Porter locked the door behind him and twisted the cap off his beer. There was something about an ice-cold beer that just made everything seem better.
Heather’s picture watched him from the end table. He walked over and slipped his finger across her cheek. “I miss you, Button.” He reached for his new cell phone, began dialing her voice mail, then set it back down. “Sleep tight, beautiful.”
He finished the beer and left the bottle on the table before heading into the bedroom.
At first he didn’t see the small white box sitting on the side of the bed, and when he did, he half thought he was imagining it, but there it was—a small white box with a black string around it, next to Heather’s note. His hand instinctively went for his gun, and he realized he still didn’t have it.
Porter rounded the bed and picked up the box, trying to steady his shaking hand. He knew he should put on gloves, but he simply didn’t care. He tugged at the string and pulled it away, letting it drop to the floor. He removed the top and looked inside.
A human ear rested upon a bed of cotton. The flesh was riddled with piercings, six diamonds and four small hoops. It had been cut off smoothly, with surgical precision. The cotton was stained with brown flecks of dried blood.
Along the outer edge of the lobe, the word FILTER was tattooed in black letters.
He recognized it immediately. Tareq had pointed out the tattoo back at the Fifty-First.
Taped to the inside of the box top, in Anson Bishop’s scratchy script, was a note:
Sam,
A little something from me to you . . .
I’m sorry you didn’t get to hear him scream.
How about a return on the favor?
A little tit for tat between friends.
Help me find my mother.
I think it’s time she and I talked.
B