by J. D. Barker
Talbot was dirty.
If they determined how dirty, they had a chance of getting to his daughter while there was still time.
Part of him hoped Espinosa would find her in one of the houses back at the Moorings, tied up and blindfolded in a basement or unfinished bedroom, but the chances of that were small. 4MK wouldn’t stash her someplace where she could easily be found. On a construction site, a worker might stumble onto her. Hell, even a homeless person—God knew there were plenty of them squatting out there.
4MK wanted them to find Talbot, not the girl.
She had been missing for more than a day now. Most likely without food or water. He couldn’t begin to imagine the pain she must be in. Even if 4MK gave her something after severing her ear, the drugs would have surely worn off by now.
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell him,” Clair said into her phone. “Yes, I’ll make sure of it. You too, Captain.” She disconnected the call and dropped the phone into her pocket. “That fucking spineless piece of shit!”
Nash handed her a cup of coffee he pilfered from one of the uniforms. “Let me guess. The captain plays golf with the mayor, who is close friends with the Talbots, and none of them wish to put a hole in the donation boat.”
If a black woman could turn red, Porter imagined Clair was doing so now. For a second he thought she might throw the coffee back at Nash. “Cock-sucking little pissant ass clown.”
“You’re so hot when you rant,” Nash said, squeezing her shoulder.
Finally she sighed. “He’s got twelve more patrol cars on the way here and ten more heading to the Moorings. They’re going to search both locations from top to bottom—all the structures and the tunnels. The captain wants us all to go home, get a good night’s rest, and start fresh in the morning. Thinks if we stay out here all night, we’ll be useless by tomorrow, walking zombies. He said if they find something, he’ll notify us so we can come back out, but he doesn’t want us standing around here. He also said he’s not willing to bring in Talbot for an official sit-down, not yet. Says we’re better off waiting for Hosman to finish digging through his financials than bringing him in because of this.” She spread her arms out, gesturing toward the building. “He owns this place too, by the way. Bought it three weeks ago at auction.”
“There’s a shocker. I’m fairly certain he bought my house during the three minutes we’ve been standing here,” Nash said.
“I’m not going home, fuck that,” Clair said. “The captain is a tool.”
“I think the captain’s got a point on Talbot. Better to get the full picture on the financials than tip our hand on circumstantial evidence. We don’t have enough to hold him.” Porter ran his hand through his hair, his eyes wandering over the development. “Not yet, anyway. We’ll probably only get one shot at him.”
“So what do you want to do?” Nash asked.
“Clair, you head out to the Moorings and stay on top of the search. Nash, you do the same here. I’m going to take a ride out to Talbot’s house and keep an eye on him. We may not be able to talk to him, but we can watch him. Besides, I’m not active right now. The captain doesn’t get to tell me where I can and can’t park. We’ll regroup at the war room at first light.” He glanced around at the growing crowd of officers. “Where’s Watson?”
“He’s still down in the tunnel, processing the chamber where you found the boxes,” Nash replied. “Said he’s got at least an hour to go.”
Porter reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag with the fingerprint lift. “Can you give this to him? Better yet, catch a ride with one of the uniforms and drop it at the lab when you’re done here. Ask them to process it. No need to add one more person to the chain of custody.”
“Where’d you pull it?”
“Off the railcar back at the subbasement.”
Nash held the bag up to the light for a second before shoving it into his pocket. “Will do.” He turned toward Clair’s car, hesitated, then leaned into Porter. “It’s good to have you back, Sam.”
Porter gave him a nod.
“I agree with Shrek. Good to have you back,” Clair offered with a smile.
Porter watched Nash disappear in the crowd and Clair climb into her Civic and speed away, then crossed the street to his Charger.
41
Diary
Mr. Carter’s car was still parked in their driveway. I’m not sure where else I expected it to be—Mr. Carter’s time behind the wheel had come to an end, and Mrs. Carter would not be driving in the immediate future—yet seeing the car there made me feel as if someone occupied their house, even though I knew the place to be empty.
I left the wagon in our driveway and walked over.
As I pulled open the screen door, I couldn’t shake the feeling someone was inside. The door had not been locked, so I suppose someone may have ventured in, but I had no legitimate reason for believing so. Our neighborhood was quite safe, the kind of place where doors were never locked and friends and family alike came and went from the various houses with little deterrent. In fact, I suspected Mr. Carter left the keys in his car yesterday; my parents typically did.
Something felt off, though.
The screen door squeaked ever so slightly as I pulled it open and stepped inside, just loud enough to alert a trespasser of my arrival.
The kitchen was quiet and seemed untouched since last night, the remains of the shattered glass still on the floor in an evaporating puddle of bourbon. It was crawling with ants. Did ants get drunk? I imagine they did. I watched as they scurried over the sticky mess, zigzagging with such purpose. They didn’t appear any different from any other group of ants you might find outside on a sidewalk or lurking under a rock, yet they were saturated in alcohol. A couple of glasses had put me in a tizzy; surely swimming in booze would send them on a one-way trip to Drunksville. They seemed normal, though, unaffected.
I wanted to take a match to the whole lot of them. I’d set them ablaze and watch them burn. Their little bodies would crackle and pop with an alcohol-saturated fury. Alive one moment, charred dust the next. I would play God.
I made a mental note to conduct an experiment at a later date; I’d come here for a reason, and Father would be disappointed if I allowed a gaggle of ants to pull me astray.
I glanced over at the small table where Mrs. Carter had passed out. I could still picture her sitting there, her eyes glassy and speech slurred as she told me she had intended for me to see her naked that day at the lake. “A woman just wants to be desired, is all,” she had said.
The thought sent my blood rushing.
Focus. I needed to focus.
The noise came from deep within the house.
A rattle of sorts, or perhaps a clank.
It wasn’t the type of sound made by a house alone, not the creak or groan of a house settling or flexing as houses are known to do. This was something different.
I heard it again, louder than the first time. It came from the other side of the house, beyond the kitchen and down the hallway to where the bedrooms and a bath were no doubt located. I’d never ventured that far into the Carter home, and I didn’t know exactly what lay beyond the kitchen. I could only speculate based on the layout of our own home, which was of similar size and style.
Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew my knife. I dared not flick the blade, for that would make a sound all its own and possibly betray my position to whoever (or whatever) was back there. I held the blade with one hand and pressed the button, slowly releasing the blade while maintaining pressure against the spring until the blade fully engaged and locked into place, the recently cleaned and sharpened metal shimmering in the dull light inching through the curtains and grasping at the interior of the Carter home.
Another clank.
Whoever (or whatever) was back there didn’t know I was there. I had been noisy when I entered the house, carelessly so, but I must not have been heard. A burglar would have surely come running to see what was what.
Father had taught
me to hunt when I was little. He’d taught me to walk on the tips of my toes so as not to make noise and to move with the grace of an elk slipping through the forest. I called upon that skill now, and without the slightest sound to betray me, I made my way across the kitchen and leaned against the door frame in order to get a view down the hallway.
The living room fell off to the right with a small bathroom across on the left. There were two other doors down at the end of the hall—no doubt belonging to the two bedrooms.
I closed my eyes and listened.
Rustling.
The shuffling of papers.
A drawer sliding open.
More rustling.
The noise came from the bedroom on the right. I didn’t know if that was the Carters’ room or their guest room, not from this distance.
My palm was sweaty from holding the knife too tightly.
I knew better.
A sweaty knife would be difficult to control. It might slip, miss its mark.
I wiped my hand on my jeans and took a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow, calming my body. I surrendered to my instincts.
I surrendered to the hunt.
I began down the hall, with my knife hand pressed against my chest, the blade facing forward. Father taught me this particular grip. If necessary, I would launch the knife forward with the full strength of my arm muscles and the accuracy of a loaded gun. Unlike an overhand thrust, a jab would be difficult to block. This hold also allowed me to go directly for the heart or the stomach, with either an upward or downward motion, respectively. With an upper-hand grip, coming from above, you could only strike down—such an attack was more likely to glance off your victim than penetrate deeply.
Father was very skilled.
I pressed tightly against the wall, melding with the plaster as I moved, inching closer to the open door.
More rustling, then a hushed curse.
I saw a shadow moving within the room, a glimpse in the early light as the intruder shuffled about.
I reached the edge of the door frame.
Father once told me if you sneak up on someone, you have a second or more to attack before they are able to react. The human brain processes this activity slowly; your victim freezes for a moment as they try to comprehend the fact that you’re standing there, particularly in a room where they believe they are alone. He said some victims will continue to freeze, just watching you as if they were watching a television program. They stand there, waiting to see what happens next. Sometimes, not knowing what comes next is better.
The sound of one drawer closing and another yanked open.
With a deep breath, I tightened my grip on the knife and swung through the open doorway, rushing toward the intruder.
Mother sidestepped me, her right hand crashing down on my arm while her left snagged the knife from my hand. I tried to stop moving, but my momentum was too strong; I slammed into the bed and tumbled over the side, finally coming to a stop against the far wall.
“Always best to sneak up slow and steady,” Mother said. “Particularly when you have surprise working for you. Slow and steady, and you may have gotten me. As it stands, I heard you huffing and puffing long before you started your little gallop at me. Sure, some might not have time to react, but anyone with a bit of reflex in their step wouldn’t find it much of a bother.”
I had banged my head on the floor, and my earlier headache came back with a vengeance. I gathered myself and stood, wiping my hands on my jeans. “I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t expect anyone to be over here.”
She tilted her head. “And what exactly did you expect to find? A house empty for the pilfering?”
“Father asked me to pack a bag, make things look like the Carters went away. I’m supposed to put some stuff in their car. He’s going to move it somewhere when he gets home tonight.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s all, huh?”
“Honest Injun.”
“Well, get to it, then. Don’t let me stand in your way.”
I rubbed the back of my head; a nice-size lump was making an appearance. “Can I have my Ranger back?”
“You need to earn your knife back. Maybe next time you won’t part with something precious so easily.”
“Yes, Mother.”
There was a closet to my left. I pulled open the bifold door and found a battered suitcase tucked into the corner. “Perfect!” I heaved the bag up onto the bed.
Mother had returned to the dresser drawers. She carefully sorted through the contents of the third one of five in a large, dark oak bureau. It contained sweaters. “What are you looking for?”
She closed the drawer and opened the fourth. “Never you mind.” She glanced at the suitcase on the bed. “Be sure to throw some shoes in there. Women travel with shoes, at least two pairs, sometimes more. Unlike men, who are comfortable with only the ones on their feet, regardless of their destination. Perhaps a jacket too.”
“A jacket? But it’s summer. It’s too hot for a jacket.”
Mother grinned. “That’s the beauty of packing one. If you find a suitcase with a jacket packed inside during the middle of summer, you gotta wonder where the owner is running off to, don’t you think? Keep it random and you keep people guessing. If I found a suitcase like that, I would think they were off to someplace exotic, like Greenland.”
“Or Antarctica.”
She nodded. “Or Antarctica.”
“I should throw in a bathing suit too; that would really be confusing.”
“Well, that would be silly. Nobody goes to a place where you need a jacket and bathing suit.”
“What if the hotel in Antarctica has an indoor pool?” I countered.
She thought about this for a moment. “I don’t think you’d find a hotel like that in Antarctica. Maybe in Greenland, though.”
I started pulling random articles of clothing from the closet and adding them to the suitcase—shirts for Mr. Carter, some dresses from Mrs. Carter’s side, a few pairs of slacks, a tie.
“Don’t forget their unmentionables. And socks, lots of socks. People always overpack socks.”
“Which drawer?”
She nodded to a small dresser beside the closet. “Second and third in that one.”
I walked over and tugged at the drawers. Both were stuffed full—one his, one hers. I grabbed an armload from each and dumped them in the suitcase. I was nearly out of room.
“Leave a couple of the drawers open; disorganization will give the impression they left in a hurry,” Mother suggested.
“Bathroom stuff?”
Mother nodded and pulled open another drawer. “Toothbrushes, razors, deodorant . . .”
I found a small travel bag in the closet, then made my way back down the hall to their bathroom. Mrs. Carter kept a tidy house—not a speck of toothpaste on the sink, and the mirror was spotless. Everything was neatly arranged on the vanity.
I plucked both toothbrushes and a tube of paste from a green ceramic cup and dropped them into the bag. Then I added an electric razor, a can of Right Guard deodorant, a pink roll-on that smelled slightly of lilacs, a jar of Noxzema face wash, dental floss, and a women’s razor I found on the bathtub’s edge. From inside the medicine cabinet, I also pilfered some aspirin, two bottles of multivitamins, and three prescription bottles—lisinopril, Imitrex, and a blister pack of birth control.
I left the medicine cabinet open and carried the smaller bag back to the bedroom, dropping it next to the suitcase.
“I can help you search, Mother. You just need to tell me what you’re trying to find.”
She waved an impatient hand in the air without looking at me, and continued shuffling through the clothing stacked neatly on cedar shelves.
A copy of A Caller’s Game by Thad McAlister lay on the nightstand.
People read on vacation, don’t they? I was sure they did.
I tossed the book into the suitcase and noticed the edge of a photograph sticking out from the pages.
It was a picture of Mrs. Carter and Mother. Both were naked, their limbs twisted together in an embrace while they held each other in a passionate kiss. It was taken in the Carters’ bed, Mother and Mrs. Carter lying atop the same comforter that covered the bed now.
I stared down at the photo in disbelief, my mind flashing back to what I’d seen yesterday. I thought that had been the first time something happened between the two of them. Clearly I was wrong.
When had this been taken? Nothing in the image offered a clue. It must have been recent, though. Then my mind offered a question of its own.
Forget when it was taken. I was more curious to determine who had taken it.
I didn’t hear Mother come up behind me. Until she snatched the photo from my fingers, I didn’t know she stood there at all. “I don’t believe that belongs to you,” she said before tucking the picture into her pocket. She pointed at the bags on the bed. “Get those into their car.”
My mouth hung open. What would Father think?
“Don’t even think about telling your father,” she breathed.
42
Porter
Day 2 • 4:58 a.m.
Porter found a parking space three blocks from his apartment and started toward his building. He had sat outside Talbot’s house for the better part of the night, and aside from Carnegie stumbling in at a little past two, there was no movement. No sign of Talbot at all.
Both Clair and Nash had checked in with him; neither search party found any sign of Emory at the Mulifax Building or the Moorings construction site.
Dead ends.
From his vantage point at Talbot’s house, he had read more of the diary—that yielded nothing either, just more childhood ramblings. He was beginning to think it was nothing more than a fiction crafted solely to waste his time.
