But she was shaking her head and placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t do that to yourself. You did find me. Detective Norton told me everything you did for me over the past few days, and I don’t know where to begin to thank you.”
Emory followed his eyes to her bandaged wrist. “They operated on it last night. There’s some nerve damage and I broke the scaphoid—that’s the little bone beneath the thumb—but for the most part, it should be fine. I’ll lose some feeling, but all my fingers still work the way they’re supposed to, and the doctor says I’ll have full range of motion.” She wiggled her fingers to demonstrate, then cringed as the pain washed over her.
“What about the ear?” Porter wasn’t sure why he asked. Normally he would never ask about something like that unless she offered first. He blamed the drugs.
“I think they’re going to grow me a new one.”
“What?”
“I met with a doctor this morning who told me he can grow a replacement ear on my arm using cartilage from my ribs,” Emory explained. “It’s going to take about three months, but he said it should be indistinguishable from the original.”
Porter fell back against his pillows. “They definitely gave me the good stuff. I thought you just said they were going to grow an ear on your arm.”
Emory giggled. It was good to hear.
Porter gazed at her, at those eyes that held experiences they should not hold, at the girl behind them, and he knew she was going to be okay. “Why don’t we talk about your mother? I’ve heard a lot about her recently. We can compare notes.”
Emory smiled. “I’d like that.”
Epilogue
Two Days Later
“Shit.” Nash lifted his foot and stared at the dog crap stuck to his shoe.
“I should have warned you to watch out for that,” Porter said, fishing for his keys. “It’s kind of a thing around here. The place probably wouldn’t feel like home without dog poop on the stoop.”
Night had taken hold and the city was alive with lights. A chill had crept up with the falling sun, and Porter welcomed it, the brisk air reminding him what it was to be alive.
They were standing outside his apartment building. The doctors had held him in the hospital for two days to make sure the stitches took before they would allow him to leave. Apparently he had lost a little trust when he walked out on his own and chased a serial killer up ten flights of stairs shortly after surgery. They were worried about infection, but the concern had passed and he was mending nicely.
“You didn’t need to bring me home. I could have managed.”
Nash waved him off. “I’d never hear the end of it from Clair.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“That too.” Nash walked over to the edge of the sidewalk and scraped the waste away on the corner of the concrete.
Shortly before leaving the hospital, Porter had received a phone call from Detective Baumhardt at the Fifty-First Precinct. Harnell Campbell, the man who killed Heather, had somehow managed to make bail.
“How could that shit knocker come up with half a million dollars?” Nash asked.
“If he used a bail bondsman, he’d only need ten percent,” Porter pointed out.
“If he’s robbing convenience stores, he doesn’t have that kind of money, either.”
“Probably has a buddy who’s dealing or owed him a favor. Doesn’t matter. Baumhardt thinks they’ve got a strong case. He’s going down, just not today.”
Nash shrugged. “As long has he decides to show up at the trial.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Sorry.”
They entered the lobby and Porter opened his mailbox. It was stuffed full.
“How long since you last checked that?”
“A few days.” He picked through the mess, grabbed next week’s TV Guide, then squeezed the remaining letters back inside before closing the tiny door. He started for the stairs, but Nash grabbed his shoulder and pointed him at the elevator. “Not a chance—you can work on your figure next week. No exercise, definitely no stairs—doctor’s orders.”
“I’m going to have to move to a place on the first floor. Bishop ruined stairs and elevators for me,” said Porter.
Nash pressed the Call button. The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.
“Any luck trying to find him?” Porter had been banned from the war room and ordered to stay away from the investigation until his doctor cleared him, but he couldn’t help himself. Knowing Bishop was still out there just ate at him.
“We’ve fielded more than a thousand tips over the past few days but nothing solid. He’s been spotted as close as the Hard Rock down by the lake and as far away as Paris. The one in France, not Illinois. CSI combed his apartment, and it doesn’t look like he ever actually lived there, just staged the place for us to find. Who knows where he actually called home.”
“What about his childhood home? The one from the diary. Any luck locating it?”
“Kloz is searching nationwide for houses that burnt down near a pond or small lake within the past twenty years but hasn’t turned up anything yet. CPAs and accountants are registered, so he searched for anyone named Simon Carter with a financial license, but that came up blank too. He also put together a list of all Plymouth Dusters registered in the country, found more than four thousand of them, and I’ve got no clue what we’re going to do with a list like that. It’s probably a dead end. We subpoenaed employment records from Talbot’s various companies but didn’t find anyone named Carter, Felton Briggs, or Franklin Kirby. Part of me thinks the entire diary was bullshit, just another distraction. The feds arrived yesterday, four of them in dark suits and darker egos. They wanted to take over the war room, but I put them in the room across the hall instead.”
Porter frowned. “The room with the weird smell?”
“Yeah. They’re feds. Maybe they can figure out where it’s coming from.”
The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, and they walked down the hall to Porter’s door.
Porter slipped his key into the lock. “I think that diary is the only real thing he allowed us to see of himself. He wanted us to know where he came from.”
“Well, I only care about where he’s heading.”
They stepped inside and Porter flicked on the lights. His eyes went to the spot on the floor where he had fallen after Bishop stabbed him. “Who cleaned up?”
“Clair came by yesterday. We didn’t want you coming home to that, and she drew the short straw. Probably for the best. I would have just put a rug or a plant on top of it. Bloodstains give a place character. You should see my apartment.”
Porter could only imagine.
“Thank her for me when you see her.”
Nash shuffled his feet. “So, how long before you come back?”
“Probably a week, maybe two.” He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Want one?”
“I can’t. I’m still on the clock.” He turned back toward the door. “I’ll stop by tomorrow, okay?”
“You don’t have to check in on me. I’ll be all right.”
Nash smiled and nodded. “I know you will. Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, Brian.”