by J. D. Barker
“It’s a woman, not a he.”
“Describe her for me.”
The mayor blew out a breath. “I don’t know. She looked young. At first, I thought twenties or thirties, but she may be older than that. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Dark brown hair, shoulder length.”
“How tall?”
“About a foot shorter than me.”
Clair rolled her eyes. “How tall are you?”
“Six foot.”
“So she was only five feet tall?”
“No. Taller than that. Maybe five-foot-four. Five-foot-five.”
“Tell me about her breasts.”
“Seriously? You swing that way, Detective?”
Clair really wanted to hurt this man. “Does she have breasts? The woman who took you. The one who just gave you food.”
“Of course she does. Nice ones. She knew how to show them off in that black slinky dress she was wearing. I like a lady who appreciates her own body.”
“Was she wearing a black slinky dress just now?”
“Huh? No. Jeans. Black shirt and that crazy mask.”
“Was she five-foot-four or taller?”
The mayor fell silent for a moment. “I know it was her yesterday, even with the mask on. But you’re right. This might have been someone different. Maybe a guy. I don’t know. They cut off my goddamn ear, cut out my eye. You can’t expect me to take detailed notes.”
Clair glanced around her room, then leaned back into the vent. “Do you have anything in your room we can use as a weapon? Anything at all?”
“What about you? What do you have?”
“There’s nothing in here,” she said.
He moved closer.
Through the vent, Clair saw his shadow momentarily block the vent. She heard him slump down against the wall. Softly, he said, “I found a nail.”
“Give it to me.”
“No way.”
“You want to get out of here, right? Pass it over to me, through the vent.”
“Find your own nail. Why would I give you mine?” When Clair didn’t answer, he added: “I’m using it to pick the lock.”
“If your lock is like mine, it’s a dead bolt. You’d need at least two nails to get the lock open, and a nail is too thick for lock picking. If you’re going to improvise, you’d need something like a paperclip to work the pins and a metal nail file to turn the tumbler.”
“Well, I don’t have either of those, so I’m using the nail.”
“If I had the nail,” Clair said, “I’d stab him in the neck with it. Gouge out his fucking face, then I’d walk out of here, unlock your door, and get you out too. Get you some help. But if you’d rather fool around with the lock, you keep on that. Come and get me out when you’re done. You’d better hurry, though—if he already took your ear and your eye, he’s coming for your tongue next. I can’t imagine a politician without a tongue would do too well.”
From the vent, Clair heard metal clink. When she looked down, the tip of a rusty nail was sticking through.
“Grab it before I drop it.”
Clair did. The nail was long, about four inches. That was good.
She started on her shoelaces then, took both from her shoes and coiled them up in her hand.
98
Porter
Day 6 • 2:18 AM
Located off Charleston Air Force Base, Atlantic Aviation occupied several buildings and had two runways at their disposal. At this hour, most of the facility appeared deserted. Porter was waved through security and ushered toward a waiting Gulfstream. Unlike the previous jet, this one did not have the Talbot Enterprises logo on the tail; aside from an identification number, there were no markings on the plane at all. Running lights were on, the engines were humming, a man in a pilot’s uniform stood by the stairs and pointed Porter toward two other parked SUVs.
The co-pilot from his previous flight.
The expression on his face was clearly one of concern.
He opened Porter’s door even before he had a chance to shut down the motor. He shouted over the idling jet. “The feds are monitoring all of Talbot’s assets. We’re borrowing this plane from a friend. I can get you back to Chicago, but I can’t guarantee nobody will be waiting for us when we land.”
“I don’t want to get Emory in any trouble,” Porter told him. He still had the phone in his hand, and he shoved it into his pocket.
The pilot grabbed Porter by the shoulder and steered him toward the steps leading up into the plane. “Even if they figure out the shell game, they won’t trace it back to Emory. She’s clean.”
“And you?”
“I’m just a hired hand. Just following orders received via e-mail forwarded through a dozen accounts. They try to trace that back, they’ll just get caught up in a sticky web. I’m not worried. I’ll just plead ignorance.” He nodded up into the plane. “I had those photos developed. They’re inside. Get in there and buckle up. We need to move.”
“Her too. She’s with me,” Porter said, turning around on the steps.
The pilot followed his gaze, a puzzled look on his face. “Who?”
Sarah was gone.
99
Nash
Day 6 • 5:01 AM
“This is where you worked?”
Nash stood in the small office that Klozowski and Clair had used at Stroger Hospital. He was weak but better. The nurse in the ER wasn’t thrilled when he pulled the catheter from his arm. She was even less thrilled when he got out of bed and told her he was leaving. She threatened to call security, and Nash told her good, but hurry—tell them to meet me in the cafeteria where they’re holding everyone. Nobody leaves, nobody. On the way, Kloz had told him what he could—ran through everything that had happened. They’d stopped in the small office down the hall from the cafeteria. Part of him hoped they’d find Clair in the room, resting, recuperating, or simply passed out, but there was no sign of her.
Nash dialed Espinosa from SWAT for the third time, but the call didn’t go through. “Cell service in this place is horrible,” he grumbled.
“They’re right outside the doors of the hospital. Faster just to walk there,” Kloz told him, already pushing out the door.
When they reached the cafeteria, Nash felt his face flush with anger.
The cafeteria was empty.
He picked up a plastic chair and threw it across the room. “Goddamnit!”
Tables were pushed aside, trash littered the floor. It looked like someone had set off a bomb, but the room itself was empty.
“We couldn’t hold them, not after the CDC lifted the containment ban.”
Nash turned to find a bald black man in his fifties standing near a bank of elevators. “Who the hell are you?”
“Jerome Stout, head of hospital security.” Stout walked up and offered his hand, but Nash didn’t take it, had turned back to the empty room.
“You let whoever took her walk out of here, do you realize that? You let someone who killed at least two people in your hospital, on your watch, walk out of here,” Nash said. “If something happens to her, if she’s hurt in any way, it’s on you.”
“I had no choice. I’m following orders, same as you. This is a hospital, not a prison, and we came damn close to a riot keeping everyone here as long as we did. We’ve got names on everyone, contact information.”
Nash brushed a hand through his hair. “Oh, I’m glad you took attendance.”
An elevator dinged, and three security guards came out.
From another hallway on the opposite side of the cafeteria, someone was shouting.
Anthony Warnick.
There were at least a dozen Metro officers behind him, along with two men in full SWAT gear—Espinosa and Thomas. Espinosa was pale but looked better than the last time Nash had seen him. “We found your two missing officers. Both were in the ER since last night. I spent a few hours there myself, but I’m feeling better now.”
Nash said, “Any sign of Clair?”
Espino
sa shook his head. “Hurless told us to conduct a room-by-room search. He’s coordinating with the feds, and the consensus is whoever is behind this is using the hospital as ground zero. They think the mayor is here too. Unless you want to handle things differently, we’ll start on the top floor and work our way down. I’ve got people stationed at all the exits. We’re confirming IDs on everyone.”
“So the people who were in here?”
“We’ve got records on everyone. Nobody slipped through. You’ve got my word on that.”
Nash squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Espinosa nodded and turned toward the large group behind him. “Every room, every closet, under every bed. I want every inch of this building searched. Nothing is off limits. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You have any trouble, you touch base with me.”
“Comms don’t work well,” Nash pointed out.
Stout said, “That’s always been a problem here. It’s all the equipment.” He pointed at the wall to his left. “See those red phones? You’ll find them throughout the hospital. They’re direct lines to my office up in security. Use those, and I’ll help coordinate everyone from there. I can patch you in to each other, use the intercom, whatever you need.”
“Understood,” Espinosa said. He eyed Nash for a moment, then went on with hesitation. “There’s one other thing, and this one’s tough, no easy way to say it. Recent evidence suggests the person responsible for the deaths here at the hospital, the missing mayor, and our missing detective is working directly with Detective Sam Porter and may be responsible for additional deaths attributed to the 4MK investigation. Keep your guard up and your vigilance high.”
Several murmurs passed through the crowd. Everyone here knew Sam.
“Go!” Espinosa shouted. “Fast and organized. Everyone stay sharp!”
The group scrambled. Some went to the elevators, others took the stairs. Within thirty seconds, Kloz and Nash were alone with Warnick.
“I’m under orders to stick with you,” Warnick told him. “The mayor remains the priority.”
Nash ignored him and turned to Kloz. “Show me exactly where Clair was seen last.”
100
Porter
Day 6 • 5:04 AM
Porter turned the last page of Bishop’s diary for the third time and swore softly.
He needed to know what happened after they killed Stocks.
None of it made sense. He’d gone back and reread the pages several times during the flight, hoping something there would jog his memory. Nothing had, though.
He looked around the empty cabin.
We’re watching you, Sam. Don’t, even for a second, ever believe you’re alone today.
Fuck you, Sarah. You and your kid.
She ran off. Had to. Unwilling to risk falling into custody. At least that’s what Porter told himself a couple hours ago as the jet rolled down the runway and went airborne. He’d stared out the window—she had been down there somewhere, crouching between the vehicles. Maybe still in the BMW. Hiding, waiting for them to leave.
He wasn’t willing to accept the alternative.
He wouldn’t go there.
“I’m not crazy.”
Hearing the words aloud did nothing to make it feel any less true. In fact, the moment the words left his lips, Porter found himself looking around the private cabin to see if anyone had heard him.
He rubbed at both his temples. “I just need to get some sleep.”
That aloud didn’t sound any less crazy.
From the tray at his side, he ate the last piece of bacon. There had been a full breakfast waiting for him—three poached eggs, two English muffins, bacon, sausage, orange juice, and a carafe of dark roast coffee.
He’d hoped the meal would help, but he still had the worst headache, a grinding pain behind both his eyes as if someone were reaching into his skull and attempting to wring the memories from his brain. His leg bounced, an involuntary nervous tic of some sort. More than once, he’d consciously shut the movement down only to find his leg bouncing again several minutes later.
As the jet began to descend through the clouds, he worked his jaw to minimize the popping in his ears. They’d be on the ground soon; he needed a plan.
The photographs sat atop their envelope on the small table next to him. About three dozen in total. The first few were of several young girls, both posing provocatively, pouting at the camera in one, giggling or laughing in another. Tugging at the edges of their clothing. Most likely, these were Tegan and Kristina, but he had no way to know for sure. He didn’t recognize either of them. There was a shot of Anson, too. Young, fourteen or fifteen at most. He stood next to a young girl, the tips of their fingers touching slightly. Her eyes on the camera, his watching something behind. Porter recognized the parlor back at the farmhouse—the furniture, the couch, desk in the corner. Bright sunlight streaming in from an unseen window. No blood.
Not yet.
Soon, though.
This was most likely Libby. Several bruises were visible on her left arm, up near the elbow. Nearly healed but still there.
There was a shot of Paul Upchurch making a silly face for the camera. He was unrecognizable from the man Porter was familiar with. The boy in the photo was young, vibrant, alive. Nothing like the shell of the man back in Chicago. Bald head and ghastly scar.
Porter paused there. That photo still in his hand.
He’d never met Paul Upchurch. Not as a child, not as an adult. How could he know what the man looked like in the end?
He shook it off. Nash had told him, or maybe it was Poole. So much had happened recently. Everything was a blur. Wait, it was Bishop who told him, back in the lobby of the Guyon. Then Porter had called Clair, told him about Upchurch’s condition—repeated what Bishop told him, anyway. He’d never actually seen Upchurch, but his mind must have conjured an image based on those conversations.
There was a picture of Finicky. Porter did recognize her, but she was younger in the shot. He knew her as the woman pretending to be Bishop’s mother. The woman he and Sarah had broken out of prison only to watch Bishop execute in cold blood.
Now, we’re even, Bishop had told her.
The next three photographs were of the girls again, Tegan and Kristina. They were nude in the first one, their limbs intertwined in a bed with a green comforter in a room with pale yellow walls. Far too young. They both looked at the camera, and while they attempted to appear enticing, the fear in both was there too, a pleading in their eyes.
Tegan was in the image that followed. This time she was draped over the shoulders of a man. He was naked too. At first, Porter didn’t recognize him. His hair was longer, and there was no gray. Far from in shape, he was still at least forty pounds lighter than the man Porter knew. But it was him, he was certain now.
Depending on the year the photo was taken, he was either an alderman or still in private practice—corporate law, from what Porter remembered. He’d never really followed politics.
There was no date stamp on the pictures. These were taken long before the man was sworn into Chicago’s highest office, but Porter was sure it was him, their current mayor. He was probably in his thirties here. Tegan and Kristina would have been fifteen, maybe sixteen.
Mayor Barry Milton was with Kristina in the next shot. His hands were bound together with a leather strap, some kind of gag in his mouth. She was behind him.
Porter put the picture aside. He couldn’t look at that.
There were more.
They were worse.
Young boys, young girls—Porter couldn’t look at those, either. They made his stomach churn.
He recognized the man in the next photograph as well. Not at first—like the mayor, he was much younger here, with a full head of hair and no glasses. But why would he be in Charleston? Possibly traveling with the mayor? For this? Maybe. How long had they known each other? How far back did they go? Porter had no idea. The man was sitting on the edge of a bed, brushing the h
air of a young boy dressed in a black suit. Porter’s stomach lurched again. He wanted to put a bullet through the man’s skull.
Then he had an idea.
He found a pen on the table at his side, sitting in a slight recess to prevent it from rolling away. Porter uncapped the pen, scribbled a note on the back of the picture, then folded it down the middle before slipping it into his pocket.
The last five photographs were different from the others. These were shot from a lower angle. They weren’t in focus. The subjects of the shots weren’t necessarily centered or even completely in frame. These felt as if the photographer was holding the camera at his or her side and thumbed the shutter without looking through the viewfinder. Candid shots.
Hillburn.
He was standing next to his van, smoking a cigarette. No denying it was him.
Another of the Carriage House Inn motel. The photographer walking toward the west end.
The next was a shot of the parking lot across the street from the motel. The one Porter had been standing in just hours ago. McDonald’s on one side, the auto parts store on the other. A patrol car parked there, on the left side of the image.
The final picture might have been the worst of them all. As Porter held the image in his hand, he found it hard to draw air into his lungs, as if his body no longer wanted to breathe. Blurry, slightly out of focus. This last photograph was one of him staring angrily at the camera.
101
Nash
Day 6 • 5:07 AM
“According to Stout, Clair most likely took these stairs. She went to the cafeteria to deal with something, then he called her and asked her to come up to his office. The CDC had the elevators locked down, so she would have had to take the stairs. These are the closest,” Kloz said, his voice echoing in the stairwell.
Nash looked up and down. “What did Stout want?”
Kloz sighed. “I’m sorry, I should have asked that. I didn’t think about it.”
With the flashlight on his phone, Nash studied the doorframe and the floor, running the beam in a grid pattern over every surface, but didn’t find anything.