Forty Words for Sorrow

32

THE HOUSE WAS MUCH SMALLER than it had looked from the outside. The upstairs had only two bedrooms—Woody could have sworn there would be three—and a tiny bathroom.

As he had so carefully explained to that foxy Officer Delorme, Arthur “Woody” Wood was not in the burglary business to enhance his social life. Like all professional burglars he went to great lengths to avoid meeting people on the job. At other times, well, Woody was as sociable as the next fellow.

He had seen the weaselly looking guy from the music store coming by here all the time. In fact, he had followed him home from the mall one day, after watching him load a tasty looking Sony box into his van. He knew the couple was out, now, because he had sat outside in the van for the past hour and a half. It was perfectly safe to watch a place that way. Nobody worries about a beat-up old ChevyVan labelled Comstock Electrical Installations and Repairs; nobody pays the slightest attention. Even so, Woody changed the lettering every three months, just to be on the safe side.

So he had sat out there listening to the Pretenders on his tape machine (a Blaupunkt he’d happened across while doing a little inventory enhancement up in Cedarvale last winter. Man, those Germans knew their engineering!) and reading the sports pages of the Lode. In between worrying about the Maple Leafs he was thinking about his shopping. Woody, besides being an industrious thief, was also a conscientious father and husband, and it was time to pick up a little something for the son and heir, whom he referred to affectionately as Dumptruck.

The kid needed a nifty toy. A set of blocks would be nice; he’d see what was around. Of course, this couple didn’t have any children—he’d watched long enough to know that—but you never know what people will have cluttering up their closets. He’d picked up a little plastic Yogi Bear a couple of weeks ago that Truckie carried with him everywhere.

The side-door lock had presented no problem: twenty-seven seconds—not a record, but not bad either. Woody had proceeded directly to the top floor, his usual practice; he had a superstition that you were working with nature then, letting gravity assist you on the way down. He moved now in his quietest Reeboks toward the back bedroom. Reason and observation had told him this had to be where the happy couple slept.

It was not what he expected. This was a single girl’s room, not a couple’s. The walls were pink, the bed was white wood, and the dresser was littered with pots of cream, mostly medicinal. The wallpaper—ancient, and peeling in more than one corner—had at one time been pale yellow with a motif of little parasols. A stuffed tiger on top of the dresser caught his eye—Dumptruck might like that—but on closer inspection it proved to be a mangy, dog-eared tiger, clearly clutched and drooled on through many an illness. He could hardly take that home. “What were you thinking?” Martha would say. “It’s completely unhygienic.”

He paused for a moment, alert for any sounds. No, the old lady wasn’t stirring. Probably deaf, too. Poor old girl hadn’t been trundled out for at least three days.

The headboard of the bed had an interesting feature: built-in bookshelves with little sliding panels—exactly the sort of cubbyhole people like to stash their jewellery in. Woody, an inveterate optimist as all of his trade must be, slid back the little panel full of expectation.

And met up with his second surprise. He had expected a couple of Danielle Steel novels (Martha read them all the time) or maybe a Barbara Taylor Whatshername. But this was a grim little library indeed: History of Torture, Japanese Atrocities of World War II, Justine and Juliette—both by the Marquis de Sade. He’d heard of that guy.

Woody always allowed himself one lingering moment on each job, a moment when, holding some treasured or peculiar object, he would indulge his imagination and picture the life he was invading. This was that moment. He pulled out Juliette. Wasn’t the Marquis that guy who liked to prance around in whips and chains and things? Woody flipped through to a page that had the corner turned down, and read a passage that had been marked in the margin: I grasp those breasts, lift them, and cut them off close to the chest; then stringing those hunks of flesh upon a cord …

Woody flipped through a few more pages and saw that things only got worse. The flyleaf bore an inscription in cheap ballpoint: To Edie from Eric. “Jesus, Eric,” he said under his breath. “This is not a book you give a woman. This is one sick book, and you are one sick puppy.” Woody vowed strict professional deportment for the rest of the job.

Martha would have shivered with revulsion at the bathroom: the sink was rust-stained, the tiles scummy. You could smell the towels from the hallway. The cabinet was chock full of Pharma-City sleeping pills and tranquilizers, just the sort of happy accident that could make a man’s day. Unfortunately, Woody was not into drugs. Didn’t use ’em, didn’t sell ’em, thanks to Martha. But oh, he thought wistfully, there was a time….

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 is 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, 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, 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, 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 me.

“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 sets 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.

The kid shoved past, the chair clattering with him up the stairs.

“You can’t get out,” the man said over his shoulder but staring at Woody. The kid was already at the top of the stairs, bare-assed, banging his shoulder into the door, but Woody knew there wasn’t a door on earth that breaks like they do in the movies.

“Be cool,” Woody said to the weasel guy. “No need for violence.”

Weasel looked him up and down, no rush about it. “Maybe I like violence.”

“Here’s the deal: I leave your VCR and shit, and you let the kid go. I don’t know what he did—probably you have every right to kick his ass—but you can’t keep a kid tied up in a basement. It ain’t right.”

The kid was still slamming away at the door, still doing the banshee thing.

“Shut up,” the man said toward the stairs. “Guy’s fucking hysterical.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely upset. Look, man, I gotta go.”

The weasel left the doorway and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Keith,” he said sharply. “Get downstairs right now.”

“No way, man! I’m out of here!”

The man went to the bottom step, held the gun a foot away from the boy’s leg and pulled the trigger.

The kid shrieked and fell down the stairs, clutching his thigh. He was rolling on the concrete floor when the man kicked his chin like he was trying for a field goal and the kid went still.

“Jesus Christ, man.” It was all Woody could manage, and he repeated it a couple of times. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Sit down in that chair.”

“No, sir. Negative. Obviously you’re pissed off, but let’s be realistic here.” There was no way in hell he was going to let himself be tied up. This was one sick weasel.

“Sit down in that chair or I’ll shoot you too.”

“He woke Gram up.” This surreal offering from the top of the stairs, where the woman now stood gripping the rail. “All his damn screaming.” She came down a couple of steps and stood over the kid. “I ought to pee all over your face.”

“He broke into your house, Edie. He was stealing your VCR.”

The woman looked at Woody. “It so happens that VCR means a lot to me. It has sentimental value.”

“Okay. I hear you. I’m just in it for the cash, know what I mean?”

“Fuck, Eric. Let’s kill him.”

“Videos, hey, I love ’em too, you know? Me and the wife’ll rent a Clint Eastwood now and again. Well, I like Clint, she likes the stuff about sisters and girlfriends and that. But, hey—a good movie, some popcorn, we love it!” Make a little conversation, get on their good side, works wonders with the cops sometimes.

“Shoot him, Eric,” the woman said with feeling. “Shoot him in the belly.”

“Listen, you guys. Edie. Eric. Obviously, I’m not welcome here, so I’ll just go, okay? I’ll just hit the road. Sorry for the inconvenience and shit. I apologize.”

“That van outside, the blue one, is that yours?”

“The ChevyVan, yeah. And the fact is, Eric, I parked in a bad spot. Snow removal. She’s gonna get towed if I don’t move her.”

The man didn’t react to this at all. He was sighting down the barrel at Woody’s belly.

“Eric?” The woman came down another couple of steps and watched them intently, her mouth open a little. There was something wrong with her face. “Why don’t you break his nose?”

Woody was gauging the distance to the gun, still in the man’s hand, still pointed at his stomach.

“It’s something I’d like to see,” the woman went on. “Hear the bone break and everything.”

The kid stirred, and the man turned and kicked his head. It was now or never. Woody shoved him hard, straight-armed the woman, and he was up the stairs, hand on the doorknob. The door was swinging open when the bullet tore into his back, somewhere near the love handles. He toppled over backward, landed on top of the kid, and hit his head a hell of a bang on the concrete floor.

A guy he’d shared a cell with once had told Woody what it was like to be shot: like a hot iron pressing through your body, man, those little fuckers are hot. And Woody discovered now that this was true.

The man was standing over him, big as King Kong. That’s how I must look to Dumptruck, Woody thought, and wondered how long before Martha started to worry.

The man’s hands were around his neck. Strong thumbs closing his windpipe.

“Break his nose,” the woman said again. “Why do you want to choke him, when you can break his nose?”

And carefully, using the butt of his pistol, the man did exactly that.