The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down
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I shuffled around to the side of my tree so as not to be spotted.
Although her angle prevented me from seeing her face, I immediately recognized her hair, those long chocolate curls at her back.
She glanced in my direction and I ducked back. Then she turned to her right, surveying her surroundings. Finally content she was alone, she reached into a large bag, pulled out a towel, and spread it on the shore.
After she looked one more time in all directions, her hand went to the back of her dress and untied it at the neck. It fell from her body and pooled at her feet in a puddle of white, flowered cloth.
My mouth dropped open.
She wore nothing else.
I had never seen a naked woman before.
She closed her eyes and turned her head up to the sun and smiled.
Her legs were so long.
And breasts!
Oh my. I felt my face blush. It blushes to this day.
I saw a tiny tuft of hair at that spot, that special little spot.
Mrs. Carter walked to the water and stepped in, hesitant at first. No doubt it was cold.
She went farther still, slowly disappearing with the increasing depth.
When the water climbed above her knees, she bent down, took a handful, and splashed it over her chest. She dove in a moment later and swam toward the center of the lake.
From the safety of my tree, I watched.
• • •
The night came and went and proved to be quite restless.
With summer also came the heat, and my room became rather toasty once spring shrugged off its coat.
It wasn’t the heat that had kept me up, though; it was thoughts of Mrs. Carter. I dare to say, they were most unpure and very new to me. When I closed my eyes I still saw her standing in the lake, the water glistening on her damp flesh in the bright light. Her long legs … so long and tender. It made blood rush to a place it never had before, made me feel —
Let us say for a young boy, I was smitten.
I woke the next morning to the sound of her voice.
At first I thought it was only another dream, and I welcomed it, wishing to watch her remove her dress and walk into the lake again and again in the theater of my mind. Her voice drifted through the air on a whisper, followed by Mother’s chuckle. My eyes snapped open.
“It was kinky,” she said. “I had never been tied up before.”
“Never?” Mother replied.
Mrs. Carter giggled. “Does that make me a prude?”
“It just makes you inexperienced. In time, you’ll be surprised by what your husband can come up with to get his rocks off.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Just last week …” Mother’s voice dropped to a whisper.
I sat up in bed. Now the voices were faint, somewhere else in the house.
I hastily dressed and pressed my ear to my door, but still I couldn’t make out the words.
With a gentle twist of the knob, I opened the door and made my way down the hallway, my stockinged feet noiseless on the hardwood floor.
The hallway ended at the living room, which in turn faced the kitchen. I smelled something baking: the lofty aroma of apples and bread. Pie, perhaps? I love a good pie.
Mother and Mrs. Carter burst out laughing simultaneously.
I crouched low against the wall near the end of the hallway. I was still unable to hear well but dared not enter the living room. This position would have to do.
“My Simon is not that adventurous,” Mrs. Carter said. “I’m afraid to say his bag of tricks is rather light. More of a satchel than a bag, really. Or perhaps one of those little paper lunch sacks.”
The refrigerator door opened with the jingle of bottles.
“Not my husband,” Mother replied. “Sometimes I’ll put on the game just to get his mind out of the bedroom. Or the laundry room. Or the kitchen table.”
“No!” Mrs. Carter cried out with a laugh.
“Oh yes,” said Mother. “The man is like an animal in heat. Sometimes there is no stopping him.”
“But you have a kid.”
“Oh, that boy is always off doing something. When he’s not, he’s in bed sleeping like a bear in the dead of winter. The earth could open up beneath him, and he’d sleep through the carnage.”
I eased my head around the corner without so much as a sound, immediately drawing it back so as not to be seen.
Mother was mixing something at the counter. Mrs. Carter sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug at hand.
“Maybe you should try something to spice things up,” Mother continued. “Missionary is for missionaries, I always say. Introduce a toy or bring some food into the bedroom. All men like whipped cream.”
I was not permitted to bring food into my room. Not since Mother had found a half-eaten tin of cookies under my bed.
Mrs. Carter giggled again. “I could never.”
“You should.”
“But what if he doesn’t like it, or thinks I’m some kind of freak? How would I survive the embarrassment?”
“Oh, he’ll like it. They always do.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
The women fell silent for a moment, then Mrs. Carter spoke. “Has your husband ever, you know, not been able to, well, you know …”
“My husband?” Mother shrieked with amusement. “My Lord, no. His plumbing is in top order.”
“Even when he drinks?”
“Especially when he drinks.”
One of our wooden chairs scraped against the floor.
I peeked around the corner for just an instant. Mother had sat beside Mrs. Carter and put a hand on her shoulder. “Does it happen a lot?”
“Only when he drinks.”
“Does he drink a lot?”
Mrs. Carter paused, searching for the right words. “Not every night.”
Mother squeezed her shoulder. “Well, men will be men. He still has some growing up to do.”
“You think?”
“Sure. When starting out in life, there are so many pressures on a man, on both of you, but especially on him. He bought you that lovely home. I imagine you’ve talked of children?”
Mrs. Carter nodded.
“All those things, they add up like big, heavy weights on his shoulders. Each one adding another pound or two until he can barely walk, barely stand. He drinks to help deal with that, that’s all. I find nothing wrong with a little sauce to calm an edgy nerve. Don’t you fret. When things improve, when the pressure lifts, things will get better. Just you wait and see.”
“You don’t think it’s me?” Mrs. Carter said, her voice almost childlike.
“A pretty thing like you? Of course not,” Mother told her.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Mother snorted. “I can’t believe you’d even have to ask. You are gorgeous. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“That is so sweet of you to say,” Mrs. Carter said.
“It’s the truth. Any man would be lucky to have you,” Mother told her.
The women fell silent again, and I stole another glance, crawling around the corner as quiet as a mouse.
Mother and Mrs. Carter were kissing.
12
Emory
Day 1 • 9:29 a.m.
Darkness.
It swirled around her like the current of the deepest sea. Cold and silent, crawling across her body with the touch of a stranger.
“Em,” her mother whispered. “You gotta get up. You’re going to be late for school.”
“No,” she groaned. “A few more minutes …”
“Now, baby, I’m not going to tell you again.”
“I’ve got a bad headache. Can I stay home?” Her voice was soft and distant, soaked and heavy with sleep.
“I’m not going to make up another excuse for you with the principal. Why do we have to go through this every day?”
But this wasn’t right. Her mother had died long ago, when she was only three. Her mother had not been there on her first day of school. She had never sent her off to school. She had been homeschooled most of her life.
“Momma?” she said softly.
Silence.
Her head hurt so bad.
She tried to force her eyelids open, but they fought her.
Her head ached, throbbed. She heard the pounding of her own heartbeat, the rhythm fast and strong behind her eyes.
“Are you there, Momma?”
She peered through the darkness at her left, searching for the illuminated red numbers of her alarm clock. The clock wasn’t there, though; her room was pitch-dark.
The city lights normally cast a glow on her ceiling, but they too were dark.
She couldn’t see anything.
It’s not your room.
The thought came swiftly, an unknown voice.
Where?
Emory Connors tried to sit up, but a hammer of pain pulsed on the left side of her head, forcing her to lie back down. Her hand went to her ear and found a thick bandage. Wetness.
Blood?
Then she remembered the shot.
He had given her a shot.
Who was he?
Emory didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. She remembered the shot, though. His arm had reached around from behind and plunged the needle into her neck. Cold liquid rushed out under her skin.
She had tried to turn.
She had wanted to hurt him. That was what she had been taught to do, all those self-defense classes her father insisted she take. Punish and maim. Crack him in the nuts, honey. That’s my girl.
She had wanted to spin around with a well-placed kick and a punch to his nose or his windpipe, or maybe his eyes. She had wanted to hurt him before he could hurt her, she had wanted to …
She didn’t turn.
Instead, her world had gone dark, and sleep engulfed her.
He’ll rape and kill me, she had thought as consciousness slipped away. Help me, Momma, she had thought as the world faded to black.
Her mom was gone. Dead. And she was about to join her.
That was okay, that was good. She would like to see her mom again.
He hadn’t killed her, though. Had he?
No. The dead do not feel pain, and her ear throbbed.
She forced herself to sit up.
The blood rushed from her head, and she almost passed out again. The room spun for a second before settling.
What had he given her?
She had heard of girls getting roofied at parties and clubs, waking up in strange places with their clothes askew and no memory of what had happened. She hadn’t been at a party; she had been running in the park. He had lost his dog. He looked so sad standing there with the leash, calling out her name.
Bella? Stella? What was the dog’s name?
She couldn’t remember. Her mind was foggy, thick with smoke, choking her thoughts.
“Which way did it go?” she had asked him.
He frowned, near tears. “She saw a squirrel and took off after it, that way.” He pointed to the east. “She’s never run away before. I don’t get it.” Emory had turned, her gaze following his.
Then the arm around her neck.
The shot.
“Sleepy time, beautiful,” he whispered at her ear.
There had been no dog. How could she have been so stupid?
She was cold.
Something held her right wrist down. Emory tugged and heard the clank of metal on metal. Reaching over with her left hand, she explored the smooth steel around her wrist, the thin chain.
Handcuffs.
Fastened to whatever she was lying on.
Her right wrist was handcuffed to something; her left was free.
She took a deep breath. The air was stale, damp.
Don’t panic, Em. Don’t let yourself give in to the panic.
Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, but it was so black, absolute. Her fingertips brushed the surface of the bed.
No, not a bed. Something else.
It was steel.
Hospital gurney.
Emory wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did, she just knew.
Oh God, where was she?
She shivered, realizing for the first time that she was naked.
She hesitated for a moment, then reached down and felt between her legs. She wasn’t sore.
If he had raped her, she would know, wouldn’t she?
She wasn’t sure.
She had only had sex once before, and it had hurt. Not painful, just uncomfortable, and only at first. Her boyfriend, Tyler, had promised to be gentle, and he had. It was over fast, his first time too. That was only a few weeks ago. Her father had let her go to Tyler’s homecoming dance at Whatney Vale High. Tyler had rented a room at the Union, and even managed to score a bottle of champagne from somewhere.
God, her head.
She reached back up and tentatively touched the bandages. Her ear was completely wrapped up. Some kind of tape held the dressing in place. Gently, she peeled back the bandage. “Fuck!”
The cool air felt like the blade of a knife.
She pulled at the bandage anyway, tugging until she could get her hand under the cloth.
Tears welled in her eyes as her fingertips brushed over what remained of her ear, a ragged wound at best, stitched and tender. “No … no … no,” she cried.
Her voice bounced off the walls and echoed back at her mockingly.
13
Porter
Day 1 • 10:04 a.m.
Nash pulled the Charger into a handicapped spot at the front of Flair Tower and killed the engine.
“You’re really going to park here?” Porter frowned.
Nash shrugged. “We’re the po-po; we get to do things like that.”
“Remind me to put in for a new partner when this is all over.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan. Then maybe I’ll get saddled with some hot female rookie fresh out of the academy.” Nash grinned.
“Maybe you can requisition one with daddy issues.”
“I don’t recall that question on the form, but I may have missed it.”
The doorman propped open the large glass doors for them, and they moved past him to the front desk. Porter flashed his badge. “Penthouse twenty-seven?”
A young woman with close-cropped brown hair and blue eyes smiled back at him. “Your colleagues arrived about twenty-five minutes ago. Take elevator number six to the twenty-seventh floor. The penthouse will be on your right as you exit.” She handed him a keycard. “You’ll need this.”
They boarded elevator number six, and the door closed behind them with a quick swoosh of air. Porter pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor, but nothing happened.
“You need to slide the card through the thingy,” Nash instructed.
“The thingy? How the fuck did you become a detective?”
“Forgive me for not consulting my word-a-day calendar this morning,” he retorted. “The card reader over there. Looks like a credit card machine.”
“Got it, Einstein.” Porter slid the plastic access card through the reader and pushed the button again. This time the panel lit up in bright blue, and they began to ascend.
The elevator door opened onto a hallway that extended in both directions. Large railed openings offered views of a massive atrium on the floor below. Near the end of the hallway to the right a door was open, a uniformed officer standing guard.
Porter and Nash approached, showed their badges, and stepped inside.
The view was breathtaking.
The penthouse occupied the entire northeast corner of the building. The outer walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows with a balcony. The city sprawled out around them, with Lake Michigan visible in the distance. “When I was fifteen,” Porter said, “my room was nothing like this.”
“My apartment could fit in this living room,” Nash said. “After today, I may have to trade in my badge and become a real estate mogul.”
“I don’t think you can jump right into something like that,” said Porter. “You probably need to take some kind of course on the Internet.”
Nash pulled two pairs of latex gloves from his pocket, handed one set to Porter, and put on the other.
A number of CSI techs were already hard at work inside. Paul Watson spotted them and came over from the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the far wall. “If there was a struggle, there’s no sign. This is the cleanest apartment I’ve ever seen. The fridge is fully stocked. I found a receipt in the trash from two days ago. We’re pulling the phone records, but I don’t think we’ll find anything there, either. I was able to scroll back through the last ten incoming numbers, and they all belonged to her father.”
“She has a landline? Really?”
Watson shrugged. “Maybe it came with the apartment.”
“Daddy probably put it in. Can’t claim no signal or missed calls with a landline,” Nash pointed out.
Porter asked, “What about outgoing?”
“Three numbers. We’re running them now,” said Watson.
Porter began walking around the apartment, his shoes squeaking on the hardwood floors.
The kitchen had cherry cabinets and dark granite countertops. All stainless steel appliances — Viking stove and Sub-Zero refrigerator. The living room held a large sectional beige leather couch. It appeared so comfortable, Porter got tired just glancing at the plush cushions. The television was at least eighty inches. “That’s a 4K display,” Watson told him.
“4K?”
“Four times more pixels than your standard 1080p HD television.”
Porter only nodded. He still had a nineteen-inch tube television at home. He refused to replace the ancient unit with a flat panel while it was working, and the damn thing wouldn’t die.
There was a den with a large oak desk. A tech was copying the files from a twenty-seven-inch iMac.
“Anything useful?” he asked.
The tech shook his head. “Nothing stands out. We’ll analyze her files and social network activity back at the station.”
Porter continued on into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made. No posters were on the walls, only a few paintings. “This doesn’t feel right.”
Nash pulled a few of the drawers; each was lined with perfectly folded clothes. “Yeah. Seems more like a model home, almost staged. If a fifteen-year-old girl lives here, she’s the neatest teenager I’ve ever come across,” Nash said.
There was a single framed picture on her nightstand of a woman in her mid- to late twenties. Flowing brown hair, the greenest eyes Porter had ever seen. “Her mother?” he asked nobody in particular.
“I believe so,” Watson replied.
“Talbot said she died of cancer when Emory was only three,” Porter said, studying the photograph. “A brain tumor, of all things.”
“I can research that if you’d like,” Watson proposed eagerly.
Porter nodded and replaced the picture. “That would be helpful.”
“You could bounce a quarter on this bed,” said Nash. “I don’t think a kid made it.”
“I’m still not convinced a kid lives here.”
The master bathroom was amazing — all granite and porcelain tile. Two sinks. You could throw a party in the shower. Porter counted no fewer than six showerheads with additional jets built into the walls.
He walked over to the sink and touched the tip of her toothbrush. “Still damp,” he said.
“I’ll get someone to bag that,” Watson told him. “In case we need the DNA. Hand me that hairbrush too.”
There was a sitting room attached to the master. The walls were lined with shelves teeming with books, a few hundred or more. Porter spotted everything from Charles Dickens to J. K. Rowling. A Thad McAlister novel was lying open on a large, fluffy recliner at the center of the room. “Maybe she does live here after all,” Porter said, picking up the book. “This came out a few weeks ago.”
“And you know this how?” Nash asked.
“Heather picked it up. She’s a big fan of this guy.”
“Ah.”
“Look at this,” Watson said. He was holding up an English literature textbook. “I remember spotting a calculus book on the desk in the den. This particular brand, Worthington Studies, is popular with homeschoolers. Did Mr. Talbot say where she went to school?”
Porter and Nash glanced at each other. “We didn’t ask.”
Watson was flipping through the pages. “If she was enrolled somewhere, we can track down some of her friends.” His face grew red. “I’m sorry, sir. I mean, you can track down some of her friends. If you think that might be useful.”
Talbot had given Porter a business card with his cell phone number. He tapped his pocket, confirming it was still there. “I’ll check with her father when we’re done here.”
They left the master and continued down the hall. “How many bedrooms in this place?”
“Three,” Watson replied. “Take a look at this one.” He gestured to a room on their right.
Porter stepped inside. A basket of laundry sat atop a queen-size bed. A large Catholic cross hung over the headboard. The dresser was covered in framed photographs, two rows deep.
Nash picked one up. “Is that her? Emory?”
“Must be.”
They ranged in age from a toddler to a picture of a stunning young girl in a dark-blue dress next to a boy of about sixteen with long, wavy dark hair. A small caption in the corner read WHATNEY VALE HIGH HOMECOMING, 2014.
“Is she enrolled there?” Porter asked.
“I’ll find out.” Watson pointed at the young man standing next to her. “Think that’s her boyfriend?”
“Might be.”
“Can I see that?” Watson asked.
Porter handed him the frame.
Watson flipped it over and slid the tiny tabs aside, then removed the backing board. He carefully extracted the photo. “Em and Ty.” He showed them the back. The names were in small print on the bottom right.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Porter said.
“No, Whatney Vale is a high school.”
Nash chuckled. “I love this guy. Can we keep him?”
“The captain will kill me if I bring home another stray,” Porter said.
“I’m serious, Sam. We’re going to need the manpower. We’ve got two, possibly three days on the outside to find this girl. He’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Nash said. “If you don’t fill the task force bench, the captain will. Better you do it, or we’ll get stuck with someone like Murray.” He nodded toward a detective standing in the hallway, who was staring at the tip of his ballpoint pen. “I’m thinking we bring the kid in as a CSI liaison.”
Porter thought about this for a moment, then turned back to Watson. “Any interest in working this case?”
“I’m a private contractor with CSI. Can I work as law enforcement?”
“As long as you don’t shoot anyone,” Nash said.
“I don’t carry a weapon,” he replied. “I never felt the need to take the exam. I’m more of a bookworm.”
“Chicago Metro has an agreement with the crime lab. Officially, you’d be a consult on loan,” Porter explained. “Think you can clear it with your supervisor?”
Watson set the photo down on the dresser and pulled out his cell phone. “Give me a minute — I’ll call him.” He walked to the far corner of the room and punched in the number.
“Sharp kid,” Nash said.
“It will be good to have some fresh eyes on this,” Porter agreed. “God knows you’re not much help.”
“Fuck you too, buddy.” Nash stuffed the photo into an evidence bag. “I’ll take this back to the war room.”
Porter ran his hand through his hair and glanced around the room. “You know what I haven’t seen yet?”
“What?”
“A single photo of the father,” he replied. “There’s not a damn thing in this place to indicate they’re related. I bet if we check the records, we won’t find anything to link him back here. The apartment is probably owned by a company that’s owned by a company that’s owned by a shell out of an island so remote, Gilligan’s bones are probably buried on the beach.”
Nash shrugged. “That surprise you? He’s got a family, a life. He’s the kind of guy who has political office on the brain. Illegitimate children don’t bode well in a campaign unless they belong to your opponent — same with mistresses. Let’s face it: even though he said he cared for this woman, that’s all she was to him, or he would have left the wife and married her rather than hide her in this tower, away from prying eyes. Kid or no kid.”