by J. D. Barker
Porter licked at his lips. His throat felt really dry. “Bishop jumped down the other elevator shaft. Is he dead?”
Clair took in a deep breath and let it back out. “He didn’t jump; he rappelled. He had a rope and harness rig set up on a service platform just inside the elevator shaft; he took it to the bottom. When we got down there, we found a hole in the wall leading to another one of those underground tunnels, like the one we found in the Mulifax Building. He’s gone, Sam. We’ve got patrol officers checking every tunnel entrance and exit on record with the city, but I don’t think we’re going to find him. While half the force was in that building trying to get to your floor from the top and the bottom, he dropped down right past us and disappeared somewhere under the city.”
“Ma’am?” a paramedic interrupted. “We need to get him to the hospital. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
Clair shot the paramedic a dirty look, then smiled down at Porter. “You done good, Sam. You found Emory, and we’ve got an ID on 4MK. He’ll slip up and we’ll find him. By tonight, the world will know his face. He won’t have anyplace to hide.”
Porter squeezed Clair’s hand and watched as they loaded Emory into an ambulance at his right. Then he closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep.
92
Porter
Day 3 • 8:24 a.m.
When Porter opened his eyes again, he found himself in a hospital room. It looked like the same hospital room he was in before . . . What time was it? He searched for a clock or his phone but saw neither. Sunlight streamed in from the window and warmed the blanket on his bed. Had he really slept through the night?
“Where’s the damn nurse Call button?” He fumbled through the sheets looking for it but only managed to twist his IV line around his head.
“I can’t leave you alone for a minute,” Nash said, coming in from the hall carrying a cup of vending machine coffee and a pack of Twizzlers. “I can see the headline: DETECTIVE ESCAPES SERIAL KILLER ONLY TO STRANGLE HIMSELF IN HOSPITAL BED.”
“I didn’t escape. He never intended to kill me.” Porter’s voice was hoarse.
Nash reached for a paper cup on the nightstand and handed it to him. “Here, try these. The nurse brought them in a few minutes ago.”
“What is it?”
“Ice chips.”
Porter took the cup and tipped it at his lips, spilling cold water down his chin and chest.
“Okay, maybe it’s been more than a few minutes. I guess they melted.”
Nash reached beneath the bed and came up with the Call button. He clicked it once. “I’ll get her to bring some more.”
Porter lifted the sheet and surveyed his freshly bandaged leg. He had some new scrapes and bruises on his arms. He told Nash what happened with Talbot.
“Maybe Watson or Bishop or whatever the hell his name is did us a favor.”
Porter raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“We found a file box at Bishop’s apartment with enough information to implicate twenty-three separate criminals acting in and around the Chicago area. And you know what they all had in common?”
“Talbot?”
“Talbot.”
“Bishop told me.”
Nash let out a snort. “If you had asked me about him a week ago, I would have thought the guy had a shot at becoming our next mayor.”
“He just might have, if this hadn’t happened.”
“Something is still bugging me, though. How did Bishop bankroll all of this? He sent three hundred grand to Kittner for stepping in front of that bus. Where did he get that kind of money?” Nash asked.
“Maybe he found it under the cat.”
“What cat?” Nash frowned.
“You need to read the diary.”
Nash sipped at his coffee. “I think I’ll wait for the movie.”
Porter eyed the Twizzlers. “Can I have one of those?”
Clair Norton poked her head into the door. “I’ll be damned, you got the same room?”
“Hey, Clair-bear.”
She walked over and wrapped her arms around him. “You crazy bastard. I’ve got half a mind to handcuff you to that bed so you don’t run off again.”
Nash perked up. “I’m up for that if he’s not.”
Clair picked up the empty ice cup and tossed it at him. “Pervert.”
“I’m a proud card-carrying member.”
She turned back to Porter. “Are you ready for a visitor?”
He shrugged. “If I can handle the two of you, I think I’m up for just about anything.”
Clair straightened out his sheets and smiled. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared out the door and returned a few seconds later pushing a teenage girl in a wheelchair. Her head and wrist were bandaged and her skin was deathly pale, but there was still no mistaking her.
“Hello, Emory,” Porter said softly.
“Hi.”
Porter turned to the others. “Can you give us a minute?”
Clair grabbed Nash’s hand and tugged him toward the door. “We’ll go find some breakfast.”
Nash smiled back at Emory and Porter. “I think she likes me.”
When the door closed behind them, Porter returned his gaze to Emory. All things considered, she looked good. From the few images he had seen of her, she’d clearly lost weight. Her face was thin and contained a few lines that normally wouldn’t find their way into a girl’s skin for another ten years or so. He knew this was most likely from dehydration and would fade with time. Her eyes betrayed her, though. They weren’t the eyes of a fifteen-year-old girl; they were the eyes of someone much older, someone who had seen things she should never have seen. “So,” he said.
“So.”
He gestured at the nightstand. “I’d offer you something, but I don’t even have ice chips anymore. As hospital rooms go, this one is poorly stocked.”
Emory pointed up at the IV bag attached to her wheelchair. “I brought my own snacks. Thank you, though.”
Porter pulled himself up into sitting position. The room seemed to swim. “Whoa.”
“Painkillers?”
He licked at his chapped lips. “I think they gave me the good stuff this go-around.”
Emory held up her wrist. “They gave me some good ones for this, the ear too. I asked them to hold off on the dose this morning so I could come and see you.”
Porter turned to the floor. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner, Emory. I—”
But she was shaking her head and placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t do that to yourself. You did find me. Detective Norton told me everything you did for me over the past few days, and I don’t know where to begin to thank you.”
Emory followed his eyes to her bandaged wrist. “They operated on it last night. There’s some nerve damage and I broke the scaphoid—that’s the little bone beneath the thumb—but for the most part, it should be fine. I’ll lose some feeling, but all my fingers still work the way they’re supposed to, and the doctor says I’ll have full range of motion.” She wiggled her fingers to demonstrate, then cringed as the pain washed over her.
“What about the ear?” Porter wasn’t sure why he asked. Normally he would never ask about something like that unless she offered first. He blamed the drugs.
“I think they’re going to grow me a new one.”
“What?”
“I met with a doctor this morning who told me he can grow a replacement ear on my arm using cartilage from my ribs,” Emory explained. “It’s going to take about three months, but he said it should be indistinguishable from the original.”
Porter fell back against his pillows. “They definitely gave me the good stuff. I thought you just said they were going to grow an ear on your arm.”
Emory giggled. It was good to hear.
Porter gazed at her, at those eyes that held experiences they should not hold, at the girl behind them, and he knew she was going to be okay. “Why don’t we talk about your mother? I’ve heard a lot
about her recently. We can compare notes.”
Emory smiled. “I’d like that.”
Epilogue
Two Days Later
“Shit.” Nash lifted his foot and stared at the dog crap stuck to his shoe.
“I should have warned you to watch out for that,” Porter said, fishing for his keys. “It’s kind of a thing around here. The place probably wouldn’t feel like home without dog poop on the stoop.”
Night had taken hold and the city was alive with lights. A chill had crept up with the falling sun, and Porter welcomed it, the brisk air reminding him what it was to be alive.
They were standing outside his apartment building. The doctors had held him in the hospital for two days to make sure the stitches took before they would allow him to leave. Apparently he had lost a little trust when he walked out on his own and chased a serial killer up ten flights of stairs shortly after surgery. They were worried about infection, but the concern had passed and he was mending nicely.
“You didn’t need to bring me home. I could have managed.”
Nash waved him off. “I’d never hear the end of it from Clair.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“That too.” Nash walked over to the edge of the sidewalk and scraped the waste away on the corner of the concrete.
Shortly before leaving the hospital, Porter had received a phone call from Detective Baumhardt at the Fifty-First Precinct. Harnell Campbell, the man who killed Heather, had somehow managed to make bail.
“How could that shit knocker come up with half a million dollars?” Nash asked.
“If he used a bail bondsman, he’d only need ten percent,” Porter pointed out.
“If he’s robbing convenience stores, he doesn’t have that kind of money, either.”
“Probably has a buddy who’s dealing or owed him a favor. Doesn’t matter. Baumhardt thinks they’ve got a strong case. He’s going down, just not today.”
Nash shrugged. “As long has he decides to show up at the trial.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Sorry.”
They entered the lobby and Porter opened his mailbox. It was stuffed full.
“How long since you last checked that?”
“A few days.” He picked through the mess, grabbed next week’s TV Guide, then squeezed the remaining letters back inside before closing the tiny door. He started for the stairs, but Nash grabbed his shoulder and pointed him at the elevator. “Not a chance—you can work on your figure next week. No exercise, definitely no stairs—doctor’s orders.”
“I’m going to have to move to a place on the first floor. Bishop ruined stairs and elevators for me,” said Porter.
Nash pressed the Call button. The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.
“Any luck trying to find him?” Porter had been banned from the war room and ordered to stay away from the investigation until his doctor cleared him, but he couldn’t help himself. Knowing Bishop was still out there just ate at him.
“We’ve fielded more than a thousand tips over the past few days but nothing solid. He’s been spotted as close as the Hard Rock down by the lake and as far away as Paris. The one in France, not Illinois. CSI combed his apartment, and it doesn’t look like he ever actually lived there, just staged the place for us to find. Who knows where he actually called home.”
“What about his childhood home? The one from the diary. Any luck locating it?”
“Kloz is searching nationwide for houses that burnt down near a pond or small lake within the past twenty years but hasn’t turned up anything yet. CPAs and accountants are registered, so he searched for anyone named Simon Carter with a financial license, but that came up blank too. He also put together a list of all Plymouth Dusters registered in the country, found more than four thousand of them, and I’ve got no clue what we’re going to do with a list like that. It’s probably a dead end. We subpoenaed employment records from Talbot’s various companies but didn’t find anyone named Carter, Felton Briggs, or Franklin Kirby. Part of me thinks the entire diary was bullshit, just another distraction. The feds arrived yesterday, four of them in dark suits and darker egos. They wanted to take over the war room, but I put them in the room across the hall instead.”
Porter frowned. “The room with the weird smell?”
“Yeah. They’re feds. Maybe they can figure out where it’s coming from.”
The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, and they walked down the hall to Porter’s door.
Porter slipped his key into the lock. “I think that diary is the only real thing he allowed us to see of himself. He wanted us to know where he came from.”
“Well, I only care about where he’s heading.”
They stepped inside and Porter flicked on the lights. His eyes went to the spot on the floor where he had fallen after Bishop stabbed him. “Who cleaned up?”
“Clair came by yesterday. We didn’t want you coming home to that, and she drew the short straw. Probably for the best. I would have just put a rug or a plant on top of it. Bloodstains give a place character. You should see my apartment.”
Porter could only imagine.
“Thank her for me when you see her.”
Nash shuffled his feet. “So, how long before you come back?”
“Probably a week, maybe two.” He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Want one?”
“I can’t. I’m still on the clock.” He turned back toward the door. “I’ll stop by tomorrow, okay?”
“You don’t have to check in on me. I’ll be all right.”
Nash smiled and nodded. “I know you will. Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, Brian.”
Porter locked the door behind him and twisted the cap off his beer. There was something about an ice-cold beer that just made everything seem better.
Heather’s picture watched him from the end table. He walked over and slipped his finger across her cheek. “I miss you, Button.” He reached for his new cell phone, began dialing her voice mail, then set it back down. “Sleep tight, beautiful.”
He finished the beer and left the bottle on the table before heading into the bedroom.
At first he didn’t see the small white box sitting on the side of the bed, and when he did, he half thought he was imagining it, but there it was—a small white box with a black string around it, next to Heather’s note. His hand instinctively went for his gun, and he realized he still didn’t have it.
Porter rounded the bed and picked up the box, trying to steady his shaking hand. He knew he should put on gloves, but he simply didn’t care. He tugged at the string and pulled it away, letting it drop to the floor. He removed the top and looked inside.
A human ear rested upon a bed of cotton. The flesh was riddled with piercings, six diamonds and four small hoops. It had been cut off smoothly, with surgical precision. The cotton was stained with brown flecks of dried blood.
Along the outer edge of the lobe, the word FILTER was tattooed in black letters.
He recognized it immediately. Tareq had pointed out the tattoo back at the Fifty-First.
Taped to the inside of the box top, in Anson Bishop’s scratchy script, was a note:
Sam,
A little something from me to you . . .
I’m sorry you didn’t get to hear him scream.
How about a return on the favor?
A little tit for tat between friends.
Help me find my mother.
I think it’s time she and I talked.
B
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to point out I grew up in a happy home in South Florida; we didn’t even have a basement. None of the poor parenting decisions made by little 4MK’s mom and dad were based on real life, at least not my real life. This story was born of “what if” and an imagination that lost its governor some time ago, nothing more.
My thanks to the wonderful team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt: Tim M
udie for seeing something in this story and helping me bring it to light, Michaela Sullivan for a wonderful jacket, Katrina Kruse in marketing, Stephanie Kim in publicity . . . there are so many of you, if I left out your name, please forgive me but know you have my gratitude and I can’t wait to work with you again!
Special thanks to my agent, Kristin Nelson, for finding this book a good home and helping me navigate the waters of today’s publishing world.
I would also like to thank my first readers: Summer Schrader, Jenny Milchman, Erin Kwiatkowski, Darlene Begovich, and Mary Hegemann. Without your suggestions and input, this would have been a very different story, and I’m quite fond of the one we told. As always, thanks to Jennifer Henkes for pointing out all the things that can go wrong when you sleep through English class.
Finally, my favorite person, my wife, Dayna. I may never understand why you put up with me, but I’m grateful that you do. I can’t imagine taking this journey with anyone but you.
J. D.
Can’t wait? Visit www.whois4mk.com. We’ve hidden a lost chapter. Can you puzzle it out?
Good luck!
About the Author
J. D. BARKER is the internationally best-selling author of Forsaken, a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel and the winner of New Apple Medalist Honors. He has also been asked by the Stoker family to coauthor the forthcoming prequel to Dracula. Barker currently resides in Pennsylvania with his wife, Dayna, and their two dogs, both of whom sit outside his office door daily, eagerly awaiting his next novel.
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