126: “Pop the trunk,” Porter said.
They had parked just outside the fence at the rear corner of the hotel.
Porter was first out of the car. He rounded the back and grabbed his coat as well as Sarah’s. After the warmth of New Orleans, it felt like he was stepping out into a bucket of ice. He handed Sarah’s coat to her as she exited the car, then opened the back door and helped their passenger to her feet. He draped his coat over her shoulders.
“Aren’t you the gentleman,” she said.
Porter didn’t care whether or not she was cold. He wanted to further restrict the use of her hands. Although still handcuffed, he didn’t trust her in the slightest. “How are we getting in?”
“Oh, I think you already know.” She ducked through a break in the chainlink fence and started across the parking lot toward the back of the building with Sarah chasing after her.
Porter understood then. He ran back around to the passenger side and opened the glove box. He tore open the plastic bag with the chain containing the locket and key.
His eyes fell on the second bag with the knife.
He tore that bag open too, dropping both into his pocket before closing the door, and ran after the two women.
Without plows to attend to the grounds, the snow surrounding the Guyon Hotel had climbed to staggering heights. The wind drove it against the building and swept drifts up to nearly the second floor along the back and sides. The white powder swirled loosely at the surface, a fine mist over a lake of white.
Porter quickly realized there were three sets of tracks in the snow ahead of him. From Sarah, Bishop’s mother, and another. Bishop was already here, most likely alone. His tracks had already begun to fill back in. A few hours, and they would be gone altogether.
He caught up with the women at a heavy metal door in a small brick alcove beside a loading dock.
Sarah stood off to the side, glaring at the other woman.
Bishop’s mother was humming “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” behind a Cheshire cat grin.
She nodded at the deadbolt. “Chop chop, Detective.”
Porter frowned at her, then shoved a hand into his pocket and retrieved the chain with Libby’s locket and key.
His hand was shaking when he fumbled it into the lock. He wanted to blame that on the cold.
The key turned smoothly. Someone had recently oiled the lock. The deadbolt slid back with a clunk. Porter tugged the door open and gestured the women inside, pulling it shut behind him, the icy wind arguing with a howl.
Sarah pulled out her cell phone and activated the flashlight.
They were standing in a kitchen. Or, more appropriately, what used to be a kitchen.
Most of the appliances had been stripped away long ago along with many of the industrial stainless steel tables. All that remained was the unwanted clutter. The ceiling had given way in various places, adding chunks of plaster and rotten boards to the mix.
“What a hellhole,” Sarah said, sweeping the light across the room.
Porter stepped deeper into the room, avoiding the mess on the floor. “Where’s Bishop?”
“This way.” Jane Doe shuffled forward, her ankles still in restraints.
Porter and Sarah followed her past a series of rusted-out stoves and some old wooden crates stacked floor to ceiling on the left.
A set of swinging double doors with round windows at eye level had once separated the kitchen from the lobby, but now one door was lying flat on the floor and the other held to the wall at a precarious angle from the remaining hinge. Candles flickered from the other side of the opening.
They stepped through into the lobby, coming out behind a counter overlooking the once grand space. A popcorn machine, now old and filled with spiderwebs, stood in the far corner.
“A medium-size buttered popcorn contains more fat than a breakfast of bacon and eggs, a Big Mac and fries, and a steak dinner combined,” Bishop said from somewhere in the room. “Maybe that’s why we never ate popcorn at the Bishop house, right, Mother?”
Porter peered out into the dark, at the shadows dancing against the walls and ceiling to some unheard song.
“Over here, Sam. You’ll need to give your eyes a little time to adjust.”
A bell dinged, and Porter swung around toward the front door, which was all boarded up. Bishop stood beside the large door, next to the bellhops’ station. There was a gun in his hand, but the barrel pointed toward the floor. It looked like a .38. His hair was longer than the last time Porter had seen him, the scruff of a beard covering his face. Porter had expected a disguise of some sort, possibly dyed hair, but no—this was the Bishop he knew, the man who haunted him.
Porter took a few steps forward, putting himself between Bishop and Sarah. “You never struck me as the gun type.”
“This?” Bishop raised it and smiled, waved the gun about. “Desperate times.”
Bishop peered past Porter. “Hello, Mother. How have you been?”
Before she could answer, Porter took another step forward. “Where’s the bomb, Bishop? You said if I got her here, if I brought her to you, you’d tell me where you planted it. You said you’d release the girls too.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” He scratched at the side of his head with the stubby barrel of the .38. “I do believe I gave you a timetable too, didn’t I? You’re late, Sam, woefully late. It’s never polite to keep someone waiting, but under the current circumstances, tardiness can be downright deadly. I always pegged you as Mr. Punctual.”
Porter felt the weight of the knife in his pocket pressing against his leg.
“We got here as fast as we could,” Sarah said from behind him.
Bishop dropped the gun and paced in a circle around the bellhop station. “I suppose you did. That was quite a drive, wasn’t it? A bit presumptuous of me to make this so difficult for you, for all of you.” He leaned back, the old wood frame groaning under his weight. “You can relax, nobody has died, not yet. There’s always time for that. Unfortunately, your lateness does cut into the time we get to spend together. I had hoped we would have a chance to talk, to discuss everything you’ve seen in the past few days, but now, now I’m afraid we simply can’t. Not to the extent such a conversation deserves, anyway. That bomb is still tick, tick, ticking away. Our Boy Scout here would like to see to that. I think we all have pressing matters to attend to.”
Bishop took a few steps forward, the .38 at his side. “You could have removed her shackles, Sam. They’re a little barbaric, don’t you think?”
His mother shuffled forward, closer to him. “It’s good to see you, Anson. So good.”
Bishop smiled. “You remember this place, don’t you? So many fond memories for you, I’m sure.” He turned and looked up at the ornate ceiling, his eyes drifting over the crumbling millwork and intricate patterns above. “There are ghosts in these walls, Sam. Can you hear them screaming? I can, like it was yesterday—Libby loudest of all.”
Porter reached over and grabbed the woman at his side by her hair. He pulled her close, the sound of her chains jangling beneath his coat. With his free hand, he snatched the knife from his pocket, flicked open the blade, and pressed the sharp steel against her pale, exposed throat. “This is the last time I am going to ask, you crazy shit. Where is the bomb? Where are the girls?”
Bishop smiled and raised the gun. “Thanks for bringing my knife, Sam. Maybe we can swap for the gun when we’re done here? I like that knife.”
He started across the room, the barrel growing larger with each step.
The woman pushed back against Sam. “We’re even now, Anson. I can’t run anymore. I did everything you asked of me. Everything.”
“Yeah? Almost,” Bishop said.
The .38 went off with an explosion loud enough to rattle what remained of the windows.
Sarah screamed.
Jane Doe’s head jerked into Sam’s chest.
“Now, maybe,” Bishop said. “Yeah, now I think we’re even.”