“This isn’t a game.”
“Everything is a game, Sam. We’re all players on the board. Haven’t you learned anything from my diary? I thought the pop psychologist in you would have pieced this together by now. I learned a long time ago that to best punish the father for his sins, he must be made to experience the pain of his child. Somebody like Talbot expects to pay for his crimes at some point—he’s mentally prepared himself. He’s waiting for the day to come. If you throw him in jail, he won’t learn, he won’t evolve, he won’t reform. He’ll do his time, get out, and do something worse. But you take away that same man’s child as punishment for what he’s done? Well, that’s a whole new ball game. He’ll spend every waking moment of his remaining days cursing his actions. Not an hour will pass where he won’t realize his child died for his sins.”
“Emory is innocent,” Porter said.
“She’s very brave. I’ve told her how her sacrifice will bring on a change for the better. I’ve explained how her father brought this upon the two of them, and I think she understands.”
He spoke of her in the present tense. Was she still alive?
“I urge you to try and understand too. It’s important to me that you understand. Piece together everything I gave you. Puzzle it out. You hold the answer in the palm of your hand, or rather, you did.”
“You said everything I needed could be found in the diary.”
Bishop let out a breath. “Is that what I said?”
Porter thumbed the pages of the small book. “I’m nearly done.”
“You are, Sam. Nearly done.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I imagine your friends are at my apartment by now. Perhaps that will shed some light?”
“Where is Emory, Bishop?”
“It’s elementary, as you might have said yesterday. Too bad we had to cut that farce short. I was having such fun playing detective with you and your friends. I’ll miss my colleagues down at the crime lab too.”
“Why did you do that? Why pretend to be a CSI? Why talk Kittner into killing himself? What was the point?”
Bishop laughed again. “Why, indeed.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose I was curious about you, Sam. You’ve been chasing me for over five years now, this little cat-and-mouse game of ours. I wanted to better understand you. Father once said, ‘It’s better to dance with the devil you know.’ I needed to know you. I’m not going to lie; the challenge intrigued me too. It’s good to challenge one’s self, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re fucking crazy,” Porter replied.
“Now, now, there’s no need for profanity. Heed my father’s lessons. To speak evil only leads to more evil, and we have so much in this world already.”
“Let her go, Bishop. Walk away. End this.”
Bishop cleared his throat. “I have a few more boxes for you, Sam. Fresh boxes. I’m afraid I won’t have time to mail them, though. You don’t mind if I just leave them out for you, do you? Someplace where you’ll find them?”
“Where is she?” Porter asked again.
“Maybe I already left them out. Perhaps you should check in with Clair and Nash.”
“If you hurt her, I will kill you,” Porter growled.
“Tick tock, Sam. Tick tock.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Porter held the phone for a moment, the sound of his own breathing playing back over the tinny speaker. He placed the handset back in the cradle.
Tick tock.
Bishop was playing another game.
Porter rose from the bed, moving slowly, his hand held over his wound. The stitches tugged at his flesh but held tight. He crossed the room to the closet and retrieved the plastic bag containing his shoes. No sign of his clothes. They had cut away his pants; they were probably in a dumpster right now with his shirt.
Shit.
He pulled open drawers until he located a set of green surgical scrubs and pulled them on—a little tight, but they would have to do. He reached for his shoes and paused when he noticed the hint of plastic peeking out from inside: the evidence bag holding the pocket watch.
It glistened under the fluorescent lights.
His heart thumped and a breath caught in Porter’s throat.
Could it be that simple?
67
Diary
The grass was still moist with morning dew and felt spongy under my shoes. I started for the Carter house without much thought, and even though I couldn’t hear them, I knew both my parents were only a few paces behind me. I expected one of them to tell me to stop or wait or get behind them, but such instruction never came. I guessed Father was in shock, and I could only imagine what thoughts drifted through Mother’s head.
As I passed the Carters’ car, I realized it wasn’t in quite the same condition as Father’s Porsche. Yes, they’d rendered the car completely immobile, but the destruction wasn’t as personal. They didn’t slash the seats or smash the lights or glass. They limited their carnage to things that would prevent the vehicle from running, and they stopped there. With Father’s Porsche, they not only attacked the car—they attacked him. They sent a message.
The travel bag I had not so carefully packed had been torn open and the contents spilled out on the Carters’ front porch: medications, toothbrushes, deodorant—someone had crushed the tube of toothpaste under their foot and sprayed Crest across the floorboards. The ants were thrilled and had already started the laborious process of hauling it away to some unseen colony somewhere between the planks of the porch. I wanted to stomp them but thought better of it. “Try not to step in the toothpaste. We don’t want to leave shoe prints,” I said in a hushed tone.
Father grunted behind me. I’m sure he appreciated my caution, but I couldn’t fault him for not offering up praise.
The inner door as well as the screen door stood open. I could see directly into the kitchen.
I turned back toward the street to confirm the green Plymouth hadn’t returned, then stepped inside.
The puddle of bourbon was dry and riddled with the bodies of dead, drunken ants. The trail thinned to a single line and disappeared beneath the kitchen sink. Somebody had swept the broken glass into a small pile in the far corner.
Laid out neatly on the kitchen table were six photographs—photographs I had never seen before but that looked familiar nonetheless. Photographs of Mother and Mrs. Carter naked in bed.
68
Clair
Day 2 ? 4:47 p.m.
Clair pressed the accelerator to the floor as her Honda Civic raced down West Van Buren, the blue and red of her bubble light bouncing off the whitewashed concrete of the tunnel walls.
“What are the odds he’s got her locked up in his apartment?” Nash asked, his fingers gripping the door handle so tightly that they’d turned white.
Clair snorted. “Not a fan of my driving?”