Forty Words for Sorrow

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?"