Mr. Carter glared at both of us, thin whimpers behind the gag. Tears stained his cheeks and the collar of his shirt.
Mother rumbled down the stairs behind us. She glowered at Mr. Carter with a contempt and heat that broiled through the room. “That, that . . . man, and I use that term in the loosest possible sense, beat his beautiful wife earlier today, then thought it proper to come over here and wave his man-bits about while telling me how he would give me what he felt I had coming. Well, I didn’t believe I had anything coming, and I wasn’t about to stand for the treatment he bestowed on poor little Lisa. God knows she would never do anything to hurt anyone, not even this sorry excuse.”
Father pondered this for a moment. “So you beat him and chained him up in our basement?”
“Oh, I didn’t beat him. I pushed him down the stairs, chained him to the water pipe, then went to work trying to slice the evil out of him. It was messy work, and even after three hours I’m afraid I only made a dent in it. I worked up such an appetite, though. I figured I would continue after we ate dinner, a dinner that is getting cold as we speak.”
Father nodded slowly. Then he walked over to Mr. Carter and knelt at his side. “Is this true, Simon? Did you beat your wife? Did you come here, to my house, and threaten the woman I love? The mother of that beautiful little boy over there? Did you do these things, Simon?”
Mr. Carter shook his head violently, his eyes jumping from Father to Mother and back again.
Mother pulled a long knife out from behind her back and charged at the man. “Liar!” she screamed. She plunged the knife into the fat of the man’s abdomen, and he cried out from behind the gag. His face first flushed, then went pale, and she pulled the knife back out.
Surprisingly little blood flowed from the wound. I found it fascinating how I could now see past his pale flesh to the yellow fat and dark muscle beneath. The cut opened and closed with each breath as if drawing in air on its own. I took a step closer to get a better look.
Mother raised the knife again.
If Father wished to stop her, I had no doubt that he could. He didn’t, though. He watched her calmly from where he crouched beside Mr. Carter.
Mother brought the knife down into the man’s thigh with such force, the tip clunked as it passed through his leg and struck the concrete floor. He let out another shriek, then began to cry again. I found this to be a little funny. Grown men should never cry. Father told me so.
Mother twisted the knife nearly a full turn, then yanked the blade back out. This time there was blood, a lot of blood. A fresh pool began to form under his twitching leg.
I couldn’t help but smile. I didn’t like Mr. Carter. I didn’t like him one bit. And after what he did to Mrs. Carter? It was nice to see him get what he deserved. Women are to be respected and cherished, always. He would learn.
22
Porter
Day 1 ? 1:38 p.m.
Whatney Vale High School was a squat three-story steel and glass building located just north of the University of Illinois at Chicago. Typically ranked in the top five high schools in Illinois, Whatney was one of the most sought-after schools in the city. A school security guard led Porter and Nash through the hallways to the main office and told them to wait there while he located the principal. Less than a minute passed before a short, bald man stepped inside. He was fidgeting with an iPad. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Principal Kolby. What can I do for you?”
Porter shook the man’s hand and showed his badge. “We need to speak with one of your students, Tyler Mathers. Is he in class today?”
Kolby glanced nervously at the two women standing behind the main counter. They were watching the men intently. Three glaring students occupied a group of chairs along the wall.
“Why don’t we step into my office?” He smiled, gesturing to a small room on the left.
After entering and taking a seat behind his desk, Kolby asked, “Tyler? Is he in trouble?”
Porter and Nash settled into the two chairs facing the principal. They were small and low to the ground, uncomfortable. Porter instantly felt as if he were in trouble, transported back to his own youth. His palms were sweaty. Although shorter by at least four inches, Principal Kolby looked down at him from his large leather seat. His gaze had an authoritative edge to it that made Porter feel like he was five minutes from detention. He shook it off and leaned forward. “Not at all. We just need to speak to him about his girlfriend.”
Kolby frowned. “Girlfriend? I wasn’t aware he had one.”
Nash loaded an image on his cell phone and slid it across the desk. “Her name is Emory Connors. Is she a student here?”
Kolby picked up the phone and studied it for a moment before keying the name into his computer and reviewing the results. “She is not.” He returned the phone to Nash, then pressed a button on his desk. “Ms. Caldwell? Can you locate Tyler Mathers and ask him to report to my office?”
“Yes, sir,” a disembodied voice replied.
Porter glanced over at Nash. He was never this quiet. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, and he didn’t make eye contact with the principal. Porter could only guess at the kind of trouble his partner created during his time as a student; he must have been a common fixture in the principal’s office. Kolby picked up on it too, but rather than saying anything he only smiled smugly and tapped away at his iPad. “Looks like he’s in calculus, on the third floor. It should only be a few minutes. Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?”
Porter shook his head.
“No, sir,” Nash replied. “No, thank you.”
Five minutes later there was a knock at the door and a boy of about sixteen stepped inside. He eyed the two detectives, then nodded at Kolby. “You asked for me, sir?”
Kolby stood. “Come on in, Tyler. Close the door behind you. These two gentlemen are with Chicago Metro. They would like to speak to you for a moment.”
Tyler’s eyes went wide. No doubt his brain was quickly sorting through everything he had done recently, trying to find the one event that would bring the police calling.
Porter put on his most reassuring smile. “Relax, son—you haven’t done anything. We just need to talk to you about Emory.”
He appeared puzzled. “Em? Is she okay?”
Porter turned back to Kolby. “Would you be kind enough to give us a few minutes to speak with Mr. Mathers?”
Kolby shook his head. “I’m sorry, but he is a minor. I’m afraid without a parent present, I’ll need to remain in the room.”
“Fair enough,” Porter replied. He rose out of the tiny chair and sat on the edge of the desk, blocking Kolby’s view of the student. Nash did the same. Behind them, Kolby cleared his throat but said nothing.
“When was the last time you saw Emory?”
Tyler shuffled his feet. “Saturday, I guess. We caught a movie and ate dinner downtown. Is she okay? You’re making me nervous.”
Porter glanced at Nash. “We believe she’s been kidnapped.”