Think, think! Calm down . . . use your head, use your senses.

She tried to move her arms. They were bound at the wrists, palms up. She could feel the hard wood of the chair. She strained to hear something or someone.

Nothing. Just water lapping and a soft groaning sound. Pilings? The air was still and smelled of mildew and fish. An old building of some kind near the docks? Was she still near the wharf? Something kicked on . . . like a motor, faint.

She tried to make herself calmer, tried to quiet the pounding of the blood in her ears so she could hear better. Nothing. No cars, no voices. Just the droning motor sound. It stopped and it was quiet again, except for the lapping water.

The floor creaked. She jumped.

Footsteps on wood. Coming closer.

Then it stopped. But she could hear someone moving.

Who was it? Gunther Mayo?

“Motherfucker . . .”

The voice made her jump. A man, it was a man.

“Damn it. Damn it.”

More footsteps. Pacing.

Louder this time. She tried to draw on what she knew, tried to remember what the books said. But nothing was coming. Just the feeling of panic gathering slowly in her gut. She gulped in several breaths of the fetid air to push the panic back down. The cloth billowed against her face. She uttered a small cry and suddenly the agitated pacing stopped. It was quiet. Water lapping. She held her breath.

“Where was he?” he asked.

The voice had changed. Calmer now, almost benign.

“Where was he?” Louder.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“You can talk to me, lady,” he said. “It’s just you and me. You can talk now.”

“Take this off and I’ll talk to you,” she whispered.

Footsteps moving away. “I can’t do that,” he said.

It was quiet for a minute; then she heard a scraping sound, like he was dragging something. It stopped. The floor creaked.

“Listen to me,” he said.

She froze.

“Are you listening to me?”

She nodded quickly.

“I want you to tell them. You tell them that I had to do this. Everything is ruined now and this is the only way.”

What?

“I had to change my plan. You understand that, right?”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“He left me no choice,” he said.

It was very quiet. She strained her ears and she could hear him breathing. But she thought she heard someone else, too. A different rhythm to the breaths, slower, labored, congested.

Then—another sound. A thudding noise. What was it? It went on, turning wet, like the slapping of a soggy sponge against something. And groans, soft, agonizing.

She felt a sprinkle of water. No. Not water.

Blood. Dear God. He was hitting someone.

“Motherfucking piece of shit! Don’t talk to me! Don’t look at me!”

She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

Flesh against flesh. Bone cracking.

The groaning had stopped. Just grunts now, sharp grunts and panting.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she drew blood from her own lip.

She heard a hissing sound and smelled paint. The fumes filled the room.

“Get it right this time,” he said. “You fucking idiots. Get it right.”

Then it stopped.

She could hear his breath slowing. He let out a soft groan. Something fell against wood. She was shaking, her heart hammering, the wet cloth stuck to her face.

It was silent. She wasn’t sure how long.

“Fuck . . .” he whispered. “No . . . no.”

Tears? Regret?

She heard footsteps and he came closer. “He made me do it!” he yelled. “Do you understand? He made me!”

Her brain was racing, trying to think of some way to calm him. What? What could work? Talk? Did he want to talk?

“Who?” she asked. “Who made you?”

He screamed at her. “Him!”

She drew back in the chair. Retreating footsteps. She heard the dragging sound again, a door opening, and felt a waft of fresh air. She pulled at her wrists, but they were bound tight.

Minutes passed. Or was it seconds? She couldn’t tell anymore. But then, she heard the door close and the fresh air was gone. He was back.

He was pacing, muttering. She heard his footsteps come nearer.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m . . . I’m . . .” She could hear her voice. It sounded faint, childlike. “I’m an FBI agent.”

“Why were you there?”

There? Where . . . the pub?

“I was there to take a missing person’s report from someone,” she said.

“I didn’t—” He stopped. “Who’s missing?”

Why was he asking this? He knew it was Tyrone Heller. He had just killed him.

“Who?” he demanded.

“A man named Tyrone Heller.”

“Ty Heller.” The voice grew louder, impatient. “Ty Heller! Who said he was missing? Cap?”

Cap? Captain Lynch? He knew about Lynch? Had he followed her there? She swallowed dryly. “Yes . . . yes, Lynch. He was worried about Heller. He thought he may be in danger.”

“What did he say about him?”

“Him?”

“Ty Heller. What did he say about him?”

She was quiet, her shallow breathing pulling the cloth against her skin. She didn’t know how to answer this.

“Did he say he was smart? A good worker? What did he say?”

Emily searched her memory for the right words. “He said he was a fine young man.”

“Did he say a black man?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . he did.”

It was quiet for several minutes. She could hear a boat horn, faintly. The quiet seemed to go on forever, but she knew it had to be only a minute or two.

“I have to finish it.”

His voice had gone flat.

The panic began to rise up inside her. She struggled against the ropes at her wrists, her breath coming faster now. She started to cry and screwed her eyes shut, concentrating on staying still and quiet so he wouldn’t hear her. Her nose was running, the cloth over her face becoming wetter with each breath she took.

The footsteps came closer.

She let go. The sobs poured out. “Why? Why?” she pleaded. “I’m not like the others! I’m not black!”

“Do you think about it?”

“What?”

“What it’s like to be black?” he shouted.

“No,” she sobbed.

Quick, heavy footsteps. The air stirred and she instinctively pulled back. “Have you ever fucked a black man?” he demanded.

Dear God . . .

“No . . .”

“You know what happens when you do?”

“No . . . no. Please . . .”

“You get freaks. Disgusting little monkeys that should’ve been scraped out of their mothers’ wombs with a spoon.”

For a second, she heard nothing but the pounding of her pulse in her head.

Then, suddenly he was there and she jerked back. The air around her stirred with his breathing and she could smell him. Sweat and dead fish.

She screamed as she felt the blade on her skin.

Chapter Thirty-seven

He stared at their faces.

They stared back, silent images tacked on a bulletin board. Walter Tatum. Anthony Quick. Harold Childers. Roscoe Webb.

Louis walked slowly to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out the stack of photos Captain Lynch had given him. He rifled through them until he found a photo of Tyrone Heller. It was blurry, and he was standing behind Woody, but it was all he had.

He walked back to the board and tacked it next to Roscoe Webb’s photo. Now there were eight. Emily Farentino didn’t fit but she was still number nine.

Louis felt himself tighten but he refused to turn away from the board. His eyes moved over the maps, the color-coded cards, the pushpins and faces, his mind straining to find that one piece, that single strand, that might give them a break.

The door opened and Louis turned. Wainwright came in, his face drawn, his eyes vacant. No one had gotten much sleep in the last two days, but Wainwright looked like he had aged ten years overnight.

“I thought you were out there with the rest of them,” Wainwright said. He went to the coffee urn and poured a cup.