Emory ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. She had lost most of her sense of taste, but what little remained reminded her of sawdust. A mouthful of sawdust.
She wanted to cry but had no more tears. Her dry eyes burned against the darkness.
From somewhere up above, Jimi Hendrix picked up his guitar and began to wail.
58
Diary
The rat was dead.
As I chased Mother and Father down the steps into the basement, it was the first thing I noticed. Its little black body resembled a soggy dishcloth with eyes. The rat’s head faced its back, and its legs were splayed this way and that. The mangled rodent rested in a small puddle of blood beside the cot where Mrs. Carter now sat, her free hand red with death.
She smiled up at us as we came down. Any fear that had filled her eyes a few hours earlier had vanished, replaced with a cold, icy stare.
“He’ll kill us all, you know.” Her voice was different too, calm and collected. Sure.
“Who?” Father replied, although I was pretty sure he knew exactly who. How Mrs. Carter knew who or what we were coming down to discuss was the question that filled my mind, but evidently she did. She knew exactly why we were down here.
“Did he leave? Because if he did, I wouldn’t expect him to stay gone for very long.” Mrs. Carter wiped her bloody hand on the bottom of the cot, then kicked the dead rat, sending it sliding across the basement floor, leaving a red stripe in its wake. “You really shouldn’t have killed my husband.”
Father drew his hand back, and I thought for sure he was going to hit her. I couldn’t imagine him doing such a thing; he had always told me never to hit a woman even if she hit you, even if she hit you with something heavy—there was never an excuse to hit a woman. Never.
He drew his hand back, grabbed a towel from the top of the washing machine, and tossed it to her.
She smiled a thank-you and wiped the blood off her hand as best she could without water. “If you let me go, I can try to explain what happened, but I don’t think he’ll believe me. Even if he does, I doubt that he’ll care.”
“He wants your husband’s work papers. He said he works for your husband’s boss,” Father said.
She tilted her head. “Well, that’s not a lie.”
“Do you know where they are?”
Mrs. Carter smiled again but said nothing, then tugged at the handcuffs.
Mother, who had remained silent through this exchange, charged at her. Father grabbed her as she jumped through the air in an attempt to tackle Mrs. Carter. Mother squirmed in Father’s grasp, her hands clawing at the air, reaching for Mrs. Carter. “What did you bring into my house!” she shouted.
Mrs. Carter scowled. “You brought me into your house. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t tell you to kill my husband, you crazy bitch.”
That set Mother off, and for a second I thought Father wouldn’t be able to hold her back, but somehow he did. He wrapped his arm around her neck and put her in a sleeper hold, not tight enough to knock her out but enough to let her know that he could if he wanted to, and that was all it took because Mother finally relented and went still. Father didn’t relax his grip, though, and I knew exactly why—when he had taught me how to use a sleeper hold, he said the victim would sometimes pretend to fall asleep or pretend to cooperate, and the second you loosened your grip, they would strike. He told me this not only so I would know how to properly execute a sleeper hold, but also so I would know to try it should I ever find myself locked in one. He had even taught me to feign passing out. Father was extremely wise.
“If I let you go, you need to promise me you’ll behave,” Father said softly at Mother’s ear.
When she nodded, he slowly unwrapped his arms. He remained ready to grab her again if she made another move, but she did not. Instead, she leaned back against the washing machine and glared at the other woman.
Father returned his gaze to Mrs. Carter. “Who does your husband work for?”
“Don’t you mean, who did my husband work for?”
He waived a dismissive hand through the air. “Semantics.”
Mrs. Carter fell silent, and for the first time since we had come down here, I saw the previous fear creeping back into her eyes. She tried to hold it at bay, to appear tough, but it was there, no mistaking it. Father saw it too. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, fragile. “We need to leave, all of us.”
Father kneeled down beside the cot and placed his hand on hers. “Who did he work for?”
She looked at Mother for a moment, then at me, then back to Father. “Criminals. A dozen of them, maybe more. Even a few members of the Genovese family. He helped them hide their money.”
Father didn’t miss a beat. “What did he take from them?”
Mrs. Carter took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let it back out. “All of it. Every last penny.”
59
Porter
Day 2 ? 12:18 p.m.
“Just make yourself at home,” Porter told Watson as he dropped his keys on a small table near the front door. “You’re welcome to root around the fridge. I’m not sure what I got in there.”
The ride from the Fifty-First back to his apartment had been quiet. Watson had fidgeted in his seat, and Porter had done his best to try and forget the face of the kid who had shot and killed his wife.
It wasn’t working.
Every ounce of his being wanted to drive back down, shove his Beretta under the kid’s chin, pull the trigger until the last bullet exited the chamber, then beat him over whatever was left of his head.
He wasn’t proud of these thoughts. He didn’t want them. He wasn’t a violent man, and Heather would scold him if she knew he harbored even an ounce of hate for that young man. She would tell him to rise above, not give in to the anger. She would tell him that anger and hatred wouldn’t bring her back and such thoughts did nothing but blacken his soul.
She was right, of course. Heather always seemed to be right, but knowing that changed nothing.
“You okay?” Watson was staring at him.
Porter nodded. “I will be. I just need to catch my breath, regroup.” He hesitated, then said, “Thanks for going down there with me.”
“Anytime. Is that her?” He gestured toward a photo on the end table.
Heather, taken about a year earlier.
Porter reached over and picked it up. “Yeah. I was so proud of her that day. She always wanted to be a writer, was constantly scribbling in a notebook, always writing. I submitted one of her short stories to the Shirley Jackson Awards, and she actually won. I took that photo right after the award ceremony.”
Porter was grateful when Watson didn’t push for more information. “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to some food.” He nodded again toward the kitchen and watched Watson walk off in that direction.
His phone vibrated in his pocket as he entered the bedroom, and he considered letting the call go to voice mail, then changed his mind. A quick glance at the display told him it was Kloz. He hit the Talk button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got a serious problem.”