“Is it some kind of code?”
He reached inside and began removing the other ledgers, twelve in all. Each contained similar entries. Nash stacked them neatly at the side. At the very bottom of the box was a manila envelope. “Now we’re talking,” he said to himself before plucking it out.
Clair hung up the call and walked back over. “I’m getting voice mail on the patrol car. Dispatch can’t reach them, either. We need to get over to Talbot’s house.”
Nash gestured to the box. “What about this stuff?”
“Have someone run everything back to Kloz,” she instructed.
He nodded and opened the envelope. It was full of Polaroids. He reached in and pulled one out—a snapshot of a naked young girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen.
77
Diary
I opened the door—not Father, not Mother, and certainly not Mrs. Carter, but me. I opened the door to find Mr. Stranger standing on our stoop wearing the same jacket he had been wearing on that first visit only a few short days ago. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a white handkerchief in his left hand. In his right, chubby fingers wrapped around the grip of the .44 Magnum I had found in his glove box yesterday. The barrel was pointed at my head.
“Howdy, friend. I hope you’ve been well.”
Behind him, Mr. Smith cradled his injured hand in the now soaked scrap of cloth, a small puddle of blood pooling on the tip of his shoe and the ground around him, a rifle held loosely between his arm and his side. His face was blotchy, burning with anger. “I’m going to gut your fucking father for this.” He raised the bloody hand in case I didn’t know what “this” was and shook it, sending little droplets of blood across the white boards of our pristine porch. Mother wouldn’t be very happy about that.
“Now, now,” Mr. Stranger said. “No need for hostilities. You can’t blame these kind people for simply defending their home.”
“The fuck I can’t.”
Mr. Stranger dabbed at the sweat again; the collar of his shirt was soaked.
I could smell the gasoline, the fumes wafting off the porch in a thin haze. Streaks of it dripped down the siding. Four gas cans stood in our driveway.
“Why are you wearing a jacket if you’re hot?” It was a simple question, one I felt needed to be answered regardless of current circumstances. Sometimes I find it difficult to move forward if open issues are nagging at me.
Mr. Stranger’s lips stretched into a wide grin. “Why, indeed. You are an interesting little fellow, aren’t you? So inquisitive. What if I told you it was my favorite jacket, one I’ve owned more years than you’ve probably graced this planet. What if I told you it was also my lucky jacket and today just felt like the kind of day that called for a little luck all around so I plucked it from the closet and donned it for the duration, temperature be damned. What would you say to that?”
“I would tell you it’s an ugly jacket and it probably stinks to high heaven ’cause of all the sweating you’re doing.”
Mr. Stranger’s grin held still but his eyes grew dark. “I’m experiencing a bit of déjà vu from this little back-and-forth of ours, son, so I’m going to ask you the same question I did when I first made your acquaintance. That way we can bring this full circle. Are your parents home?”
He knew full well that they were, so I thought this was a stupid question. But I nodded anyway and gave the door a little push so it swung open.
Mrs. Carter stood a few paces behind me. Father stood behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other draped over her shoulder. He held one of the kitchen knives against her neck, the sharp tip pressing into her jugular. Her head tilted at a slight angle away from the blade, her gaze fixed on the men at the door.
“Lisa.” Mr. Stranger nodded. “My condolences on your husband.”
She said nothing. Her cuffed fists curled over her bra.
Mr. Stranger looked past us to Mother, who leaned against the side of the couch, her hands at her sides. “Nice to see you again, ma’am.”
Mother snickered but said nothing in return.
Mr. Stranger tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and pointed the .44 at Father. “Drop the knife.”
Father shook his head. “Nope.”
“What then?” Mr. Stranger asked.
“The papers are in a safe-deposit box. My boy knows where she hid the keys, so he’s going to go fetch them while the rest of us wait here. I’m going to keep this knife right where it is, and if you or your friend try anything I find remotely threatening, I’ll slit her throat. It won’t take much. I’m right at the artery. You shoot me and I could tear it wide open on my way to the ground. You hurt my wife or son, and she’s dead. I do that, and nobody will be alive to tell you what bank holds the box.”
Mr. Smith opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Stranger silenced him with a raised hand. “How do we know he’s not running off to call the police?”
Father shrugged. “Because we killed Simon; we all have skin in the game. He’ll fetch the keys and be back inside of thirty minutes.”
Mr. Stranger’s gaze fell on Mrs. Carter.
“These people are fucking crazy,” Mrs. Carter told him. “They killed him and had me tied up in the basement for nearly a week.”
The knife was pressed tight against her neck. Just the movement of speech was enough to send a trickle of blood down the blade.
Mr. Stranger turned back to Father. “So your kid runs off somewhere while we all stand around with weapons pointed at each other till he comes back with the safe-deposit box keys. At that point, you hand over Lisa there and my friend and I walk away, leaving your family to live out the rest of your days. Nobody else has to die? What keeps us from killing the lot of you as soon as we get the name of the bank?”
Father gave a slight shrug. “I guess at some point we’re just going to have to trust each other.”
Mr. Stranger thought about this for a second, then shook his head. “No, I don’t like that plan.” He leveled the .44 at Father’s head.
“It’s not loaded!” I screamed. “I took out the bullets!”
Father shoved Mrs. Carter at the man, his hands—
The Magnum went off with a deafening roar.
78
Porter
Day 2 ? 5:22 p.m.
“What do you mean, you’ve got Emory’s clothes?” Kloz asked.
Porter pulled the hangers off the hook and started back for the door.
“Hey! You’ve gotta pay for that!” the kid behind the counter shouted. “Get back here!”
“Porter? Are you there?”
“I’m at a dry cleaner down on Belmont. The ticket was a match, and—”
“Wait. You’re not in the hospital?” Kloz asked. “Porter, please tell me you didn’t leave the hospital.”