The Second Girl

by David Swinson

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  For my wife, Catherine,

  and my daughter, Vivienne

  Keep your eyes open to your mercies. The man who forgets to be thankful has fallen asleep in life.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

  —John 1:5 NIV

  Part One

  One

  I’ve been sitting on the run-down two-story row house on Kenyon Street Northwest off and on for eight days. That’s the longest I’ve had to surveil a location, but it’s worth the effort. I know it’ll be a good hit.

  Lord knows I need a good hit.

  At least five Salvadoran boys are living in the house on a regular basis; all of them nothing but little big men, aspiring to be hard, slingin’ their shit in the area of 16th and Park. Mostly weed, crack cocaine, and heroin, but they recently got into powder, which is what interests me most. Powder cocaine is getting harder to find nowadays. Crack is still the drug of choice on the street, and of course heroin. Then there’s PCP, but that’s a whole different monster. It made a comeback a few years ago. Kids’re walking around in the open, smoking dippers like they’re regular cigarettes. The Salvadoran boys won’t mess with that shit. But I’ve seen them hanging with someone who will.

  Cordell Holm.

  I had dealings with Cordell back in the day, when I was on the job and working narcotics. He’s the leader of a crew that controls most of the corners in the Adams Morgan area, and one of that area’s main distributors. Cordell’s crew usually works south of Columbia Road. Park Road is north of Columbia, so when I saw him with the Salvadorans like they were talking business, I figured Cordell was expanding his horizons, maybe got himself into bed with one of the bigger Latino gangs that control Columbia to Park.

  I don’t know if the Salvadorans are affiliated with one of those gangs or if they’re just a bunch of orphans who got themselves adopted by the Holm family. Doesn’t matter to me which scenario it is. All I know for sure is that Cordell Holm deals in weight, and that means I have a chance of getting a piece of that today.

  Like I’ve done all the other days I’ve been sitting on this spot, I watch them as they make their way out the door, usually by ten hundred hours. They slide into an older model, mostly primed-out, four-door gray Toyota with chromed-out wheels, an oversize metallic-red spoiler, and home-tinted windows. A little El Salvadoran flag, fringed in gold, hangs from the rearview mirror.

  They head west, like they always do, toward 16th Street and Park Road. I’ve tailed them enough times to know they’ll park at a spot another Latino kid reserves for them, a young boy, twelve to fourteen years old, just another kid trying to get his foot in the door and working up to something more.

  The driver, an older-looking boy who keeps his hair slicked back and shiny, will stay with the car. The other four will split up by twos and cover the area that spans east on Park from 16th to 14th Street.

  The boy with the shiny hair takes care of the stash. He keeps it in a crumpled-up Doritos bag, which he drops in the gutter at the rear of their vehicle as if it were trash. He keeps a thick wad of cash rolled up and stuffed in the sock on his left foot.

  Another boy, who always wears an oversize Wizards jersey and black Jordan Super Fly sneakers, returns to the car when they’re low on merchandise, usually after a couple of hours. He drives the car back to the house to re-up, then returns it to Shiny.

  I should be long gone by the time they need to re-up. But then I know all too well what can happen. Shit, just about anything can happen. Shiny might get lucky and hook up, bring her back to the house on Kenyon. Or maybe it’ll be a busy day and Super Fly’ll need to re-up sooner. You can never predict; you can only prepare. I’m prepared. But I also do my best to eliminate the possibility of an encounter—no more than fifteen minutes inside. You’d be surprised what an experienced person like me can find in fifteen minutes.

  These boys have been running free on the streets, as if they own that real estate they’re working. It wouldn’t be difficult for even a mediocre cop to figure out what they’re doing. But I haven’t seen any of them try. Third District’s short on manpower. The whole police department’s short on manpower. All the smart ones are leaving and most of the old-timers are on their way out or already gone. The few that remain are getting themselves pulled from their regular assignments by the chief for one ridiculous thing or another—some detail with a fancy acronym. By the time those officers get off from working that shit, they’re either too tired to work regular or they just don’t give a damn. Hate to say it, ’cause I like most of them, but their fatigue or sloppiness works to my benefit.

  I sit on the house for another ten minutes after the Salvadorans pull out.

  When it feels right I step out of my Volvo, and slip on my suit coat, and tighten the knot of my tie. I shoulder my nearly empty backpack, which contains only a few items I might need once I get inside—a small Streamlight, a stun gun, a crowbar, a screwdriver, pliers, a box cutter, zip ties, and an extra pair of handcuffs.

  I look both ways and cross the street.

  It’s about half a block to the house.

  I walk like I belong.

  Two

  Most of the leaves have fallen from the few trees that hang tough on this block. The largest one, an old oak, with roots like fat, arthritic fingers reaching over the median, stands tall, anchored defiantly in front of their house.

  The sidewalk and the walkway leading to the front porch are littered with dead leaves, crunching under my feet.

  If I’m walking like I belong, why try to walk quietly? That wouldn’t be natural. It’s the way I look and dress, the way I carry myself, that means the most. Those years on the job stay with you, and I learned well. A commanding exterior presence. The inside, well, maybe not so much.

  An empty bottle of Cuervo 1800, spent containers of sports drinks, cigarette butts, and scrunched-up red plastic cups are piled in a corner of the patio, in front of a couple of fold-up chairs. The black security gate is aluminum; the front door’s wooden, and there’s one dead bolt above the doorknob. Old, just like the house. You’d think based on what they do for a living they’d have more sense and give the front door an upgrade, invest in a steel door with a stronger frame. Maybe they’re just too fucking confident. They’ll know better soon.

  I pull a pair of latex gloves out of the front pocket of my pants, put them on. I ring the doorbell a couple of times. I hear it chime, muffled through the wooden door, wait a few seconds and ring again. No answer. No barking dog, but I never saw them with a dog, so I don’t expect one.

  I look behind me, scan the block, unshoulder the backpack, unzip one of the pockets, and grab a large screwdriver.

  I wedge the tip between the door and the frame to the right of the dead bolt, find the spot where the bolt meets the metal, then slam the screwdriver with the heel of my palm. It doesn’t take more than a couple of hits.

  Another quick glance behind me, and I pry the door open and enter, closing it behind me. It swings open a bit ’cause it won’t latch. I notice a single tennis shoe on the floor, grab it, and push it against t
he door so it stays partly open. Push back my suit jacket and remove my Glock from its holster. I tuck it to my side.

  The smell inside the house is like ripe armpit mixed with cheap old liquor. I’ve been in worse places, though. More shoes on the floor, discarded shirts on two stained sofas, empty bottles of liquor, beer, cigarette butts falling out of ashtrays, beer cans replacing ashtrays, brand-new flat screen on an old coffee table against a wall.

  It doesn’t matter how much preparation you put into a spot before you go in. Unless you can see through walls, you never know what you’re going to find. Fortunately, this is a small house, so there are not a lot of rooms to clear. No basement either, so one of the upstairs bedrooms is more than likely the spot I’m looking for. I’ve got a feeling Shiny likes to keep the stash close, so after I clear the house, the room I believe he beds down in is the one I’ll tear up.

  The kitchen is littered with pizza boxes, more empty beer and liquor bottles. There are a few power tools—circular saw, drills, tile cutter, and so on—lined up against a wall near the rear door. Doesn’t look like they do much cooking. There are a couple of nearly full bottles of Cuervo on the counter. I’ll give it a more thorough search after I check the rooms on the second floor.

  The wooden staircase leading to the second floor is narrow and creaky, the railing flimsy. I grip my gun with two hands and keep it at the ready.

  Move up the steps.

  An equally narrow hallway with wood floors, an open door to a bedroom straight ahead. Two other rooms, one of the doors open, separated by a bathroom. A linen closet with a slightly open door is across from the bathroom, past the flimsy metal banister rails.

  I clear the room ahead of me first and then the next one. I’ll make my way back to search both rooms after I clear and search the master bedroom.

  The closed door should be the main bedroom. Probably Shiny’s. I swing it open.

  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.

  She grabs the jacket, drapes it around her shoulders, and grips it tight to cover her body. It’s large enough to cover her down to her knees. I slide the wallet back into my pants pocket. “Let me take that off your face.”

  She shakes her head no and starts to pull off the duct tape on her own. She whimpers as it tugs and pulls at the corner of her thin lip, but she manages to get it off. The area around her mouth is blotchy, scaly. It’s been pulled from her mouth more than once.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  It takes her a moment to say, “Amanda.”

  “Amanda, I’m Frank, but my friends call me Frankie or just Marr. Where do you live, Amanda?”

  “Burke, Virginia.”

  “That’s in Fairfax County, right?”

  “Yes. My family, are they okay?” She begins to weep.

  “Your family?” I ask, wondering if I somehow missed finding them when I cleared the house. “Are they here?”

  She looks at me, confused now.

  “No, they’re home. They’re home, aren’t they?”

  “I’m sure they’re home. I need to get you out of here now. You’ll be with them soon enough.”

  “No. No. I thought you we
re here because they’re safe. I thought you came here to get me. No, I can’t go home,” she says, tears now streaming.

  “Why can’t you go home?”

  “Because he said they’d kill my family if I ever went home,” she cries. “You said you are a policeman. Have you seen them, my mom…my dad?”

  “I came here because of something else and found you.”

  “I can’t go, then. They’ll kill them! They know where I live. They’ll kill my mom and my dad.”

  “No they won’t. I’ll make sure of that. I gotta take you outta here now, all right? Trust me when I say they’re not gonna touch your family, or you. Okay?”

  I can tell she’s afraid to leave and why she was cuffed in front instead of in the back. She wasn’t about to escape. Those boys knew that. They’ve had enough time to brainwash the shit out of this kid. Judging by the tracks and the bruises, I’d say a few days. That’s more than enough time for a child like this.

  “They been putting that shit in your arm, or have you?” I ask, and realize afterward that I’m talking to a little girl, not the junkies or crackheads I’m used to talking to.

  “He has,” she says, with a firmness that suggests anger. Her lip quivers.

  And I wonder if “he” is Shiny.

  “Heroin?”

  “Yes, and something else once, but it kept me up for almost two days so they didn’t anymore.”

  “What else they got you using?” I ask, realizing how my mind is working now.

  “Just weed. I want to go now.”

  “I need to know first. The stuff they shot you up with, which made you stay up for two days, do you know where they keep that?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you asking me this? Please, I want my mom now.”

  I’m such an asshole. Who thinks like this?

  “Where do they keep their stash?”

  She looks at me, eyes wide, like she remembers when I said I didn’t come here for her.