Jason Pinter - The Stolen

The man stepped into the light, and I finally got a better look at him.

His graying hair was full, skin worn and weatherbeaten.

The crow's-feet at his eyes actually made him look handsome, like one of those blue-jeaned cowboys who spent their days on oil rigs, the kind that actually needed a Chevy flatbed. He was lean, about five foot eleven, wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. There was a thin scar about an inch long that ran down his right cheek. It was a faint line, slightly jagged, as though it hadn't been stitched up right. He took another pull, let the ash hang on the end for a long while smoldering before tapping it onto the floor.

My heart hammered in my chest. My wrists ached, and the pins and needles in my feet let me know they wouldn't be much help.

"Where is she?" I said.

"You need to be more trusting," the man said. "I told you she's fine. So you should believe that she is fine. I'm not gonna lie to you, Henry. You do me the same courtesy, and things are gonna work out just splendid for Ms.

Davies. But let's just focus on the here and now. You and me. Got it?"

"Who are you?" I said.

"Who I am isn't as important as what I have to offer," he said.

"I don't want anything from you," I spat. "People know

I'm here. That door's gonna get busted in any second and

I'm gonna laugh as they haul your ass away."

"Really…they're coming for you, huh? Who, the CIA?

FBI? Batman? Guess you wouldn't mind then if I leave your girl alone for a few weeks. She won't need food or water since, you know, they're coming for her."

"You're making a mistake," I said. "She doesn't belong here."

"Well, she's here. No changing that now. Anyway, back to what I was saying. I have something to offer you, Henry, and if you're as smart as I think you are you'll take this offer."

"What is it?" I said.

"It's simple, really," the man said, taking another puff.

"I need you to tell me everything the good doctor told you and everything you know about the kids. Spare no detail.

It's very important you lay all your cards on the table. And if you do just that, and I believe you, behind door number one will be your girlfriend's life. You spill, she lives. You don't spill, her blood does. Simple as that."

"I'll take the offer," I said, "because we don't know anything. Petrovsky didn't say a word to us. Now, let us go."

"Oh, come on, Henry, you think it's that easy? You think that's it? Nah, we can get some more out of you."

He took the cigarette from his mouth. Looked at the filtered end.

"Chesterfields," he said. "Just about heaven. Can't find the unfiltered bastards anywhere nowadays, but smoke enough of these and they do the trick."

"Hope that lung cancer acts mighty quick," I said.

"If it gets me, it gets me," he said. "But I'll go out with a smile."

A spark fell off the end of the butt. I watched it flutter to the ground. I moved my wrists around, tried to feel the pipe where my hands were tied, sliding my fingers back and forth out of view until my thumb caught on something.

A piece of metal. Something jutting out from the pipe.

The man reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet.

He pulled out a one-dollar bill. Held it up in front of me.

Then he took the lit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly he brought the cigarette to the bill. There was a crackling sound as the lit end burned a perfect circle through the paper.

When the cigarette had passed through, he held up the bill, looked at me through the hole, smiled. "Peekaboo, I see you."

He walked toward me, still holding the lit cigarette. As he got closer, the light illuminated the man more. I began to shiver, my bare torso shaking. Then I noticed something that nearly made me gag. Covering the man's arms were a road map of small, white marks. Scars. Perfectly round.

They were cigarette burns. And there were dozens of them.

"So what did Petrovsky tell you?" he said, his voice frighteningly calm.

"I told you, nothing. Leave us alone."

He scratched his chin, looked at me. "Hmm…no."

He took another step forward, leaned down and pressed the lit end of the cigarette against my chest.

I screamed as I heard the sound of burning, waves of pain shooting through me as I bucked and tried to kick to no avail. The pain was horrific. I hoped I would pass out.

Finally the man removed the cigarette from my skin.

Then he leaned over and blew gently on the spot where he'd just burned me.

"That's gonna leave a mark," he said.

I was panting. I could felt sweat pouring down my body, getting into my eyes. I felt around where my hands were bound, found that piece of metal I'd felt before. I rubbed it with my thumb. It was a screw attached to a bolt.

The end of the screw jutted out from the metal about half an inch. Just maybe…

I slowly moved my wrists until the half-inch screw was fitted snugly inside one of the loops of knot that bound my wrists. I moved it slowly up and down, back and forth, trying to loosen the knot, to create some slack.

The man tossed his cigarette onto the floor, stubbed it out with his shoe. "I hate to waste one, but I don't think you taste quite as good on the end of a butt as tobacco does."

My breath was ragged, but I tried to focus. I gently tugged down on my wrist bonds, felt the reassuring pull that the screw was fastened inside the knot. I began to work it more, continuously pressing my wrists against the metal to wedge it in even farther. I nearly gasped when I realized the screw was in as far as it would go. I'd created a hole in the knot. Now all I had to do was make it bigger.

"Do you smoke?" the man asked.

"Fuck you," I said.

"That's a brand I'm unfamiliar with. But since you seem to be full of answers now, I'll ask again. What did

Petrovsky tell you?"

"He told me your mother's a whore and your father liked to dress up like Raggedy Ann for Christmas."

The man sighed deeply. I didn't care. The longer we played this game the more time I had. I felt the knot begin to loosen, and soon I was able to slip my index finger inside the knot hole. I pulled down on the screw, worked the loop with my finger, felt it began to slip more. I couldn't let him notice, so I did it slowly. Methodically.

My chest hurt like hell, but I blocked it out. Amanda was somewhere in this house, and even if I did talk, there was no way I trusted this guy to let her live. Rule number one, when a sociopath makes a promise, believe the opposite.

"First time I got burned by one of these," the man said,

"I was serving time up in Attica. The guards, hoo, man, the guards. They sure liked to have their fun with us. One of the prisoners got out of line, talked back, caused a ruckus at the mess hall, they'd take a lit butt to the guy's armpit. Maybe the bottom of his feet. Something sweet like that. Something that wouldn't go away so fast. At least it would smell sweet after they got done with you. I guess you can see they did a little number on my arms here. Fifty-two, if I counted right, and I won't even get into the rest of my body. 'Course, one time they burnt my arches so bad I couldn't walk for a week. So first thing I did when we got a hold of that place? When us boys took over that prison back in '71? I took a cig, lit the mother up, and stuck it in that same man's eye until it started smoking."

I heard the strike of another match, and he lit another cigarette. Another Chesterfield.

"Did you know," he said, taking a long drag, "that the human hand alone has more than nine thousand nerve endings and six hundred pain sensors? And most of that is concentrated in the fingertips?"

"Yeah, I learned that back in health class."

"What do you think it would feel like to experience mind-numbing pain in the most sensitive area of your body? Do you think you'd enjoy that? Better yet, do you think Ms. Davies would enjoy that?"