As if he’d shot a block of cheddar.
He fired at the opposite side of the knob, then above the brass and below. Creating a ring of perforation in the wood.
The sound from within the garage had ceased as the crack of the gun repeated. Conspicuous noise on a quiet day in a quiet neighborhood. Someone might call the cops. Dandy.
He jiggled the knob. Some give, but not enough.
Bang bang bang.
A new sound seeped from inside the garage, keening and rhythmic like a fire alarm.
A child, gasping, crying.
Milo yanked the knob, putting his weight into it and bracing himself with a foot on the wall. The dummy knob shot loose and he tumbled backward, landed on his butt. I would have helped him but he was on his feet quickly and I had better things to do. Picking up the crowbar, I inserted it into the hole the knob’s exit had created.
I hooked, pulled hard. Still no give to the door. On the other end of the hole was a panel of medium brown. Grained. Plywood. But plywood didn’t explain the chunk. Sticking my finger into the hole, I poked around. Touched something worm-like.
“There are wires in here. It’s probably activated by a remote.”
“Careful, it could be a booby trap.” Placing his mouth near the hole, he shouted, “Ree, this is the police, we’re going to get you out of here so bear with us but we found wires behind the door. If it’s a booby trap, tap once. If not, tap twice.”
Bump. Bump.
“Okay, good. If it’s safe to mess with the door, tap once. If not, tap twice.”
Bump.
“Good. If the door is operated by a remote, tap once.”
Bump.
“If the remote’s in the hou—”
Hard bump.
Milo ran to the kitchen door.
That one was easy to pry and he was back in a couple of minutes, brandishing a black plastic module sporting a single square white button.
Standard cheapie, adaptable to anything running on a circuit.
One finger-push and we were in.
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.
Children Are For Loving
THE GREEN TREE OF LIFE IS NURTURED BY THE FOUNTAIN OF CARING
Families Are the Glue; Love Is the Craft
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.
CHAPTER 40
I approached slowly.
Rambla brightened with recognition. Then her little face clouded and constricted. Shuddering, she jerked away from me, clutched her mother.
Cody in the fleabag, now this.
Both kids reverting to primal survival impulse, genetically encoded eons ago: Make yourself small.
As Rambla fought to burrow into her mother, Ree capped the child’s head with a protective hand.
I backed away.
Ree’s eyes bounced around. “They’re crazy!” Her voice quaked like that of an old woman.
“I know—”
“We need to go now.” Lifting her shackled leg. Rambla trembled and mewled.
I glanced back at Milo. On the phone. “Soon.”
I stood there, making sure to pose no threat to anyone.
Rambla hazarded a peek at me. I smiled. Her lips vibrated and tears streamed out of her eyes and tiny fingers began clawing her mother’s nightgown.
“C’mon, now,” said Ree. “Baby-dolly’s okay baby-dolly okay, ’sokay …”
Rambla mumbled, “Nuhnuhnuh,” and broke into sobs.
Ree looked at me. “I can’t help her.”
I said, “You’re doing fine.”
“We need to go.”
“We’ll get you out of here.”
She clutched Rambla tighter, rocked faster. “Both of us.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I, Ree. You’re her only mother.”
She studied me. “You,” she said. As if seeing me for the first time. “You hold me.”
Mother sank into my embrace but daughter cried harder, letting loose tears and gasps and sprays of mucus that glazed my sleeve.
Ree’s comforting chant lowered to a mechanical drone. “ ’Sokay, baby dolly, ’sokay …”
I focused on Milo’s phone conversation, 911 request for Fire Rescue, specifying bolt cutters, a “freed hostage situation.” Then the lieutenant at Van Nuys station.
Rambla never stopped crying.
When the sirens sounded, Ree Sykes said, “That’s beautiful.”
With both victims hustled away in an ambulance and an army of techs ready to do their thing, the entire property became a crime scene.
Milo and I returned to the unmarked. Leaning against the van and kicking the tire the way he had with the garage wall, he followed up with Moe Reed.
Reed said, “Didn’t call you, El Tee, because she’s not coming back there right now, drove into Burbank, Marie Callender’s, she’s having lunch. That gave me a chance to look into her car. She’s a slob, but no baby stuff and nothing overtly weird.”