The clerk from the cleaner burst through the doorway, holding a box cutter. “You need to get back inside and pay for those, or we’re going to have a serious problem, my friend.”
Porter watched as the cabdriver came around the car and walked up behind him. He plucked the blade from the kid’s hand and slapped him on the back of his head. “That man’s a cop, you idiot. You really feel like going to jail today?”
The kid rubbed at the back of his head. “He’s a cop? Why’s he wearing pajamas?”
Porter nodded back at the dry cleaner. “Get inside, now.”
The kid turned on his heels and pushed through the doorway.
“Porter?”
He pressed the phone back to his ear and told Kloz about the call from Bishop and his hunch to follow up on the watch. His head was spinning. “The parking meter costs seventy-five cents per hour, and there’s a dry cleaner next door. He told us how to get here from the beginning; we just didn’t see it.”
“Okay, but where is here? Where is Emory?”
Porter pulled the watch from his pocket and held it up, twisting the timepiece between his fingers. He pressed the button on the top, and the cover snapped open, its movement hindered by the bag. The hands on the face were stopped, frozen in time.
3:14.
He turned back to the cabdriver. “What is the address of this place?”
“316 West Belmont.”
Porter turned to his left. Construction barricades blocked off the building next door, a tall skyscraper, fifty or sixty stories at least. “Kloz, who owns 314 West Belmont?”
“Hold on.” Porter could hear him pecking away at his keyboard. “It’s office space bought last year by Intrinsic Value LLC, which is owned by CommonCore Partnerships, a wholly owned subsidiary of A. T. The Market Corp, one of Talbot’s companies. They’re currently going through a complete renovation, set to open in the spring.”
“Get SWAT down here, now.”
79
Diary
I watched Father as he soared through the air, his hands reaching for Mr. Stranger’s throat. Openmouthed and red-faced, Father was burning anger as fuel.
When the gun went off, when the barrel of the weapon bucked and the bullet took flight, the world slowed to a crawl. I could see the projectile as it passed the tip. I watched as the bullet crept across the air. I saw it enter Father’s forehead above his left eye, leaving a tiny red dot. I saw the shock as it registered on his face. Then I watched the back of his head as it exploded in a cloud of red mist.
Father fell to the ground in a motionless heap.
“Father?”
I didn’t recognize my own voice; it sounded thin and frail, distant, like someone shouting underwater. “I . . . I took out the bullets.”
Mr. Stranger popped the cylinder out, then back in. “A good soldier always checks his weapon before battle, kid.” He pointed the gun at Mrs. Carter, now sprawled on the floor at his feet. “Get up.”
Mrs. Carter slowly rose to her feet.
Mother stood motionless, her mouth agape as she sucked in a deep breath.
My eyes were locked on Father’s lifeless body. I knew he was dead, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that fact. I expected him to stand up, to finish the man who had threatened his life, this man invading our home.
A scream rose from my throat.
It was a scream so shrill and sharp, I felt the vibrations at my very core. My fingers dropped into my pocket and wrapped around my knife, the comforting handle and silver bolsters warm to the touch, hot even. I gripped the Ranger with a ferocious strength, pulled it out, and flicked the blade open with a single fluid motion. Then I was on him. He tried to raise the gun, but I was too fast. I swung the knife up and buried the blade in the soft skin under his chin, forcing through the flesh and bone until it punctured into his mouth and tore through his tongue. When it finally stopped as it embedded itself in the roof of his mouth, I yanked the knife back out and slit his throat, tearing through the muscle, tendons, and arteries. The blood sprayed out onto my face, into my hair, my eyes. I didn’t care. I sliced him again. When his body began to crumple to the ground, I rode it down and plunged the knife into his chest, again and again. I stabbed dozens, possibly hundreds, of times. I stabbed him until—
My eyes snapped open and I was staring at father’s lifeless body again. I hadn’t moved, not an inch. My hand dropped into my pocket in search of my knife, but it wasn’t there. Mother had taken my knife. My fingers found nothing but the small box of matches and the photographs I had taken from the Carters’ house.
“Hand out of your pocket slowly, kid,” I heard Mr. Stranger say. I felt the barrel of his .44 Magnum press against the side of my head. It was still hot.
I removed my hand, leaving the matches and photos behind.
The barrel pressed hard against my head.
The shot rang out and my eyes pinched shut. My body stiffened, waiting for the bullet to tear through my skull like it had Father’s, to tear the life from me and plunge me into a darkness where I would be united with him once again.
The darkness didn’t come.
Mr. Stranger collapsed at my side, smoke rising from a large hole in the back of his head.
80
Clair
Day 2 ? 5:26 p.m.
The patrol officers were dead. Both shot. The driver, at point-blank just below his left temple. His partner took three rounds to the chest. As far as Clair knew, 4MK had never shot anyone before. A nine-millimeter Beretta 92FS lay on the dash. Porter’s backup weapon.
Endgame, she thought.
Nash tapped Clair on the shoulder, and she turned from the car. He pointed at the front of Talbot’s house, his own weapon drawn.
The front door was cracked open a few inches.
The sun was setting, and the shadows crawled across the expanse of the front yard. No lights burned inside, although it was dark enough now to call for it; no sound escaped, either. There was only that door, open just enough.
“He may still be in there,” Clair said, drawing her Glock.
“Porter and I were here yesterday. Talbot has a wife and daughter, at least one housekeeper in there too, possibly more.”
Clair called dispatch. When she hung up, she was shaking her head. “Cars are on their way, but they’ve got rush hour traffic. They’re at least ten or fifteen minutes out. Espinosa’s team is still at the apartment.”
Nash started for the door. “Watch my back.”
Clair nodded grimly. They couldn’t wait. If Bishop was still inside, there was no telling what he was doing to that family. The deaths of those officers landed squarely on the heads of their task force. She didn’t care for Talbot in the slightest, but she wasn’t about to let anything happen to him and his family if she could prevent it. Neither was Nash.
They reached the door.
Nash leaned against the frame and angled to get a glimpse inside. After a moment, he shook his head. “Shades are drawn,” he mouthed.
Clair nodded and held her finger up to her lips.