The Fifth to Die

by J. D. Barker

  96

  Diary

  The overhead fluorescents buzzed with the sound of a million bees hidden somewhere in the ceiling, the harsh light dripping down like their wasted honey. I tried to ignore the sound, found that I could not, and laid my head back down on the thin pillow they provided me.

  My room was only about six feet wide and eight or so deep. They called it my room, and I accepted this definition even though my subconscious whispered that the room was more of a cell. Rooms were not locked whenever you were directed inside. Rooms had windows that opened. My room had neither of those things.

  My first night here, I woke in the middle of the night and crawled from my bed to use the bathroom. The moment my feet touched the cold floor, I suppose I knew something was different, but it wasn’t until I reached the place where my bedroom door should have been that I fully awoke and realized I was not at home at all but some strange place.

  Not my room.

  Not my bed.

  Someplace else entirely.

  The urge to relieve myself left. I crawled back into the narrow bed. I didn’t get up again until the bright lights above turned on at precisely 6:00 a.m., the bees awakening to their preprogrammed day. They would remain on until exactly ten o’clock. There was no clock in the room, nor could I see one from the small window in the door, but my internal clock was precise. From the earliest age, Father taught me to mark time within my mind. He taught me to recognize the steady tick of a clock somewhere in a little nook of my subconscious, a clock far more accurate than any hanging on a wall once you learned to trust it.

  There were no clocks in our house.

  I was not permitted to wear a watch.

  There was only my internal clock, tested regularly by Father.

  He would ask me for the time, sometimes at the most peculiar of moments. If I was off by more than a minute, there would be repercussions. I won’t speak of the repercussions, but needless to say, I was rarely wrong.

  Father also taught me to suppress time. He compared the skill to meditation but said it was much more. I never had much of a need for this particular skill, but he told me I someday might and I eagerly welcomed anything he was willing to teach me. Suppressing time allowed me to simply close my eyes and shut down. I could do this for five minutes or five hours, the interval determined at the start. Unlike sleep, I could keep my brain active, focused on a particular problem, or I could close that down too and allow instances that would normally be passed swimming in boredom to go by in a flash.

  When they locked me in my room like this, I suppressed time.

  I understood what they were trying to do. I was only permitted outside my room to use the bathroom and to visit with Dr. Oglesby. The remainder of the time was spent in this room. They wanted me to grow bored. They wanted me to loathe this room. They wanted me to welcome the time away, long for my next session with the doctor. While I’m sure this worked with previous occupants of my room, such tricks would not work with me, not as long as I could suppress time. Not as long as I used this as an opportunity to review my current situation, to find a solution, to puzzle it out.

  The fluorescent lights turned on at 6:00 a.m. and off again at 10:00 p.m., and then the cycle would repeat. Eight of those repeats now. The time was currently 4:32 in the afternoon of my eighth day in this place. There was no escape from my room. The window was sealed tight. Even if I could get it open, I would not fit between the bars on the outside. I could pick the lock at my door if I had something with which to pick the lock, but I did not. My room was the fifth on this side of the hallway; the bathroom was across the hall and to the right. Although I hadn’t seen the residents of those other rooms, I heard them, particularly at night. I had identified three male voices and two female. The female voice two rooms down on my side of the hallway sounded to be about fifteen years old.

  She cried at night. She cried every night.

  I did not know her name. They didn’t use names here; only Dr. Oglesby used names.

  The hallway was about fifty feet long in total. When they took me from my room to Dr. Oglesby’s office, we went to the left, passing nothing but closed doors. When I returned from Dr. Oglesby’s office, I made careful notes of the other end of the hallway—a nurses’ station on the left, a guard at the right, and a sealed door between them. I had yet to see this door opened, but I heard it each time, an electronic buzz followed by the release of the lock. I imagined this was controlled from somewhere near the guard’s position, but it was possible the nurses had access as well. My mind’s eye pictured a small button, grimy from years of random fingers.

  There were cameras at either end of the hallway, dark, black eyes staring down from small bubbles in the ceiling. I had not found a camera in Dr. Oglesby’s office, but I was fairly sure he had one. The one in my room was hidden in the air vent next to the fluorescent light, watching from above. It did not make a sound, but I felt it blink.

  I’m curious, Doctor, are you sitting at your desk watching me right now on some monitor? Insights abound, are you adding to your little notepad? I picture you writing furiously, each word more meaningless than the last. Poor little Anson Bishop, orphan born of fire.

  The girl down the hall was crying again. Odd, considering the time.

  97

  Porter

  Day 4 • 7:13 a.m.

  Sarah’s phone dinged.

  At first Porter wasn’t sure what the sound was or where it came from, but then he spotted Sarah’s phone lying on her lap.

  She stirred gently, nestled against his shoulder, and went back to sleep.

  The phone dinged again.

  The overhead lights came to life, and a voice blared out from the intercom. “Attention, passengers, please place your seat backs and tray tables in the upright position as we begin descent into New Orleans. The local time is seven thirteen a.m., and the temperature is fifty-nine degrees. We truly enjoyed flying with you and hope you enjoy your stay in the Big Easy.”

  Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. She squinted against the harsh light. “Good morning, sunshine,” she muttered, smacking her lips.

  Her phone dinged again.

  “I thought those had to be in airplane mode or this whole bundle of metal would come crashing down.”

  “Lucky you got that seat belt to protect you.” She picked up the phone and glanced down at the display. “When you get close to the ground, they start picking up the towers again.” She frowned. “I’m getting text messages. They’re not for me, though. They’re for you.”

  “What?”

  “Look.” She handed him the phone.

  You shouldn’t have destroyed the phone, Sam.

  That wasn’t nice.

  Not at all.

  “How did Bishop get your number?”

  Sarah shrugged, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the sign outside my office, a phone book, the Internet, one of my cards. Maybe his mother gave it to him. I’m a lawyer, Sam. My number is everywhere.”

  Porter typed: Bishop?

  Nothing for a moment, then: Did you enjoy your trip down Memory Lane?

  Porter typed: I found your cat.

  Bishop responded: Don’t you mean, “we” found your cat?

  Porter looked over at Sarah. Her eyes were locked on the phone.

  BISHOP: It’s okay, Sam. I know you’re not alone. I’m happy for you. Sarah seems like a lovely woman. Heather would like her. I’m sure they would be fast friends.

  PORTER: I have Libby’s locket.

  No response.

  PORTER: It’s her locket, right? Under the floorboards in the Carters’ trailer? Who was she to you? You know she’s dead, right?

  No response.

  PORTER: Bishop?

  BISHOP: I miss my mother, Sam. I desperately need to speak to her about Libby.

  PORTER: Turn yourself in. I’ll arrange for adjoining cells.

  BISHOP: No need. You’re going to bring her to me.

  “The fuck I am,” Porter said.
/>   PORTER: She’s not going anywhere.

  BISHOP: I’m sending you a picture now, Sam. You’re not going to like it. We’ll need to talk about it after you look.

  The phone dinged, a tiny image loaded on the small screen—two girls, unconscious on a concrete floor.

  BISHOP: Are you there, Sam?

  Sarah pinched the image, expanding it, bringing in more detail.

  One of the girls was wrapped in a green quilt, her face a deathly pale, blood on her lips. The other girl looked like she had been plucked from a river, her clothing and hair wet and matted down.

  Porter didn’t recognize either of them.

  PORTER: Who are they?

  BISHOP: Guests of a friend. They’re not doing well, though. I’m afraid if I leave them in his care much longer, they may end up suffering the same fate as Ella Reynolds and Lili Davies. You wouldn’t want that? More blood on your hands? We’re going to trade, you and I. My mother for the girls. A simple tit for tat like old times. You still owe me . . . for the last one.

  PORTER: I won’t do it.

  BISHOP: There are always more girls, Sam.

  BISHOP: Alert your friends in blue and they’re both dead. I still have plenty of boxes . . .

  BISHOP: Leave all your cash in the prison locker at check-in.

  PORTER: No.

  BISHOP: There’s one more thing, Sam. You’re not going to like this, not in the slightest, but on the off chance you are willing to let the girls die, I got my hands on something truly spectacular, something that goes boom. I don’t want it to go boom, but I’ll let it, if you don’t bring me Mother. Nobody has enough boxes for that.

  BISHOP: BOTH you and Ms. Werner must go. They won’t release her to you alone. After all, an inmate is entitled to proper representation. Wouldn’t you agree?

  BISHOP: You have until 8 p.m. Any later and

  “Any later and what?” Porter said.

  “No signal. We must have lost the tower.”

  They both jerked in their seats as the wheels came down on the runway, the plane quickly decelerating, the airport outbuildings rushing past their small window.

  Sarah’s eyes were fixed on the phone. “Try now, signal is back.”

  PORTER: Bishop?

  MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED!

  Porter pressed the small red link that read TRY AGAIN.

  MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED!

  Again.

  MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED!

  “What the hell does that mean?” Porter frowned.

  “Maybe he pulled the battery,” Sarah replied. “Or chucked the phone in a lake.” She turned back to Porter. “So much for disrupting him. We didn’t slow him down.”

  Porter scrolled through the texts. When he got back to the picture of the girls, his stomach sank.

  98

  Porter

  Day 4 • 7:57 a.m.

  “We’ve got another hour until visiting opens up,” Porter said from the passenger seat of Sarah Werner’s BMW.

  They’d driven straight from the airport to the prison.

  He didn’t have a choice.

  He knew that.

  “She’ll be restrained,” Sarah offered. “She can’t get away. Just keep her close, and when you know the girls are safe, take her back into custody. Technically, she’s not leaving custody. Maybe handcuff yourself to her. Isn’t that what you cops do? Hell, I don’t know.”

  Sarah had received an e-mail from the prison ten minutes after Bishop broke contact, an automated response that said documentation regarding inmate #2138 had been received and processed, along with about twenty pages of canned information regarding prisoner custodian release and responsibilities.

  Porter tried calling the number Bishop used to text and received a recording. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service or has been disconnected. Please check . . .” He had heard the message before. He hung up.

  “How much cash do you have left?” Sarah asked.

  Porter let out a sigh and patted the inside pocket of his jacket. “Twenty-three hundred and twelve dollars.”

  She parked in the middle of the lot, the nose of the car pointing at the visitor entrance. “They open at nine to the general public, but lawyers are allowed in any time after eight.”

  “I should do this alone,” Porter said. “I’m already in trouble. There’s no reason for you to get wrapped up in all this.”

  “Oh, I think I’m twisted up good and tight in all of it at this point.”

  “This is a prison break. You’ll be on camera. At the very least, you’ll be disbarred.”

  “You give the worst pep talks.”

  “You don’t need to throw your life away over this.”

  Sarah sighed. “Bishop was clear. He said we both need to go in, so we’re both going in. I just need to stop sweating first.”

  “You’re sweating? It’s cold.”

  “It’s probably related to the shaking. I’d like for that to stop too.”

  She was shaking. Porter watched her hand bouncing nervously on the steering wheel. “I’m going in alone. Fuck Bishop, he’s—”

  Sarah turned off the ignition and was out the door before he could finish his thought. “Let’s go, Detective.”

  “Shit,” Porter muttered. He took out Bishop’s knife and Libby’s locket, tossed them both into the glove box, then fumbled with his seat belt and chased after her.

  At this early hour the visitor center was deserted. As before, the guard asked for Porter’s driver’s license, then Porter was asked to remove his belt and shoelaces. He placed these inside one of the lockers along with his wallet and jacket, the cash still in the jacket pocket. The guard closed the small door and handed him the key. He was then patted down and swept with a handheld metal detector. When the guard cleared him, he stepped into the adjoining hallway. Sarah joined him a moment later.

  “Now what?” Porter asked.

  As if in response, the metal door beside them buzzed and opened. Another guard stepped through, the door closing behind him. Weidner. He was on a cell phone. He held up a finger and nodded at them. When he finished the call, he ushered them into a small anteroom. “Wait here, please.”

  Every time the door in the hallway buzzed, Porter’s heart throbbed in his chest.

  The door buzzed five times before Weidner returned with two other guards behind him. Between them, Jane Doe shuffled along, her arms and legs in restraints.

  Weidner produced a clipboard and handed it to Porter. “Sign here, here, and here, please.”

  Porter felt Doe’s eyes on him, burning into the side of his head as he scribbled his name.

  “This is a day pass. Get her back here no later than five tonight. The restraints must stay on at all times. She is wearing a monitoring device on her ankle and cannot leave Orleans Parish. If she does, you will be in violation of the court order.”

  Court order? How had Bishop—

  Weidner went on. “Normally a prison guard would be required to join you, but because you are law enforcement and she’s being released into your custody as part of an ongoing investigation, that is solely your call. Would you like one or more guards to accompany you?”

  Porter shook his head.

  Weidner handed him a business card. A small key was taped to the back. “If for some reason you are unable to return her by five tonight, Detective, call that number and inform the duty chief.”

  Porter slid the business card into his pocket.

  Weidner took the clipboard, flipped to the second page, and handed it to Sarah. “As her attorney, I’ll need you to sign here, authorizing the release into Detective Porter’s custody.”

  Sarah signed and returned the paperwork to him.

  He studied both pages, then nodded at the guards behind him, then up at the camera in the corner of the hallway. The door buzzed again, and the two men led Jane Doe back inside, the steel door closing at their backs.

  Weidner turned back to Sarah and Porter. “Pick up your possessions, then p
ull your car around to gate 12 at the side of the visitors center.”

  He left then, disappearing behind the locked door.

  Porter and Sarah stared at each other for a moment. The entire exchange had taken less than five minutes.

  Back at the lockers, they retrieved their possessions. Porter noted his jacket was considerably lighter without the cash in the pocket.

  When they pulled up to gate 12, Jane Doe stood inside the chainlink fence, flanked by the two guards. There was a loud buzz, and the chainlink opened like the metal doors inside the prison. The guards led her to Sarah’s waiting BMW and helped her into the backseat, closing the door behind her.

  Jane Doe smiled from the backseat. “We need to go to your office, Ms. Werner. Chop, chop.”

  99

  Gabby

  Day 4 • 8:03 a.m.

  Gabby Deegan was lying in bed trolling Instagram.

  Someone had made the hashtag #LiliDaviesMemorial, and it quickly filled up with random pictures of Lili from people at school—people she didn’t know, people who didn’t know Lili. It made Gabby sick.

  What gave them the right to weigh in now?

  The hashtag contained numerous posts from Ally Winters and Magen Plants. Neither of them gave two shits when Lili was alive, and now all of a sudden they act like they were besties? The last time Ally saw Lili, she told her her hair looked ratty and she needed to go to a real stylist, no more Bargain Cuts at the mall. Last year Magen took Lili’s underwear from her locker during gym class and hid it in the school library. Gabby and Lili spent nearly an hour looking for them and got busted for missing fourth period. Bitch-cunts, the lot of them. That wasn’t the worst part, though—random strangers posted images, and some of them were horrible. There were pictures of the Leigh Gallery. Some people even posed for selfies with the sign outside the gallery. @EddieKnowsStuff in West Virginia posted a picture of Buffalo Bill from that old movie The Silence of the Lambs, with the caption “She DID NOT put the lotion in the basket!” Not someone who knew her, just some a-hole who should have his social media privileges revoked.