The boy’s face went white. “Who would . . . why?”
“We believe she was taken from A. Montgomery Ward Park while jogging yesterday. It’s about a mile—”
Tyler nodded. “I know where it is. She runs there all the time. God, I told her not to go alone, but she never listens to me.” His eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them on his sleeve. “She’s such a pretty girl, and she wears these little jogging outfits. I’m always telling her it isn’t safe. This city is full of crazies, you know? Oh, God. I’ve been texting her nonstop and she hasn’t replied. That’s not like her. I usually hear back after a minute or two at the most. But she’s been quiet since yesterday. I planned to go over to her place right after school gets out.”
“Where does she go to school?”
“She doesn’t. I mean, she does, but she’s homeschooled. Tutors, mostly,” Tyler said.
“Is that who lives there with her? A tutor?”
Tyler nodded. “Ms. Burrow.”
“What’s her first name?”
“I don’t know, sorry. She keeps to herself mostly when I go over there. I don’t talk to her that much.”
“Any idea where we might be able to find her?”
Tyler shook his head again. “Do you think she’s okay? Emory, I mean. I can’t believe someone would do this.”
Behind them, Kolby stirred. Porter had nearly forgotten he was in the room.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Tyler asked.
Porter pulled a card from his back pocket and handed it to him. “If you hear anything, call me.”
“Did you guys track her phone? You can do that, right?”
“Her phone hasn’t been on the network since yesterday,” Nash told him. “Most likely it’s been disabled.”
“Both of them?”
23
Diary
Freshly showered, all damp-haired and smelling of baby powder, I strutted out of my bedroom back to the kitchen. I’d worked up quite an appetite, and the beef stew smelled simply wonderful. Plopping down into my seat at the table, I scooped mouthful after mouthful, reminding myself to chew. The Ritchie Valens song Mother sang earlier had firmly planted itself between my ears, and I found myself humming along as I ate. I always had excellent rhythm even at such a young age.
Mother and Father were still in the basement. Their laughs climbed the steps and echoed as they reached the top. They were having such fun. I lost interest when Mr. Carter checked out for the third and final time. I think it was his ticker that gave out. He had lost a lot of blood, that was sure, but not enough to kill him. The human body can typically lose 40 percent of its total volume before shutting down. Someone the size of Mr. Carter easily carried nine or ten pints. I doubt he lost more than two or three pints in total. It can be difficult to tell sometimes, but when it puddles on concrete like it did downstairs, it’s an easy measure.
No, it wasn’t blood loss—the fear did him in.
I watched from the stairs as Father removed Mr. Carter’s eyes with a pop. I don’t think Mr. Carter realized it even happened at first, but then Father put the eyes in Mr. Carter’s own hand for safekeeping. He held them far too tight. Father laughed at this while Mother kept cutting. Little cuts at first, only a few deep ones. She was a tease like that—she would cut an inch or so at his shoulder, just enough to get his attention, then plunge the knife deep into his thigh with a twist (she loved to twist the knife). Without his eyes, he didn’t know where or when the next cut would come. I imagine such suspense tended to really get the old ticker pumping. When Mr. Carter started to slip into shock, Father sent me upstairs to fetch the smelling salts. Nobody wanted him passing out on us in the middle of all the excitement. What fun would that be? After a while, though, there was little we could do to keep him awake. Shock tends to be a spoiler.
In the end, he inhaled a deep gasp. His body contracted in a spasm, then went rigid, then fell limp against the concrete. I think he soiled himself again, but with such a mess already, I couldn’t really tell. Mother had started this one, so I knew Father would make her clean up. That was the rule. Father loved his rules.
Another round of laughter from downstairs. What could they still be doing?
I was reaching for another helping of stew when I heard the knock at the screen door in our kitchen. I turned to see Mrs. Carter standing on the other side. Both her eyes were a horrible shade of purple. A large bruise covered her left cheek too. She cradled her left wrist with her other hand. “Is my husband here?” she said in a soft voice.
I reached for my napkin and dabbed at the corners of my mouth. There was no reason, really; I wasn’t a sloppy eater, but I needed a moment to think.
“He hasn’t come home. It’s been hours.” Her voice was low, raw. She had been crying for a long time. I wondered just why she would want him to come home. He had done a number on her. Would she really let him waltz right back in as if nothing had happened?
I got up from the table and walked toward the door. I could see the lock—it wasn’t engaged. At no point did I consider inviting her in, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t come in of her own accord. She wasn’t a stranger to our home. Typically she’d rap a couple of times on the frame and come right in. Why not? She didn’t this time, though. She stood on the back stoop, swaying. She stood watching me from battered purple eyes that really wanted to close, little more than slits.
“Let me ask Mother. Give me a minute?” I said in my grown-up matter-of-fact voice, the one that implied complete casualness and confidence, the one that said, You can trust me. I’m here to help you in the fullest, kind ma’am!
She nodded. An act that must have pained her, because her face twisted into a slight grimace with the movement.
I offered a smile before bounding down the steps to the basement.
24
Porter
Day 1 ? 3:03 p.m.
They found Kloz huddled at his workstation at the far back corner of the IT department. His desk was a cluttered mess of manuals, loose paper, fast food wrappers, and a large collection of Batman memorabilia. Nash reached for a replica of the Batmobile, only to get smacked with a ruler before he could pick it up. “When I come to your house, I don’t play with your Barbies. Don’t touch my stuff,” Kloz growled.
“What did you find?” Porter asked him.
“The second line’s a dead end,” Kloz said, “but check this out.” He pointed to the center screen of his five-monitor setup. A city transit bus was frozen at the far right of the screen. Near the left side, a handful of people stood at the corner, waiting to cross the street.
Porter leaned in close. “Do you see him?”
Kloz pointed at a small space on the screen between a large man in a dark suit and a woman pushing a stroller. “See that? It’s the top of his fedora.”