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Porter’s eyes landed on the shoes.
Eisley followed his gaze. “Oh, I almost forgot about those. Check this out, very odd.” He picked up one of the shoes and returned to the body, then placed the heel of the shoe against the man’s bare foot. “They’re nearly two sizes too big for this guy. He had tissue paper stuffed in at the toes.”
“Who wears shoes two sizes too big?” Nash asked. “Didn’t you say those go for around fifteen hundred?”
Porter nodded. “Maybe they’re not his. We should dust them for prints.”
Nash glanced at Eisley, then around the room. “Do you have a … never mind — I got it.” He hurried over to another counter and returned with a fingerprint kit. With expert precision, he powdered the shoes. “Bingo.”
“Lift them and send them to the lab. Make sure they understand how urgent this is,” Porter said.
“On it.”
Porter turned back to Eisley. “Anything else?”
Eisley frowned. “What? The drug evidence isn’t enough for you?”
“That’s not —”
“There is one other thing.”
He led Porter to the other side of the body and picked up the man’s right hand. Porter tried not to look into the gaping hole in his chest.
“I found a small tattoo,” Eisley told him. He pointed at a small black spot on the man’s inner wrist. “I think it’s the number eight.”
Porter leaned in. “Or an infinity symbol.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.
“It’s fresh. See the redness? He got it less than a week ago.”
Porter tried to make sense of it all. “Could be some kind of religious thing. He was dying.”
“I’ll leave the detecting to you detectives,” Eisley said.
Porter lifted the edge of the white cloth covering the head. The material peeled away with a sound not unlike Velcro.
“I’m going to try and reconstruct his face.”
“Yeah? You think you can do that?” Porter asked.
“Well, not me,” Eisley confessed. “I’ve got a friend who works at the Museum of Science and Industry. She specializes in this sort of thing — old remains and such. She spent the last six years restoring the remains of an Illiniwek tribe discovered downstate near McHenry County. She normally works with skull and bone fragments, nothing this … fresh. But I think she can do it. I put in a call.”
“She, huh?” Nash chimed in. “Did you make a lady friend?” He finished with the shoes and packed up the fingerprint kit. “I’ve got six partials and at least three full thumbs. Three thumbprints, I should say. I don’t mean to imply our unsub has three thumbs, although that would make him a lot easier to identify. I’m going to walk these down. Do you want to regroup in the war room? Maybe an hour? I’ll check in with the captain too.”
Porter thought of the diary in his pocket. An hour sounded good.
16 (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
Diary (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
(#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)Mother saw me, but I did not run away. I knew I should go. I knew this was a private moment, something not meant for my eyes, but I kept watching anyway. I don’t think I could have stopped even if I wanted to. I stayed next to that tree until Mother and Mrs. Carter disappeared from view. More accurately, they sank from view, whether to the bed or the floor, I was not sure.
Beneath me, my bucket wobbled. I wobbled. My legs felt like Jell-O. Wiggle waggle! My heart thudded with a parade cadence. I’ll tell you, it was exhilarating to say the least!
I found myself so ensconced in this activity, I didn’t hear Mr. Carter’s car drive past our house. It wasn’t until it crunched down the gravel driveway next door that I took notice. Mrs. Carter must have heard the car then too. Like a groundhog on the last day of winter, her head popped up in the window frame, her breasts bouncing, her mouth open in a gasp. She spotted me the same moment I saw her. There was nothing to do, I froze looking back at her. She turned and shouted something, and then my mother appeared. She did not look out at me.
Both disappeared from the window.
Mr. Carter’s car door slammed. He was never home at such an hour. Normally he did not return from work until after five, about the same time as my father. He saw me standing next to the tree, perched high on my bucket, and gave me a puzzled glance. I waved. He did not wave back. Instead, he bounded up his front walk and disappeared into his house.
A moment later Mrs. Carter walked briskly out our front door and crossed the lawn, her hands smoothing her dress as she went. She gave me a quick glance as she passed. I offered her a howdy-do, but she did not reciprocate. When she entered her own house, she did so with caution, closing the front door ever so softly behind her.
I jumped down off my bucket and followed her.
I wouldn’t call myself a nosy child. I was curious, that’s all. So I crossed over to the Carters’ lawn without a second thought. I was halfway to their driveway when I heard the slap.
There was no mistaking that particular sound. My father was a firm believer in discipline, and he had brought his hand to my backside on more than one occasion. Without going into detail, I am willing to admit I deserved a good whack or two on each and every one of those occasions, and I hold no ill will toward him for doing so. That sound was well-known to me, and after being on the receiving end (no pun intended) I also recognized the quick scream that followed such pain.
When Mrs. Carter cried out immediately following the slap, I realized that Mr. Carter had hit her. Another slap quickly followed, then another sharp yelp.
I reached Mr. Carter’s car. The engine still made a steady tick, tick, tick. Heat floated above the hood, and exhaust filled the air.
Mr. Carter crashed through the front door as I stood beside his car. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” he growled, before pushing past me and walking across the lawn toward my house.
Mrs. Carter appeared in the doorway but stopped at the threshold. She held a damp towel to the side of her face. Her right eye was puffy, pink, and teary. When she noticed me, her lips trembled. “Don’t let him hurt your mother,” she whispered.
Mr. Carter reached our kitchen door and pounded the frame with his fist. I found it odd that it was closed. Nearly every summer day, the door was opened in the morning and remained that way until late into the night, with only the screen door to keep Mother Nature’s creatures out of the house. Mother must have —
I spotted Mother standing in a side window. She glared at Mr. Carter on our back stoop.
“Open the door, you fucking cunt!” he shouted. “Open the goddamn door!”
Mother watched him but remained still.
I started back toward the house, and her hand shot up, motioning for me to stay put. I stopped in my tracks, unsure of what I should do. Looking back, I see it was naive of me to believe I could do much of anything. Mr. Carter was a large man, maybe even bigger than Father. If I attempted to stop him in any way, he would swat me as if I were an annoying fly buzzing around his head.
“You think you can turn my wife into your own personal rug cleaner?” He banged at the door. “I knew it, I fucking knew it, you insatiable little cunt. I knew something was going on. Always over at your house. Smelling of your stink. I tasted you on her, you know that? Believe it. I sure as shit could. Now I think you owe me. A tit for tat. Or how about a tit for a twat — if I dumb it down, does it make more sense to you? There’s consequences, you little bitch. There’s payment due. Nothing in this world is free!”
Mother disappeared from the window.
Mrs. Carter began to sob behind me.
Mr. Carter turned and shook an angry finger at her. “Shut the fuck up!” His face burned bright red. Sweat glistened on his brow. “Don’t think I’m done with you. When I finish up over here, you and I are going to have a long, hard talk. Believe that. When I’m done collecting from this hussy, it’s your turn. You think that little scratch hurts? Wait until I come home for dessert!”
It was then our back door opened. Mother stepped out into the light and beckoned him inside.
Mr. Carter stood there for a moment, glaring at Mother. His face as red as a stop sign, his brow all crunched up and sweaty. His hands were balled in tight fists. At first I thought he would hit her, but he didn’t.
Mother peered over his shoulder, her eyes locking with mine for a moment before turning back to him. “It’s a one-time offer. Now or never.” She twirled a finger around a lock of blond hair, then slid it down the side of her neck, a grin playing at her lips.
“Are you kidding me?”
Mother turned back into the kitchen and nodded. “Come on.”
He watched her disappear through the doorway, then turned back to his wife. “Consider this part one of the lesson. When I’m done here, I’ll be home to teach you part two.” He snorted as if he had made the joke of all jokes, then walked into our house, slamming the door behind him.
Mrs. Carter sobbed.
I was but a boy, and I had no idea how to comfort a crying woman, nor did I have any desire to. Instead, I raced back around the house to Mother’s window and hopped back up on my bucket. I found the room empty.
From somewhere within the house, I heard a horrible scream. It had not come from Mother.
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Emory (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
Day 1 • 9:31 a.m. (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
Emory was going to throw up.
The vomit crept up the back of her throat, thick and vile. She choked it down, cringing at the foul aftertaste.
She took a deep breath, the air catching between sobs.
He had cut off her ear! What the fuck? Why —
The answer came to her in an instant, and she drew in another breath so hard and fast that she whistled before coughing out another sob. The tears welled in her eyes and dripped on her knees. She tried to wipe them from her cheeks, but more came, salty and sharp.
She hiccupped between ragged breaths.
Her body shook with violent spasms. Snot dripped from her nose and mixed with her tears. Just when she thought it was over, her mind would flood with a mix of fear, pain, and anger, and the pattern would start again, lessening only a little each time.
When the fit finally ended, when she was able to reel in a breath and keep it, she found herself sitting in utter silence. Her mind was painfully hollow and quiet, her body sore, muscles aching, her face puffy and red. Her fingers brushed over the handcuffs, searching for some kind of release, hoping they weren’t real handcuffs but the kind you buy in a sex shop or a toy store — her friend Laurie had told her about those, how her boyfriend wanted to use them and she said no way, nohow.
There was no release switch, and the band around her wrist was tight; they weren’t coming off without a key. She could try to pick them, but that would mean finding something to pick them with, and that would mean exploring.
Who was she kidding? She had no clue how to pick a lock.
The handcuffs had an abnormally long chain on them too, at least two feet, the kind you find in prison movies where the bad guy’s hands are shackled to his feet and he’s forced to shuffle down some dark hallway. The cuffs were designed to allow some movement but not much.
She knew of the Four Monkey Killer. Everyone in Chicago did, possibly everyone in the entire world. Not just that he was a serial killer, but the way he first tortured his victims before killing them, mailing body parts back to their families. First an ear, then —
Emory’s free hand went to her eyes. The room was dark, but she could still make out faint outlines. He hadn’t touched her eyes.
Not yet. Maybe he’ll have time when he gets back.
Her heart pounded within her chest.
How long before …
She couldn’t think about it. She just couldn’t.
The idea of someone taking out her eyes, taking them out when she was alive.
Your tongue too, dear. Don’t forget about the tongue. He likes to take that third and mail the little stump of flesh back to Mommy and Daddy. You know, right before he finally —
The voice in her head seemed oddly familiar.
You don’t remember me, dear?
Then she knew, just like that, she knew, and anger swirled.
“You’re not my mother,” Emory said, seething. “My mother is dead.”
Christ. She was going crazy. Talking to herself. Was it the shot? What had he given her? Was she hallucinating? Maybe all of this was just some kind of nasty dream, a bad trip. She might be —
You should try to figure the rough patches all out later, dear. Whenyou have more time? Right now I think you should focus on finding a way out of this place. You know, before he gets back. Don’t you agree?
Emory caught herself nodding.
I only want what’s best for you.
“Stop.”
When you’re safe. Until then … this is a tough spot, Em. I can’t write you a note and get you out of this one. This is way worse than the principal.
“Quiet!”
Silence.
The only sound was that of her own breath and the blood pumping at her ear, warm and throbbing under the bandage.
Where your ear used to be, dear.
“Please don’t. Please be quiet —”
Better that you accept it now. Accept it and move on.
Emory lowered her legs over the side of her makeshift bed. The wheels squeaked as the gurney rolled a few inches before scraping against a wall and stopped. When her feet touched the cold concrete, she almost pulled them back up. Not knowing what was beneath her creeped her out, but remaining still while waiting for her captor to return was not an option she was willing to consider. She had to find a way out.
Her eyes fought the darkness, trying to adjust and pull in the smallest bit of light, but there simply wasn’t enough. She raised her hand to her face, and it was barely visible unless she practically touched her nose.
Emory forced herself to stand, ignoring the dizziness swooning through her head and the pain at her ear. She took a deep breath and held the edge of the gurney for balance just below where her handcuffs were attached, standing still until the nausea left her.
It was so dark. Too dark.
What if you fall, dear? What if you try to walk, trip over something, and fall? Are you sure this is wise? Why don’t you sit back down and figure things out. How would that be?
Emory ignored the voice and tentatively reached out, her left hand stretching into the blackness, her fingers groping. When they found nothing, she took a step toward the top of the gurney, toward the wall it rested against. Right hand on the gurney, left hand reaching. One step, then another, then a —
