131: Espinosa counted silently with his fingers, holding up five—
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Brogan rammed the door and burst through, the heavy wood splintering and cracking down the center.
“Go!”
“Go!”
Nash watched the SWAT team disappear into room 405 of the Guyon Hotel one at a time until he was alone in the dilapidated hallway. They found a body down in the lobby. A woman in a prison jumpsuit and restraints, an execution wound in her head.
Klozowski had traced the signal to here. Something about triangulating Wi-Fi transmitters in the neighborhood. Espinosa then used a handheld gizmo of some sort to seek out the only electrical signal in the building, somewhere behind the door to room 405.
“Hands in the air!”
“Don’t move!”
“He’s got a gun!”
Nash wasn’t sure which voice belonged to whom, the shouts overlapping between his earpiece and the open doorway.
Another crash. Second door?
“Nash! Get in here. Now!”
Nash crossed the hallway to the door, the Kevlar vest cutting into his waist, making it difficult to breathe.
He stepped through the doorway, into room 405, lit by a dozen or so candles and the concentrated beams of the flashlights mounted on the half dozen assault rifles all pointing to the same spot.
A man.
His back to the door. His hands raised above his head. A laptop glowed on an antique desk before him. A dozen or so black and white composition notebooks sat stacked beside the computer, a .38 sitting off to the side.
“Sam?”
Porter began to turn in the chair.
“Don’t—” Tibideaux said.
“Stand down!” Nash shouted. “Sam? What are you doing here?”
Porter looked down at the edge of the desk, closed his eyes.
Espinosa and Thomas both had their rifles pointed at the walls, the beams of their flashlights crawling over the faded floral wallpaper and the dozens of pictures hung about the room, all framed.
Nash followed the light and stepped closer, studied one of the frames.
It was a photograph of Sam, a much younger Sam, forties maybe. He was smiling at the camera. A boy stood at his side, also smiling. A boy of about fourteen or fifteen.
Espinosa frowned. “Is that?”
“I think it’s Anson Bishop,” Nash said, his voice low. He glanced at two others. “All of them.”
Nash crossed the room, went to Porter. “Sam? What is this?”
Porter opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
On the screen of the laptop, glowing bright enough to light Porter’s face—
Hello Sam,
I imagine you’re confused.
I imagine you have questions.