The cat no longer smelled, which was a welcome surprise. As I approached, I gave the furry remains a little tap with the tip of my shoe. An assortment of flies took wing, and a couple of creepy-crawlies darted out from the carcass. What little meat remained had the appearance of rotten jerky matted with black and white hair. The skull appeared smaller, as if shrunken by the elements. That was silly, of course. Cats don’t shrink, even when exposed to water. But smaller it appeared, defying such logic. Something had absconded with the cat’s tail. Of all things, why would something want its tail? Mother Nature and her critters never failed to surprise me.
I tugged at the wagon, the precariously stacked parcels threatening to tumble as one of the wheels bounced over an exposed root. I reached for them and held them in place. The contents were squishy under my touch, like the surface of a water balloon. My mind’s eye sent me the image of my finger bursting through and sinking into one of the bags, and I cursed myself for not taking a moment to fetch a pair of gloves. I considered running home for some but realized Father probably preferred that I complete this task barehanded. If I wore gloves, evidence might gather on them or because of them, then the question of disposal would come into play. I couldn’t bring gloves home and chance the wrong person finding them (never mind the large Mr. Carter stain drying into our basement floor), nor could I throw them into the lake and risk someone finding them there and tracing them back to me. Father had once told me the police could lift prints from the inside of a pair of gloves. Best to go without and simply wash my hands of whatever muck happened to accumulate.
Reaching the water’s edge, I dropped the wagon handle and peered out around the lake. Fishermen, swimmers, or some other spectators might be wandering about, none of whom were welcome at my little party. The lake appeared quiet, though— not another soul to be found either in the water or along the edge.
Satisfied I was alone, I withdrew my knife and snapped open the blade, then picked up the first package. I sliced it open and turned my head as the putrid aroma crept out and tickled at my nose.
Well, Father, here’s to hoping the fish enjoy a yummy snack. I heaved the package toward the middle of the lake with all the strength I could muster. I would never make the school football team, but it sailed a respectable distance before plunging into the water and disappearing beneath the surface.
“Skipper doodles!” I cursed. I’d forgotten to tape rocks to it.
I watched the lake, expecting the plastic-wrapped parcel to float back up, but it never did. A few minutes passed and the water grew still.
Turning back to the wagon, I counted at least thirty more packages. I would need rocks, many rocks. I began to gather a pile beside my wagon. Once I had enough, I secured them to the packages with the duct tape, double-wrapping to ensure they would remain together. Then, one at a time, I cut the packages open and heaved them out toward the center of the water. The extra weight limited my distance, but they still traveled far enough. I had swum here before (and I was fairly certain after today, I never would again), and I knew the bottom dropped off significantly just a few feet from shore. I didn’t know how deep the lake was at the center, but I could only walk out about ten feet before the water reached my chin—another step and I would be forced to swim or sink. The packages were landing anywhere from fifteen to twenty feet out and no doubt sinking to the bottom.
It took me nearly forty minutes to complete my assignment. By the time I looked down at an empty wagon, my shoulders and back were both screaming from the exercise, and my knife was shiny with crimson. I dipped the blade into the water and rubbed it off with my thumb and forefinger, scrubbing until the metal glistened. I dropped it into my pocket and took one last gander out at the lake. I was fairly confident none of the bags would float back up, but I’d be lying if I said that very first bag didn’t concern me. Perhaps I would take a walk back out here later today for a little double check.
Dropping the remainder of the duct tape into my wagon, I scooped up the handle and started back down the path toward home, where the Carter house awaited.
40
Porter
Day 1 ? 9:12 p.m.
Porter emerged from the dark, cavernous mouth of the Mulifax Publications Building with Nash at his back. Both men drew in long breaths of fresh air, tasting the acidic scent of fish rolling in from the lake, decaying trash in the alley to their right, and a damp sleeping bag left to rot outside the door.
It was wonderful.
It was the best air Porter had ever breathed.
After reaching the end of the tunnel and the manhole, he instructed Espinosa and his team to search the Moorings housing development from top to bottom. He retraced his steps back to the kill room in the subbasement, where he found Watson diligently processing the scene while the medical examiner looked over the body.
He’d spent an additional three hours inside the building, and Porter had no intention of stepping back inside in the foreseeable future.
Clair had her back to him, pacing as she spoke into her phone. “It all revolves around Talbot; we’ve got to bring him in. There’s more than—” She lifted her phone up over her head and swore a string of words Porter wouldn’t have anticipated coming from a longshoreman.
She rolled her eyes and brought the phone back to her ear. “But Captain, I—”
“Could the captain really be fighting her on this?” Nash asked, his eyes locked on Clair.
Porter wanted to talk to Talbot—not a chat on the golf course but a sit-down, bright-light-in-your-face, one-way-mirror-at-your-side kind of talk. The man was clearly in the middle of all this. Not only had 4MK kidnapped his illegitimate daughter, but now he linked that kidnapping directly to the Moorings Lakeside, one of Talbot’s real estate developments. As much as Porter despised the killer, he knew the man didn’t operate without a plan, without reason. Every previous victim had been kidnapped as retribution for some illegal activity perpetrated by a family member.
Talbot was dirty.
If they determined how dirty, they had a chance of getting to his daughter while there was still time.
Part of him hoped Espinosa would find her in one of the houses back at the Moorings, tied up and blindfolded in a basement or unfinished bedroom, but the chances of that were small. 4MK wouldn’t stash her someplace where she could easily be found. On a construction site, a worker might stumble onto her. Hell, even a homeless person—God knew there were plenty of them squatting out there.
4MK wanted them to find Talbot, not the girl.
She had been missing for more than a day now. Most likely without food or water. He couldn’t begin to imagine the pain she must be in. Even if 4MK gave her something after severing her ear, the drugs would have surely worn off by now.
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell him,” Clair said into her phone. “Yes, I’ll make sure of it. You too, Captain.” She disconnected the call and dropped the phone into her pocket. “That fucking spineless piece of shit!”
Nash handed her a cup of coffee he pilfered from one of the uniforms. “Let me guess. The captain plays golf with the mayor, who is close friends with the Talbots, and none of them wish to put a hole in the donation boat.”