Nash squinted. “I can’t make it out.”
“I’ll roll the video forward.” Kloz tapped a few keys, and the image advanced. The woman leaned down and whispered something to the child in her stroller. For the briefest of seconds, he was visible standing behind her. The fedora was pulled down at a slight angle, shielding his face from the camera, but it was definitely him.
“Can you get in tighter?” Porter asked.
Kloz twisted a small control next to his mouse, and the image zoomed in. “The picture gets too grainy when I get up close. Doesn’t really matter, though—that hat is in the way. Check this out.”
He hit the Play button again, and the scene moved forward in slow motion. Porter watched the bus crawl across the screen at a fraction of the vehicle’s normal speed, inching toward the intersection. In the top right corner of the screen, a traffic light blinked green. “The driver wasn’t lying. The light was green when he approached.”
Kloz poked the screen with his pen. “Keep an eye on our guy.”
As the bus neared, the man in the fedora stepped in front of the others. His face shielded by the hat, he glanced down the road, then down at the pavement. In one quick motion, he pushed off the curb and launched himself into the street. His feet never touched the ground—his shoulder met the grill of the bus, and the impact threw him forward. Even at reduced speed, things happened fast. His body seemed to mold with the bus’s nose. Then he peeled away and sailed through the air, disappearing from the screen.
“Damn,” Nash muttered.
The bus rolled past, leaving the people at the corner staring in disbelief.
“Uniforms talked to all these people, and none remember the guy,” Kloz told them. “Most of them were buried in their phones, walking on autopilot. Nobody was able to provide a description. You’d think a guy in a fedora would stand out.”
“He clearly jumped. That’s for sure,” Nash said. “He never planned to reach the mailbox. Suicide by mass transit.”
“I’ve rolled the footage a hundred times, different speeds and zooms. There is no clear shot of his face,” Kloz said. “If you ask me, he played to the camera. The crazy outfit makes him stand out, yet he positioned the hat at just the right angle to block a good shot. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I think he wanted us to see him but not his face—hence the outfit.”
“So 4MK knows he’s dying, and rather than let nature take its course, he snags one last victim, puts on his best suit, and sets some kind of stage to ensure his legacy?” Porter pondered aloud. “He expected us to find the ear and make the connection. He leaves the diary because it spells out his history on his own terms, details where he came from. He wrote his own story so the history books get it right. He’s always been meticulous. Why leave something so important open to reporters and crazies on the web? None of this is as random as it first appeared. I’m not sure any of it is random. To me, that means the other items we found on him—the watch, the dry cleaner receipt, maybe even the change, all of it may have been intentional.”
Nash frowned. “I think you’re reaching, Sam.”
“A cheap suit, fedora, the shoes that don’t fit . . . I don’t think he left anything to chance. He’s still toying with us, playing some kind of game, telling a story. All of this fits together. Somehow, it all means something.”
“Or it could be random shit he happened to have on his person when he kissed that bus.”
Porter sighed.
“Not everything is a conspiracy, that’s all I’m saying,” Nash said.
“This guy operated for years without leaving a single clue. Now all this. It’s something.” Porter’s phone rang. He snatched it from his pocket and took the call. He nodded as the caller spoke. When he hung up, he grabbed his keys from Kloz’s desk. “That was Murray at Flair Tower. They picked up Burrow coming up the service elevator.”
25
Diary
I found Mother and Father rolling around on the bloodstained floor, their limbs twisted in an embrace. They howled like schoolchildren at the height of recess. I held my finger up to my mouth and shushed them both.
“What is it, champ?” Father said, stopping long enough to wipe a long strand of Mother’s hair from her face, leaving behind a crimson trail, perhaps a little fatty tissue. It was difficult to tell; she was a mess.
“Mrs. Carter is upstairs, at the back door,” I said softly. “She’s looking for Mr. Carter. She saw him come over earlier. She saw him come inside with Mother. I watched her from the yard.”
Father’s face was difficult to read, always had been. He turned to Mother. “Is that true? Did she see?”
Mother shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. He acted completely unreasonable, violent even. I simply defended myself. Lisa will understand. She’s a very understanding woman.”
Father’s eyes quickly glanced around the basement, taking in the scene. Mr. Carter lay in a bloody heap, still chained to the pipe, his body ravaged far worse than when I had grown bored and returned upstairs. They’d continued after he died—slicing, cutting. What remained was no longer a man; it was a pile of meat, the discarded plaything of a predator.
“She’s upstairs,” I repeated. “Right now.”
Mother sighed. “Well, we’re in no condition to receive visitors.”
Father chuckled at this. “Perhaps we should ask her to stop by later?”
“I think the back door is unlocked. She could come in,” I said. “She might be inside right now.”
Father detangled himself from Mother and stood. “That would be unfortunate.”
I had to agree.
“Do you think you can send her away?” Father asked me.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammered.
“You’re a big boy now, champ, practically a man of the house. You’re smarter than her, I have no doubt about that. Puzzle it out, find a way.”
She couldn’t see Mother and Father, not like this. And they’d never sneak past her. The back door was in direct sight of the basement door.
Part of me hoped she had come in, that she stood on the steps right now, listening. I thought of her at the lake; I thought about what it would be like to have her chained in the basement.
“What do you say, champ? Think you can handle her?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
26
Emory
Day 1 ? 3:34 p.m.
Emory huddled in the corner under the gurney with one hand pressed to her ear, the other ear against the wall. She couldn’t block out the music, though. It was too loud, louder than any stereo she had ever heard. She had gone to the Imagine Dragons concert last spring at the Allstate Arena with Kirstie Donaldson, and they stood about three feet from the stage and directly in front of the largest stack of amplifiers she had ever seen. They were so powerful, the sound actually blew their hair back over their shoulders, which made for some epic selfies.