The space she was looking at was completely dark.
“Hello?” she called out again.
This time she heard a noise. No words, just a scuffling sound.
Pine shone her light into the dark. A set of steps was revealed.
“Hello, my name is Atlee Pine. I’m with the FBI. Is anyone down there? I’m here to help.”
The sound she had heard could have been rats. But you didn’t have a secret space to keep rats in. And they didn’t wear jeans.
She started down the steps, the light in one hand, her pistol in the other.
“Hello? Please show yourself. I’m here to help you. Are you being held against your will? Where is the woman who lives here? Dolores Venuti?”
Now Pine could hear heavy breathing and whimpering, as though whoever was down here was terrified beyond belief. For a moment she thought it might be Desiree. But this couldn’t be a hiding place for the woman. She had looked at the underside of the trap door. The key only worked from the outside.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”
She reached the bottom of the space and had to bend low because the height of the rest of the room was only around four feet. This had to be the rear of the house, where the grade dictated the high foundation. She decided to squat on her haunches and illuminate the area with her light. She shivered because it was chilly down here. The space obviously wasn’t climate controlled, and she figured the outside was right on the other side of the wall. She pointed her light to the left and slowly went to the right.
She saw, with growing horror, the elements of someone living down here. Plywood and cinderblock shelves with clothes piled on them. A torn bean bag chair with a pair of worn lime green Converse sneakers lying on top. A battery-powered lantern. A stack of magazines. A mattress with covers and a single pillow strewn haphazardly over it.
Then Pine tensed when she saw the sock-clad foot. She slowly lifted the flashlight and the beam traveled upward, along the legs clothed in jeans, past the waist, rode up the baggy sweatshirt, and finally came to rest on the young, terrified face staring back at her, the eyes squinting as the beam drilled into them.
Pine lowered the light and said, “I’m with the FBI. I’m here to help you”—she looked around at what was obviously a prison—“get out of here.”
The girl balled herself up tighter and shrank deeper into the corner in which she was cowering. She had a blanket half wrapped around her because of the chill. As Pine raised the light beam to show the girl’s face, it shook back and forth as though answering Pine’s statement with disbelief and also a refusal of the offered help.
Pine put her gun back into its holster and took out her badge. She turned the light on herself, so the girl could see both Pine’s face and the shiny FBI shield.
“I’m with the FBI. Do you know what that is? I’m a federal cop.”
Pine turned the light on the girl once more to see her reaction. She looked even more terrified, if that was possible.
Pine slid over, snagged the lantern, and turned it on. The light feebly illuminated the space, but it was strong enough that Pine could put her flashlight away. She sat cross-legged on the floor across from the girl and studied her. To Pine, she looked to be around thirteen or fourteen, with gangly arms and legs, about five five. Her skin was as pale as milk, her build scrawny. There were bruises on her face, and a cut on her lip. Her hair was blond, stringy, and dirty looking. The eyes were of someone who distrusted everyone and everything.
“Can you tell me your name?”
The girl hugged herself and shriveled back.
Pine said quietly, “I can get you out of here. Do you want to be . . . free?”
The girl shook her head and finally spoke. “N-no.”