Broken Prey

here’re Shrake and the woman.”
     
    THEY SAW SHRAKE coming down the hill, one hand on the woman’s arm. Jenkins, who had apparently stopped to light a cigarette, trailed unhappily behind.
    The woman, Sandy, was young and round faced, and dishwater blond. She looked concerned in the way that nurses looked concerned when told of pain and illness—a kind of reflexive sympathy.
    “Can you help us?” Lucas asked. “He’s wedged himself inside.”
    “I can try,” she said, looking doubtfully at the soles of the gym shoes. “He gets scared sometimes.” She knelt: “Mike? This is Sandy,” she shouted. “This is Sandy from the cafeteria. The police don’t want to arrest you, they want you to help them. They need you to help them catch somebody else.”
    Nothing.
    “Mike, you’re going to hurt yourself if you stay in there. You’ll run out of air . . .”
     
    SHE CONTINUED TO TALK , reassuring sometimes, pleading other times. There were muffled replies, but no movement, and nobody could decipher what West was saying. West twisted and retwisted his feet, but gave no sign of giving up. Lucas finally stepped away and asked Shrake, “How’re you guys doing?”
    “Gettin’ tired. I’m too old for this all-night and all-day shit.”
    Jenkins blew some smoke and nodded: “Me too.”
    Shrake said, “Butt me,” and Jenkins held out a pack of Marlboros. Shrake took one and lit it with an antique brass Zippo; the smell of lighter fluid hung in the air for a moment.
    “I really appreciate all this,” Lucas said, gesturing down the hillside. “Put in for every minute of overtime. I’ll sign anything reasonable. And you don’t have to stay here—you can take off if you want.”
    “I’d like to see the little asshole’s face before we go,” Shrake said. “That’s all I’ve seen of him.” He nodded at the hole. “The bottom of his feet.”
    Sandy shouted, “We’re having pumpkin pie tonight, that’s your favorite.”
    “You want me to get him out of there?” Jenkins asked.
    “With whipped cream,” Sandy yelled.
    “He’s really wedged in,” Lucas said.
    “Fuck a bunch of wedges. Let me talk to him for a minute. And get that broad out of there, she ain’t helping the situation.”
    “I don’t want him gassed . . . ,” Lucas warned.
    “I ain’t gonna gas him, for Christ’s sake,” Jenkins said. “Just let me talk to him.”
    “Whatever,” Lucas said. “No saps.”
    “Get the broad out of there.”
     
    THEY TOLD SANDY that they might have to work on another concept and eased her away from the hole. She went up the hill white-faced, looking back, afraid the cops were going to do something weird, like shoot West in the feet.
    Jenkins did do something weird. He leaned into the hillside, fumbled around West’s shoes for a moment, then started untying one. He took his time getting it loose: West twisted his feet around, trying to get away from the hands, but apparently couldn’t get any deeper into the hole.
    “You know what I’m doing, Mikey?” Jenkins shouted into the hole. “I’ve been looking for you for two days. I’m really tired, and now you’re fuckin’ with me. So I’m gonna take your fuckin’ shoes off, and if you don’t come out of there, I’m gonna throw them in the fuckin’ river. ’Cause I’m pissed off.”
    There was more muffled noise from inside the hole, more foot twisting, and then Jenkins, still taking his time, pulled the first shoe off. There was a sock under it, black and shriveled and wet with sweat or river water. The ankle above it was almost as black as the sock. Jenkins touched neither.
    “That’s one shoe,” he yelled into the hole. “I’m gonna put it right here, until I get the second one. Then I’m going to throw them into the fuckin’ river, I swear to God.”
    He started working on the second shoe, taking time to untie it, and suddenly one of West’s legs extended a few inches, and then the other, and then the first one a few more. Somebody said, “He’s coming,” and with some muffled shouting, Mike West squirmed out of the hole, tears in his eyes, dragging a plastic garbage bag behind him. “Don’t take my shoes, man,” he said to Jenkins. “Don’t take my shoes.”
    “I ain’t gonna take your shoes,” Jenkins said. He sat back and took the Marlboros out of his pocket. “You want a smoke?”
     
    WEST WAS A PHYSICAL WRECK. He was short, skinny to the point of emaciation. His face was grimed with dirt,