It’s the master bedroom. One window with drawn blackout curtains and a large king-size bed against a wall. A soccer ball’s in the middle of the floor, surrounded by dirty laundry and a black garbage bag stuffed with more dirty laundry. A portrait representing Christ, eyes toward heaven, hangs on the wall over the bed. Graffiti, as if they’ve been practicing their craft, on the other walls. There’s a small walk-in closet and another closed door with a latch and a padlock on the outside. I like padlocked doors.
I pull the curtain open enough to peek out. The old oak directly ahead. My Volvo across the street half a block down. Same cars that were parked there earlier. An old black man walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
The padlocked door has to be a bathroom. It’s an obvious first choice to search.
I position myself to the side of the door and put my ear against it, give it a bit of a push, then turn the knob. I hear what sounds like a chain or a leash scooting on the floor. Sounds like I might have gotten the dog ownership thing all wrong. The last thing I want is an underfed pit bull jumping out at me after I open the door. All the time I’ve been sitting on this place I’ve never seen them with one. Sometimes they’ll keep them locked up and secured inside where they keep the stash. The dogs get meaner being confined like that. If it is a dog, it might think I’m its master and won’t attack until after I break off the latch and it suddenly realizes I’m not. Dogs don’t scare me, but that doesn’t mean I want to deal with one right now. I put my ear against the door again, push at it. Nothing this time, not even a low growl. But there’s definitely something in there. If it’s a dog, I’m hoping it’ll be crated.
I set my backpack on the floor, grip my weapon with my right hand, and pull out the crowbar from the backpack. It’s a tool that’s not only good for busting out a padlock on a latched door, but for teaching a bad dog a valuable lesson. Last thing I want to do is shoot the damn thing. Putting one through the head’s not only messy, but will attract attention. I holster my weapon, then wedge the crowbar in the latch where it meets the screws, and give it a yank. The screws tear out, splintering the wood. The latch and locked padlock fall to the floor.
I grip the crowbar tight like I mean business, then stand quiet and listen. Nothing. A dog would have reacted. Maybe. You never know with some of those gunpowder-fed psycho breeds, so I open the bathroom door slowly, while stepping back to a more defensive position.
“Damn,” I say, but it sounds more like a sudden release of breath.
A young girl, mouth duct-taped, in nothing but her underwear, sits cowering on the tile floor, snug against the wall below the sink and next to the corner of the bathtub. Her hands handcuffed in front, secured to a chain that’s fastened to a large eyebolt, which is screwed into the floor. Her shoulder-length blond hair in a ponytail. Bruises on her legs. Her face mostly hidden, tucked down to cradle herself, as if she’s afraid of what I might do to her.
Three
For an instant I want to turn around and hightail it the hell outta here. I want to pretend like I never saw this shit. I’ll just find a new spot to hit—quickly. This nature of mine is all about fight or flight, and right now it’s all flight. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Fuck. Despite the desperation and need that overwhelms me after I’m coming down from a long binge, I have a stronger old self that knows better.
I can’t run.
She’s still huddled there, whimpering, ninety pounds of serious living shit.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, girl,” I try, in my most comforting tone.
I grab my key ring out of my pants pocket.
“I’m gonna take those off you, okay?”
I lean down on one knee, reach for her hands. She resists at first, still unsure. The handcuff key I carry on my key ring works for the ones that bind her. She tries to scoot away, like a feral child in chains, but the wall stops her.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I say again. “See, look.”
I slowly pull my wallet out of my back pants pocket and unfold it to show her the police badge. My thumb hides the portion of the badge that reads “Retired.” “See, it says ‘Detective.’”
I reach for her cuffed hands again, and this time she doesn’t resist. They’re sturdy handcuffs, like the ones I have, not something you can buy just anywhere. Cops, or maybe security guards, carry cuffs like this. I slip them in my left front pants pocket.
After I release her, I realize I should’ve peeled the duct tape off first. I notice a few track marks on her right inner arm, but not like someone who’s been using for a long time—just a few new bruises. Her small breasts are also bruised. She can’t be more than fifteen. She covers her breasts with her arms. I almost want to say I’m not looking at her like that, but I take off my jacket instead to offer to her. I can see she notices the holstered gun I carry on the right side of my waist.