Killer

CHAPTER 39

The bullet-burying barrier behind the door was a sandwich of two foam mattresses divided by one sheet of plywood and backed by another, the entire contraption framed with two-by-fours.

One side of the frame was hinged to the inner surface of the doorway. Operated by a solenoid wired to a high rafter. Crude but effective. Sound-resistant.

Sound damping didn’t end there.

The walls of unfinished garages that accompany houses like the beige structure are usually wood beam and tar paper. These walls had been surfaced with carelessly grouted block. The result was a dingy cruel space, barely illuminated by the single bulb dangling from the peak of the rafters.

A room that should’ve been clammy but was warmed well past stuffy by a space heater glowing in a corner. A porta-crib sat in the opposite corner. Eyebolts driven into the block hosted sampler-type homilies dangling from piano wire.

Ree Sykes, hunched, gaunt, limp-haired, wild-eyed, at least ten pounds thinner than the last time I’d seen her, stood well away from all that wisdom, as close to the center of the garage as she could manage. Clutching Rambla tight to her bosom. Her rusty hair had been chopped short and ragged. Rambla’s dark tresses had also been clipped. No obvious wounds or outward signs of abuse but the little girl’s cheekbones were too pronounced for those of a toddler.

The room stank of baby poop and applesauce. A steel garbage can overflowed with soiled paper. Next to the crib was a portable latrine. Three rolls of toilet paper sat on the floor next to a package of disposable diapers. Same brand Hank Nebe had purchased last night.

The crib was within Ree’s reach but the space heater wasn’t due to the stainless-steel ankle band and matching chain that formed her umbilicus to the garage’s eastern wall.

Six feet of chain; a two-step universe. Links running out a maddening foot and a half from the padded door.

The ankle encased by the band was swollen and thatched with scratch marks, testimony to a vain struggle to free herself. Scabs on the scratches said she’d given up days ago. Soon after being taken captive.

The setup was Predator 101 but her captors had made a tactical error by shackling her close to the wall adjoining the yard.

Allowing bumpbump to filter through.

Despite the heat, Ree Sykes trembled, naked under a pale blue cotton nightgown. The kind you get in the hospital.

Rambla wore pink fuzzy pajamas with feet. Snot mustached her upper lip.

I said, “We’re here for you.”

Both of them screamed.