“That sounds right.” Porter glanced out the window at the thickening rush hour traffic. “If I told you I’m a cop, I don’t suppose you’d get us there any faster, would you?”
The driver eased the cab out into traffic and glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Let me see your badge.”
Porter started to reach for his back pocket, then remembered that he was wearing the scrubs. “It’s in my—”
“It’s in the pants with the knife sticking out of them?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Porter pulled out the diary and picked up where he’d left off.
71
Diary
I think I felt the bullet before I heard the blast of the gun. The projectile whizzed past my head and thwacked into the door frame about six inches to my right, sending little shards of wood flying through the air. One of them caught me in the cheek and tore at my skin. Before I could reach up and assess the damage, Father crashed into my back and shoved me forward. I lost my balance and flew across the floor, sliding into the side of the couch. I rolled over to find Mother crouching at the couch, her wild eyes bouncing from me to the front door and back again. Behind me, Father kicked at the door, slamming it shut.
Father was on the floor. I watched as he reached up and twisted the deadbolt before sinking back down.
“He shot you!” Mother shrieked.
I shook my head. “No, Mother, it was just a splinter, nothing serious. I’ll be okay.”
It took a moment before I realized she wasn’t talking to me. I followed her eyes to Father. His left hand was pressed against his right shoulder. A growing red stain peeked out between his fingers.
Mother stood and went to him.
“Stay low,” Father said.
She knelt down beside him. “Let me see.”
“He nicked me. I don’t think it’s bad.”
Mother unbuttoned his shirt and examined the wound. “Get me the medicine kit and a damp towel, and keep your head down,” she told me.
I shuffled to the kitchen and retrieved the little red box from beneath the sink. We kept identical kits in each bedroom as well as the bathroom. Mother typically used this particular kit on me when I scraped a knee or dinged an elbow, which was fairly often, and I wondered if it was fully stocked. I considered getting one of the others but decided it was best to get this one to Mother and go back for more if necessary. I found a clean hand towel in the drawer beside the sink and ran it under the water, getting it good and wet, then raced back into the living room.
Sweat glistened on Father’s forehead. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him sweat.
Mother took the kit, flipped open the latch with one hand, and pulled out the alcohol bottle. She wiped away the excess blood with the towel and poured alcohol on the torn flesh. Father inhaled with a deep hiss.
The bullet had not passed through his skin but had grazed it, leaving a red trench in its wake. I leaned in close to get a better look, and Mother batted me away. “You’re blocking the light.”
“Sorry, Mother.”
She dabbed at the scrape again and retrieved a roll of gauze with her free hand. A minute later she had the wound wrapped. The bandage turned pink, but the blood had already slowed. Father would be okay.
He smiled up at her. “Thank you.”
Mother nodded and dropped the remaining alcohol and gauze back into the first aid kit, then slid the box to the side. “Now what?”
“Now we end this.”
72
Clair
Day 2 ? 5:09 p.m.
Clair stepped closer. “Did you open it?”
Espinosa shook his head. “I wanted to save you the honors. If you think it could be something dangerous, I can get the bomb squad over here.”
Nash knelt down in front of the white box, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and tapped at the black string tied at the top. “That’s not our guy’s style. He tends to leave body parts inside his boxes. Nothing ever this big, though.”
“Open it up, Nash,” Clair said.
“Maybe we should flip for it. I had to open the last one.”
“No, I insist. I saw Seven—if Gwyneth’s head is in there, the image will be stuck in my mind for months. This is all you. Be a man.”
Nash rolled his eyes and turned back to the box. “For the record, it’s a standard file box, the kind you can pick up at any office supply store.” He knelt closer. “I don’t smell anything, and there’s no sign of dampness or leakage—nothing written on it.”
He tugged at the string, releasing the knot; it fell to the sides. When he reached for the lid, both Clair and Espinosa took a step back.
“Maybe we should wait for CSI to get here,” Nash suggested.
“Open it. It may tell us where to find Emory.”
Nash nodded reluctantly, peeled off the lid, and leaned over the top, peering inside. “Huh.”
73
Diary
I flinched as someone pounded at the front door.
“Did I get you?” Mr. Stranger asked from the other side. “Sorry about that. I guess I got a little carried away. It’s been so long since I’ve been out hunting, and I’ve been all giddy about firing my peashooter since we left the city.”
“Stay away from the windows,” Father said softly.
I nodded and drew closer to the corner of the couch. I wasn’t scared, though. Okay, maybe a little, but I wasn’t about to let Mother or Father know. I wanted my knife.
Another loud bang as Mr. Stranger struck the door again. I couldn’t tell if he used his fist or the butt of the rifle, but I jumped just the same.
Mr. Stranger’s muffled voice said, “I tried asking nice, I did. Now I’m going to ask not so nice. I need the paperwork your lovely neighbor stole. I know you’ve got it, so let’s forgo the pretense that you don’t. I’m not sure what is going on over here, and frankly, I don’t care all that much. You give us those documents and point us toward whatever rock the Carters are hiding under, and we’ll be on our way, no further questions. That’s not a bad deal, right? I think I’m being nice and fair about the situation.”
“He thinks they’re both still alive,” Mother said quietly. She had edged away from Father and was trying to peek out the side window.