The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  A sudden, beautiful wave across my brain mixes everything together perfectly, lighting me up and releasing the neurotransmitters. Everything is clear. I put the capsules back together and drop them in the container, then slip it back in my pocket.

  “Shit,” I say, as if I suddenly realize how stupid I am.

  But that’s all right.

  I walk out of the bathroom with a new lift and find Leslie walking out of the conference room holding my jacket.

  “Leah found something more suitable for her to wear. And I called 911. I’m sure they’ll be here any minute now.”

  “She said they know her address, and you know damn well the police won’t act on it fast enough. Once these boys find her gone, her home will be the first stop they make. I got her to leave with me ’cause I promised her I’d keep her family safe. I’m going back to the house I got her out of.”

  I take my jacket from her hands. “I’ll call you within an hour and give you the address. I’m pretty damn sure that Amanda doesn’t know it. Tell the police what you have to, but I got to do what I got to do.”

  I walk toward the exit. She follows behind with quick steps. I slip on my jacket without stopping.

  “Frank! You can’t just drop off a kidnapped teenage girl who’s probably been gang-raped and expect me to try to keep you out of it! You can’t just walk out of here!”

  I open the door and turn to her and say, “I gotta take care of this, Leslie. And notify Fairfax County police too, because she lives in Burke.”

  I let the door shut itself and choose the stairs instead of the elevator.

  “Man, am I fucked,” I mumble to myself on my way down.

  Six

  When I get to Kenyon Street, I find a parking spot across from the house, near where I parked before. I don’t see the Salvadoran boys’ vehicle anywhere. I grab the palm-size binoculars from a zippered compartment of my backpack, cup them between both hands, and peer through them at the house.

  The door looks the same as when we left. I zip the binos back into the compartment, then look at the dashboard clock.

  Thirteen-twenty hours.

  I took too much time taking care of the girl. I’m wondering if the kid, Super Fly, already returned to re-up, but hightailed it out of there after he noticed the door had been pried open. I grab the pill container out of my pocket and twist off the cap.

  “Fuck,” I say after I see how many full capsules are left.

  What I have here, it won’t last long for me. I twist the cap back on and slip the container back in my pocket.

  I open the backpack’s main compartment and pull out six zip-tie handcuffs and a small but very effective stun gun. I clip the zip ties to a small carabiner key chain on the left side of my belt, opposite the gun. My jacket will hide everything well enough. I also put on my Kevlar tactical gloves this time. It’s a bit chilly outside, so they’re less conspicuous than latex and better on my knuckles if I have to go to blows. But first I power down my cell, because I know Leslie will start burning it up with calls soon.

  I step out of the car.

  I’m more conscious of my surroundings as I walk to the front door of the house. The last thing I want is one of those mopes pulling up while I’m entering. Before I do, I ring the doorbell, wait a few seconds, and ring it again. After that, I knock hard on the door, pushing it halfway open.

  I step inside and close the door behind me, sliding the tennis shoe against it with my foot.

  “Policía,” I call out.

  I don’t hear anything.

  I have my thumb on the switch that’ll activate the stun gun while I quickly but quietly make my way to the master bedroom. Nothing else matters right now. Just focus: find the drugs and then move on. I’m going on too much adrenaline to know any better. I clear the kitchen. There’s nothing there, so I continue, clearing the same bedrooms before the master.

  The master bedroom looks the same, the bed and the blacked-out window and the nasty clothes. I move to the bathroom and everything is just as I’d left it.

  I look out the bedroom window, scan the block. I unlock the window latches and slide it up halfway so I can hear better what’s outside.

  The first thing I do after that is lift the bed’s mattress. Nothing but a few porn magazines. I look under the bed. A mess of shit under there—shoe boxes, old socks, underwear, assorted clothing, two thin clear plastic storage containers. I reach under and pull those out first. It looks like there are more magazines inside, but I open them and toss them in the middle of the floor. I pull out the shoe boxes and do the same thing. A couple of them are empty, and the other three contain expensive Jordans. I toss the contents along with the boxes in the middle of the floor.

  I look out the window again. No car. The block is quiet.

  Back to the room again. I do a slow survey: a cluttered nightstand with a single drawer beside the bed next to me, the door to the closet, the bathroom, a dresser on the left side of the window, black construction-type trash bags that appear to be stuffed with dirty laundry, on the floor near the center of the room, dirty carpet; a large stuffed teddy bear with a red ribbon, likely a gift from one of his girls, sits in the corner to the left of the dresser. I hear a car with a heavy, familiar engine outside.

  My heart races for a moment, and I peer through the curtains. Nothing but a UPS truck passing the house and heading east. I focus my attention outside for a moment, then back to the room.

  I like teddy bears, so I grab it by the ear and squeeze the fat belly. Doesn’t feel like anything’s in there, but you never know. I pull out my knife, flick it open with my thumb, and gut the thing. I was hoping drugs would spill out, but there’s only white stuffing. I pull it all out until the teddy bear looks like a bear puppet with sad, fallen eyes. I toss it in the middle of the room, then go back to the nightstand, where I pull out the drawer.

  A small .38 with duct-taped grip. I like that, so I put it in my backpack, along with a box of live rounds. Always good to have another throwaway gun. You never know. The drawer also contains assorted packaged condoms, two prescription pill containers, and several other loose live rounds that look like 9mm. I take one of the pill containers, look at the label; it reads “OxyContin.” It was prescribed to a “Marianne Oliver,” a name I don’t believe is associated with anyone in this household. I pick up the other one and it also reads “OxyContin” and is prescribed to the same person. More than likely pulled in a robbery, or traded in exchange for crack by someone who burglarized her home. Looks like fifty-plus pills from both containers combined.

  “Nice,” I say to myself, and drop them in the backpack.

  I hear a car door slam shut.

  Looking through the window, I see Jordan Super Fly strolling leisurely toward the house.

  I shoulder my backpack, grip the stun gun, and run as fast as I can downstairs to the living room.

  I make it to the door just as I hear him shuffling on the porch and saying, “¡Cabrón!”

  I quietly set my backpack on the floor and position myself so I’ll be behind the door as he opens it. But he doesn’t; he just pushes at it, and it barely opens. I hear more shuffling. I get the feeling he won’t come in, and might just call for that backup. I gotta assume they can get another ride from 16th and Park if they have to. I don’t even think about it. I pull out my wallet to reveal my retired detective’s badge, ’cause I’m not worried if he can read. I hold it in my left hand and tuck the stun gun against my thigh with my right.

  “¡Cabrón!” I hear again outside.

  I step to the other side of the door, can barely make him out, but I can see enough of him to see that he’s about to tap in some numbers on his cell. I swing the door open, holding my badge in the air.

  “¡Policía!” I command, but not loud enough for the whole neighborhood to come to alert.

  He’s right next to the door, about a foot from me. The cell phone he’s holding drops to the ground, and I know he’s about to bolt, so I flip the switch and
stun the shit outta his belly.

  “¡Aiyee!” he cries, and slumps forward into my arms.

  I manage to catch him while still holding my wallet and the stun gun. He’s thin and no more than a buck fifty, so I easily drag him in and let him drop to the floor under the window to the left of the door. I kick his feet away so I can shut the door.

  He’s moaning, and I’m pretty sure he shat himself.

  Seven

  I zip-tie his hands behind his back, duct-tape his mouth, and prop him against a wall in a sitting position. The front window beside the door is to his right, giving me a good vantage point. I remember the cell phone he dropped. I reach out the door from a leaning position and pick it up. It looks like a cheap pay-as-you-go phone. I look at the screen. He only had time to find the contact he was about to call—Angelo. I’m assuming this is Shiny. I close the door and drop the phone into my backpack.

  I lean down next to the boy. The stench coming from his lower body is bad. I’ve smelled it before, but not enough times to get used to it. He moans, eyes glazed but open. The stun wasn’t enough to knock him out. He’s small, though, so it whacked out his system pretty good. I lightly slap the right side of his cheek several times with the tips of my fingers. His eyes widen when he comprehends the situation.

  He struggles and puffs unintelligible words that are muffled by the duct tape. I stand up and pull my suit jacket open so he can see my sidearm. Then I pull out my wallet and show him my badge. I lean back down beside him, press my index finger against my lips as a warning to be quiet, and slowly peel the duct tape halfway off so he can speak. He’s scared, breathing fast. I pat him on the right shoulder a couple of times.

  “Cálmate,” with my best accent.

  He nods.

  “You speak English?” I ask.

  Shakes his head no.

  I show him the stun gun again and flick it on so he gets a little zap, crackle, and spark show.

  “No! No!”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Sí, a little.”

  “You make this easy by just telling me where you keep the stash.”

  “I no understand what you mean.”

  I shove the stun gun to his crotch, but don’t zap him. He still belts out a yelp in anticipation of it. I push harder.

  “One more time—uno más,” I begin. “¿Dónde está the drugs?”

  “Please, I know nothing here. Nothing, Officer,” he pleads.

  “Yes you do, and I warned you, just uno más. One more chance.”

  I seal his mouth with the duct tape. He struggles, but I push him tight against the wall with my left hand, let go, flip the switch, then give him a good one right on the hip bone. It’s enough to convulse his body and send a violent push of breath that almost rips the duct tape off his mouth; watery mucus shoots out of his nostrils, nearly hitting me. I hold the stun gun in front of him so he can see it. His body goes limp, but he’s far from out. His eyes stream tears now.

  I pull the duct tape halfway again.

  “The drugs,” is all I have to say.

  He motions his head up, like he’s telling me upstairs, and, nearly breathless, he says, “Arriba. Arriba.”

  I nod like he did okay and give him a few seconds to recover.

  “You show me.”

  “Por favor. Please, I go to jail now.”

  I show him the zap and spark again.

  “No. You show me where exactly. Exactamente.”

  His eyes close briefly, then he simply nods. I stand up, grab him under the arm, and lift him to a standing position. His legs are weak, so I have to hold him steady.

  I wrap the duct tape along his mouth again.

  “You show me. No lies or I fuck you up bad, comprende?”

  He nods.

  His cell phone rings from inside my backpack.

  I lean him against the wall, wobbly legs and all, and grab the strap to pull it out.

  The screen on the cover reveals the caller as “Angelo.”

  I shoulder my backpack, put the stun gun in the outer pocket of my suit jacket. I grab the kid from under the arm with my left hand before he can slide all the way down to a sitting position. I remove my gun from its holster and place the barrel against his forehead.

  “I’m not fucking around.”

  He nods like he understands.

  I help him walk up the stairs.

  Eight

  He leads me to the master bedroom. I pull away the duct tape. It’s like he can’t help himself from looking toward the bathroom. I set my backpack on the floor near the bed.

  “Is that where you keep the drugs, in the bathroom?”

  He shakes his head no, nervously.

  “I didn’t think so. You make an addict out of a little chica, you can’t trust her being near the drugs, right?”

  He doesn’t answer. I lead him by the arm to the bathroom, show him inside.

  “Sí, she’s not here. No aquí. You can’t hurt her no more.”

  I pull him back to the middle of the bedroom, with a bit of force this time.

  “Show me.”

  “There,” he says, his head indicating the closet.

  “The closet?” I ask with disbelief. “Only stupid people keep their stash in the closet.”

  I pull him there.

  “¿Dónde?”

  “Caja de zapatos.”

  “You gotta be kidding. That’s too easy.”

  “Sí. It’s there.”

  I push him up against the wall.

  His cell phone in my backpack rings again.

  “Shit,” I say, then take it out.

  “Angelo.”

  I show it to him and say, “You tell him you’ll be there soon, that you’re taking a shit or something. You damn well better make him believe it. ¿Claro?”

  “Sí.”

  “¿Entiendes lo que digo?” I ask, so he knows I understand.

  I place the phone against his ear and mouth.

  “Sí,” he speaks into the phone.

  I put my ear close so I can hear a bit.

  Angelo asks him why he didn’t answer.

  “Tengo que cagar,” he advises Angelo.

  Angelo laughs and tells him to use the hallway toilet and then something about the girl.

  “Sí, claro.”

  Angelo says to hurry back and something about the girl again, like “Don’t fuck around.” And then something about “No more bruises.”

  “¡Claro que sí! Hasta pronto.”

  Angelo says good-bye, and I take the phone, disconnect, and toss it back in the backpack.

  “Good job. Now siéntate,” I tell him.

  When he does, I make him stretch out his legs and cross them. I grab the shoe box out of the closet, move toward the bed to examine the contents. When I do, I find several zips, mostly tens and twenties and maybe fifty grams. But it’s fucking crack. What am I gonna do with this shit? I close the box, set it on the floor next to my backpack, and then look directly at the boy.

  “I never asked before. What’s your name?”

  “Andrés.”

  “Well, my little friend, you’re full of shit. I mean, not including what you already filled your underpants with. You do wear underpants, right?”

  He doesn’t know what to say.

  I move toward him, take him under the arms, and pull him up to a standing position.

  “No. Wait, please!”

  I grab him by the jersey close to his neck and toss him over so he falls on the bed.

  “Wait, señor. It’s all in the box.”

  “Cocaine, powder!” I demand then, “Heroin and money too. Show me now. No more playing around.”

  “Only crack. That is all.”

  “Wanna be a big man, huh?”

  “No, no…”

  “Cállate, little big man.”

  “Por favor, señor,” he pleads.

  I slap the tape back over his mouth and roll him over onto his belly.

  He’s trying hard
to say something, but it’s only mumbling and too late anyway. I don’t have much time here before his boys return. Not to mention Leslie. For all I know, I really messed up and Amanda does know the address. Police might already be on the way. I move toward the window and look out.

  Looks clear.

  I go back to what I have to do. I take Andrés’s left hand and grip his pinkie tight with the whole of my hand. He struggles more after he realizes what is next. I yank his pinkie hard, all the way back and then to the side. I hear it pop out of the socket with a rip. His squeal of a scream is filtered through the duct tape. I roll him back over so he’s on his back.

  He’s crying. I slap him hard on the cheek.

  “Cocaine, heroin, dinero,” I demand.

  I slap him hard again so he knows.

  He gives several short nods.

  I have no pity for this piece of shit. All I gotta do is think about the girl first, my needs second, and that’s enough. You’d be surprised what most of us are capable of.

  I already know what I’m capable of, and it’s a lot more than bustin’ little fingers.

  I pull back the tape. Don’t have to say anything this time.

  He catches his breath. A few snivels. He looks toward the corner of the room, over the foot of the bed.

  “Under…pull up.”

  I look in that direction, but don’t know what he means.

  “Tapete,” he says.

  I don’t know that word, so I repeat, “What is tapete?”

  “Floor.”

  “You mean carpet?”

  He nods.

  I move to the corner of the room, tapping the carpet with my foot. I notice the edge of the carpet near the corner is slightly shredded, not enough to draw attention unless you were looking. Eventually, with time, I would have looked. I’ve torn up more carpets, busted holes in more drywall than I can count.