He cranes to break the window, cotton double-wrapped around his fist. It takes two mesmerizing punches. We all duck our heads as glass shatters, and I swear under my breath at how my body involuntarily responded to everything he just did.
He misreads my cussing and eyes me, “You get cut?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
Celia warns him, “Be careful of the jagged glass in the frame.”
“Not my first broken window.”
“I know, I just…” she trails off.
Antsy at having to stay behind with us, while his brother goes inside to unlock the door, Atlas jerks his chin up. “Get on with it. It’s no secret we’re here now.”
“Was it ever?” I smirk.
Luke uses the balled-up cotton to shake glass from the frame. He grabs the side of it, but it’s too high. I tuck my gun away and put my wrists together, palms flat, fingers clawed out. Luke uses my prop to lift himself up, steps in it with one boot like those cheerleader moves to get onto the human pyramid. In two seconds he’s climbing into the house.
Celia whisper-yells, “Arm yourself!”
“Jeezus, Celia, he knows what to do,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Sorry.”
We hear the deadbolt click free and the door swings open to reveal Luke tucking his shirt in his back pocket. Can’t invite the possibility of invisible glass shards cutting and distracting him now that we’re in. He readies his gun, face somber, and shirtless. I roll my eyes because he’s annoyingly sexy.
We search the shopkeeper’s home. In his kitchen are two filthy machines for candy making. The only spotless places are the foyer, small living room and guest bathroom. His bedroom is just plain gross. Everywhere the curtains are extra thick, impenetrable by light. This house is a cheaply built 1970’s model, falling apart except for the façade he keeps for potential visitors. I’m getting angrier every step I take.
At the basement, Luke and Atlas tell us they’re going down without us.
“Fuck that,” I snap, “We all go,” yanking the feeble door open to lead the way. As soon as I head down the stairs I cover my mouth. “Oh no.”
Luke’s right behind me. “Shit! Celia, stay back!”
She does as he asks, groaning as she catches the whiff, “Noooooo!”
Atlas grimaces, too. “What the fuck are we gonna find down here…”
The unmistakable scent of death assaults us as we gag and cover our mouths. This odor you never get used to when you care as much as we do.
Atlas hits the light switch on an old lamp, illuminating the dank room.
“Video camera,” he says, pointing to it.
Luke digs through shelves of mini-tapes. “I can tell you one thing, I’ll never watch these fucking things.”
“This is what we pay taxes for,” Atlas mutters, picking up a tape and sneering at it. “And why cops get good retirement, poor bastards.”
“Guys,” I rasp, pulling back a curtain and pointing at a well-made bed. Why the covers are so tidily pulled up with a stuffed animal on their pillow is an image that will haunt me for years. I’ve got hundreds of them stored in my psyche, memories I have to live with of things I’ve seen on the road. I find solace in one thing. Knowing we get to make the sick fucks of the world, pay. If it was all pain, I couldn’t do this. But most days I get to bring justice to those who need it.
The brothers stare at the bed with me.
Luke pulls back another curtain, covering his mouth. “Look at all the trash bags.” He and Atlas stand above the nearest one and flick glances to each other before silently agreeing to open it together. They pull the plastic back and shove it closed, gagging.
“We have to call the police this time,” Luke says as he locks eyes with me. “Don’t look in there.”
I sway and press my hand on the wall, feeling ill. “A child?”
“Plural.”
Atlas coughs a sound nearing vomit. He backs away. “There aren’t enough missing kids in town for all of this.”
“Then he must be traveling,” Luke says, “Finding more. Bringing them back here.”
I lose my temper, motioning around us. “How long has this been going on? There has to be what, a dozen bags?! How many children were in that one?”
Luke and Atlas say, “Three.”
“Guys!” Celia screams, “SOFIA!”
We jump to attention, adrenaline pumping as we run up the stairs.
Atlas first.
I’m last.
I hear the gun shot.
My heart jumps into my throat.
I scream her name.
Push Luke from the doorframe.
He’s frozen, staring.
“CELIA!”
He moves and I burst into the foyer, see my best friend standing above the shopkeeper, gun steady in her hand. She releases the trigger as a pool of thick red liquid expands around his fallen torso, half in the living room, legs sprawled around her feet. He’s dressed like a normal person, hair neatly trimmed, but his lungs are heaving as he claws at the fatal wound in his chest, wild eyes darting as he gurgles through blood, “I’m dying! Call an ambulance, I’m dying! Help!”
Celia’s voice is clear and low. “He snuck up. Tried to choke me. Didn’t expect my training.”
Luke walks over to the perverted piece of shit, locks eyes, curls his upper lip as he says, “When you get down there, tell Satan we’re coming for him, one abomination like you at a time.”
Atlas and I flank Celia as she steps back and lowers her weapon. He puts his arm around her. She lays her head on his shoulder, but doesn’t close her eyes. The four of us somberly watch as final breaths are gasped, as eyes glaze over, lifeless. Forever.
Luke nods to Celia. “You say this was self-defense, ya hear me?”
She stares at the dead man. “Defense for all the little selves he hurt. And all the selves who will miss their children.” She removes Atlas’s arm, and walks outside.
We exchange a look and I tell them, “Call the police. I’ll go talk to
