Porter didn’t need to think about it for a moment. Without Heather in his life, he had nothing else worth living for anyway.
“Tell them to watch out for Marcus. He’s going to stand right outside and wait for SWAT. He can show them where I went.” Then, before Kloz had time to respond, Porter dropped the cell into his pocket and crossed the sidewalk to 314 West Belmont, flashlight in one hand, the small baseball bat in the other.
83
Diary
The lake seemed oddly still as I approached, the water unmoving save for the slight ripple caused by a duck floating lazily across the surface near the middle. I ran the entire way and nearly collapsed at the water’s edge, my breathing heavy and labored. I hoped running would clear my head. I hoped it would help me forget what I had just seen, what had just happened, but the moment I closed my eyes, I saw the bullet tear through Father. I saw Mother watching, watching but not acting, Mother standing as still as I while Father was killed. I bent over at the waist with my hands on my knees until my strength returned, then scanned the bank for the cat.
Nothing remained but fur and bones; the little meat I spied on my last visit had been picked clean. Not even a single ant crawled over the body. They had moved on to bigger and better things, I supposed. There was always something dying in the forest, just as sure as new life was born.
I poked at the cat with the toe of my shoe, half expecting to see a beetle or some other straggler come running out, but nothing did.
Mother had told me to hurry.
Dropping down to my knees, I pushed the cat aside and began digging at the dirt beneath the frail frame. I noticed a slight odor, a mix of onions and rotten spinach, and tried not to think about the melted fat and bile that probably soaked into the earth as the cat decayed. I tried not to think of such things at all because they made me feel like I might get sick, and knowing that the body of Mr. Carter lay at the bottom of the lake beside me, I could not leave a pile of vomit on the shore for the authorities to find, should they ever happen upon his final resting place.
About six inches down, my fingers brushed against a plastic bag, the kind with a zip lock on the top, and I tugged it out and shook the dirt off.
Inside was my knife.
No safe-deposit box keys.
My Ranger buck knife, nothing else.
A lump began to grow in my stomach, a painful fist clenching at my intestines.
I scooped up the bag and started back for the house. I heard the voices just before I crossed through the woods back into our yard.
Male voices.
Two white vans stood in our driveway; both said TALBOT ENTERPRISES in bold red letters on the doors. Three men stood near our front door.
The Plymouth Duster was gone.
Mother and Mrs. Carter had left with Mr. Smith. I was sure of this.
I was alone.
84
Porter
Day 2 ? 5:31 p.m.
314 West Belmont had a glass front, and although most of the windows were sealed behind plywood, the large glass turnstile door was not. Porter gave it an exploratory push, expecting it to be locked, but the revolving door moved, spinning on its axis. With one last glance back at Marcus, he stepped inside and followed it around. The sounds and smells of the city quickly evaporated, replaced by utter silence and the powdery scent of drywall dust. He stepped out of the revolving door into the lobby of the building.
Porter’s first thought was that there was no way in hell this place would be open by spring. All the walls were exposed concrete with steel two-by-four framing scattered randomly. He imagined they would eventually be closed in and form walls and rooms, but right now the space housed nothing more than calculated chaos. The floor was littered with dozens of footprints heading off in all directions. Light from the street lamps shined in from the large windows at his back, illuminating the room, but visibility was quickly fading with the waning sun.
Porter knelt down and studied the prints. He flicked on the flashlight and swept the beam over the floor with the slow steadiness of a lighthouse waxing across a bay. The footprints all appeared to be work boots, every set but one. He stood and walked over, leaning down for a better look. Men’s dress shoes. Beside them he found a trail in the dust, as if something had been dragged.
He followed the pattern to the back west corner of what would become the lobby and found himself standing at a bank of elevators, six in all, lining the back wall. He pushed the Call button, but nothing happened. He didn’t expect them to work. The power appeared to be off. The steel doors were sealed shut with red safety tape around a note that read: DANGER—NO CARS.
The trail through the dust continued past the elevators and down the hall to the left. As he turned the corner, he came upon a door—the emergency stairs, he presumed. Scrawled across the faded green paint in bright red were the words SEE NO EVIL. On the floor at his feet were two human eyeballs. They stared up at him with an unsettling calm.
85
Clair
Day 2 ? 5:31 p.m.
“Miranda, is he still in the house?” Nash asked again, more firmly.
The housekeeper’s eyes were crusted with dried tears. She whimpered softly, shook her head, shrugged, then nodded quickly. “I don’t know,” the woman replied. “I didn’t see where he went.”
“How long since you last saw him?”
She appeared confused by the question. Her eyes dilated slightly. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Did he drug you?”
Staring at him, she seemed to contemplate this. “I don’t know. I think so. I don’t remember him tying me up. Everything’s hazy.”
“Is anyone else in the house?” Nash asked.
The housekeeper took a deep breath and glanced at the staircase. “Ms. Patricia and Mr. Talbot are in their room.” Her eyes grew wider still. “He went up there. I remember him heading toward the stairs.”
Nash followed her gaze to the staircase, barely visible in the waning light. “What about Carnegie?”
“I’m not sure if she’s home. I haven’t seen her since this morning. She might be in her room.”
Clair knelt down beside the woman, her eyes and weapon still trained on the hallway.
“Miranda, right?”
She nodded.
“I’m going to untie you. When I do, I want you to get outside. You’ll see my car, a green Honda. It’s not locked. Climb inside and wait for the police to get here. Stay low, and keep yourself hidden until they arrive,” Clair said. “Do you think you can do that?”
Miranda nodded.
Clair made quick work of the cord around the woman’s feet while Nash untied her hands. When the housekeeper tried to stand, she wobbled, almost collapsing. Nash caught her and helped her find her balance. “Whatever he used could take a little while to work completely out of your system, so try to move slowly.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Miranda said, her face ashen. She steadied herself on the end table.