“Porter—get in here!” Espinosa shouted.
Porter looked back at Nash and Clair, then stepped through the doorway, avoiding the rats running both in and out at his feet.
The room was colder than the rest of the basement, damp with mildew and decay. He recognized the scent immediately, the sickly sweet odor of rotting flesh. His hand went to his nose and mouth in an attempt to block the stench, but it did little good.
The five men stood before him, their eyes fixed, staring.
“Everyone out,” Porter ordered through muffled breath.
Espinosa turned, ready to argue, then thought better of it. He went back through the shattered door, motioning for his men to follow.
Porter stepped deeper into the room.
Hundreds of candles lined the walls and floor, most burned to nothing but piles of wax. The few that remained sputtered their pale light, a weak dance at best against the bright illumination of the flare.
He wanted to put it out. The flare, the candles.
He wanted to extinguish all of it and plunge this place back into darkness.
He didn’t want to see.
None of it.
Toppled on its side at the center of the room lay an old hospital gurney, its metal rails covered in crimson patches of rust.
Under the gurney, a naked body was handcuffed to the frame—a body that had been devoured by the thousands of rodents rustling hungrily about.
A bony pile of tattered meat.
35
Diary
Mrs. Carter must have understood the rules, because she didn’t scream this time when I removed the gag. She didn’t curse. If hateful thoughts floated through her head, she kept them to herself. Instead, she looked at me with tired eyes. “Thirsty,” she said.
I held the orange juice to her parched lips and tipped it just enough to allow the (now warm) liquid to fill her mouth, then gave her a chance to swallow.
“More, please.”
I gave her more. When she finished the last of it, I set the glass down beside her cot. “Banana or Cheerios?”
She took in a deep breath. “You have to let me go.”
“I know dry Cheerios may not seem very appetizing, but I guarantee you, they are. Those little round oats are a wondrous treat, perhaps one of my favorites.” I was tempted to eat some of them myself, but she needed the nourishment. I would reward myself with a bowl when I went back upstairs.
Mrs. Carter leaned closer. I felt her warm breath on my cheek. “Your mother and father are going to kill me. You understand that, right? Is that what you want? I’ve never been anything but nice to you. I even let you see me . . . you know, out by the lake. That was a special moment between you and me. Something only for you. If you let me go, I promise you there will be more of that, much more. I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll do things no girl your age could possibly know. You just have to let me go.”
“Banana or Cheerios?” I repeated.
“Please.”
“Okay, banana then,” I peeled the banana and held it up to her mouth. Her eyes fluttered for a moment, then she leaned forward and took a bite.
“I told you it was good.”
“You’re good,” she told me. “You’re a good boy, and I know you’re not going to let anything happen to me, right?”
I thrust the banana back at her. “You need to eat.”
She took another bite, slower than the last, her red lips slipping over the banana and lingering for a moment before pulling away.
36
Porter
Day 1 ? 5:32 p.m.
As Espinosa and his team filed out the door, Porter stepped deeper into the room.
“Nash, Clair, grab a flashlight and get in here!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Kneeling down beside the body, he clapped his hands with as much force as he could muster. The loud crack echoed through the room, sending rats scurrying out from under the body. He clapped again and two more bolted for cover. His palms red and pained, he clapped a third time, and another shot out, bits of flesh dangling from clenched teeth. It looked like part of an ear.
A beam of white light danced across the far wall. Porter turned to find Nash standing behind him, the sleeve of his jacket covering his mouth. “Holy Christ,” he said.
“Let me see that,” Porter said, gesturing to the light.
Nash stretched and handed the flashlight to him, his legs firmly planted in place.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Clair coughed, covering her mouth. “Is that Emory?”
Without turning: “Clair, head back topside. Tell Watson to call in CSI and get down here. ME’s office too.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied before heading back the way they’d come.
“Brian, you don’t need to stay in here. I understand.”
Nash shook his head. “I’ll be all right . . . give me a minute.”
Porter turned the beam to the body.
Flies buzzed around the pale mound wedged beneath the gurney and the concrete floor. As he leaned in toward the head, he noticed a fracture in the skull a quarter inch below the hairline. The skin around the fracture had been picked clean. Most likely the injury had bled and the rats honed in on the scent. “I think they fell off the gurney and split their head open on impact. No telling how long they were down here.”
Nash pointed farther down. “The right arm is handcuffed to the gurney. I think they pulled the whole mess down on top of them when they fell. Is it our girl?”
Porter ran the light up and down the body, then moved in close at the head again. “No, this person has short brown hair. I think they’re older. I see specks of gray, heavy wrinkling under what’s left of the chin. Emory is much younger, and her hair is darker.”
“Is it a woman?”
“Hard to say. Help me roll the body.”
Another rat pushed out from under the left leg and ran for the door. “Motherfuckers—” Nash jumped back.
Porter rolled his eyes at him and thrust out the flashlight. “Christ, I’ll do it. Hold this and follow my hands.”
Nash took the light and held it forward. “Sorry, damn thing spooked me, that’s all.”
“Didn’t you ever own a pet hamster or gerbil when you were a kid? They’re no different, just a little bigger.”
“They eat trash and carry more diseases than a Kardashian at Mardi Gras,” Nash replied. “One of those little fuckers bites you, and you’ll spend the rest of the night down at the ER getting rabies shots in your gut. No thanks.”
“In your arm,” Porter said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of green latex gloves.
“What?”
“The shots, they don’t get you in your abdomen anymore; they inject them into your upper arm.”
“Ah, progress.”