Damaged Goods by Austin Camacho

at?”
    After sharing Marquita’s address, Hannibal considered the present challenge of cleaning her up. He decided it had to be a multi-step process. First, he lowered her head to the relatively clean pillow. He pulled the down comforter from her bed and folded it twice lengthwise on the floor. Next, he lifted her from the bed, startled at how light she was, and lowered her sleeping form onto the comforter. Then he pulled the sheets from the bed. In the fully finished basement he found both a laundry area and a linen closet. After shoving the soiled sheets into the washer he went back upstairs, madethe bed and transferred his charge to the fresh, crisp sheets. Her faint moan implied that even in her sleep she appreciated the difference.
    The next step was to clean out the available poisons. Starting with a sweep of the bedroom and progressing to a full circuit of the house, Hannibal picked up a veritable saloon’s worth of bottles, most of which had been opened but only one or two already empty. The woman was partial to serious whiskey - Jack Daniels, Yukon Jack, Jim Beam, Chivas Regal, and Courvoisier. He found a trash bag under the kitchen sink and filled it with the bottles.
    As he opened the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom, Hannibal wondered if his actions would meet Dr. Roberts’ definition of compulsive behavior. Here he was, scanning a total stranger’s shelves for drugs that might offer themselves to abuse. He supposed she could sue him for emptying prescription bottles into her toilet. Had she asked for a guardian angel? The truth was that he had shoved himself into her life without invitation, or even permission. His internal monologue halted when his fingers wrapped around an unmarked vial. It contained white pills, marked “Roche” on one side with a small number “2” under the word.
    The doorbell jerked his head around.
    â€œSarge,” he said, pocketing the bottle as he jogged down the stairs. A grim face greeted him when he opened the door. Sarge stood in a black, sleeveless tee shirt and jeans, a baseball bat in his right fist.
    â€œAll right, what’s the problem here?”
    Movement spotted over Sarge’s shoulder froze Hannibal’s answer in his throat. Was someone actually crouching behind the car parked across the street? Hannibal pulled Sarge inside while his left hand eased toward the holster under is right arm. The world became very still, except for the stuttering crackle of crickets. He slipped his sunglasses from his face, staring hard at the BMW across the street. After a full minute of staring his eyes ached, but he saw no signs of life. Irritated with himself, he drew Sarge inside and closed the door.
    â€œMan, something’s sure got you jumpy,” Sarge said. “Whatthe hell is going on?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Hannibal said, heading for the kitchen. “I thought I saw something. Been thinking I was being followed, but not really sure.”
    Hannibal pulled a glass out of a cabinet and rinsed it several times before filling it with water. It carried the sharp taste of chlorine and fluoride and all the other things they add to city water to kill germs and discourage human consumption. While he drank, Sarge looked around the kitchen, and then glanced into the living room.
    â€œMaid’s day off?”
    â€œMaid’s month off I think,” Hannibal said after his drink. “The woman who lives here, she’s in bad shape. She needs looking after, and I needed somebody who’d stay here all night and baby-sit. Somebody I could trust to stay alert, and could also trust to not do anything to harm her.”
    Sarge nodded his comprehension. “Bad shape? In what way?”
    To answer, Hannibal waved Sarge to follow him. They mounted the spiraling staircase in silence, as if they were walking through a library, or a morgue. At the bedroom, Hannibal eased the door open. A narrow shaft of light fell