by J. D. Barker
We found more sugar around the lip of the gas tank.
Father could only stare.
His eyes were fixed on his beloved Porsche, and his hands trembled at his sides.
Mother’s car hadn’t fared much better. Her Ford Tempo had four flat tires, and the hood was up.
I looked around for the green Plymouth, but there was no sign of it.
Mother was facing the Carter house. The front door was open.
66
Porter
Day 2 • 4:40 p.m.
The phone on the table beside Porter’s hospital bed came to life, ringing so loudly he flinched. His leg barked in pain. He cringed and rubbed at the fresh stitches in his thigh, then reached over and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“How you feeling, Sam?” the man who had been Paul Watson and was now Anson Bishop asked him. There was a strange confidence in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Porter knew this was the real man, that the Watson persona had been nothing more than a façade.
“I feel like someone tried to kill me,” Porter replied, his free hand unconsciously returning to the wound on his leg.
“I didn’t try to kill you, Sam. If I had, you’d be dead. Why would I try to kill my favorite player in the game?”
Porter looked around the hospital tray and nightstand for his cell phone, then remembered Bishop had stomped it to pieces back at his apartment. If he could dial headquarters, he could initiate a trace.
“I’m on a burner, Sam. One of those cheap disposables you can pick up at the drugstore. I activated it with a gift card purchased with cash more than a month ago. I imagine you could trace the call if you tried, but what’s the point? In a few minutes the phone will be floating down the Chicago River with all the other trash, and I’ll be miles away.”
“Where’s Emory?”
“Where is Emory?”
“Is she alive?”
No answer.
Porter forced himself to sit up, ignoring the pain. “You don’t need to hurt her. Just tell us what you’ve got on Talbot, and we’ll put him away. You have my word.”
Bishop chuckled. “I believe you would, Sam. I really do. But we both know that’s not how this game is played, is it?”
“Nobody else has to die.”
“Of course they do. How else will they learn?”
“If you kill her, you’re doing evil, Bishop. That makes you no better than the rest of them,” said Porter.
“Talbot is scum. He’s a green, oozing infection on this world, something that should be cut away and discarded before it destroys the surrounding tissue.”
“Then why hurt Emory? Why not just kill him?”
Bishop sighed. “Pawns must be sacrificed for the king to fall.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Everything is a game, Sam. We’re all players on the board. Haven’t you learned anything from my diary? I thought the pop psychologist in you would have pieced this together by now. I learned a long time ago that to best punish the father for his sins, he must be made to experience the pain of his child. Somebody like Talbot expects to pay for his crimes at some point—he’s mentally prepared himself. He’s waiting for the day to come. If you throw him in jail, he won’t learn, he won’t evolve, he won’t reform. He’ll do his time, get out, and do something worse. But you take away that same man’s child as punishment for what he’s done? Well, that’s a whole new ball game. He’ll spend every waking moment of his remaining days cursing his actions. Not an hour will pass where he won’t realize his child died for his sins.”
“Emory is innocent,” Porter said.
“She’s very brave. I’ve told her how her sacrifice will bring on a change for the better. I’ve explained how her father brought this upon the two of them, and I think she understands.”
He spoke of her in the present tense. Was she still alive?
“I urge you to try and understand too. It’s important to me that you understand. Piece together everything I gave you. Puzzle it out. You hold the answer in the palm of your hand, or rather, you did.”
“You said everything I needed could be found in the diary.”
Bishop let out a breath. “Is that what I said?”
Porter thumbed the pages of the small book. “I’m nearly done.”
“You are, Sam. Nearly done.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I imagine your friends are at my apartment by now. Perhaps that will shed some light?”
“Where is Emory, Bishop?”
“It’s elementary, as you might have said yesterday. Too bad we had to cut that farce short. I was having such fun playing detective with you and your friends. I’ll miss my colleagues down at the crime lab too.”
“Why did you do that? Why pretend to be a CSI? Why talk Kittner into killing himself? What was the point?”
Bishop laughed again. “Why, indeed.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose I was curious about you, Sam. You’ve been chasing me for over five years now, this little cat-and-mouse game of ours. I wanted to better understand you. Father once said, ‘It’s better to dance with the devil you know.’ I needed to know you. I’m not going to lie; the challenge intrigued me too. It’s good to challenge one’s self, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re fucking crazy,” Porter replied.
“Now, now, there’s no need for profanity. Heed my father’s lessons. To speak evil only leads to more evil, and we have so much in this world already.”
“Let her go, Bishop. Walk away. End this.”
Bishop cleared his throat. “I have a few more boxes for you, Sam. Fresh boxes. I’m afraid I won’t have time to mail them, though. You don’t mind if I just leave them out for you, do you? Someplace where you’ll find them?”
“Where is she?” Porter asked again.
“Maybe I already left them out. Perhaps you should check in with Clair and Nash.”
“If you hurt her, I will kill you,” Porter growled.
“Tick tock, Sam. Tick tock.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Porter held the phone for a moment, the sound of his own breathing playing back over the tinny speaker. He placed the handset back in the cradle.
Tick tock.
Bishop was playing another game.
Porter rose from the bed, moving slowly, his hand held over his wound. The stitches tugged at his flesh but held tight. He crossed the room to the closet and retrieved the plastic bag containing his shoes. No sign of his clothes. They had cut away his pants; they were probably in a dumpster right now with his shirt.
Shit.
He pulled open drawers until he located a set of green surgical scrubs and pulled them on—a little tight, but they would have to do. He reached for his shoes and paused when he noticed the hint of plastic peeking out from inside: the evidence bag holding the pocket watch.
It glistened under the fluorescent lights.
His heart thumped and a breath caught in Porter’s throat.
Could it be that simple?
67
Diary
The grass was still moist with morning dew and felt spongy under my shoes. I started for the Carter house without much thought, and even though I couldn’t hear them, I knew both my parents were only a few paces behind me. I expected one of them to tell me to stop or wait or get behind them, but such instruction never came. I guessed Father was in shock, and I could only imagine what thoughts drifted through Mother’s head.
As I passed the Carters’ car, I realized it wasn’t in quite the same condition as Father’s Porsche. Yes, they’d rendered the car completely immobile, but the destruction wasn’t as personal. They didn’t slash the seats or smash the lights or glass. They limited their carnage to things that would prevent the vehicle from running, and they stopped there. With Father’s Porsche, they not only attacked the car—they attacked him. They sent a message.
The travel bag I had not so carefully packed had been torn open and the contents
spilled out on the Carters’ front porch: medications, toothbrushes, deodorant—someone had crushed the tube of toothpaste under their foot and sprayed Crest across the floorboards. The ants were thrilled and had already started the laborious process of hauling it away to some unseen colony somewhere between the planks of the porch. I wanted to stomp them but thought better of it. “Try not to step in the toothpaste. We don’t want to leave shoe prints,” I said in a hushed tone.
Father grunted behind me. I’m sure he appreciated my caution, but I couldn’t fault him for not offering up praise.
The inner door as well as the screen door stood open. I could see directly into the kitchen.
I turned back toward the street to confirm the green Plymouth hadn’t returned, then stepped inside.
The puddle of bourbon was dry and riddled with the bodies of dead, drunken ants. The trail thinned to a single line and disappeared beneath the kitchen sink. Somebody had swept the broken glass into a small pile in the far corner.
Laid out neatly on the kitchen table were six photographs—photographs I had never seen before but that looked familiar nonetheless. Photographs of Mother and Mrs. Carter naked in bed.
68
Clair
Day 2 • 4:47 p.m.
Clair pressed the accelerator to the floor as her Honda Civic raced down West Van Buren, the blue and red of her bubble light bouncing off the whitewashed concrete of the tunnel walls.
“What are the odds he’s got her locked up in his apartment?” Nash asked, his fingers gripping the door handle so tightly that they’d turned white.
Clair snorted. “Not a fan of my driving?”
Nash’s face flushed and he released the handle, flexing his fingers. “You’re doing eighty through the Loop at the start of evening rush hour. I’m surprised you haven’t jumped up on the sidewalk and mowed down a few pedestrians yet.”
Clair swerved, cutting off a middle-aged man in a black BMW. He held down his horn and slammed his middle finger against his windshield. “Emergency vehicles get right of way, asshole!” Clair shouted at her rearview mirror, holding her own finger out the window.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Nash said.
“You want my opinion? I think Watson or Bishop or whatever the hell his name is is playing us. We’re going to bust down that door, and the whole damn place is going to blow up in our faces, that’s what I think,” Clair said. “You know what else? If there’s a chance she’s in there, I think it’s worth the risk. This has been a game to him from the start. We’ve been like mice running through his maze. We’re going to his apartment because he wants us to, plain and simple. Why else would he write down the address? I guess—”
“Shit!” Nash shouted.
Clair pulled hard at the wheel, jumped the curb, and missed a garbage truck by less than four feet. As she tugged the wheel to the left, the car bounced back onto the road, avoiding a hot dog stand by a distance so snug, Nash could have reached out the window and grabbed dinner. “I guess as long as he’s yanking our strings, Emory is still alive somewhere.”
“You’re going to pretend that didn’t just happen?”
Clair nodded. “Yep.”
Nash rolled his eyes. “Kill the siren and lights—we’re getting close. Bishop’s building should be right up ahead.”
“There’s Espinosa.” Clair pointed at the dark blue Tomlinson Plumbing van about two blocks ahead. She parallel parked three cars behind it and called Espinosa on speaker.
Espinosa’s voice crackled back. “It’s the two-story building with the red Camry out front.”
Clair and Nash both looked up at once. “Got it.”
“My men are in position. Bishop’s apartment is on the first floor, second door from the right facing the street. We’ve been watching for about twenty minutes now. The blinds are drawn. We’re not getting any heat signatures from inside, but it’s tough to get a good reading through that brick. We’re going to breach, clear the space, then give you the go-ahead to follow. Copy?”
“Copy,” Clair replied. “Ready whenever you are.”
Espinosa began barking orders. Three men left the van in a quick run. Espinosa and another went for the front door, and the third rounded the side of the building heading toward the back. Arriving at the door, the first man shouted, “Police!” then broke it open with a small ram while the Espinosa covered him. They both ducked inside and disappeared in the shadows.
Espinosa’s voice came back on the line. “All clear, Detectives.”
Clair and Nash exited the Civic and bolted down the street, weapons drawn.
As they approached the front door, Espinosa stepped back outside. “He knew we were coming. He wants us here.”
“Why? What’s inside?”
He nodded back over his shoulder. “Take a look for yourself.”
Clair frowned and stepped through the doorway into the apartment.
It wasn’t very large, maybe eight hundred square feet or so. The door opened on a living room with a small kitchen to the side, a bathroom to the right, and another door toward the rear. There was no furniture, and the kitchen appeared unused. The walls were bare.
In the center of the room stood a white file box tied off with a black string.
69
Diary
I scooped up the photos and shoved them into my pocket just as Mother and Father stepped into the kitchen behind me.
“It smells something fierce in here,” Mother exclaimed, wrinkling her nose.
Father pointed at the refrigerator. “Somebody left the door open. Everything has probably started to spoil.”
My hand was still deep in my pocket. I was afraid to look down, half expecting to see the photographs floating to the floor, but they stayed safely tucked away in my pants.
Father let out a whistle. “They did a number on this place.”
They had. All the kitchen drawers and cabinets were open, the contents littering the floor and counter. In the living room, the couch was a tattered mess. The cushions had been sliced and gutted, their innards drifting around the room like white tumbleweeds. They had scratched a large X into the television screen. The books from Mrs. Carter’s collection had been pulled from the shelves and torn to pieces, pages scattered everywhere. Not a single item had been left untouched.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Mother said. “We should go.”
Father took a quick peek down the hallway into the master bedroom, then returned to the kitchen. “If whatever they’re looking for was here, they must have found it. They hit every room, every possible hiding spot.”
“I want to leave.” Mother shuffled her feet.
I heard the car right before Father did, but he still beat me to the screen door. I drew next to him and watched the green Plymouth Duster as it left the road and started down the gravel driveway toward the house. The morning sun glared off the windshield, and I couldn’t see inside.
“Back home, now!” Father ordered.
The three of us bolted out the front door and across the lawn in a dead run, with Mother in the lead and Father behind me. I half expected him to stop and exact some kind of revenge for his Porsche, but he did not. Father was very smart and not one to let his anger take charge.
I bounded up the steps into our house as the Plymouth slid to a halt somewhere behind us. A car door squeaked open, quickly followed by the distinctive clunk of a rifle bolt. Mr. Stranger’s voice boomed: “Howdy, neighbors! Did you miss us?”
70
Porter
Day 2 • 4:57 p.m.
As Porter exited the hospital’s main entrance, he spotted a young woman climbing out of a cab at the curb. With two fingers pressed between his lips, he let out a whistle loud enough to startle an elderly gentleman at his right. He forced a smile, nodded at him, and hobbled toward the taxi.
When Porter fell into the back seat, the driver snickered. “Are you escaping?”
Porter pulled the door shut and winced as the motion tugged a
t his stitches. “What?”
“You’re wearing scrubs and you look a little rough to be on staff.”
“No, nothing like that. One of my coworkers stabbed me in the leg with a kitchen knife, then left me for dead in my kitchen. I couldn’t find my clothes, so I took these.”
“Smart-ass.” The man smirked. “Where we heading?”
“A place called Lost Time Antiques and Collectibles, on Belmont,” Porter told him.
“Address?”
Porter realized he didn’t have an exact address. He reached for his phone and remembered again that Bishop had crushed it. “I don’t know. I was told it was on Belmont.”
The driver rolled his eyes, reached for his own phone, and tapped away at the screen. “316 West Belmont. Looks like it’s across the street from the Belmont Edge apartments.”
“That sounds right.” Porter glanced out the window at the thickening rush hour traffic. “If I told you I’m a cop, I don’t suppose you’d get us there any faster, would you?”
The driver eased the cab out into traffic and glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Let me see your badge.”
Porter started to reach for his back pocket, then remembered that he was wearing the scrubs. “It’s in my—”
“It’s in the pants with the knife sticking out of them?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Porter pulled out the diary and picked up where he’d left off.
71
Diary
I think I felt the bullet before I heard the blast of the gun. The projectile whizzed past my head and thwacked into the door frame about six inches to my right, sending little shards of wood flying through the air. One of them caught me in the cheek and tore at my skin. Before I could reach up and assess the damage, Father crashed into my back and shoved me forward. I lost my balance and flew across the floor, sliding into the side of the couch. I rolled over to find Mother crouching at the couch, her wild eyes bouncing from me to the front door and back again. Behind me, Father kicked at the door, slamming it shut.