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?"

The kid nodded furiously: he's got it, he's clear.

"Make one fucking sound and we're both up shit creek. There's only one door out of here and if we lose the element of surprise, you can kiss that exit goodbye, I mean it. Make a noise, I'll poke a hole in your liver."

The kid was nodding like a maniac. Shit, Woody could dash up the basement steps and be out the side door in a flash and- Oh Christ, we got footsteps right overhead.

"Here's what we do," he said, slitting the tape around the kid's ankle. "I cut you free, you put on my coat, and we're out the side door. I got a ChevyVan waiting across the street." He wouldn't have to tell the kid to run.

He set the other foot free. Already the kid was trying to stand up, still attached to the chair. "Hold on. Hold on, for Chrissake!" Were those voices closer? One wrist was free, and before he could finish with the other the kid ripped the tape from his mouth and was out of control again, setting up a holler. Woody slammed a hand over the kid's mouth and brandished the knife, but it was too late: The voices upstairs were suddenly charged, the footsteps fast and heavy.

Woody started on the last of the tape- fuck the kid's noise- but the kid didn't wait for him to finish. He was on his feet, still attached to the chair by one wrist and he was pushing past Woody taking the chair with him. He flung open the door, and there was the weaselly-looking guy with a gun.

The kid shoved past, the chair clattering with him up the stairs.

"You can't get out," the man said over his shoulder, but staring at Woody. The kid was already at the top of the stairs, bare-assed, banging his shoulder into the door, but Woody knew there wasn't a door on earth that broke like they did in the movies.

"Be cool," Woody said to the weasel guy. "No need for violence."

Weasel looked him up and down, no rush about it. "Maybe I like violence."

"Here's the deal: I leave your VCR and shit, and you let the kid go. I don't know what he did- probably you have every right to kick his ass- but you can't keep a kid tied up in a basement. It ain't right."

The kid was still slamming away at the door, still doing the banshee thing.

"Shut up," the man said toward the stairs. "Guy's fucking hysterical."

"Yeah, he's definitely upset. Look, man, I gotta go."

The weasel left the doorway and went to the bottom of the stairs. "Keith," he said sharply. "Get downstairs right now."

"No way, man! I'm out of here!"

The man went to the bottom step, held the gun a foot away from the boy's leg, and pulled the trigger.

The kid shrieked and fell down the stairs, clutching his thigh. He was rolling on the concrete floor, when the man kicked his chin like he was trying for a field goal and the kid went still.

"Jesus Christ, man." It was all Woody could manage and he repeated it a couple of times. "You didn't have to do that."

"Sit down in that chair."

"No, sir. Negative. Obviously you're pissed off, but let's be realistic here." There was no way in hell he was going to let himself be tied up. This was one sick weasel.

"Sit down in that chair or I'll shoot you, too."

"He woke Gram up"- this surreal offering from the top of the stairs, where the woman now stood gripping the rail. "All his damn screaming." She came down a couple of steps and stood over the kid. "I ought to pee all over your face."

"He broke into your house, Edie. He was stealing your VCR."

The woman looked at Woody. "It so happens that VCR means a lot to me. It has sentimental value."

"Okay. I hear you. I'm just in it for the cash, know what I mean?"

"Fuck, Eric. Let's kill him."

"Videos, hey, I love 'em, too, you know? Me and the wife'll rent a Clint Eastwood now and again- well, I like Clint. She likes the stuff about sisters and girlfriends and that. But, hey- a good movie, some popcorn, we love it!" Make a little conversation, get on their good side, works wonders with the cops sometimes.

"Shoot him, Eric," the woman said with feeling. "Shoot him in the belly."

"Listen, you guys- Edie, Eric. Obviously, I'm not welcome here, so I'll just go, okay? I'll just hit the road. Sorry for the inconvenience and shit. I apologize."

"That van outside, the blue one, is that yours?"

"The ChevyVan, yeah. And the fact is, Eric, I parked in a bad spot. Snow removal. She's gonna get towed if I don't move her."

The man didn't react to this at all. He was sighting down the barrel at Woody's belly.

"Eric?" The woman came down another couple of steps and watched them intently, her mouth open a little. There was something wrong with her face. "Why don't you break his nose?"

Woody was gauging the distance to the gun, still in the man's hand, still pointed at his stomach.

"It's something I'd like to see," the woman went on. "Hear the bone break and everything."