This was his floor.
He dropped the radio into his pocket, switched off the flashlight, and tightened his grip on the baseball bat before pushing through the heavy metal door. He entered the space swift and low, ignoring the throb in his leg.
A hallway lit by candles.
Small white candles about an inch wide and two inches tall lined the left wall. They followed the corridor nearly thirty feet before disappearing around a corner.
Porter pulled the cell phone from his pocket and hit the Home button; still no signal. He put the phone away and rolled the bat between his hands.
Guns N’ Roses began to howl through the air midsong—
Welcome to the jungle
We take it day by day
Porter nearly dropped the bat while attempting to cover his ears. He pressed both palms against the sides of his head, holding the bat with his fingertips. He had never heard music so loud. It was like standing in the first row of a concert. He didn’t see any speakers, but the music was clearly coming from up ahead, up ahead and around the corner.
He started down the corridor.
It didn’t seem possible, but the music grew louder. Porter swore the flames were dancing to the bass.
When he reached the end of the corridor, when he was ready to turn the corner, he had no choice but to lower his palms from his ears and grip the bat with both hands. He did just that, rushing around the corner with the tiny barrel of the weapon leading the way and his bleeding leg lagging behind. He found himself in a lobby of sorts, one littered with the remains of whatever business once occupied the space.
An old desk stood at the center of the room surrounded by candles on the floor. On the desk stood a battered boom box the likes of which Porter hadn’t seen in twenty years. The black plastic housing was covered in dust and paint, one of the two cassette doors was missing, and the glass meant to protect the tuner made the station numbers nearly unreadable beneath a spiderweb of cracks. LED lights flickered and danced across the display in time with the music, a sea of red, green, yellow, and blue. A wire protruded from the top, snaked over the desk, and terminated in four large loudspeakers stacked beside one of three open elevator shafts. A sign taped to the front of the boom box read: CHANGE THE CHANNEL FROM 97.9 AND I’LL TOSS YOU FROM THE ROOF. SIGNED, YOUR FRIENDS AT LOCAL 49. Below that, someone had scribbled: CLASSIC ROCK 4-EVR.
All of the hardware was plugged in to a red Briggs & Stratton generator, which huffed at Porter’s right. He reached down and flicked the kill switch. The generator sputtered and went dead, cutting off the music.
“You don’t like GNR?” Bishop’s voice cracked from the tiny radio in his pocket.
Porter yanked out the radio and jammed down the Talk button. “Where the fuck are you?”
“I forgot to tell you who Mrs. Carter became in her new life.”
“What?”
“Lisa Carter died the same day as my father, but she was born anew, a brand-new identity to go with her new life. Want to know her new name? I think you may recognize it.”
Porter heard Bishop’s voice crackling not only from the radio but from somewhere else too, his real voice, somewhere close, like an echo. He couldn’t pinpoint the source, though. His ears were still ringing.
There were four open doorways surrounding the elevators, two on either side. The candles surrounding the desk made it impossible to see into the gloom beyond. He could feel Bishop’s eyes on him.
“Don’t you want to know who Mrs. Carter became after that day at our house?”
Porter started toward the first open doorway, the bat held high, ready to swing.
“Don’t.”
Porter froze.
The shadow across the room moved as Anson Bishop emerged from the gloom, pushing Arthur Talbot on a rolling office chair. The man was duct-taped to the frame, his hands, feet, and torso bound. A crude bandage covered his eyes, and blood dripped from his mouth.
Anson Bishop stood behind him with a knife pressed to Talbot’s throat. “Hi, Sam.”
Porter approached with caution, his eyes scanning the otherwise empty space. “Where is she?”
“Do you have a gun, Sam? If you do, I’ll need you to leave it over there in the hallway.”
“Just this.” He held up the bat.
“You can hold on to that if it makes you feel better. Stop there, though. No need to come any closer.”
Talbot let out a watery moan from the chair, his head lolling to one side.
Porter heard sirens in the distance. “Let me get him to a hospital. He doesn’t have to die.”
“We’re all dying, Sam. Some are just better at it than others. Isn’t that right, Arty?” He pressed the knife against Talbot’s throat, and a thin trickle of blood appeared. Talbot didn’t react; he must have been in shock. Bishop glanced back up and frowned. “You should get that leg checked out. All those stairs might not have been a good idea.”
Porter looked down and realized his entire pant leg was soaked in blood; the stitches must have opened up completely now. He pressed his hand against the wound, and blood seeped through his fingers. He was growing lightheaded. The bat slipped from his left hand and fell to the floor. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a good detective, Sam. You should know that. I knew you’d puzzle it out. And putting others before yourself? That is admirable. It’s not something you see much of these days, not anymore.”
Porter drew in a deep breath and forced himself to stand up straight, ignoring the white flecks dancing around his vision. The sirens were getting close. “They’ll be here soon. You still have time to do the right thing. Tell me where Emory is, and let Talbot go. Just walk away. I can’t chase you, not like this.”
Bishop eased the wheeled chair toward the first open elevator shaft, a grin at his lips. “Let him go?”
“No! Don’t!” Porter started toward him.
Bishop held up the hand with the knife and pointed it at him. “Stop! No closer.”
Porter fell still.
Talbot’s blood dripped from the tip of the blade and landed on his arm. The chair was no more than five feet from an eleven-story drop plus the subbasements. Porter tried to do the math, but his thoughts were fuzzy. One hundred feet? One twenty? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter. It was far enough.
“Emory I understand, but why do you want to protect this scumbag? You’ll see the files soon enough, Sam. I’m sure Clair and the boys have found them by now. This man has had his hand in every dirty deal passing through this city for thirty years. All the murder and corruption you live to prevent, he lives to create. How many people died because of him? How many more will die so he can line his pockets?”