by J. D. Barker
“Unfortunate things sometimes happen to unfortunate people.”
“That they do,” Mr. Stranger replied. “Didn’t much care for him anyway. What about the missus?”
Mother and Mrs. Carter appeared in the living room. Mother had draped a towel over the woman’s shoulders in an effort to cover up her bared chest. Her hands were cuffed in front of her. I couldn’t help but blush at the sight of her. Even after days in the basement living in her own filth, she still looked beautiful. The tip of Mother’s knife was pointed an inch below her rib cage, pressing into the naked flesh.
Father eyed her, then returned his attention to the man on the front porch. “She’s been a houseguest of ours for the past few days, but I’m afraid she’s overstayed her welcome. I’m perfectly willing to send her on out there to you, providing you load her up into that fancy car of yours and head back to the city. My family and I have nothing to do with this and just want to be left alone. You leave us peacefully, and I see no reason for any of us to ever mention this to anyone. You get what you want, we get what we want, everybody wins.”
“Is that a fact?”
Mrs. Carter shook her head urgently. “You hand me over to those men and they’ll kill us all, including your boy. They’re not the kind of people to leave loose ends. You can’t trust them.”
“Three minutes!” Mr. Stranger shouted.
“She doesn’t know anything about this missing paperwork. Whatever her husband was up to, he didn’t share the details with her,” Father said.
“I’m supposed to believe that?”
“It’s the truth,” Mrs. Carter said loudly.
“You in there, Lisa?” Mr. Stranger called. “Did you promise some of the money to these fine folks if they watch over you? Is that it? Why don’t you come on out so we can talk things over? I’m getting hoarse shouting through this door.”
Father turned back to the door. “Like I said, I don’t mind turning her over. I don’t care what you do to her, as long as you leave us out of it. Your problem is not our problem.”
“Oh, I disagree with you there.”
“Tell your boss Simon is dead!” Mrs. Carter shouted back to him. “Whatever secrets he may have died with him.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be doing my job if I took your word for it.”
Glass shattered behind us, and we all turned to the kitchen. A hand poked through the narrow window beside the back door and fumbled with the lock. Father darted toward it. He raised his knife and brought the blade down across the intruding fingers in one quick, fluid motion, splitting two or three of them open. Blood gathered at the wound in an instant before the man on the other side shouted in pain. The hand disappeared. Father plucked the boiling pot of vegetable oil from the stove as he passed on his way back to the front door.
Mr. Stranger was laughing. “You got Mr. Smith good! I told him he’d never get in fast enough like that, but he didn’t listen, wanted to do things his way. Isn’t that like the younger generation? They don’t heed their elders anymore, not like when you and I were young, right, hoss? They don’t have the kind of respect we were taught, the kind instilled in us from the get-go. Your boy might—he seemed to mind his p’s and q’s. I bet he’d grow up into a pillar of society, if given the chance. Of course, whether or not that happens is really in your hands at this point.”
“I’m gonna kill that fucking bastard!” Mr. Smith shouted from somewhere behind Mr. Stranger.
I crawled to the window that overlooked the front yard and spotted the man with the long blond hair and glasses standing at the edge of the porch, blood pooling at his feet. He tore off a length of cloth from the bottom of his T-shirt and wrapped it around his damaged hand. It immediately turned red.
Mr. Stranger spotted me and winked. “In all that excitement, I completely lost track of time,” he said loudly. “I’m going to guess you have about thirty seconds left. Does that seem about right to you?”
I ducked and scurried away from the window. “There’s only two of them, Father. If some of us go out the back and the rest go out the front, they can’t stop everyone.”
“And where do we go? They destroyed both cars.”
“We take his.”
Father was already shaking his head. “This needs to end here, or we’re forever on the run.”
“They have guns.”
“We’re smarter than they are. We need to think this through, puzzle it out.”
Mother had been oddly silent, calm. “We kill Lisa and toss her body out to them.”
With that, Mrs. Carter struggled, but Mother held her knife to the woman’s eye. She fell still and stared at the silver tip. “My husband moved nearly fourteen million dollars into offshore accounts. I’ve got all the numbers and passwords. Half of that money is yours if you get me out of here alive.”
Father left the door and walked over to her. “What about the paperwork? That’s what they really want.”
Mrs. Carter let out a deep sigh. “Safe-deposit boxes at Middleton downtown. Four of them. Enough information to access another hundred million easy.”
“Where are the keys?”
Mrs. Carter said nothing.
Father grabbed her by the hair, jerking her from Mother’s grasp, and pulled her over to the boiling pot of vegetable oil. He pushed her head down toward the pot. Mrs. Carter fought, arching her back and trying to kick at him, but Father was too strong. He held her face inches above the steaming liquid. “I’m going to ask you one more time, then you’re going in. Where are the keys?”
Mrs. Carter shook her head and reeled back, but Father held her tight, impervious to her kicking. With her hands cuffed in the front, they were of little use. “No . . .” she managed to say.
Father shrugged and pushed her closer.
The oil fizzled and popped, and little drops struck her skin, leaving tiny red welts. She shrieked and pushed back with all her strength. Drops of oil sizzled in her hair. “Under the cat! God, stop! They’re under the cat!”
“What?” He loosened his grip, putting a few inches between Mrs. Carter’s face and the pot.
I knew what she meant, though. I knew exactly what she meant. “By the lake? My cat?”
Mrs. Carter nodded quickly.
“You know where she’s talking about?”
“Yes, Father.”
Father turned to Mrs. Carter, his eyes narrow. “You’re going to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”
There was another loud bang at the door. “Time’s up, people!”
76
Clair
Day 2 • 5:12 p.m.
“What is it?” Clair asked.
“A lot of paperwork and a note,” Nash replied as he reached into the box. He pulled out the sheet of stationery resting atop thousands of documents all bundled together neatly with elastic bands.
Clair leaned closer. “What does it say?”
Nash read aloud.
Ah, my friends!
It is good to know you finally found your way here! I had hoped to be there with you when this moment came, but alas, it was not meant to be. I take solace in the fact that this material has found its way into your capable hands, as I am sure you will take it to your compadres in financial crimes so they may add it to the mounting pile of evidence against Mr. Talbot and company. While I believe this box contains more than enough information for a substantial conviction, I’m afraid I couldn’t wait for the trial portion of the program and went ahead and passed a sentence I believe to be more than fitting for the crimes at hand. Much like his longtime business partner, Gunther Herbert, Mr. Talbot will meet with justice face-to-face today, and he will answer for his actions on the swiftest of terms. Perhaps I will allow him to give his daughter one last kiss before goodbyes are said? Perhaps not. Maybe it’s best they just watch each other bleed.
Truly yours,
Anson Bishop
Nash’s eyes narrowed. “Do we still have a car tailing Talbot?”
Clair al
ready had her cell phone out. “I’m on it.”
Nash returned to the box and pulled out one of the document bundles. The ream was about two inches thick and contained about three hundred sheets of paper. The topmost sheet was white lined in green, each line filled with tiny, neat handwriting. “This looks like some kind of ledger. Old too. This page is dated nearly twenty years ago. Who the hell keeps their books on paper anymore?”
Clair waved him off, turned her back, and began pacing the room with the phone to her ear.
Nash shrugged and went back to the paper. The first line read 163. WF14. 2.5k. JM.
“Is it some kind of code?”
He reached inside and began removing the other ledgers, twelve in all. Each contained similar entries. Nash stacked them neatly at the side. At the very bottom of the box was a manila envelope. “Now we’re talking,” he said to himself before plucking it out.
Clair hung up the call and walked back over. “I’m getting voice mail on the patrol car. Dispatch can’t reach them, either. We need to get over to Talbot’s house.”
Nash gestured to the box. “What about this stuff?”
“Have someone run everything back to Kloz,” she instructed.
He nodded and opened the envelope. It was full of Polaroids. He reached in and pulled one out—a snapshot of a naked young girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen.
77
Diary
I opened the door—not Father, not Mother, and certainly not Mrs. Carter, but me. I opened the door to find Mr. Stranger standing on our stoop wearing the same jacket he had been wearing on that first visit only a few short days ago. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a white handkerchief in his left hand. In his right, chubby fingers wrapped around the grip of the .44 Magnum I had found in his glove box yesterday. The barrel was pointed at my head.
“Howdy, friend. I hope you’ve been well.”
Behind him, Mr. Smith cradled his injured hand in the now soaked scrap of cloth, a small puddle of blood pooling on the tip of his shoe and the ground around him, a rifle held loosely between his arm and his side. His face was blotchy, burning with anger. “I’m going to gut your fucking father for this.” He raised the bloody hand in case I didn’t know what “this” was and shook it, sending little droplets of blood across the white boards of our pristine porch. Mother wouldn’t be very happy about that.
“Now, now,” Mr. Stranger said. “No need for hostilities. You can’t blame these kind people for simply defending their home.”
“The fuck I can’t.”
Mr. Stranger dabbed at the sweat again; the collar of his shirt was soaked.
I could smell the gasoline, the fumes wafting off the porch in a thin haze. Streaks of it dripped down the siding. Four gas cans stood in our driveway.
“Why are you wearing a jacket if you’re hot?” It was a simple question, one I felt needed to be answered regardless of current circumstances. Sometimes I find it difficult to move forward if open issues are nagging at me.
Mr. Stranger’s lips stretched into a wide grin. “Why, indeed. You are an interesting little fellow, aren’t you? So inquisitive. What if I told you it was my favorite jacket, one I’ve owned more years than you’ve probably graced this planet. What if I told you it was also my lucky jacket and today just felt like the kind of day that called for a little luck all around so I plucked it from the closet and donned it for the duration, temperature be damned. What would you say to that?”
“I would tell you it’s an ugly jacket and it probably stinks to high heaven ’cause of all the sweating you’re doing.”
Mr. Stranger’s grin held still but his eyes grew dark. “I’m experiencing a bit of déjà vu from this little back-and-forth of ours, son, so I’m going to ask you the same question I did when I first made your acquaintance. That way we can bring this full circle. Are your parents home?”
He knew full well that they were, so I thought this was a stupid question. But I nodded anyway and gave the door a little push so it swung open.
Mrs. Carter stood a few paces behind me. Father stood behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other draped over her shoulder. He held one of the kitchen knives against her neck, the sharp tip pressing into her jugular. Her head tilted at a slight angle away from the blade, her gaze fixed on the men at the door.
“Lisa.” Mr. Stranger nodded. “My condolences on your husband.”
She said nothing. Her cuffed fists curled over her bra.
Mr. Stranger looked past us to Mother, who leaned against the side of the couch, her hands at her sides. “Nice to see you again, ma’am.”
Mother snickered but said nothing in return.
Mr. Stranger tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and pointed the .44 at Father. “Drop the knife.”
Father shook his head. “Nope.”
“What then?” Mr. Stranger asked.
“The papers are in a safe-deposit box. My boy knows where she hid the keys, so he’s going to go fetch them while the rest of us wait here. I’m going to keep this knife right where it is, and if you or your friend try anything I find remotely threatening, I’ll slit her throat. It won’t take much. I’m right at the artery. You shoot me and I could tear it wide open on my way to the ground. You hurt my wife or son, and she’s dead. I do that, and nobody will be alive to tell you what bank holds the box.”
Mr. Smith opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Stranger silenced him with a raised hand. “How do we know he’s not running off to call the police?”
Father shrugged. “Because we killed Simon; we all have skin in the game. He’ll fetch the keys and be back inside of thirty minutes.”
Mr. Stranger’s gaze fell on Mrs. Carter.
“These people are fucking crazy,” Mrs. Carter told him. “They killed him and had me tied up in the basement for nearly a week.”
The knife was pressed tight against her neck. Just the movement of speech was enough to send a trickle of blood down the blade.
Mr. Stranger turned back to Father. “So your kid runs off somewhere while we all stand around with weapons pointed at each other till he comes back with the safe-deposit box keys. At that point, you hand over Lisa there and my friend and I walk away, leaving your family to live out the rest of your days. Nobody else has to die? What keeps us from killing the lot of you as soon as we get the name of the bank?”
Father gave a slight shrug. “I guess at some point we’re just going to have to trust each other.”
Mr. Stranger thought about this for a second, then shook his head. “No, I don’t like that plan.” He leveled the .44 at Father’s head.
“It’s not loaded!” I screamed. “I took out the bullets!”
Father shoved Mrs. Carter at the man, his hands—
The Magnum went off with a deafening roar.
78
Porter
Day 2 • 5:22 p.m.
“What do you mean, you’ve got Emory’s clothes?” Kloz asked.
Porter pulled the hangers off the hook and started back for the door.
“Hey! You’ve gotta pay for that!” the kid behind the counter shouted. “Get back here!”
“Porter? Are you there?”
“I’m at a dry cleaner down on Belmont. The ticket was a match, and—”
“Wait. You’re not in the hospital?” Kloz asked. “Porter, please tell me you didn’t leave the hospital.”
The clerk from the cleaner burst through the doorway, holding a box cutter. “You need to get back inside and pay for those, or we’re going to have a serious problem, my friend.”
Porter watched as the cabdriver came around the car and walked up behind him. He plucked the blade from the kid’s hand and slapped him on the back of his head. “That man’s a cop, you idiot. You really feel like going to jail today?”
The kid rubbed at the back of his head. “He’s a cop? Why’s he wearing pajamas?”
Porter nodded back at the dry cleaner. “Get inside, now.�
�
The kid turned on his heels and pushed through the doorway.
“Porter?”
He pressed the phone back to his ear and told Kloz about the call from Bishop and his hunch to follow up on the watch. His head was spinning. “The parking meter costs seventy-five cents per hour, and there’s a dry cleaner next door. He told us how to get here from the beginning; we just didn’t see it.”
“Okay, but where is here? Where is Emory?”
Porter pulled the watch from his pocket and held it up, twisting the timepiece between his fingers. He pressed the button on the top, and the cover snapped open, its movement hindered by the bag. The hands on the face were stopped, frozen in time.
3:14.
He turned back to the cabdriver. “What is the address of this place?”
“316 West Belmont.”
Porter turned to his left. Construction barricades blocked off the building next door, a tall skyscraper, fifty or sixty stories at least. “Kloz, who owns 314 West Belmont?”
“Hold on.” Porter could hear him pecking away at his keyboard. “It’s office space bought last year by Intrinsic Value LLC, which is owned by CommonCore Partnerships, a wholly owned subsidiary of A. T. The Market Corp, one of Talbot’s companies. They’re currently going through a complete renovation, set to open in the spring.”
“Get SWAT down here, now.”
79
Diary
I watched Father as he soared through the air, his hands reaching for Mr. Stranger’s throat. Openmouthed and red-faced, Father was burning anger as fuel.
When the gun went off, when the barrel of the weapon bucked and the bullet took flight, the world slowed to a crawl. I could see the projectile as it passed the tip. I watched as the bullet crept across the air. I saw it enter Father’s forehead above his left eye, leaving a tiny red dot. I saw the shock as it registered on his face. Then I watched the back of his head as it exploded in a cloud of red mist.
