97: Sarah’s phone dinged.
At first Porter wasn’t sure what the sound was or where it came from, but then he spotted Sarah’s phone lying on her lap.
She stirred gently, nestled against his shoulder, and went back to sleep.
The phone dinged again.
The overhead lights came to life, and a voice blared out from the intercom. “Attention, passengers, please place your seat backs and tray tables in the upright position as we begin descent into New Orleans. The local time is seven thirteen a.m., and the temperature is fifty-nine degrees. We truly enjoyed flying with you and hope you enjoy your stay in the Big Easy.”
Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. She squinted against the harsh light. “Good morning, sunshine,” she muttered, smacking her lips.
Her phone dinged again.
“I thought those had to be in airplane mode or this whole bundle of metal would come crashing down.”
“Lucky you got that seat belt to protect you.” She picked up the phone and glanced down at the display. “When you get close to the ground, they start picking up the towers again.” She frowned. “I’m getting text messages. They’re not for me, though. They’re for you.”
“What?”
“Look.” She handed him the phone.
You shouldn’t have destroyed the phone, Sam.
That wasn’t nice.
Not at all.
“How did Bishop get your number?”
Sarah shrugged, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the sign outside my office, a phone book, the Internet, one of my cards. Maybe his mother gave it to him. I’m a lawyer, Sam. My number is everywhere.”
Porter typed: Bishop?
Nothing for a moment, then: Did you enjoy your trip down Memory Lane?
Porter typed: I found your cat.
Bishop responded: Don’t you mean, “we” found your cat?
Porter looked over at Sarah. Her eyes were locked on the phone.
BISHOP: It’s okay, Sam. I know you’re not alone. I’m happy for you. Sarah seems like a lovely woman. Heather would like her. I’m sure they would be fast friends.
PORTER: I have Libby’s locket.
No response.
PORTER: It’s her locket, right? Under the floorboards in the Carters’ trailer? Who was she to you? You know she’s dead, right?
No response.
PORTER: Bishop?
BISHOP: I miss my mother, Sam. I desperately need to speak to her about Libby.
PORTER: Turn yourself in. I’ll arrange for adjoining cells.
BISHOP: No need. You’re going to bring her to me.
“The fuck I am,” Porter said.
PORTER: She’s not going anywhere.
BISHOP: I’m sending you a picture now, Sam. You’re not going to like it. We’ll need to talk about it after you look.
The phone dinged, a tiny image loaded on the small screen—two girls, unconscious on a concrete floor.
BISHOP: Are you there, Sam?
Sarah pinched the image, expanding it, bringing in more detail.
One of the girls was wrapped in a green quilt, her face a deathly pale, blood on her lips. The other girl looked like she had been plucked from a river, her clothing and hair wet and matted down.
Porter didn’t recognize either of them.
PORTER: Who are they?
BISHOP: Guests of a friend. They’re not doing well, though. I’m afraid if I leave them in his care much longer, they may end up suffering the same fate as Ella Reynolds and Lili Davies. You wouldn’t want that? More blood on your hands? We’re going to trade, you and I. My mother for the girls. A simple tit for tat like old times. You still owe me . . . for the last one.
PORTER: I won’t do it.
BISHOP: There are always more girls, Sam.
BISHOP: Alert your friends in blue and they’re both dead. I still have plenty of boxes . . .
BISHOP: Leave all your cash in the prison locker at check-in.
PORTER: No.
BISHOP: There’s one more thing, Sam. You’re not going to like this, not in the slightest, but on the off chance you are willing to let the girls die, I got my hands on something truly spectacular, something that goes boom. I don’t want it to go boom, but I’ll let it, if you don’t bring me Mother. Nobody has enough boxes for that.
BISHOP: BOTH you and Ms. Werner must go. They won’t release her to you alone. After all, an inmate is entitled to proper representation. Wouldn’t you agree?
BISHOP: You have until 8 p.m. Any later and
“Any later and what?” Porter said.
“No signal. We must have lost the tower.”
They both jerked in their seats as the wheels came down on the runway, the plane quickly decelerating, the airport outbuildings rushing past their small window.
Sarah’s eyes were fixed on the phone. “Try now, signal is back.”
PORTER: Bishop?
MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED!
Porter pressed the small red link that read TRY AGAIN.
MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED!
Again.
MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED!
“What the hell does that mean?” Porter frowned.
“Maybe he pulled the battery,” Sarah replied. “Or chucked the phone in a lake.” She turned back to Porter. “So much for disrupting him. We didn’t slow him down.”
Porter scrolled through the texts. When he got back to the picture of the girls, his stomach sank.