Giles Blunt - Forty Words for Sorrow

A noise from somewhere. Voices. He froze in front of the cracked mirror, head cocked to one side. Just the old lady's TV. Lonely damn business watching soap operas all day. She had the front bedroom, he knew from his vigil, and there wouldn't be anything worth taking in there, some horrible old black-and-white TV with a terrible picture.

He went downstairs and took a quick, disappointing inventory of the kitchen. The handful of old appliances would net him nothing. Even the dark little living room was a bust. Just a lot of overstuffed furniture that looked like one too many dogs had died on it. Woody ignored the funny old clock on the mantel, not into antiques. To his disgust, there wasn't even a VCR: Now, that was truly an anomaly in this day and age.

He was batting zero, and the place was nearly done. He'd totally misread the situation. The music-store guy didn't even live here. Guy worked at the fucking music store, for Christ's sake, he had to have some great equipment stashed away somewhere- Woody had seen him with that Sony carton, just the other day, pulled it out of the back of that spiffy old Windstar he drove.

"Truly fucked up," Woody murmured. "A TV table and no TV." The dust pattern showed that there had been a TV in the spot until a day or two ago. And the small stack of videotapes beside the table sang to him of a VCR. Either both items were in for repair- big coincidence there- or they'd been shifted to another part of the house, maybe Granny Goodwitch's room.

Well, he couldn't disturb Granny, so he was stuck with the basement. Woody's optimism hadn't deserted him, not yet- basements sometimes yielded unexpected dividends: a case of tools, an outboard motor, sets of golf clubs, you just never knew- but basements were cold and dank, and the shivers they gave you felt a lot like fear. You couldn't hear as well in a basement, either, which is why a lot of his colleagues got caught in basements: It was a vulnerable position. They were the anal sex of burglary, basements: not without interest, but not his first choice, either. Not on a bright sunny day.

At the bottom of the steps, Woody paused amid the Wellington boots and battered skates and rusting snow shovels, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The basement smelled of laundry and old cat piss. Outside, it was dark; a light would be seen. The windows, he noticed with a flutter of nerves, were high and tiny and probably not big enough to climb through should a sudden exit prove desirable.

Gradually, various objects took on form: an old washer with a wringer attachment, a filthy furnace, a pair of broken skis, a battered aluminum toboggan, and a woman's bike with the front wheel missing. He considered the bike for a minute: Just that fall, Martha's ten-speed had been stolen. Martha had gone into her hell's-own-fury mode, especially when Woody had taken the detached view of a professional. This wreck of a bike was out of the question, though; it would take more work to fix than it was worth. He turned and saw across the gloom a door, a solid slab of oak leading to- well, here Woody allowed his optimism free rein: It would lead to- yes, that's it, his studio. The weaselly-looking guy with the cameras and tape recorders kept a studio in his girlfriend's basement. This room with its Medeco lock and its three solid bolts would contain cameras, tripods, recording gear, TVs, and VCRs. Woody, my man, you're on the threshold of paradise.

Of course, if there was equipment in there, the bolts were on the wrong side of the door- you wanted to keep people like Woody out of your treasure trove, not invite them in- but even while Woody was aware of this, it didn't slow him down. The bolts took no time at all and the Medeco, well, you could grow old trying to pick a Medeco, so Woody used a locksmith's tool to yank out the whole thing. He pushed the door open and saw instead of treasure trove a naked boy sitting on a heavy wooden chair.

Woody's first thought was, Oh, fuck, I'm in for it now. But then, by the light of a pictureless TV, he saw that the boy was actually tied to the chair: mouth taped shut, wrists taped to the chair, and naked as a goddam jay. He was struggling at the tape and groaning; his eyes were wild.

This sort of thing will throw a burglar, even a seasoned professional. Not thinking clearly, Woody went straight to the TV and disconnected the VCR. Okay, the kid's caught up in some heavy-duty sexual escapade, it's none of my business. But as he was wrapping the cord around the VCR (Mitsubishi, four-head stereo, only a year old) several aspects of the situation pressed themselves on Woody's attention: The kid was naked. There were no clothes in this room. There was piss and also from the smell that was shit in the basin under his chair. Not a game, not a practical joke. Woody paused at the door, VCR tucked under one arm. "I get it," he said to the kid. "Drug deal went bad, right?"

The boy struggled furiously at his bonds. Woody leaned forward and yanked the tape from his mouth. Instantly the kid was screaming. It was mostly incoherent but certain phrases were repeated: maniacs, perverts, they're going to kill him.

"Hold on, now. Hold on. You're going to have to put a lid on the screaming. Going to have to shut that up right now. You can't be screaming." This last Woody screamed himself.

"Get me out of here, you fucking bastard!" Tears poured down the kid's face. He was squealing about a videotape, a murder. The details were crazy, but the terror was real. Woody had seen some sick-making things in his stints in the Kingston pen, but he had never, not in the weakest, most victimized inmate, seen such abject terror.

Woody's reaction was not complex: You see a man tied up, you untie him. He looked into a tiny bathroom for clothes and found none. "Where the fuck's your clothes, man? It's twenty below out there. And that's not counting no wind-chill factor." He was already opening the Swiss Army knife, when he heard the car pull up outside. The kid was screaming like a rock star: set me free, set me free, set me free.

"Shut up, man. They're right outside."

"I don't give a fuck, get me out of here!"

Woody slapped the tape back over the kid's mouth and made sure it stuck. The side door of the house was already opening, and he could hear the couple talking. He shut the door and snarled in his meanest voice, "You make the slightest fucking noise, I mean it, I'll stick you myself. You got that?"

The kid nodded furiously: he's got it, he's clear.

"Make one fucking sound and we're both up shit creek. There's only one door out of here and if we lose the element of surprise, you can kiss that exit goodbye, I mean it. Make a noise, I'll poke a hole in your liver."

The kid was nodding like a maniac. Shit, Woody could dash up the basement steps and be out the side door in a flash and- Oh Christ, we got footsteps right overhead.

"Here's what we do," he said, slitting the tape around the kid's ankle. "I cut you free, you put on my coat, and we're out the side door. I got a ChevyVan waiting across the street." He wouldn't have to tell the kid to run.

He set the other foot free. Already the kid was trying to stand up, still attached to the chair. "Hold on. Hold on, for Chrissake!" Were those voices closer? One wrist was free, and before he could finish with the other the kid ripped the tape from his mouth and was out of control again, setting up a holler. Woody slammed a hand over the kid's mouth and brandished the knife, but it was too late: The voices upstairs were suddenly charged, the footsteps fast and heavy.

Woody started on the last of the tape- fuck the kid's noise- but the kid didn't wait for him to finish. He was on his feet, still attached to the chair by one wrist and he was pushing past Woody taking the chair with him. He flung open the door, and there was the weaselly-looking guy with a gun.