I left the medicine cabinet open and carried the smaller bag back to the bedroom, dropping it next to the suitcase.
“I can help you search, Mother. You just need to tell me what you’re trying to find.”
She waved an impatient hand in the air without looking at me, and continued shuffling through the clothing stacked neatly on cedar shelves.
A copy of A Caller’s Game by Thad McAlister lay on the nightstand.
People read on vacation, don’t they? I was sure they did.
I tossed the book into the suitcase and noticed the edge of a photograph sticking out from the pages.
It was a picture of Mrs. Carter and Mother. Both were naked, their limbs twisted together in an embrace while they held each other in a passionate kiss. It was taken in the Carters’ bed, Mother and Mrs. Carter lying atop the same comforter that covered the bed now.
I stared down at the photo in disbelief, my mind flashing back to what I’d seen yesterday. I thought that had been the first time something happened between the two of them. Clearly I was wrong.
When had this been taken? Nothing in the image offered a clue. It must have been recent, though. Then my mind offered a question of its own.
Forget when it was taken. I was more curious to determine who had taken it.
I didn’t hear Mother come up behind me. Until she snatched the photo from my fingers, I didn’t know she stood there at all. “I don’t believe that belongs to you,” she said before tucking the picture into her pocket. She pointed at the bags on the bed. “Get those into their car.”
My mouth hung open. What would Father think?
“Don’t even think about telling your father,” she breathed.
42
Porter
Day 2 ? 4:58 a.m.
Porter found a parking space three blocks from his apartment and started toward his building. He had sat outside Talbot’s house for the better part of the night, and aside from Carnegie stumbling in at a little past two, there was no movement. No sign of Talbot at all.
Both Clair and Nash had checked in with him; neither search party found any sign of Emory at the Mulifax Building or the Moorings construction site.
Dead ends.
From his vantage point at Talbot’s house, he had read more of the diary—that yielded nothing either, just more childhood ramblings. He was beginning to think it was nothing more than a fiction crafted solely to waste his time.
Another dead end.
Emory was lost out there, and they had nothing.
As Porter came upon his “secure” building, he found the door wide open and flapping in the wind. There was also a rather large pile of dog excrement steaming at the base of the steps, no doubt from the pit bull in 2C. He didn’t blame the dog, but he’d have no problem rubbing the owner’s chubby face it in if he were to find him alone outside. The entire building knew the guy let his dog do his business right outside in this very spot; they also knew the man never picked up after his dog.
Carmine Luppo.
The fifty-three-year-old former bathtub salesman sat around all day playing video games and only left the building long enough to cash his disability check, replenish his beef jerky stock, and coax his lovely dog to shit on the stoop.
Last month, six of his neighbors took shifts to try to catch him in the act, and yet he somehow slipped past all of them. He looked as if he weighed four hundred pounds—not exactly like a man who could move stealthily, but somehow that magic pile of dog shit appeared out of nowhere.
There was talk of installing a camera.
Porter suggested they buy the domain www.poopertv.com and stream the feed, maybe charge for advertising.
He slipped his key into his mailbox, pulled out the stack of envelopes, and quickly sifted through them. Three bills, a mailer for a dry cleaning service, and the TV Guide.
Porter threw away everything but the TV Guide. He loved TV Guide. He never watched television, didn’t need to—he got everything he needed from the magazine. As far as he was concerned, television had lost its luster when they canceled The Incredible Hulk in May of 1982. The three flights of stairs proved a little more difficult to ascend than they were to descend, and he found himself nearly out of breath when he finally reached his floor. Heather was vegan and swore if he changed his diet, he’d drop some weight and gain some energy. He figured she was right, but when he watched her eating a bean burger and sprouts while he put away good old-fashioned red meat he knew the vegan road was not one he’d meander down anytime soon. He’d sooner tote his growing gut than give up cow flesh. He’d come to terms with his decision, accepted the consequences. Hence, the bag in his hand containing two cold Big Macs and a large order of fries.
Through a feat of digital dexterity, he unlocked the apartment door and managed to get inside without dropping a single item. He set the McDonald’s bag down on the counter, peeled off his coat, and went into the bedroom.
The note from Heather sat on the side of the bed, where he’d left it the previous morning.
Went to get milk.
Porter lowered himself beside it and took a deep breath, then picked up his phone and dialed Heather. Her voice mail message played, followed by a beep.
“Hey, Button.” The words came out in a voice much weaker than he hoped. A lump grew in his throat. “It’s been a crazy day. I doubt I’ll get much sleep, but I’m going to try anyway. There’s this girl, Emory Connors. She needs me to find her. She’s only fifteen, Button. The Monkey Killer took her. Fucking bastard. That’s what Nash called about this morning. That’s why I left so—” The air left him. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he wiped them away with his shirtsleeve.
When the first sob hit, he tried to choke it down, but the next one was more insistent. Grown men weren’t supposed to cry. He wanted to stop, but a rush of emotion surged through his tired body. His stomach rolled and the tears came, soft at first, then louder, then louder still as he finally gave in, collapsing into his hands, the phone falling to his side.
43
Diary
Father was pleased with my packing skills.
When he arrived home about an hour earlier I was waiting outside, a baseball in my hand.
I didn’t particularly like baseball; I wasn’t really a fan of sports in general, but Father had taught me the importance of appearances and I fully intended to keep them up. Mother had me on lookout duty, and I couldn’t stand outside staring at the ground, now, could I? So, baseball it was. I tossed the ball in the air and caught it with my left hand, then my right, then my left again—an old pro having a grand old time.