Kisscut

by Karin Slaughter

  “Move,” Jeffrey said, still holding him up by his collar.

  “Somebody help me!” Fine screamed, bending his knees until he was on the floor. Jeffrey still dragged him down the hallway by his shirt collar.

  “Help!” Fine screamed.

  “Help you like you helped Jenny?” Nick asked, walking beside him. “Help you like you’re helping Lacey?”

  “I don’t know where she is!” Fine screamed, putting his hands on the floor to give more resistance.

  Jeffrey saw Marla stick her head around the corner. She looked at Fine, then turned back around.

  “Help me!” Fine cried, his voice hoarse from the effort. “Oh, Lord, please help me.”

  Jeffrey’s hand was cramping. He let go, and Fine dropped to the floor, sobbing. “Oh, Lord, please deliver me from these men,” he prayed.

  Nick bent down in front of him. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he suggested.

  “But you can keep on praying, Dave,” Jeffrey told him. “You can pray the papers don’t print how you died from having your asshole ripped open.”

  Nick put his hand on Fine’s shoulder. “Hate to have your wife and kids read about that, Dave. It’s a bad way to have to go.”

  Fine looked up, tears streaming down his face. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay.”

  “Okay what?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Okay,” he repeated. “I might know where she is.”

  JEFFREY drove while Nick sat in the back seat alongside Fine. Behind them, an unmarked car with four GBI officers drove at a safe distance.

  “You better not be fucking with us, Dave,” Jeffrey said, making a right turn to circle the block for the third time.

  “I told you I’m not sure what the address is,” Fine insisted. “Dottie only took me here once.”

  “What’d she take you here for?” Nick asked.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled, looking out the window.

  Jeffrey looked at him in the rearview mirror. “This better not be just you postponing the inevitable.”

  “I’m not, okay?” Fine snapped. “I told you this was where she did some business.”

  “What kind of business?” Jeffrey asked.

  Fine looked like he wasn’t going to answer, but for some reason he did. Jeffrey liked to think it was guilt that made Fine tell them things, but he had been a cop long enough to know it was plain and simple stupidity.

  Fine said, “This guy, he keeps kids here sometimes.”

  “You sure it’s just him alone there?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Yes,” Fine insisted. “It’s mostly used as a safe house.”

  “Safe for who?” Nick asked.

  “Who do you think?” Fine snapped. “He keeps pictures mostly, but a couple of times I saw some kids and a couple of cameras.”

  “And out of the goodness of your heart you reported him to the police,” Nick suggested.

  Fine stared out the window, probably feeling sorry for himself. They had spent an hour driving to Macon, then another two hours driving around different subdivisions looking for this house that Dave Fine said he would recognize only by sight. Jeffrey looked in the rearview mirror, wondering how much longer they had before somebody called the Macon cops about two suspicious-looking cars in the neighborhood.

  They were on tricky ground here. Technically, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation had jurisdiction over the state, but as a courtesy, they should have notified the Macon Police Department that they were conducting surveillance on their turf. As Jeffrey and Nick weren’t even sure Dave Fine had ever been here, let alone whether or not Lacey Patterson was being held in Macon, there wasn’t much they could tell the Macon Police Department. They couldn’t get a warrant without a street address, but Nick was counting on imminent jeopardy to cut through that red tape. They could always say later that they saw something suspicious in the house. With a child involved, and time being of the essence, neither one of them was worried about getting slapped on the wrist for this.

  “Turn here,” Fine said. “Left up here. This street looks familiar.”

  Jeffrey did as he was told, thinking it was pointless because they’d already been down this road.

  “Then up here on the right,” Fine told him, excitement in his voice.

  Jeffrey took the right, going down a new street. He exchanged a look with Nick.

  “There it is,” Fine told them. “It’s the one on the right with the gate.”

  Jeffrey didn’t slow the car, but he had enough time to see that all the windows had the blinds drawn. The outside security lights were also on even though it was the middle of the day. The gate had a large padlock on it. Whether or not this was to keep people out or keep them in remained to be seen.

  Jeffrey stopped the car at the end of the street and waited for the other car to catch up with them. He could hear cars from the interstate, which was less than thirty feet from where they had parked. Jeffrey guessed the people who lived around here got used to the noise, but right now, every car was like fingernails against a blackboard.

  Agent Wallace got out of the car, leaving two men and one woman inside. He adjusted his belt, even though he was wearing a shoulder harness. He was a beefy young guy who worked out enough to make the material around the short sleeves of his shirt look about ready to break. His cheeks were so close-shaven that Jeffrey could almost make out the razor marks.

  “That the house with the gate?” he asked, taking off his sunglasses.

  “That’s what our guy says,” Jeffrey told him.

  Wallace looked back at the car, meeting Dave Fine’s glare. He spit on the road, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “Motherless piece of shit,” he mumbled.

  Nick had been on the other side of the car, calling the Macon Police Department. “He’s not happy,” Nick said.

  “Didn’t think he would be,” Jeffrey answered, knowing that if someone from the GBI had called Jeffrey to say an operation was going down in Grant that Jeffrey knew nothing about, he’d be pissed, too.

  Nick said, “It’ll take ’em a while to get their heads out of their asses and get over here.”

  “Did you tell them the house?”

  Nick smiled. “Hell, I couldn’t even remember the street.”

  Jeffrey laughed, glad he was here instead of back at the Macon police department.

  Nick opened the back door and grabbed Dave Fine’s hands. Before the preacher could protest, Nick had cuffed him to the strap over the door. “That’ll hold him.”

  Fine said, “You can’t leave me here.”

  “If I were you,” Nick said, “I’d relish this time alone.”

  Fine colored. “You said I’d get my own cell back at the station.”

  “Yeah,” Jeffrey agreed. “That’s the station, though. I’ve got no control over what happens to you in prison.”

  Nick chuckled, knocking on the hood of the car. “Don’t worry, Davey boy. I’m sure you’ll meet yourself some quality folk in prison.”

  “You can’t do that,” Fine insisted.

  Nick smiled. “Don’t worry there, preacher. Near about all of ’em already found God. You can pray with them till your heart’s content.”

  Fine shot Jeffrey a panicked look. “You promised!”

  “I promised about my jail, Dave,” Jeffrey reminded him. “I’ve got no control over what happens in the big jail. That’s up to you and the state.”

  “You said we’d work out a deal.”

  Jeffrey said, “A deal for reduced sentence, but you’re still going to jail.”

  Fine started to say more, but Nick slammed the door in the man’s face.

  “Pussy,” Nick said.

  “He will be to somebody,” Jeffrey agreed, using the remote to lock the car doors.

  “Goddamn,” Nick said, his eyes lighting up as he checked his revolver. “Can’t believe I’m getting to do this twice in one day.”

  “We’ll take junior, here.” Jeffrey indicated Wallace, who looked about read
y to jump out of his skin. Jeffrey probably looked the same way. There was enough adrenaline in his blood to give a lesser man a heart attack.

  Nick bounced on the balls of his feet as he walked toward the other car and told the three agents inside they were in charge of the back.

  “Let’s give ’em a couple, three minutes head start,” Nick said, checking his watch. Time could either stand still or fly during a situation like this.

  Nick looked back at the car, where Dave Fine was pouting. He said, “I wouldn’t leave a dog trapped in that car in this heat.”

  “Me, neither,” Jeffrey said, making no move to roll down the windows.

  They were quiet, staring out at the busy interstate while they waited for Nick’s signal.

  Finally, Nick looked at his watch and said, “Let’s go.”

  Jeffrey tucked his gun into his shoulder holster as they walked. He had worn his ankle holster as well. Normally, Jeffrey would feel uncomfortable armed this way, but for the moment he felt ready for anything the small house might have to offer.

  Trees and high shrubs had obscured a lot of the house from the street. Up close, Jeffrey could see it was mostly brick with vinyl siding on the trim and overhangs. The gutters were painted a bright white to match the trim. The house was small, probably two bedrooms with one bath and a kitchen–living room combination. There were houses like this all over Grant, built cheap just after the war, meant to be starter homes for returning veterans. Cement blocks served as the foundation with vents to let the house breathe.

  “No basement,” Nick said.

  Jeffrey nodded, pointing to the roofline. There did not appear to be a second story, either, but someone could definitely hide in the attic.

  Wallace went first, easily scaling the five-foot-tall chain-link fence from the side that was most concealed by the shrubs. Nick had a little more difficulty, and groaned quietly as he lost his footing on the other side, his butt hitting the ground. Jeffrey followed them, wondering why his knee was giving him trouble, then remembering how he had hurt it lunging for Fine.

  When they were all safe on the other side, Nick took a small walkie-talkie out of his pocket and said, “We’re inside the perimeter.”

  There was a faint “Check,” as the others got into position.

  Jeffrey took out his gun indicating they should head toward the front door. As they got closer, they could hear soft music coming from the house. Jeffrey recognized a boy group, but couldn’t put a name to them.

  Wallace stopped at the front door, his gun held up beside his head. He counted off to three then kicked at the door.

  Nothing happened.

  “Shit,” Wallace cursed, shaking his leg out. For just a moment, Jeffrey considered that they might have the wrong house. Then he thought about the fact that someone could be waiting behind that locked front door with a double-barreled shotgun, ready to blow off their heads. He thought of Sara for a split second, and how she said she worried about him, then he thought about Lacey Patterson and pushed everything else from his mind.

  Jeffrey indicated to Wallace that they would kick together this time. He counted off to three, and this time the door didn’t hold.

  “Police!” Nick yelled, storming in after them. There was no man standing inside with a shotgun. Instead there was a young girl wearing a short pink T-shirt and matching underwear. She could have just woken up from a nap.

  Jeffrey pointed his gun up to the ceiling. He was about to ask her if she was okay when the little girl pointed silently down a hallway.

  Jeffrey took off his jacket and put it around the girl while Nick and Wallace checked the other side of the house. He ushered her to the front porch, telling her to wait for him inside the front of the gate. He wanted to say something to her, to put his arm around her and tell her that she was okay now, but there was something so vacant about the child he could not bring himself to do it. She seemed beyond any kind of comfort.

  Nick and Wallace came back, shaking their heads that no one was in the other side of the house. Nick tilted his chin up, indicating he would go first down the hall. Jeffrey was eerily reminded of Dottie Weaver’s house as they walked in. The setup was similar, but the feeling was different. A dirty strip of carpeting muffled the sound of their feet on the hardwood floor. There were framed pictures of children’s art on the wall.

  Ahead, Nick flattened himself against the wall beside a closed door. This was where the music was coming from, and Jeffrey could make out the chorus now, “I love you, love you, my sweet baby.”

  Nick reached down and opened the door, crouching in the entrance in one swift motion. Something unreadable passed on his face, and he stood, walking into the room with his gun still drawn. Jeffrey followed him, seeing a king-size bed with mirrors all around it. The sheets were messed up, as if there had been recent activity, and there was a smell in the room that Jeffrey did not want to put a name to. The stereo was propped up on the box it came in, sickly sweet music still pouring out from the speakers. Two video cameras on tripods were pointed at the bed, the mirrors on the walls reflecting the scene back to Jeffrey. He stood there, wanting nothing more than to get out of this room, as Nick checked under the bed, then opened the door to one of the closets.

  Wallace made a noise to get their attention then nodded down the hallway. Jeffrey backed outside the room as Nick checked the last closet, then followed.

  Wallace put his mouth close to Jeffrey’s ear and whispered, “I saw a boy go in there,” indicating a closed door on the opposite side of the hall.

  Nick pointed to a cord hanging down from the ceiling where the retractable stairs to the attic were. The cord wasn’t moving, but that was no guarantee no one was up there.

  Jeffrey passed the bathroom, which was small and dirty. Toys werestacked on the counter and in the empty tub. There was no shower curtain or closet in there, but some cabinets were built into the wall along the hallway. Jeffrey opened the first cabinet, but all it contained were the items you would expect: towels, wash rags, some diapers. The diapers got to him for some reason, and for the first time that day, he lost what little hope he had that they would find Lacey Patterson alive.

  Nick put his hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder, and Jeffrey got the feeling he was thinking the same thing.

  There was one last room in the small house, and Jeffrey took the lead this time, pressing himself to the closed door just as Nick had. He threw the door open, crouching around the corner with his gun drawn, but the room appeared empty.

  Three twin beds were shoved into the corner, dirty-looking sheets bunched up on them. There were no frames or box springs, just the mattresses flat on the floor. Sheets were nailed tightly to the windows like canvas over a frame. There was only one closet in the room, and Jeffrey walked over to it, expecting to see the worst behind it. He stood to the side and opened it, only to find shelves packed tight with boxes. Red numbers labeled the boxes, and Jeffrey pulled one of them out, frowning when he saw it was full of pictures. He looked at the other boxes and realized the numbers were probably the age of the kids in the pictures. The top row contained a few that were labeled “0–1.”

  He remembered the boy Wallace had seen, and bent down on one knee. A couple of boxes on the bottom of the closet looked crooked, and Jeffrey pulled them out. He leaned down and saw a frightened little boy, not more than six years old, with his head between his knees. The boy saw Jeffrey, then reached out to pull the boxes back around him. He was so frightened that the boxes shook from his touch.

  Jeffrey stood, thinking he would see the fear in that kid’s eyes for as long as he lived. He wanted to pull the boy out from his hiding place and tell him that it was over, but Jeffrey wasn’t sure that it was. The adult or adults who had done this were still in this house somewhere. It was better to leave the kid where he was safe rather than put him in more danger.

  Jeffrey heard Nick’s boots on the floor and turned to see him walking out the door. He watched as Nick lowered the attic stairs, the springs sque
aking loud enough to vibrate in Jeffrey’s ears. He unfolded the steps, which made a hollow thunking noise against the floor. Nick took out a mini flashlight, holding it between his teeth as he used one hand to climb the stairs and held his service revolver in the other. Jeffrey held his breath as Nick poked his head into the attic space. After a quick look around, Nick shook his head, taking the flashlight out of his mouth.

  “Empty,” Nick said. He took the radio out of his pocket and asked, “Did anyone come out the back?”

  Crackling came, then a woman’s voice said, “That’s a negative, sir. We’ve got the back and the sides.”

  Nick sighed heavily, disappointment coming off him like sweat. “Let Robbins stay back there. I need you and Peters inside to help us do another check.”

  “You think we missed anything?” Wallace asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Nick said. He picked up the stairs to fold them back up, but his hand slipped, and the stairs thunked to the ground again. He started to try again, but Jeffrey stopped him, pointing to the floor.

  Nick shook his head, but then he seemed to play it back in his mind and realized what Jeffrey had. The stairs hadn’t sounded right when they hit the floor. Nick finally nodded, and he leaned down, pointing to a line of dirt where the rug had been raised then dropped back down.

  Jeffrey pulled the stairs up and tucked them back into the attic. He holstered his gun and picked up the carpet. There was an outline of a trap door underneath it, about three feet square with a small, hinged pull in the center. Jeffrey indicated for Wallace to stand on the back side of the door, straddling the sides, and open it. Nick and Jeffrey stood on the other side, their guns drawn.

  Time moved slowly, and Jeffrey could hear the stupid song that had been playing since they’d come in switch to another equally drippy ballad as the trap door creaked open. He could feel sweat dripping down his face, and tasted blood in his mouth as he bit the inside of his lip. Then the door was open, and about three feet down he saw a very scared-looking Lacey Patterson lying curled up on the ground under the house. She was filthy, and her hair had been cut close to her scalp. There was a bruise on her forehead, and her eyes were barely open. She had either been drugged or beaten or both.