The Fourth Monkey

by J. D. Barker

  Father fell to the ground in a motionless heap.

  “Father?”

  I didn’t recognize my own voice; it sounded thin and frail, distant, like someone shouting underwater. “I . . . I took out the bullets.”

  Mr. Stranger popped the cylinder out, then back in. “A good soldier always checks his weapon before battle, kid.” He pointed the gun at Mrs. Carter, now sprawled on the floor at his feet. “Get up.”

  Mrs. Carter slowly rose to her feet.

  Mother stood motionless, her mouth agape as she sucked in a deep breath.

  My eyes were locked on Father’s lifeless body. I knew he was dead, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that fact. I expected him to stand up, to finish the man who had threatened his life, this man invading our home.

  A scream rose from my throat.

  It was a scream so shrill and sharp, I felt the vibrations at my very core. My fingers dropped into my pocket and wrapped around my knife, the comforting handle and silver bolsters warm to the touch, hot even. I gripped the Ranger with a ferocious strength, pulled it out, and flicked the blade open with a single fluid motion. Then I was on him. He tried to raise the gun, but I was too fast. I swung the knife up and buried the blade in the soft skin under his chin, forcing through the flesh and bone until it punctured into his mouth and tore through his tongue. When it finally stopped as it embedded itself in the roof of his mouth, I yanked the knife back out and slit his throat, tearing through the muscle, tendons, and arteries. The blood sprayed out onto my face, into my hair, my eyes. I didn’t care. I sliced him again. When his body began to crumple to the ground, I rode it down and plunged the knife into his chest, again and again. I stabbed dozens, possibly hundreds, of times. I stabbed him until—

  My eyes snapped open and I was staring at father’s lifeless body again. I hadn’t moved, not an inch. My hand dropped into my pocket in search of my knife, but it wasn’t there. Mother had taken my knife. My fingers found nothing but the small box of matches and the photographs I had taken from the Carters’ house.

  “Hand out of your pocket slowly, kid,” I heard Mr. Stranger say. I felt the barrel of his .44 Magnum press against the side of my head. It was still hot.

  I removed my hand, leaving the matches and photos behind.

  The barrel pressed hard against my head.

  The shot rang out and my eyes pinched shut. My body stiffened, waiting for the bullet to tear through my skull like it had Father’s, to tear the life from me and plunge me into a darkness where I would be united with him once again.

  The darkness didn’t come.

  Mr. Stranger collapsed at my side, smoke rising from a large hole in the back of his head.

  80

  Clair

  Day 2 • 5:26 p.m.

  The patrol officers were dead. Both shot. The driver, at point-blank just below his left temple. His partner took three rounds to the chest. As far as Clair knew, 4MK had never shot anyone before. A nine-millimeter Beretta 92FS lay on the dash. Porter’s backup weapon.

  Endgame, she thought.

  Nash tapped Clair on the shoulder, and she turned from the car. He pointed at the front of Talbot’s house, his own weapon drawn.

  The front door was cracked open a few inches.

  The sun was setting, and the shadows crawled across the expanse of the front yard. No lights burned inside, although it was dark enough now to call for it; no sound escaped, either. There was only that door, open just enough.

  “He may still be in there,” Clair said, drawing her Glock.

  “Porter and I were here yesterday. Talbot has a wife and daughter, at least one housekeeper in there too, possibly more.”

  Clair called dispatch. When she hung up, she was shaking her head. “Cars are on their way, but they’ve got rush hour traffic. They’re at least ten or fifteen minutes out. Espinosa’s team is still at the apartment.”

  Nash started for the door. “Watch my back.”

  Clair nodded grimly. They couldn’t wait. If Bishop was still inside, there was no telling what he was doing to that family. The deaths of those officers landed squarely on the heads of their task force. She didn’t care for Talbot in the slightest, but she wasn’t about to let anything happen to him and his family if she could prevent it. Neither was Nash.

  They reached the door.

  Nash leaned against the frame and angled to get a glimpse inside. After a moment, he shook his head. “Shades are drawn,” he mouthed.

  Clair nodded and held her finger up to her lips.

  Nash eased open the door, cringing as a low squeal escaped from the hinges.

  The streetlights came to life, and Clair welcomed the light until she saw her own shadow stretch across the floor with Nash’s beside it. He must have spotted it too, because he ducked through the doorway and rounded the corner in an instant, concealing himself within the dark foyer. Clair followed close, her eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of life.

  A muffled groan came from down the hall.

  Nash moved quickly, his gun held in a firm grip pointing down and forward. He clearly remembered the layout, because he maneuvered around a small table in the hallway with little effort. Clair would have bumped it for sure; the light from outside seemed to halt at the threshold, unwilling to step inside.

  Past the small table, they came upon a large opening and what appeared to be a library or some kind of sitting room. The remains of a fire crackled and popped on the hearth of a stone fireplace. A small end table lay in splinters surrounded by broken glass—the remains of a crystal decanter or maybe a vase. The couch had been overturned and settled on its side. A woman lay sprawled across the center of the rug.

  Nash scanned the room and knelt beside her. The housekeeper, Clair assumed from the uniform. She watched them from the corner of her eye while training her gun on the hallway.

  The woman’s hands and feet were tied with a phone cord, and she had been gagged. Clair could see her eyes shifting quickly in the dim light as she stared up at the two of them. Nash signaled for her to keep quiet, then pulled the gag from her mouth. She coughed and her eyes watered.

  “Is he still here?” Nash asked her in a hush.

  81

  Diary

  “I should have popped that fucker twenty minutes ago,” Mr. Smith said. He stood in the doorway with the rifle in his good hand.

  “Why didn’t you?” Mother asked.

  “I wasn’t sure what to do about your husband. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.”

  “Sometimes you have to improvise,” Mother told him. “Let me see that hand.”

  Mr. Smith started toward her, and I watched as Mrs. Carter slapped Mother across the face with both hands still cuffed together, nearly knocking her down.

  “What the hell?” Mother spat. The corner of her lip was bleeding.

  “You could have ended this days ago. Do you know what he did to me with the rat? He could have killed me!”

  Mr. Smith reached down and pulled Mr. Stranger into the house toward the basement door. “Quit the bickering, we don’t have time. Briggs called for reinforcements on the way out here.”

  Father’s lifeless body still sprawled on the floor.

  I hadn’t moved.

  I couldn’t move.

  Mrs. Carter walked over slowly and ran her hand through my hair. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. My head was foggy, thoughts moving through taffy. I pulled the photographs from my pocket and handed them to her. “These are yours.”

  She took the photos, flipping through them deliberately, her face turning red. “Where did you find them?”

  “On your kitchen table this morning. Someone left them there.”

  Mr. Smith snickered. “Briggs did, that sick fuck. He found them on top of the fridge in a cookbook and left them out.”

  Father’s body.

  I heard a moan and realized it came from me. A dark sob from deep in my throat.

  “I told you the boy was broken. He�
��s not right, never has been,” Mother said. Her eyes so cold and dark. This was not the Mother I needed right now; this was the Other Mother. She didn’t see the bodies on the floor. She looked right through them, as if they weren’t there at all.

  Mrs. Carter frowned at her. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

  Mother walked over, lifting my head up by the chin. “When was the last time you took your medication?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” she mimicked in a singsong voice. “I want you to run out to the lake and fetch the keys from the place Mrs. Carter hid them. Do you think you can do that?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Momma.”

  “Don’t call me that. You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  “Sorry, Mother.”

  “Go, then. We need to hurry. We need to leave before this guy’s friends show up.” She nodded toward Mr. Stranger’s body.

  I pushed past Mr. Smith and Mrs. Carter. When I glanced back, Mother was working the locks on Mrs. Carter’s handcuffs. They clattered to the floor and she rubbed at her wrists. The two women exchanged a whisper, their eyes on me. Mr. Smith was moving Father’s body.

  Without another word, I ran off toward the small path leading into the woods.

  82

  Porter

  Day 2 • 5:27 p.m.

  Porter took the box cutter from the cabdriver and dropped it into his pocket. “What’s your name?”

  “Marcus. Marcus Ingram.”

  “Do you own a gun, Marcus?”

  Kloz’s voice grew loud enough to hear, even though the phone wasn’t on speaker. “You are not going in there, Sam. Wait for backup. You just got stabbed, remember? You shouldn’t be on your feet, period. Clair is liable to put a bullet in you if you try.”

  “Do you own a gun, Marcus?” Porter asked again.

  The cabdriver shook his head. “I don’t like guns. I got this, though.” He reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a small baseball bat with CHICAGO CUBS stamped in colorful letters on the barrel. “Got this in 2008 when they went up against the Dodgers for the division. They lost, but this little guy has helped me beat down my share of muggers and deadbeats. It’s not one of those cheap souvenir bats; this one is made of northern white ash. It won’t crack.”

  “Porter? I spoke to Dispatch. They have cars en route. Stay put.”

  Porter took the bat and measured the weight in his hand. It had a little heft. “What about a flashlight?”

  Marcus nodded. “Yep.” He reached into the car and came out with a small LED flashlight. “It’s tiny but bright.” He handed it to Porter.

  “Kloz? I’ll keep you on the line as long as I can, but I’m going to put the phone in my pocket so I can use both hands. Try to keep quiet. If he’s in there, I don’t want him to hear me coming.”

  Bishop knew he was coming, though; Porter was sure of that. The man who used to be Watson had left a neat little trail of bread crumbs, and not only did he know Porter was coming, he would be waiting.

  “He wants me to come alone, Kloz. If that girl is alive and she’s in there, our only shot at getting to her is me doing this alone, just the way he wants it,” Porter said.

  Kloz sighed. “He’ll kill you. You understand that, right?”

  “He could have killed me already. He wants me to see this through to the end.”

  “So he can kill you,” Kloz retorted. “This is his final act, and he wants you to play a part. That’s the only reason he’s kept you around. Once that curtain falls and your part is done, he’s done with you. Wait outside for backup. They’ll be there in less than ten minutes. You go in there alone, and you’re committing suicide.”

  Porter didn’t need to think about it for a moment. Without Heather in his life, he had nothing else worth living for anyway.

  “Tell them to watch out for Marcus. He’s going to stand right outside and wait for SWAT. He can show them where I went.” Then, before Kloz had time to respond, Porter dropped the cell into his pocket and crossed the sidewalk to 314 West Belmont, flashlight in one hand, the small baseball bat in the other.

  83

  Diary

  The lake seemed oddly still as I approached, the water unmoving save for the slight ripple caused by a duck floating lazily across the surface near the middle. I ran the entire way and nearly collapsed at the water’s edge, my breathing heavy and labored. I hoped running would clear my head. I hoped it would help me forget what I had just seen, what had just happened, but the moment I closed my eyes, I saw the bullet tear through Father. I saw Mother watching, watching but not acting, Mother standing as still as I while Father was killed. I bent over at the waist with my hands on my knees until my strength returned, then scanned the bank for the cat.

  Nothing remained but fur and bones; the little meat I spied on my last visit had been picked clean. Not even a single ant crawled over the body. They had moved on to bigger and better things, I supposed. There was always something dying in the forest, just as sure as new life was born.

  I poked at the cat with the toe of my shoe, half expecting to see a beetle or some other straggler come running out, but nothing did.

  Mother had told me to hurry.

  Dropping down to my knees, I pushed the cat aside and began digging at the dirt beneath the frail frame. I noticed a slight odor, a mix of onions and rotten spinach, and tried not to think about the melted fat and bile that probably soaked into the earth as the cat decayed. I tried not to think of such things at all because they made me feel like I might get sick, and knowing that the body of Mr. Carter lay at the bottom of the lake beside me, I could not leave a pile of vomit on the shore for the authorities to find, should they ever happen upon his final resting place.

  About six inches down, my fingers brushed against a plastic bag, the kind with a zip lock on the top, and I tugged it out and shook the dirt off.

  Inside was my knife.

  No safe-deposit box keys.

  My Ranger buck knife, nothing else.

  A lump began to grow in my stomach, a painful fist clenching at my intestines.

  I scooped up the bag and started back for the house. I heard the voices just before I crossed through the woods back into our yard.

  Male voices.

  Two white vans stood in our driveway; both said TALBOT ENTERPRISES in bold red letters on the doors. Three men stood near our front door.

  The Plymouth Duster was gone.

  Mother and Mrs. Carter had left with Mr. Smith. I was sure of this.

  I was alone.

  84

  Porter

  Day 2 • 5:31 p.m.

  314 West Belmont had a glass front, and although most of the windows were sealed behind plywood, the large glass turnstile door was not. Porter gave it an exploratory push, expecting it to be locked, but the revolving door moved, spinning on its axis. With one last glance back at Marcus, he stepped inside and followed it around. The sounds and smells of the city quickly evaporated, replaced by utter silence and the powdery scent of drywall dust. He stepped out of the revolving door into the lobby of the building.

  Porter’s first thought was that there was no way in hell this place would be open by spring. All the walls were exposed concrete with steel two-by-four framing scattered randomly. He imagined they would eventually be closed in and form walls and rooms, but right now the space housed nothing more than calculated chaos. The floor was littered with dozens of footprints heading off in all directions. Light from the street lamps shined in from the large windows at his back, illuminating the room, but visibility was quickly fading with the waning sun.

  Porter knelt down and studied the prints. He flicked on the flashlight and swept the beam over the floor with the slow steadiness of a lighthouse waxing across a bay. The footprints all appeared to be work boots, every set but one. He stood and walked over, leaning down for a better look. Men’s dress shoes. Beside them he found a trail in the dust, as if s
omething had been dragged.

  He followed the pattern to the back west corner of what would become the lobby and found himself standing at a bank of elevators, six in all, lining the back wall. He pushed the Call button, but nothing happened. He didn’t expect them to work. The power appeared to be off. The steel doors were sealed shut with red safety tape around a note that read: DANGER—NO CARS.

  The trail through the dust continued past the elevators and down the hall to the left. As he turned the corner, he came upon a door—the emergency stairs, he presumed. Scrawled across the faded green paint in bright red were the words SEE NO EVIL. On the floor at his feet were two human eyeballs. They stared up at him with an unsettling calm.

  85

  Clair

  Day 2 • 5:31 p.m.

  “Miranda, is he still in the house?” Nash asked again, more firmly.

  The housekeeper’s eyes were crusted with dried tears. She whimpered softly, shook her head, shrugged, then nodded quickly. “I don’t know,” the woman replied. “I didn’t see where he went.”

  “How long since you last saw him?”

  She appeared confused by the question. Her eyes dilated slightly. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Did he drug you?”

  Staring at him, she seemed to contemplate this. “I don’t know. I think so. I don’t remember him tying me up. Everything’s hazy.”

  “Is anyone else in the house?” Nash asked.

  The housekeeper took a deep breath and glanced at the staircase. “Ms. Patricia and Mr. Talbot are in their room.” Her eyes grew wider still. “He went up there. I remember him heading toward the stairs.”

  Nash followed her gaze to the staircase, barely visible in the waning light. “What about Carnegie?”