach. She drew in a deep breath and tried to sit up as the soaked sack touched her skin, but the rope held her firm. She craned her neck enough to see the bag, but she couldn’t hold the awkward position for long before falling back.
Father peeled back the top of the sack and let in some air, then quickly placed the salad bowl on top, sealing the bag between the dome of the bowl and Mrs. Carter’s stomach.
He produced a roll of duct tape, tore off a few strips, and taped the bowl to her chest. It was clear plastic, so we could see the happenings inside very nicely.
He tapped at the top of the bowl. “This little guy is your typical field rat. I scooped him up right outside without much trouble after feeding him a piece of cheese laced with methyl trichloride. It’s starting to wear off, though, and when he wakes up he’s going to be angry and battling an epic headache. Rats aren’t fond of confined spaces, so I’m fairly certain he is going to want out of this bowl. He may try clawing at the plastic, but the surface is too smooth to get any kind of worthwhile purchase. Once he gives up on that route, I think he’s going to turn his attention to what lies beneath, and that’s when the real fun will start. Unlike plastic, his sharp, pointy nails will have little trouble tearing through your tender torso, and if he gets his mouth into the game and starts chewing . . .” Father smiled broadly. “Well, let’s just say teeth like those were made to devour much more difficult substances.”
Mrs. Carter was squirming again, and breathing had become a battle. She tried to suck in air but couldn’t get enough through her nose. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy.
I leaned closer. The rat was curled up in the bag, barely moving, but it was clear the drug was wearing off. When the black little rat poked its head out of the top of the sack, I nearly jumped out of my shorts.
Father laughed. “Don’t worry, champ. He’s not coming after you. If he gets out of there, his belly will be so full, another meal will be the last thought on his little mind.”
“She’s going to pass out.”
I’m sure Father already thought about that possibility, but his expression said otherwise. He appeared puzzled at first, then frustrated. “You may be right, champ. I guess this may be a little overwhelming. We’re almost done, though.” He ran his hand through Mrs. Carter’s hair. “You can hold it together for a few more minutes, can’t you, Lisa? You’re tough enough to do that, right?”
Her head bobbed and I couldn’t tell if she nodded in agreement or shook out a vigorous no.
The rat climbed from the bag and fell over the side before scrambling to its pink feet. Its balance was off, and it was clearly groggy but slowly finding its way back to the land of the living. It sniffed first at the bag, then the bowl, then Mrs. Carter’s belly button, its little snout disappearing before poking back up.
“There’s our little friend.” The rat scuttled around the edge of the bowl. “I think my son may be right. That gag is making it difficult to breathe, so I’m going to remove it to give you a chance to catch your breath. I’d also like you to answer a simple question, one that could put an end to all of this if you’re honest with me. Would you like that?”
This time, Mrs. Carter most definitely nodded.
Father considered this, then leaned in close, his lips pressed against her ear. “Was your husband sleeping with my wife?” The words came out in a hush, barely audible from where I stood.
Mrs. Carter’s eyes went wide, staring back at him. Father reached for the gag and pulled the cloth from her mouth. She spat out the wadded-up piece of cloth lodged in her mouth and gasped up the air, as if she had been submerged for hours. “Get that thing off of me!” she shouted. She bucked again, but it did little good. Her torso moved no more than an inch before the bindings snapped her back. She craned her neck but couldn’t raise her head enough to see what was going on.
I could see, though. I could see plenty.
The rat was coming around fast, shaking off the sleepy time and finding its sea legs. If rats were capable of suffering a panic attack, I was fairly confident this furry wonder had one in its immediate future. It circled the edge of the bowl, its twitchy little nose pressed to the space where the plastic met Mrs. Carter’s skin, pausing every few steps to inspect the plastic before returning to the perimeter search. The rat circled the bowl again, then again, each pass more frantic than the last.
“Oh boy, I think he may be claustrophobic. What do you think, champ?”
I nodded. “He sure is, Father! Look at him go! He’s getting angry!”
“None of God’s creatures enjoy captivity. Doesn’t matter if it’s a worm, a rodent, or the strongest of men. You lock up a living creature, even if you fill its cage with the most delectable of treats and a comfy place to rest its head, it’ll want to get out. This little bugger will tunnel right on through our dear neighbor for a shot at freedom. Can you imagine that? A hole running right through the middle of her. I bet it wouldn’t even kill her, at least not for a little while. I once witnessed a man live three days with a gunshot wound through his gut—I swear if the light caught it right, you could see clear through. Of course, this hole will be much bigger, so I don’t expect her to live on for days, but I bet twenty or thirty minutes wouldn’t be out of the question.” He shivered. “Can you imagine the pain of something like that? A hole as big as a man’s fist.” He raised his own fist and held it above her.
Mrs. Carter pulled at her bonds and kicked her feet with what little play in the rope she had, though this only made the rat more agitated. “Please get it away from me! Please! I’ll tell you whatever you want!”
Father leaned back in close. “The question I asked you was simple enough, but maybe in all the excitement you forgot or didn’t quite hear me, so I’ll repeat it—was your husband sleeping with my wife?”
Mrs. Carter shook her head. “No! No, no, no!”
Father gave me a wink. “What do you think, champ? Is she being honest with us or spinning a little untruth?”
“Ahh!” Mrs. Carter screamed, her eyes bulging and her face going flush.
I looked down at the rat. It had taken the tiniest of bites at the corner of Mrs. Carter’s belly button. Not enough to draw blood, but certainly enough to bring on the red and puffy. His head was raised and his little mouth twitched as he sampled his findings the way one might assess a fine wine.
Father clapped his hands, and the creature turned up to him, forgetting about his meal for a moment or two. “The little bugger is getting hungry. And he’s got a hankering for flesh. That sure is a good sign! I bet you must taste sweet—just the right amount of tender and tang.”
“You’re fucking nuts!” Mrs. Carter blurted out. She was gasping for breath again. Removing the gag was a good call. She surely would have passed out by now if Father left it in place.
“Please, get it off of me,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I answered your fucking question, now get it off.”
“Language, my dear, language.”
“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll tell you anything, just please—”
The rat bit down on her an instant before she howled the ugliest of screams. This time the rodent didn’t
hesitate. Unlike the first bite, which had simply been exploratory, this one was driven purely by hunger. Father was right—the little critter had developed a taste for flesh. He took a quarter-inch chunk out of her abdomen. I stared in awe as the spot first turned pink, then red, then filled with blood.
“Oooh!” Father crooned. “Now we’ve got a ball game.”
Mrs. Carter gripped the sides of the cot, her fingers white as she tugged at the frame. She sucked in a gulp of air. I had heard the expression bulging eyes before, but until this instant I had never witnessed such a thing. Her eyes were bulging, though; they really did look as if they might pop right out of her head.
Then Father noticed the glass of water.
“Champ, watch this.” He tipped the glass and spilled the littlest of water drops on the bowl. It dripped down the side and pooled where the plastic met her skin. Not even a second passed before the rat sensed the water—it jumped from the opposite side of the little cage and shoved its snout at the edge of the bowl. It couldn’t reach the water, though—Father had taped the makeshift dome thoroughly in place. This seemed to frustrate the rat, and it began to dig, tiny claws slicing at Mrs. Carter’s belly with little concern for the woman’s screams. And scream she did. I thought the bite was bad, but—
Father ruffled my hair. “How’s that for fun!” Turning back to Mrs. Carter: “You see, Lisa, I know she’s been going over to your house, sometimes for hours at a time, and she comes home stinking of sex. She comes home stinking with the filth of sex, and she smiles at me as if nothing were wrong, as if she did nothing wrong. Well, we both know that’s not true, don’t we? I think we both know what’s going on here. When she killed him, she wasn’t trying to protect you, she was trying to protect herself. Am I right?”
I don’t think Mrs. Carter heard him. She drew breath in long, lingering gasps. Each one made wet, slurping noises as the air mixed with the tears and snot clogging her throat. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling; she didn’t see me or Father at all anymore.