by J. D. Barker
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
1 : Porter
2 : Porter
3 : Porter
4 : Porter
5 : Porter
6 : Porter
7 : Lili
8 : Porter
9 : Porter
10 : Porter
11 : Lili
12 : Clair
13 : Porter
14 : Lili
15 : Clair
16 : Porter
17 : Clair
18 : Porter
19 : Lili
20 : Clair
21 : Porter
22 : Lili
23 : Nash
24 : Clair
25 : Poole
26 : Porter
27 : The Man in the Black Knit Cap
28 : Porter
29 : Clair
30 : Clair
31 : Poole
32 : Poole
33 : Porter
34 : Clair
35 : Nash
36 : Poole
37 : Larissa
38 : Porter
39 : Clair
40 : Porter
41 : Larissa
42 : Clair
43 : Poole
44 : Porter
45 : Larissa
46 : Nash
47 : Porter
48 : Nash
49 : Porter
50 : Poole
51 : Larissa
52 : Clair
53 : Poole
54 : Clair
55 : Porter
56 : Poole
57 : The Man in the Black Knit Cap
58 : Porter
59 : Poole
60 : The Man in the Black Knit Cap
61 : Poole
62 : The Man in the Black Knit Cap
63 : Poole
64 : The Man in the Black Knit Cap
65 : Porter
66 : Poole
67 : Poole
68 : Clair
69 : Poole
70 : Kati
71 : Clair
72 : Clair
73 : Porter
74 : Clair
75 : Porter
76 : Poole
77 : Porter
78 : Clair
79 : Porter
80 : Kati
81 : Porter
82 : Clair
83 : Porter
84 : Poole
85 : Kati
86 : Poole
87 : Poole
88 : Poole
89 : Porter
90 : Poole
91 : Porter
92 : Porter
93 : Diary
94 : Diary
95 : Poole
96 : Diary
97 : Porter
98 : Porter
99 : Gabby
100 : Porter
101 : Diary
102 : Clair
103 : Gabby
104 : Poole
105 : Diary
106 : Clair
107 : Poole
108 : Diary
109 : Clair
110 : Poole
111 : Diary
112 : Nash
113 : Poole
114 : Nash
115 : Diary
116 : Nash
117 : Clair
118 : Diary
119 : Poole
120 : Clair
121 : Diary
122 : Porter
123 : Poole
124 : Clair
125 : Poole
126 : Porter
127 : Poole
128 : Porter
129 : Kloz
130 : Clair
131 : Nash
132 : Diary
Acknowledgments
Read More from the 4MK Series
About the Author
Connect with HMH
Copyright © 2018 by J. D. Barker
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhco.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Barker, J. D. (Jonathan Dylan), 1971– author.
Title: The fifth to die / J.D. Barker.
Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2018. | Series: A 4MK thriller ; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2017058446 (print) | LCCN 2018001184 (ebook) | ISBN 9780544980662 (ebook) | ISBN 9780544973978 (hardback)
Subjects: LCSH: Detectives—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. | Serial
murderers—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Mystery &
Detective / Police Procedural. | FICTION / Thrillers. | GSAFD: Mystery
fiction. | Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.A775525 (ebook) |
LCC PS3602.A775525 F58 2018 (print) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017058446
Cover design by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Cover image © Sergeeva/Getty Images
Author photograph © Dayna Barker
v1.0618
For Father
1
Porter
Day 1 • 8:23 p.m.
Darkness.
It swirled around him deep and thick, eating the light and leaving nothing behind but an inky void. A fog choked his thoughts—the words tried to come together, tried to form a cohesive sentence, to find meaning, but the moment they seemed close, they were swallowed up and gone, replaced by a growing sense of dread, a feeling of heaviness—his body sinking into the murky depths of a long-forgotten body of water.
Moist scent.
Mildew.
Damp.
Sam Porter wanted to open his eyes.
Had to open his eyes.
They fought him though, held tight.
His head ached, throbbed.
A pulsing pain behind his right ear—at his temple too.
“Try not to move, Sam. Wouldn’t want you to get sick.”
The voice was distant, muffled, familiar.
Porter was lying down.
Cold steel beneath the tips of his fingers.
He remembered the shot then. A needle at the base of his neck, a quick stab, cold liquid rushing under his skin into the muscle, then—
Porter forced his eyes to open, the heavy lids fighting him. Dry, burning.
He tried to rub them, his right hand reaching out only to be pulled back when the chain at his wrist went taut.
His breath caught, and he forced himself to a sitting position, his head spinning as the blood rushed out. He almost fell back.
“Whoa, easy, Sam. The etorphine will work out of your system quickly now that you’re awake. Just give it a minute.”
A light blinked on, a bright halogen aimed squarely at his face. Porter squinted but refused to look away, his eyes fixed on the man beside the light, the dull, shadowed shape.
“Bishop?” Porter barely recognized his own voice, the dry gravel of it.
“How you been, Sam?” The shadow took a step to his right, turned over an empty five-gallon paint bucket, and sat.
“Get that damn light out of my eyes.”
Porter yanked at the chain on his wrist—the other end of the handcuffs rattled around a thick pipe—water, maybe gas. “What the fuck is this?”
Anson Bishop reached over to the light and turned it slightly to the left. A shop light, mounted on some kind of stand. The light struck a cinder-block wall with a wate
r heater in the far corner, an old washer and dryer along the far side.
“Better?”
Porter tugged at the chain again.
Bishop gave him a half smile and shrugged.
The last time Porter saw him, his hair was dark brown and close cropped. It was longer now, and lighter, unruly. Three or four days of scruff marred his face. His business casual attire was gone, replaced by jeans and a dark gray hoodie.
“You’re looking a little ratty,” Porter said.
“Desperate times.”
He couldn’t change his eyes, the coldness behind them.
His eyes never changed.
Bishop pulled a small spoon out of his back pocket, a grapefruit spoon, and twirled it absent-mindedly between his fingers, the serrated edge catching the light.
Porter didn’t acknowledge the utensil. Instead, he looked down, tapping the metal beneath him with his index finger. “Is this the same kind of gurney you chained Emory to?”
“More or less.”
“Couldn’t find a cot?”
“Cots break.”
A dark red stain pooled out from under the gurney, a deep blemish on the filthy concrete floor. Porter didn’t ask about that. His fingers came away sticky after touching the underside of the metal. He didn’t ask about that, either. A few shelves lined the wall to his left, stacked full with random painting supplies—cans, brushes, tarps. The ceiling above was constructed of wood, two-by-six boards spaced about sixteen inches apart. Exposed electrical wiring, water pipes, and air ducts filled the space between. “This is a residential basement. Not a big house. Older, though. That pipe above your head is shielded in asbestos, so I wouldn’t recommend chewing on it. I’m guessing the place is abandoned, because your light there is plugged in to an extension cord running upstairs to . . . what, some kind of battery pack? Not a generator. We’d hear that. You didn’t bother with any of these plugs along the wall, so that tells me the power isn’t on in this place. It’s also cold as balls. I can see my breath, so the heat isn’t on. Again, that points to an abandoned house. Nobody wants to risk frozen pipes.”
Bishop appeared pleased with this, a thin smile edging his lips.
Porter continued. “Wall to wall, this house is fairly narrow. That suggests a shotgun home. Considering you wouldn’t want to be in one of the trendier neighborhoods where residents have Starbucks, the Internet, and tend to report known felons to the police on sight, I’d say you’re more likely to stick to the West Side. Maybe someplace like Wood Street. A lot of empty houses on Wood.”
With his free hand, Porter reached for his gun under his thick coat but found only the empty holster. His cell phone was gone too.
“Always the cop.”
Wood Street was a good fifteen-minute drive without traffic from his apartment on Wabash, and Porter had been a block from his house when he felt the stab at his neck. Of course, this was all a complete guess, but Porter wanted to keep Bishop talking. The more he talked, the less he thought about that spoon.
The throbbing in Porter’s head settled behind his right eye.
“Aren’t you going to try and convince me to turn myself in? How you can spare me from the death penalty if I cooperate?”
“Nope.”
This time Bishop did smile. “Hey, you want to see something?”
Porter would have said no, but he knew whatever he said didn’t really matter. This man had a plan in mind, a purpose. Snatching a Chicago Metro detective off the street was not a risk one would take without a good reason.
He could feel his key ring in his right front pocket. Bishop had left it when he took his gun and phone. He had a handcuff key on his key ring, and most handcuffs took the same key. While he was a rookie, he was told this was because the person who cuffed a perp most likely wouldn’t be the same person who would later uncuff the perp. A suspect could easily be transferred two or three times during booking. That in mind, they were taught to take away keys when patting someone down, all keys. Any criminal worth their salt owned their own handcuff key on the off chance some rookie forgot to check. Porter would have to remove the key ring from his right pocket, somehow maneuver it to his left hand, unlock the handcuffs, and take down Bishop before the man could cross the five feet that separated them.
The man didn’t appear to have a weapon, only a spoon.
“Eyes front, Sam,” Bishop said.
Porter turned back to him.
Bishop stood up and crossed the basement to a small table next to the washing machine. He returned to his seat, carrying a small wooden box with Porter’s Glock sitting on top. He set the gun down on the floor beside him and thumbed the latch on the box, opening the lid.
Six eyeballs stared up at Porter from the red velvet lining inside.
Bishop’s past victims.
Porter looked down at the gun.
“Eyes front,” Bishop repeated with a soft chuckle.
This wasn’t right. Bishop always followed the same pattern. He would remove his victims’ ear, then the eyes, followed by the tongue, and mail each to the victim’s family along with a note in a white box tied off with a black string. Always. He never deviated from this. He didn’t keep trophies. He believed he was punishing the family for some wrong they committed. Twisted vigilante justice. He didn’t keep the eyes. He never kept the—
“We’d better get started. “Bishop ran his hand over the top of the box, a loving caress, then set it down on the floor beside the gun and held the spoon up to the light.
Porter rolled off the gurney, crying out when the metal of the handcuff tore into the flesh of his wrist, the pipe pulled back. He tried to ignore the pain and awkwardly shoved his left hand down into his right pocket to retrieve the keys while also kicking the gurney in Bishop’s direction. His fingers slipped over the keys as Bishop dodged the gurney and thrust his leg out, impacting Porter’s left shin. Porter’s leg fell out from beneath him, and he crashed down to the ground, the handcuff on his right arm catching on the pipe and yanking him hard enough to dislocate his shoulder.
Before he could react, he felt the sting of another needle, this one at his thigh. He tried to look down, but Bishop pulled at his hair, snapping his head back.
Consciousness began to drift away. Porter fought it, fought with all he had. He fought long enough to see the grapefruit spoon approach his left eye, long enough to feel the serrated edge cut into the tarsal plate beneath his eyeball as Bishop forced the spoon into his eye socket, long enough for—
“Was she hot?”
Porter jerked in his seat, a seat belt holding him back. He took in a deep breath, his head thrashing side to side, his eyes landing on Nash in the driver’s seat. “What? Who?”
Nash smirked. “The girl from your dream. You were moaning.”
Six eyeballs.
Porter, still disoriented, realized he was in the passenger seat of Nash’s Chevy, an old ’72 Nova he’d picked up two months back when his prized Ford Fiesta sputtered and died on the 290 at three in the morning, forcing him to call headquarters for a ride when he couldn’t reach Porter.
Porter looked out the window. It was coated in a thin film of road grime and ice. “Where are we?”
“We’re on Hayes, coming up on the park,” he replied, flipping on his blinker. “Maybe you should sit this one out.”
Porter shook his head. “I’m all right.”
Nash made the left into Jackson Park and followed the recently plowed access road, the red and blue flashing lights bouncing off the dark trees around them. “It’s been four months, Sam. If you’re still having trouble sleeping, you should talk to someone. Doesn’t have to be me or Clair, just . . . someone.”
“I’m all right,” Porter repeated.
They passed a baseball field on the right, forgotten for the winter, and continued deeper into the bare trees. Up ahead there were more lights—a half dozen cars, maybe more. Four uniform patrol vehicles, an ambulance, a fire department van. Large floodlights lined the edge of th
e lagoon, and propane heaters littered an area roped in by yellow crime scene tape.
Nash pulled to a stop behind the van, dropped the car into Park, and killed the engine. It sputtered twice and sounded like it was gearing up for a stellar backfire before finally going silent. Porter noted several officers staring in their direction as they climbed out of the car into the icy winter air.
“We could have driven my car,” Porter told Nash, his boots crunching in the newly fallen snow.
Porter owned a 2011 Dodge Charger.
Most of their coworkers referred to the vehicle as Porter’s “midlife crisis car”—it had replaced a Toyota Camry two years back on his fiftieth birthday. Porter’s late wife, Heather, bought the sports car for him as a surprise after their Toyota was vandalized and left for dead in one of the less “police-friendly” parts of town on the South Side. Porter was first to admit sitting behind the wheel shaved a few years off his subconscious age, but mostly the car just made him smile.
Heather had baked the key into his birthday cake, and he almost chipped a tooth when he found it.
She led him down the steps and out in front of their apartment blindfolded, then sang “Happy Birthday” to him in a voice that had little chance of getting her on American Idol.
Porter thought of her every time he climbed in, but it seemed fewer and fewer things reminded him of her these days, her face gradually becoming a little more fuzzy in his mind.
“Your car is part of the problem. We always drive your car, and Connie over there spends her days rotting in my driveway. If I drive her, I’m reminded of the fact that I want to restore her. If I’m reminded of the fact that I want to restore her, I might actually get out to the garage and work on it.”
“Connie?”
“Cars should have a name.”
“No, they shouldn’t. Cars shouldn’t have names, and you have no idea how to restore her . . . it . . . whatever. I think you got that beater home, and the first time you picked up a wrench you realized you wouldn’t be done in forty-three minutes like those guys on Overhaulin’,” Porter said.
“That show is bullshit. They should tell you how long it really takes.”
“Could be worse. At least you didn’t get hooked on HGTV and convince yourself you can flip a house in your spare time.”
“This is true. Although, they knock those out in twenty-two minutes for a much bigger return on investment,” Nash replied. “If I did a house or two, I could pay someone to restore the car. Hey, there’s Clair—”