David Wiltse - Into The Fire

"But I know how to be mean," he said, ignoring her.

He moved the candle until it was directly in front of her face, six inches away from her skin. His own face was behind the flame, the features dancing in the flickering light like a jack-o-lantern. So slowly that it took Aural a moment to realize what was happening, he moved the flame towards her eyes. She watched with fascinated horror as the flame inched closer and closer.

"Tell me when you're sorry that you woke me up at two in the morning," he said softly. Aural did not look at him; she could see only the bright orange flame creeping ever nearer. The fire filled her field of vision, blocking out anything else, and she fought a scream that wanted to tear loose from her chest. Not my eyes, she thought, terrified.

When the warmth of the candle turned to heat, she blew it out.

Swann emitted a grunt of anger, then the cigarette lighter snapped into flame again. He relit the candle and set it on the ground, too far away for her to blow it out again.

He sat with his arms on his knees, studying her as if she were an enigma that he had just stumbled across.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked at last.

"You mean you don't know? I was counting on you to have it all figured out."

"Shut up," — he said softly.

"If it's up to me, I say let's play another game entirely.

How about the one where I stick you in the sack and set you on fire?

You'll like that one, I promise. I'm good at it."

"I said be quiet. I'm trying to think."

"While you're thinking, open a can. I'll have the beans."

To Aural's amazement, he smiled at her.

"All right," he said. "Since you're so eager to get at it, I'm up now anyway. Beans do sound good, don't they?"

He released Aural from the sack, undid her handcuffs from the ankle irons so that she could stretch and feed herself, and fed her beans and peaches.

"Eat up," he said. "You're going to need your strength. This will be a longer session than before since we've got more time."

"More time to kill, you mean," Aural said.

"That's good. I like that. More time to kill. That's good."

"I've got hundreds of them," Aural said.

"I like women with a sense of humor," Swann said.

"I spent three years living with a gorilla who had the sense of humor of a rock."

"I think I used to date him," Aural said. "Did he have a tattoo on his butt?"

Swann giggled. "You're funny," he said.

"You're a little strange yourself. In a very interesting way. I can see why the girls like you."

"They do, you know," he said soberly. "You're yjoking, but they do. My girls love me-at the end. You will, too, you'll see."

"Do you get those headaches a lot?" Aural asked abruptly. "I heard you crying last night."

"I wasn't crying."

"You ought to have that looked at."

"Your boyfriend did it to me," he said. "The one who beat me up in town."

"Harold Kershaw? He always was a favorite of mine.

He let me set him on fire, he liked it so much he can't let me go. You sure you wouldn't let me try it with you?"

Swann pushed his can of beans from him and took Aural's from her hands.

"How about if I visit the little girls' room before we start again?" she asked.

"All right."

He tied the rope around her waist and gave her a candle.

As she walked towards the graveyard, Aural thought of how she might slip a shinbone in her shirt when she squatted. If she kept it hidden long enough, she could pull it out when she got within range and hit him on the head.

Halfway there, the rope grew taut.

"I'm going in the right direction," she complained.

"I know it," Swann said. He was crossing quickly to her, holding the lantern. As she started to turn to face him, he kicked her legs out from under her and rolled her onto her stomach before refastening the handcuffs so that her hands were secured behind her back, making any attempt to get a bone impossible.

Swann grinned at her. "You mustn't ever think I'm stupid," he said.

"That would be a serious mistake."

"I sure don't want to get on your bad side," Aural said.

"You're just a little too eager," he said, hauling her to her feet.

When she returned, he shackled her hands to her ankles once more.

"Let us pray," he said.

"Praise be to Jesus," said Aural.

He looked at her, pleased.

"Would you like to lead the prayer, sister Aural?"

"Not just yet," Aural said.

"Or sing? Would you sing a hymn for us?"

"I'd rather get burned by cigarettes," she said.

"Very well."

He lit a cigarette and coughed at the smoke.

"I think this relationship is coming along nicely, don't you?" Aural asked. The last words were lost in her involuntary gasp as he touched her.

Becker lived with the tape of his meeting with Swann, turning it on in the morning after Jack was off to school and turning it off only when the boy had returned home.

During the late afternoon and the preparation for the evening meal, Becker acted as if nothing were different, joking and playing with Jack, helping him with his homework, trying to make the mysteries of beginning science and mathematics less arcane. When Karen came home he was still buoyant, almost jolly, but when Jack had gone at last to bed, Becker retired to the office and turned on the tape once more, playing it with the volume low. It was no longer the words he was listening to but the rhythms, the pauses, the stops and starts, the sudden, fleeting fermatas that bespoke lies.

You have a rep," Swann's voice said on the tape.

"I'll bet," came his own reply.

"I hear you climb, you climb mountains. You're a rock climber, right?" A pause, no response from Becker, then Swann's voice again, a trace of triumph. "You'd be surprised how much they know about you."

"You a climber, Swann?" Becker could hear the strain in his voice as though it were filtered through the discomfort he felt in the little cell, the unease he experienced in the presence of Swann. I was off balance already, Becker thought, pausing the tape. One minute into the interview and already so skewed by my problems that I wasn't listening right. Swann was telling him what he wanted to know. They always told him; they could not help themselves; they were always so pleased, so proud of their ghastly accomplishments that they could not help but reveal it in some way. The hardest thing for such psychopaths was keeping the secret to themselves; the great trick was to listen. In this interview Becker had listened only to himself But he could hear it clearly now.

"Well… not really. I worked with ropes a little bit, I know what's involved. That's scary work."

He's'playing on your ego there, Becker thought. And why? To cover himself "Not so scary if you know the safe way," Becker said on the tape. In his own home, Becker squirmed with irritation at his own stupidity. "You ever try it?"

"I believe in gravity," Swann was saying. "If it tells me to go down, I go down."

Becker turned off the tape and glanced at the clock. It was close to four in the morning. He had run through the entire tape dozens of times, trying to filter his own ego out of it. He rewound it and played the same section over.

Karen was asleep, or pretending to be. Becker watched her for a moment from the doorway, then walked through the darkened house to Jack's room.

Becker looked lovingly at the boy asleep; innocence, all innocence. He turned away from the door and went outdoors to stand alone in the yard.

He felt like howling. He was giving it up, giving it all up as surely as if he were leaving the earth. When he returned, he would be too vile to live with them again, he thought. His hands would be too bloody, his soul too restless. Innocence deserved to be protected; it could not be entrusted to the ravening beast. Listening to the tapes, Becker had found Swann, but he had lost what he loved.