Max Collins - Scratch Fever

“Where’s Logan?” He said.

“Logan?” she said.

“Or Nolan. Whatever he’s calling himself here.”

“He lives here,” she said. Stupidly, she thought.

“We know ,” the other’s voice said. She sat up, so she could see the other man. He was over turning off the TV, then crouching to look through the albums under the stereo. Looking through the records. Jesus. What kind of...

“Sally,” the second guy said, holding up an album. “She’s got Barry Manilow.” Then to her: “You got good taste lady. How about Rupert Holmes? You got Rupert Holmes?”

“Uh, no,” she said. What the fuck...

“Put some records on, Infante,” the first one, Sally, said. “Put on the live Manilow album.”

“That thing where he does the medley of commercials kills me,” Infante said. He had the slightest speech impediment: Elmer Fudd after therapy.

“Does it kill you?” Sally asked her, smiling, apparently amused by his flaky partner.

“I hope not,” Sherry said.

“So do I,” Sally said. “I don’t like killing things, but I will if I have to. So will Infante, won’t you, Infante? It was Infante killed the dog. I didn’t have the heart to.”

She brought her hand up to her face, bit her knuckles. She tried to hold back the tears, the trembling. It was no use. Barry Manilow was singing, “Even now...”

“Go ahead and cry, dear. Infante!”

Infante was right there, like a fast cut in a movie. “Yeah, Sally?”

“Check out the house. This Logan or whoever isn’t here, but check out the lay of the land, and then get the lady some Kleenex. Her makeup’s starting to run.”

“Sure, Sally.”

And Infante was gone.

Sally smiled; that the face was vaguely like Nolan’s did nothing to reassure her — if anything, it only terrified her more. She had never been so scared; she’d never been so conscious of her heart, pounding in her chest, as if trying to get out.

Sally touched her arm; his touch was cold as a snake.

“If you rape me,” she said, tightly, teeth clenched, “Nolan’ll kill you.”

Sally laughed; it was almost a gentle laugh. He patted her arm. “We’re not going to rape you.” Then Infante was there, holding the Kleenex out to Sally, who took it and passed it on to Sherry. “We’re not going to rape her, are we, Infante?”

Infante looked at Sherry as though she was a slug. “Are you kidding?”

Sally held Sherry’s hand; in the background Barry Manilow sang. Sally said, “All we want to know is where Nolan is.”

Sherry said nothing.

“Is he coming back soon?”

Sherry said nothing.

“He’s out of town, isn’t he?”

Sherry said nothing.

Sally said, “Flick your Bic, would you, Infante?”

“Sure,” Infante said. He got his lighter out. Sally held both of Sherry’s arms down while Infante grasped both of her feet around the ankles and locked them in the crook of one arm as he held the lighter’s flame to the bottom of her right foot, just under the toes.

She screamed. The pain was intense; it went on forever.

“Three seconds,” Sally said to her. “You want to try for ten?”

“Please...”

“I don’t get pleasure from this. Infante doesn’t get pleasure from this. Do you, Infante?”

Infante, still gripping her ankles, grinned and said, “No.”

“If we were sadists,” Sally said, leaning in close, “we’d burn your face, not the bottom of your feet.” He blew against her cheek; his breath was minty.

“There’s nothing I can tell you,” she managed.

“Infante. Flick your Bic.”

“No!”

“Wait a second, Infante.”

Barry Manilow was singing about the Copa; Infante was singing along, softly.

“Well?” Sally said to her.

“He didn’t tell me where he was going. He just said he’d be gone most of the day, on business.”

“Flick your Bic, Infante.”

“That’s the truth!”

The other foot, this time; the pain was searing, like a branding iron, lasting for days.

“Five seconds, that time,” Sally said. “You want to get serious, dear? Or you’ll never dance again.”

Infante snickered at that, still singing to himself.

“I’m telling the truth!” she said.

Sally thought about that.

“Please,” she said, “he didn’t tell me, he didn’t tell me, why should he bother telling me?”

“When will he be home?”

“I thought he’d be back by now. He said about midnight.”

Sally let go of her arms, looked at his watch. “Jesus,” he said to himself.

“Maybe she’s telling the truth, Sally,” Infante said, still gripping her ankles, the lighter in hand.

“Maybe. I wouldn’t want him coming in on this, that’s for sure.”

The phone rang.

Sally looked at her sharply. “Could that be him?”

She nodded.

“Where’s the phone?”

Another ring.

“In the kitchen,” she said.

Infante said, “Extension’s in the bedroom,” releasing her ankles and running to the bedroom.

“Pick it up on the fourth ring!” Sally called out.

He was dragging her to the kitchen; she felt the skin on her burned feet catching and tearing against the carpet.

He pushed her toward the phone, and she picked it up on the fourth ring.

It was Nolan.

She answered his questions, Sally’s automatic with its attachment kissing her neck.

Got to warn him, give him a sign, she thought.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he was saying.

“Fine,” she heard herself say.

“Bye, doll.”

“Bye, Logan.”

She hung up.

Would he pick up on it? That she’d called him Logan? Had that been warning enough?

In the other room, Barry Manilow was singing, “This Time We Made It.”

Sally dragged her back to the couch and she passed out.

NOLAN LEFT his LTD on the street, a block away, and made his way up behind the house, through the sloping woods. He stayed within the trees, not going across the lawn until he was parallel to the corner of the house — some lights on, upstairs — and then, keeping low, made for the sliding glass doors off the patio.

It had taken him just under an hour-and-a-half to get here; he’d come via Interstate 80, and no Highway Patrol had stopped him despite his speeding. He was grateful for that much. Whoever had Sherry in the house wouldn’t expect him back this soon. He was grateful for that, too. But he wished he had a gun.

Somebody inside the house had a gun. He saw the concave pucker in the glass where the bullet had gone through. Beyond it he saw the slumped form of his small dog. The door’s lock had been jimmied, so he didn’t bother with his key. He just slid it carefully open. And stepped inside.

No lights on down here. But his night vision was in full force, and moonlight came in the doors behind him, and he could see the big open room, which would be a game room when he got around to putting a pool table in. There was a fireplace, as there was upstairs, but no furniture yet. Nowhere to hide, unless it was in one of the rooms off the hallway directly across from him: the two guest bedrooms, extra john, furnace room. He stood silently for a good minute. He heard muffled sounds upstairs. Nothing down here.

He slid the door shut behind him.

He knelt and gave his dog a pat.

He didn’t have a gun. He didn’t have a goddamn gun. He’d been in such a goddamn hurry to get here, he hadn’t even stopped to ask Wagner for something. And he didn’t have anything stashed down here, no weapon of any kind. He always went to the precaution of coming in the back way, but he hadn’t bothered with stashing a gun. Stupid. He looked at the boxes stacked over against one wall. What was in those? Anything useful?