T here was a prize for the work that I did. I got to see things first.
I quickly searched the interior of Vorbe’s house. Like most houses in south Florida, it did not have a basement, or an attic, and the rooms were relatively small.
The living room and dining room, which were connected, held nothing of significance. In the back were two bedrooms. The first contained an unmade single bed, a chest of drawers, and a picture of the Virgin Mary hanging above the bed’s headboard. I banged on the closet door, but did not find any hidden spaces.
The second bedroom had been converted into a photographer’s studio. The windows were covered by blinds, the walls by black backdrops, which made the space unusually dark. A tripod and camera sat in the room’s center, and photographer lights were mounted on the walls and the ceiling.
I searched the den last. A wide-screen TV consumed one wall, a bookcase the other. The bookcase’s shelves were lined with cheap knickknacks. I tried to pick one up, and discovered it was glued down. So were the others. Grabbing the bookcase with both hands, I pulled it away from the wall.
There was a hidden door behind the bookcase, and it was dead-bolted. Buster stuck his nose to the sill, and let out a whine. I took the door down with a kick.
Buster started to go in. I hooked him by the collar, and pulled him back. I didn’t want him contaminating whatever was inside the room.
I pulled the broken door out of the way, then cautiously entered. The room’s interior was black, and I scratched the wall for a light switch. Finding none, I took another step forward, then heard a static-filled voice.
I listened hard. It was a police operator talking to a cop in a cruiser. Vorbe had been using a scanner to monitor patrol cars in the area.
I moved forward, the darkness as frightening as any imagined monster. Something touched the tip of my nose, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I reached out, and grabbed the thing that had touched me. It was a beaded metal cord that hung from the ceiling. I tugged on it, and a fluorescent light flickered to life.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I found myself standing in a two-car garage. The garage door had been replaced by a brick wall, while the other three walls had been lined with cork, soundproofing the interior.
I did a slow one-eighty. On the other side of the garage was a long wooden table with a young woman lying across it, her arms and legs bound by leather straps. Her skin was pale and white, and her eyes were tightly shut.
It was Heather Rinker.
I crossed the room and stood beside her. My hand gently touched her forehead. Her skin was ice cold, her body lifeless. The memory of Heather playing one-on-one with Jessie in the driveway of my old house flashed through my mind.
Buster jumped up on the table. Before I could pull him down, he began to lick Heather’s face. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared up at me.
“Oh, my God, Mr. Carpenter,” she whispered.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. My fingers undid the straps holding her prisoner. Heather tried to sit up, only to fall back on the table.
“Take it easy,” I said.
“Where is Mr. Vorbe?” she asked.
“In the other room.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“He’s not going anywhere. Tell me what happened.”
“I went to the grocery to buy some food, and he invited me back to his office for coffee. The next thing I remembered was waking up here.”
“Where’s Sampson?”
“In the closet. Sampson wouldn’t stop fighting with him, so Mr. Vorbe tied him up. He tried to save me, Mr. Carpenter. My baby tried to save me.”
Going to the closet, I opened the door. Sampson sat on a chair inside the closet, his arms and legs tied down with twine. A piece of duct tape covered his mouth. I had seen people die this way, and I choked back the rage building inside me.
“Hi, Sampson. My name is Jack,” I said.
Sampson looked at me, blinking tears. I put away my gun so as not to scare him any further, and gently pulled away the duct tape. Buster appeared by my side.
“This is my dog. His name is Buster. Do you like dogs?”
Sampson nodded. Buster entered the closet, and licked Sampson’s face.
“Where’s my mommy?” he asked.
“She’s right here. I’m going to take you to her.”
“Mommy!”
“I’m here, honey,” Heather called back. “Everything’s okay.”
I undid the twine while looking into his perfect little face. Every stupid thing I’d said and done in the last several days now seemed worthwhile. Sampson crawled into my arms, and I carried him across the garage to his mother. It was a perfect ending, until I heard Vorbe scream from the other side of the house.