Nash eased open the door, cringing as a low squeal escaped from the hinges.
The streetlights came to life, and Clair welcomed the light until she saw her own shadow stretch across the floor with Nash’s beside it. He must have spotted it too, because he ducked through the doorway and rounded the corner in an instant, concealing himself within the dark foyer. Clair followed close, her eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of life.
A muffled groan came from down the hall.
Nash moved quickly, his gun held in a firm grip pointing down and forward. He clearly remembered the layout, because he maneuvered around a small table in the hallway with little effort. Clair would have bumped it for sure; the light from outside seemed to halt at the threshold, unwilling to step inside.
Past the small table, they came upon a large opening and what appeared to be a library or some kind of sitting room. The remains of a fire crackled and popped on the hearth of a stone fireplace. A small end table lay in splinters surrounded by broken glass—the remains of a crystal decanter or maybe a vase. The couch had been overturned and settled on its side. A woman lay sprawled across the center of the rug.
Nash scanned the room and knelt beside her. The housekeeper, Clair assumed from the uniform. She watched them from the corner of her eye while training her gun on the hallway.
The woman’s hands and feet were tied with a phone cord, and she had been gagged. Clair could see her eyes shifting quickly in the dim light as she stared up at the two of them. Nash signaled for her to keep quiet, then pulled the gag from her mouth. She coughed and her eyes watered.
“Is he still here?” Nash asked her in a hush.
81
Diary
“I should have popped that fucker twenty minutes ago,” Mr. Smith said. He stood in the doorway with the rifle in his good hand.
“Why didn’t you?” Mother asked.
“I wasn’t sure what to do about your husband. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.”
“Sometimes you have to improvise,” Mother told him. “Let me see that hand.”
Mr. Smith started toward her, and I watched as Mrs. Carter slapped Mother across the face with both hands still cuffed together, nearly knocking her down.
“What the hell?” Mother spat. The corner of her lip was bleeding.
“You could have ended this days ago. Do you know what he did to me with the rat? He could have killed me!”
Mr. Smith reached down and pulled Mr. Stranger into the house toward the basement door. “Quit the bickering, we don’t have time. Briggs called for reinforcements on the way out here.”
Father’s lifeless body still sprawled on the floor.
I hadn’t moved.
I couldn’t move.
Mrs. Carter walked over slowly and ran her hand through my hair. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. My head was foggy, thoughts moving through taffy. I pulled the photographs from my pocket and handed them to her. “These are yours.”
She took the photos, flipping through them deliberately, her face turning red. “Where did you find them?”
“On your kitchen table this morning. Someone left them there.”
Mr. Smith snickered. “Briggs did, that sick fuck. He found them on top of the fridge in a cookbook and left them out.”
Father’s body.
I heard a moan and realized it came from me. A dark sob from deep in my throat.
“I told you the boy was broken. He’s not right, never has been,” Mother said. Her eyes so cold and dark. This was not the Mother I needed right now; this was the Other Mother. She didn’t see the bodies on the floor. She looked right through them, as if they weren’t there at all.
Mrs. Carter frowned at her. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
Mother walked over, lifting my head up by the chin. “When was the last time you took your medication?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” she mimicked in a singsong voice. “I want you to run out to the lake and fetch the keys from the place Mrs. Carter hid them. Do you think you can do that?”
I nodded. “Yes, Momma.”
“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Sorry, Mother.”
“Go, then. We need to hurry. We need to leave before this guy’s friends show up.” She nodded toward Mr. Stranger’s body.
I pushed past Mr. Smith and Mrs. Carter. When I glanced back, Mother was working the locks on Mrs. Carter’s handcuffs. They clattered to the floor and she rubbed at her wrists. The two women exchanged a whisper, their eyes on me. Mr. Smith was moving Father’s body.
Without another word, I ran off toward the small path leading into the woods.
82
Porter
Day 2 ? 5:27 p.m.
Porter took the box cutter from the cabdriver and dropped it into his pocket. “What’s your name?”
“Marcus. Marcus Ingram.”
“Do you own a gun, Marcus?”
Kloz’s voice grew loud enough to hear, even though the phone wasn’t on speaker. “You are not going in there, Sam. Wait for backup. You just got stabbed, remember? You shouldn’t be on your feet, period. Clair is liable to put a bullet in you if you try.”
“Do you own a gun, Marcus?” Porter asked again.
The cabdriver shook his head. “I don’t like guns. I got this, though.” He reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a small baseball bat with CHICAGO CUBS stamped in colorful letters on the barrel. “Got this in 2008 when they went up against the Dodgers for the division. They lost, but this little guy has helped me beat down my share of muggers and deadbeats. It’s not one of those cheap souvenir bats; this one is made of northern white ash. It won’t crack.”
“Porter? I spoke to Dispatch. They have cars en route. Stay put.”
Porter took the bat and measured the weight in his hand. It had a little heft. “What about a flashlight?”
Marcus nodded. “Yep.” He reached into the car and came out with a small LED flashlight. “It’s tiny but bright.” He handed it to Porter.
“Kloz? I’ll keep you on the line as long as I can, but I’m going to put the phone in my pocket so I can use both hands. Try to keep quiet. If he’s in there, I don’t want him to hear me coming.”
Bishop knew he was coming, though; Porter was sure of that. The man who used to be Watson had left a neat little trail of bread crumbs, and not only did he know Porter was coming, he would be waiting.
“He wants me to come alone, Kloz. If that girl is alive and she’s in there, our only shot at getting to her is me doing this alone, just the way he wants it,” Porter said.
Kloz sighed. “He’ll kill you. You understand that, right?”
“He could have killed me already. He wants me to see this through to the end.”
“So he can kill you,” Kloz retorted. “This is his final act, and he wants you to play a part. That’s the only reason he’s kept you around. Once that curtain falls and your part is done, he’s done with you. Wait outside for backup. They’ll be there in less than ten minutes. You go in there alone, and you’re committing suicide.”