If a black woman could turn red, Porter imagined Clair was doing so now. For a second he thought she might throw the coffee back at Nash. “Cock-sucking little pissant ass clown.”
“You’re so hot when you rant,” Nash said, squeezing her shoulder.
Finally she sighed. “He’s got twelve more patrol cars on the way here and ten more heading to the Moorings. They’re going to search both locations from top to bottom—all the structures and the tunnels. The captain wants us all to go home, get a good night’s rest, and start fresh in the morning. Thinks if we stay out here all night, we’ll be useless by tomorrow, walking zombies. He said if they find something, he’ll notify us so we can come back out, but he doesn’t want us standing around here. He also said he’s not willing to bring in Talbot for an official sit-down, not yet. Says we’re better off waiting for Hosman to finish digging through his financials than bringing him in because of this.” She spread her arms out, gesturing toward the building. “He owns this place too, by the way. Bought it three weeks ago at auction.”
“There’s a shocker. I’m fairly certain he bought my house during the three minutes we’ve been standing here,” Nash said.
“I’m not going home, fuck that,” Clair said. “The captain is a tool.”
“I think the captain’s got a point on Talbot. Better to get the full picture on the financials than tip our hand on circumstantial evidence. We don’t have enough to hold him.” Porter ran his hand through his hair, his eyes wandering over the development. “Not yet, anyway. We’ll probably only get one shot at him.”
“So what do you want to do?” Nash asked.
“Clair, you head out to the Moorings and stay on top of the search. Nash, you do the same here. I’m going to take a ride out to Talbot’s house and keep an eye on him. We may not be able to talk to him, but we can watch him. Besides, I’m not active right now. The captain doesn’t get to tell me where I can and can’t park. We’ll regroup at the war room at first light.” He glanced around at the growing crowd of officers. “Where’s Watson?”
“He’s still down in the tunnel, processing the chamber where you found the boxes,” Nash replied. “Said he’s got at least an hour to go.”
Porter reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag with the fingerprint lift. “Can you give this to him? Better yet, catch a ride with one of the uniforms and drop it at the lab when you’re done here. Ask them to process it. No need to add one more person to the chain of custody.”
“Where’d you pull it?”
“Off the railcar back at the subbasement.”
Nash held the bag up to the light for a second before shoving it into his pocket. “Will do.” He turned toward Clair’s car, hesitated, then leaned into Porter. “It’s good to have you back, Sam.”
Porter gave him a nod.
“I agree with Shrek. Good to have you back,” Clair offered with a smile.
Porter watched Nash disappear in the crowd and Clair climb into her Civic and speed away, then crossed the street to his Charger.
41
Diary
Mr. Carter’s car was still parked in their driveway. I’m not sure where else I expected it to be—Mr. Carter’s time behind the wheel had come to an end, and Mrs. Carter would not be driving in the immediate future—yet seeing the car there made me feel as if someone occupied their house, even though I knew the place to be empty.
I left the wagon in our driveway and walked over.
As I pulled open the screen door, I couldn’t shake the feeling someone was inside. The door had not been locked, so I suppose someone may have ventured in, but I had no legitimate reason for believing so. Our neighborhood was quite safe, the kind of place where doors were never locked and friends and family alike came and went from the various houses with little deterrent. In fact, I suspected Mr. Carter left the keys in his car yesterday; my parents typically did.
Something felt off, though.
The screen door squeaked ever so slightly as I pulled it open and stepped inside, just loud enough to alert a trespasser of my arrival.
The kitchen was quiet and seemed untouched since last night, the remains of the shattered glass still on the floor in an evaporating puddle of bourbon. It was crawling with ants. Did ants get drunk? I imagine they did. I watched as they scurried over the sticky mess, zigzagging with such purpose. They didn’t appear any different from any other group of ants you might find outside on a sidewalk or lurking under a rock, yet they were saturated in alcohol. A couple of glasses had put me in a tizzy; surely swimming in booze would send them on a one-way trip to Drunksville. They seemed normal, though, unaffected.
I wanted to take a match to the whole lot of them. I’d set them ablaze and watch them burn. Their little bodies would crackle and pop with an alcohol-saturated fury. Alive one moment, charred dust the next. I would play God.
I made a mental note to conduct an experiment at a later date; I’d come here for a reason, and Father would be disappointed if I allowed a gaggle of ants to pull me astray.
I glanced over at the small table where Mrs. Carter had passed out. I could still picture her sitting there, her eyes glassy and speech slurred as she told me she had intended for me to see her naked that day at the lake. “A woman just wants to be desired, is all,” she had said.
The thought sent my blood rushing.
Focus. I needed to focus.
The noise came from deep within the house.
A rattle of sorts, or perhaps a clank.
It wasn’t the type of sound made by a house alone, not the creak or groan of a house settling or flexing as houses are known to do. This was something different.
I heard it again, louder than the first time. It came from the other side of the house, beyond the kitchen and down the hallway to where the bedrooms and a bath were no doubt located. I’d never ventured that far into the Carter home, and I didn’t know exactly what lay beyond the kitchen. I could only speculate based on the layout of our own home, which was of similar size and style.
Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew my knife. I dared not flick the blade, for that would make a sound all its own and possibly betray my position to whoever (or whatever) was back there. I held the blade with one hand and pressed the button, slowly releasing the blade while maintaining pressure against the spring until the blade fully engaged and locked into place, the recently cleaned and sharpened metal shimmering in the dull light inching through the curtains and grasping at the interior of the Carter home.
Another clank.
Whoever (or whatever) was back there didn’t know I was there. I had been noisy when I entered the house, carelessly so, but I must not have been heard. A burglar would have surely come running to see what was what.