The Fourth Monkey

by J. D. Barker

  I lifted the handle and pulled the door toward me with the utmost care. It let out a shrill squeak in protest. At first I thought the racket was loud enough for the man to hear, so I left the door open and ducked back down, peering at the house from under the car. When a minute passed and he didn’t come out, I got back on my feet and leaned inside.

  The Duster had a black leather bench seat with a tall gearshift knob poking up from the floorboards topped by a black eight ball, possibly the coolest gearshift knob I ever saw in all my years on this planet, and then and there I vowed to purchase one the moment I bought my first automobile. Such a transaction was still far off at this point, but proper planning is a must in all things from car purchases to breaking and entering.

  I did not have time to properly plan this particular break and enter, and as I reached for the glove box, I prayed silently to the gods above it would be unlocked. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be getting in without my picks; I left them in the top drawer of my nightstand under the latest issue of Spider-Man.

  The glove box opened with a pop.

  I had hoped to find a registration slip or some type of documentation to help identify the strange man, but first glance revealed I would have no such luck. The glove box didn’t contain any paper. However, it did contain a rather large gun. I do not know guns, and I’d be lying if I said under normal circumstances I could identify any weapon at first glance. I did recognize this gun, though, because I did a Dirty Harry movie marathon a few months earlier and this was clearly the same pistol favored by Clint Eastwood’s character in that chain of films.

  A .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, the kind of gun that could blow your head clear off, especially if you were an unlucky punk.

  I was not an unlucky punk. I was a smart punk. I reached for the gun, pushed out the cylinder, and tipped it back, dropping the bullets into my hand. I placed them in my pocket, returned the cylinder, and put the Magnum back into the glove box exactly as I’d found it.

  When Mr. Stranger decided to pull his gun (an event I was fairly certain would come to pass in the near future), I’d revel in knowing that the weapon would be about as effective as a water pistol. If I’d had my tools, I would have removed the firing pin and left the bullets—and I considered doing just that, but it would have meant a trip to the house and back, in direct view of the Carters’ house. Such a risk wasn’t in the cards. If the opportunity arose, I would reconsider.

  The gun safely disabled and tucked back where I’d found it, I closed the glove box and searched under the seat. Aside from an old sandwich wrapper, which still stank of mustard, I found nothing. The back seat was empty as well.

  The man who might be a cop but probably wasn’t was still a mystery, one I was determined to crack.

  I wanted to search the trunk, but my sense and sensibilities told me I was already pushing my luck, so I eased out of the car, gently closed the passenger door, then made my way back to the safety of the woods.

  Careful to remain between the largest of the oaks, I neared the Carter house. When I was parallel to the front porch, I ran across the grass and knelt down below the living room window.

  I closed my eyes and listened.

  Father once told me our senses worked in tandem with one another during the normal course of a day, but if you blocked out one or more of your senses and focused on those remaining, they were that much keener. I often found this to be true, and simply closing my eyes seemed to give my ears an added little boost otherwise untapped.

  I heard Mr. Stranger shuffling around inside; that much was clear. I was fairly certain he was in the living room directly above me.

  I heard a loud crash.

  It sounded as if it came from the living room, but I didn’t recall anything in that space that could make such a noise, and I had an excellent memory. Father often made me step into an unfamiliar room, then immediately close my eyes and recite everything I could recall, and exactly where each item was placed. To practice, we would visit houses for sale on open house day and move from room to room. When we finished with one house, we’d move on to the next, and if there was enough time, we would find another after that. We once stopped at six houses all in one day. My ability to remember the contents of a room was near photographic, Father told me with pride. His, however, was even better—at dinner after the six-house marathon, he asked me to recall the contents of specific rooms in the second house. I hadn’t been prepared for this secondary exam, and although I remembered some, I could not recall all. Father, however, seemed to remember everything. He seemed to—

  “Here to water the plants?”

  The voice startled me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin as I spun around to face the source. Mr. Stranger was standing directly behind me, his eyes narrow and face awash with frown lines that seemed to have seen their fair share of use during this man’s lifetime. He twirled a hammer between chubby fingers.

  “The Carters are on vacation, and I thought I saw someone moving around inside their house,” I blurted out quickly. This seemed like a viable reason for being over here. Sometimes the simplest answers are the best because if you lie and get deeper into a conversation, those lies can start to twist around your throat and cut off your breath.

  “That would be my business associate, Mr. Smith,” Mr. Stranger replied. “Like myself and my employer, Mr. Smith is equally concerned because your neighbor hasn’t reported to work in a few days. I think I mentioned that Mr. Carter didn’t put in for time off before leaving on this vacation. It’s all very worrisome.”

  I couldn’t remember if he had said that when we spoke the other day, but I nodded anyway. “You shouldn’t be in their house. Maybe I should call the police.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Mr. Stranger said. “Would you like to call from inside or from your house?”

  Rats.

  Mr. Stranger’s free hand rushed at my shoulder. I ducked, swirled, and came up beside him.

  He let out a chuckle and tapped on the window, then curled his finger in a come hither motion. “Relax, kid. I’m only asking Mr. Smith to step outside.”

  A rumble filled the air from the direction of my house, and I spotted Father’s Porsche pulling into the driveway. He climbed out of the driver’s seat, and Mother exited the passenger side. Speaking to each other in a hushed tone, they stared at Mr. Stranger and me. They approached, Father with a smile that could light a room and Mother with her arm folded through his. She was wearing a lovely green floral dress that hugged her legs with each whimsical step. They belonged in a magazine.

  Father offered his hand and what was sure to be a firm handshake. “How do you do, kind sir? Friend of the Carters’?”

  Mr. Stranger offered a smile in return. “I work for his employer, actually. He hasn’t been at work since Tuesday, and talk around the water cooler is getting a little worried. Thought I’d take the drive on out here and see what was what.”

  The screen door at the front of the Carter house slammed, and we all turned. A wiry man with long blond hair and thick glasses stepped down off the porch. Rather than approach, he leaned against the railing and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. I watched as he flicked the tip of a match with his right thumb, setting it ablaze, then lit a cigarette that had found its way into his mouth, though I hadn’t seen him remove it from the pack.

  “That’s my coworker, Mr. Smith.”

  Mr. Smith tipped a nonexistent cap and continued to survey us from afar. His eyes lingered on Mother a little longer than they should have, and I knew this probably angered Father, although he didn’t show it. Instead, he cordially said, “Pleased to meet you,” and returned his attention to Mr. Stranger. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  Mr. Stranger smiled. “No, I don’t suppose you did. I’m Mr. Jones.”

  “And you’re a police officer, Mr. Jones?”

  Mr. Stranger tilted his head. “Why would you say that?”

  Father’s eyes didn’t break contact wit
h Mr. Stranger. “My son said you had a badge yesterday.”

  Mr. Stranger did break eye contact, and he did look down at me. “I’m not sure why he would say such a thing. He must have been mistaken.” He offered a quick wink, then ruffled my hair before returning to my father. “Did the Carters tell you where they were going?”

  Father shook his head. “We aren’t that close.”

  “Did they say when they would be back?”

  “Like I said—”

  “You’re not that close.”

  “That’s right.”

  From the porch, Mr. Smith let the remains of his cigarette fall to the floor and crushed the butt under a black boot that belonged on the foot of a motorcycle rebel, not the little man standing before us. He wasn’t much taller than I. But his voice was much deeper than one would expect, raspy. “Mr. Carter was working on a rather sensitive project for our employer, and since he didn’t clear this vacation with the office and he appears to be unreachable, we have to assume he has skipped out on his duties. That in mind, all associated work papers, the property of our employer, must be returned immediately. We hoped those work papers would be here in his home, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. At least, if they are here, they are not readily visible. Did Mr. Carter ever speak about work? Perhaps he mentioned what he was working on?”

  “We aren’t that close,” Father repeated again. “I am sorry to say I’m not even aware of Mr. Carter’s profession.”

  “He’s an accountant,” Mr. Stranger said.

  I saw his eyes shift over to Mother for the briefest of seconds, and she looked back. Something was communicated with that simple glance, but I did not know what that was.

  Mr. Smith was holding his hands out before him. He traced a square in the air.

  “He stored his work papers in a beige metal box about a foot tall and two feet wide, fireproof, with a key lock on the lid. Similar to a large safe-deposit box. I found it under their bed, empty as a drunk’s shot glass. I’d like to know what he did with the contents.”

  Mother, who had remained silent up until this point, spoke up in a firm tone. “I don’t believe the Carters would be happy to learn you rummaged through their things without prior permission in search of such a box, regardless of its contents. I think it would be best if you gentlemen were to leave. When the Carters return, I will personally see to it Mr. Carter contacts his office. I imagine his failure to properly request this time off was simply an oversight, and this can all be straightened out with a very boring explanation.”

  Mr. Stranger smiled, but it was a forced smile, the kind you spread across your face to be polite when fed a bitter dessert. “I am sure you are right and we are all overreacting.” He lowered his head in a mock bow. “It was a pleasure to meet you both.” He ruffled my hair again. “You have a fine boy here. Please tell Mr. Carter to phone the office the instant they return.”

  “Absolutely,” Father replied.

  With that, the two men walked at a leisurely pace back to the Plymouth at the curb, neither looking back. Father, Mother, and I held our ground until the car disappeared from view, leaving nothing behind but a dusty rooster tail.

  57

  Emory

  Day 2 • 11:57 a.m.

  Emory pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her free arm around her body in an attempt to warm up. She shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering in her skull. Earlier she felt her broken wrist with her good hand and had to pull away. It had swollen so thick the skin seemed to wrap around the edges of the handcuffs, the metal digging in. Her pulse beat against the sharp steel, all warm and wet. She feared she might lose the hand if she didn’t find a way out soon, but she didn’t know what to do.

  There was no way out.

  No door.

  No ceiling.

  Nothing but cold concrete surrounded her.

  Music blared, a song she didn’t know.

  Putting a coherent thought together had become difficult too. She knew this stemmed from lack of food and water, but telling herself that did little to help. Her head throbbed with pains of its own, and her mind seemed muffled, lost on the other side of the fog.

  She had gotten drunk once.

  She and Colleen McDoogle.

  They found a bottle of Wild Turkey under the kitchen cabinet at Colleen’s house and decided to try it. After all, if they didn’t practice drinking, how would they know how much they could safely drink at a party without getting wasted? In the end it took very little, and Colleen’s mother was far from thrilled when she walked in on them, arriving home a full hour earlier than expected. Emory couldn’t remember how much they’d drunk, but the next day she was left with a special kind of headache, one that seemed to start behind her eyes and intensify as it worked its way back.

  She had such a headache now.

  I remember when that happened. You couldn’t walk a straight line if your life depended on it. You tried, though, you and Colleen both, hoping her mother couldn’t tell.

  “It was last year, Mom. You were dead.”

  That doesn’t mean I wasn’t watching, honey. How I would have grounded you! I would have taken away your computer and your phone and your television. I might have done what my mother did when she caught me drinking for the first time with my brother. You remember your uncle Roger, right? She caught Roger and me with a fifth of vodka and made us finish the entire bottle between us. I was sick for days, but I didn’t touch alcohol again for nearly three years. How is Roger these days?

  “Who is Roger? I don’t remember an Uncle Roger.”

  How could you forget Uncle Roger? He lived with us for nearly a year after you were born.

  Then Emory did remember Roger. Slightly overweight, dark hair disheveled in a vain attempt to hide the bald spot slowly accumulating real estate at the top of his head. He fixed the sink once when Ms. Burrow stuffed the disposal up with pasta. He also helped her get a new access card for the elevator when hers died from sitting under her cell phone in her purse. Wait . . . “I don’t have an uncle Roger. Roger is the building superintendent.”

  Did I say Roger? Oh dear, I meant your uncle Robert.

  “I don’t have an uncle. If I met any of your relatives, I don’t remember them,” Emory said quietly. She could have shouted if she wanted to, and nobody would hear over the thundering sound of Cream singing “Born Under a Bad Sign.”

  You don’t remember your uncle Steve? He would be very upset. He used to love rocking you to sleep when you were a baby. He used to sing you that song . . . How did it go? Do you recall? Something about the day the music died . . .

  “Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry,” Emory croaked, her lips dry and chapped. She ran her tongue over the cracks. “. . . this’ll be the day that I die . . .”

  That’s it! Uncle Ryan loved that one.

  “I don’t have any uncles. I don’t have a mother, either. You don’t exist. Please stop talking to me.”

  Do you think today is the day?

  “What?”

  You know, the day you’re going to die.

  Emory pressed the fingertips of her good hand against her temple and ground them into the soft skin.

  I think it’s best you come to terms with your limited future. Really, dear, even if that Monkey Killer doesn’t kill you soon, you haven’t had food or water in weeks. How much longer do you think you can last?

  “It hasn’t been weeks. It’s only been two days, three at most.”

  Oh, I think it’s been at least a week, sweetie.

  Emory shook her head, cringing as the motion rocked her damaged ear. “I think the music is on a timer. If it is, I think it’s coming on once a day. That would make today the second day.”

  Even if your little theory turned out to be true, and I don’t believe it is, just how long can you last without food or water?

  “Gandhi fasted for twenty-one days,” Emory said.

  Twenty-one days without food, but he had water.

 
“Did he?”

  Oh, I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone snuck him a candy bar or two along the way. You know how those celebrities are.

  “He wasn’t a celebrity, he was a . . .” Why was she talking to her? She wasn’t real. It was just her mind. She was losing her mind. She would snap long before the lack of water did her in. Her brain was slowly dehydrating like a sponge left out in the sun—her organs too. She felt like she needed to pee, but when she tried there was nothing. She could almost picture her kidneys and liver shriveling up inside her. How long before they failed? Even though she wasn’t moving, her heart was speeding up, pounding in her chest. At first she thought it was only her imagination, but when she’d taken her pulse a few hours ago, she measured nearly ninety beats per minute. Very high. When she ran, her pulse rarely broke eighty.

  Emory pressed her finger into her neck and took her pulse again, counting the beats over fifteen seconds—twenty-six. Twenty-six times four is . . . Crap, she couldn’t focus. Twenty-six times—

  It’s nearly two hundred, dear. That’s fast.

  “One hundred four,” Emory said, ignoring the voice. Her resting heart rate normally ran around fifty-five. She was doing nothing right now, and her heart was racing. Emory didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she knew it wasn’t good.

  When the Monkey Killer comes back, maybe you can ask him to kill you quickly. That would be so much better than the business with the eyes and tongue, don’t you think?

  Emory ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. She had lost most of her sense of taste, but what little remained reminded her of sawdust. A mouthful of sawdust.

  She wanted to cry but had no more tears. Her dry eyes burned against the darkness.

  From somewhere up above, Jimi Hendrix picked up his guitar and began to wail.