Emory tugged on the gurney until the frame moved, rolling an inch or so on squeaky wheels. She squeezed the rail. Just holding the metal frame, holding on to something, made her feel a little safer. It was silly, she knew that, but —
It’s a crutch. Isn’t that the word?
“Fuck you,” she muttered.
With her left hand on the wall and her right dragging the gurney, she inched along, her feet shuffling. She counted as she went, attempting to map out the space in her mind’s eye. She took twelve steps before finding the first corner. Emory estimated the first wall to be about ten feet long.
She continued along the second wall. More cinder block. She ran her fingers up and down the wall in search of a light switch, a door, anything, but she found none; only more block.
Emory stopped for a second, her head turning up. She couldn’t help but wonder — how high could this room be? Was there a ceiling?
Of course there’s a ceiling, dear. Serial killers are smart; you’re not the first girl to attend his rodeo. He’s taken how many girls? Five? Six? He’s probably got the routine down to a science at this point. I’m sure this room is sealed up tight. You should keep exploring, though. I like this. Much better than sitting around waiting for him to come back. That’s a fool’s game. This has purpose. This shows initiative.
She continued around the room. The gurney fought again as she turned the corner, and she pulled the frame toward her with an angry yank.
Hey. I just thought of something. What if he’s watching you? What if he’s got cameras?
“It’s too dark.”
Infrared cameras can see in the dark plain as day. He’s probably got his feet up on a desk somewhere, watching Emory TV, a big, fat grin on his face. Naked girl in box. Naked girl trying to get out of box. The last girl took thirty minutes to venture this far around the room. This one is on a tear — she got there in twenty. How exciting. How entertaining.
Emory stopped moving and stared into the blackness. “Are you there? Are you … watching me?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
Perhaps he’s shy?
“Shut up.”
I bet he’s got his pants around his ankles and his pecker out with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Emory TV After Dark is on, and the party is just getting started. This one’s a keeper. Did you see how high she jumped?
“Now I know you’re not my mother; she would never say that,” Emory said.
Well, I think he’s watching. Why else would he take your clothes? Men are perverts, dear. The whole lot of them. The earlier you realize that, the better.
Emory turned in a slow circle and peered into the darkness, her head tilted up. “There’s no camera in here. I’d see the little red light.”
Right. Because all cameras have little red lights. Flashing little red lights you can spot from a mile away. I know if I were a camera manufacturer, I’d never consider building one without the little red flashing light. I’m sure there’s an oversight committee that checks each of them to be sure —
“Will you shut the fuck up?” Emory shouted. Then her face flushed. She was fucking arguing with herself.
All I’m saying is not all cameras have little red lights, that’s all. No need to get huffy.
Emory let out a frustrated breath and reached back for the wall. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the room as a giant square. She had checked two walls without finding the door. That left two more.
She began to inch across the third wall with the gurney in tow, her fingers following the now familiar cinder block pattern, drawing a path through the thick dust. No door.
One wall left.
She pulled at the gurney, more angry now than scared, counting off the steps. When she reached twelve and her fingers found the corner, she stopped. Where was the door? Had she missed it? Four corners, four left turns. She knew she had traveled full circle. She had traveled full circle, right?
Was it possible the room didn’t have a door?
Well, that seems like a horrible design. Who builds a room without a door? I bet you skipped right past the opening.
“I didn’t miss it. There’s no door.”
Then how did you get in?
High above her, a click echoed over the walls. Music screeched down at her so loud, it felt as if someone had jammed knives into her ears. She slammed her hands against the sides of her head, and a lightning bolt of pain shot through her as her left hand impacted the tender flesh where her ear had been. The handcuff cut into her other wrist. She bent forward and cried out in pain. She couldn’t block out the music, though — a song she had heard before. Mick Jagger howling about the devil.
Although only two weeks had passed since the last time Porter stepped into room 1523, deep within the basement of Chicago Metro headquarters on Michigan Avenue, the space seemed dormant, lifeless.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
He flicked on the light switch and listened as the fluorescent bulbs hummed to life, sending a charge through the stale air. He walked over to his desk and shuffled through the various papers and files scattered across the surface. Everything was just as he had left it.
His wife watched him from a silver frame at the far right corner. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her.
Sitting on the edge of the desk, he pulled the phone over and punched in her cell number. Three rings, followed by her familiar voice mail message:
You’ve reached the phone of Heather Porter. Since this is voice mail, I most likely saw your name on caller ID and decided I most certainly did not wish to speak to you. If you’re willing to pay tribute in the form of chocolate cake or other assorted offerings of dietary delight, text me the details and I’ll reconsider your position in my social roster and possibly —
Porter disconnected and thumbed through a folder labeled Four Monkey Killer. Everything they had learned about him fit in this single folder, at least until today.
He had chased the Four Monkey Killer for half a decade. Seven dead girls.
Twenty-one boxes. You can’t forget about the boxes.
He’d never forget the boxes. They haunted him every time he closed his eyes.
The room wasn’t very large, thirty by twenty-five or so. Aside from Porter’s, there were five metal desks older than most of the Metro staff arranged haphazardly around the space. In the far corner stood an old wooden conference table Porter had found in a storage room down the hall. The surface was scratched and nicked; the dull maple finish was covered with tiny rings from the hundreds of glasses, mugs, and cans that had sat upon it over the years. There was a large brown stain on it that Nash swore resembled Jesus (Porter thought it only looked like coffee). They had given up trying to scrub the discoloration