Leslie Glass - Burning Time

“What are you doing? Are you crazy? You can’t do this. I’m—It hurts. What did you do to me? My whole body. It feels like—Oh, God, let me get up. I can’t stand this. Jesus, are you crazy?” She shivered convulsively. “I’m so cold—”

“Shut up,” Troland barked. “I could kill you. Understand?”

“Don’t kill me!” she cried. “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. I didn’t do anything. I did what you wanted. Why are you doing this?” Her words came in gulps.

“Shut up,” Troland commanded again. “Can’t you hear? I’m telling you to shut up. I’m in control here. You have to do what I say.” He stood over her waving the gun.

“Okay, okay, okay. Don’t hurt me,” she cried.

“I didn’t hurt you.” He was disgusted. She wouldn’t stop jerking her body around. “I can’t finish like this.”

“But what is it? What are you doing to me? Oh, God.” She lifted her head. “Ahhhhh.”

“SHUT UP!” Troland raised the gun to strike, but he didn’t want to damage his own work.

“You’re freaking me out. Stop it, I can’t concentrate.”

“Ahhhhh,” she cried, trying to look at herself. “What is it? What did you do to me?”

“It’s just a tattoo. Now shut up.”

“A tattoo. Jesus, a tattoo? Ooohh. A tattoo, why does it hurt all over? Oh God, it hurts all over.”

“Yeah, it’s a big one,” Troland said proudly.

“Ohhhh noooo. Ahhh,” she cried. “Oh God, oh Jesus. Oh God, no. Oh, no, you got to let me go? Oh, no. I can’t—”

It was irritating. It was good. Troland was full of rage and power, and also a feeling of impotence. He couldn’t get her to shut up, but he liked it. The fear was good. The girl was out of her mind. It was good to watch, but it was getting in the way. He wanted to finish. Yeah, watch her face as he tattooed her tit, so he could think about it. But she wouldn’t calm down. She was off the wall. He’d never seen anyone so off the wall.

He was like a squirrel in the road with a car coming on, that didn’t know which way to run. He had time, but he didn’t have time. He picked up the tattoo machine and turned it on, once, twice, three times. But each time she keened and twisted so much he couldn’t continue.

“You got to let me go. Please let me go . I can’t take it,” she cried.

“I have to pee. Let me pee. Just let me pee. I’ll come back. Just let me pee. I won’t do anything. I won’t go anywhere. You have to let a person pee.”

He couldn’t let her pee. He didn’t have handcuffs. He didn’t like them. Handcuffs made him sick. Willy, what do I do? He hadn’t thought of her having to pee. No! He couldn’t let her up. She was crazy. He couldn’t trust her. She’d start jumping around. He made a note to think about what to do when the next one had to take a leak.

“I’m going to tape your mouth again. You want that?”

“No, no, no—”

“Then shut up and let me concentrate. I’m almost finished.”

“But I can’t hold it. You want me to pee in the bed?”

“I want you to lie still and shut up.”

“But I got to pee,” she protested. “It’s not my fault.”

“You can pee when I’m finished.”

She started to cry. “Let me go. Oh, God, are you going to let me go? Oh, please.”

He turned on the machine again and freehand, while she was moving around, made a quick question mark in the soft under part of her upper arm.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she cried. “Oh, it hurts . Oh, God.”

And suddenly the bed was wet. Troland jerked back.

“Shit!” The bitch wet the bed.

Now she was crying harder. “Oh, let me go. Oh, God. It’s all wet. Please.”

She wet his mother’s bed . He could see her coming out of the wall, shaking her head with disgust. Can’t you be clean. Can’t you ever be clean?

Troland turned away from her to the girl on the bed. The girl was all wet. Wet from all the A and D ointment he had used. Wet with tears and snot and the heavy stink of sex and sweat and urine. She was still crying, begging for release. It went too far inside Troland’s head for him to come back. He struck without thinking. He leaned forward with his two hands spread, his right thumb on top of the left. The left one was the strong one. He pressed hard. He was a fixer. He fixed the place where the sound came out. Easy. One two three and her larynx was crushed.

A few minutes later, when he realized she was dead, he was upset. He had forgotten he had to brand her first. Now it was too late. He had no interest in branding a dead thing. He chided himself. He hadn’t gotten it right. Then he studied the tattoo. It was gorgeous. He took a few minutes to finish it. Then he snapped a Polaroid so he could see it whenever he wanted. He studied it critically. He was pleased there were no bruises on her neck. She was a little strange around the mouth. Waxy and slightly blue. And even with her eyes closed, the tension was still there. He’d never killed anyone with his own hands before. It was interesting. It was even good. She deserved it. She didn’t do what he said.

See that, Willy. She didn’t do what I said .

He didn’t hear a word of complaint from Willy, so he ate an orange and took another picture without the head showing. That was better.

When night came, he dug a small deep hole under the huge bougainvillea where he had played as a child years ago. He put her inside several extra-heavy, garden-sized garbage bags, sealed them carefully, and placed her in a crouched position in her grave.

26

“What was that all about?” Mike Sanchez asked.

April cleared her desk for the second time, tucking the letters into her bag so she could look at them later.

“Probably nothing,” she said. She didn’t see any reason to tell Sanchez. She didn’t want to tell him Ellen Roane might have been found dead in the California desert, either. She’d handled the parents by herself. The medical information she wanted she’d have tomorrow or the next day. She could only hope the match would not fit Ellen.

“Must be something,” he said.

They headed out of the squad room toward the stairs.

The precinct was built like a school. The squad room opened at the beginning of a long, wide corridor that led to other departments. A right turn took them to the stairs.

“Why do you want to know?”

April slung her bag over her shoulder. If she had her car, she wouldn’t need a ride out to the range. She didn’t have it because she had lent it to Jimmy two weeks ago. He needed to drive to New Jersey and didn’t want to take his own car. She had even been thoughtful enough to fill it up with gas for him. He must have done whatever he had to do by now. It was time she got her car back, and she knew she would have to take action to get it. He wasn’t just going to drive it home without her making a fuss.

Sometimes she had a hard time dealing with Jimmy. He wanted what he wanted, and didn’t take no for an answer. When they first met, she didn’t seem to notice how bossy he was. But that was back when she was working in the 5th. She didn’t know a lot of things then.

“Maybe I can help,” Sanchez offered with a smile.

She still didn’t know what Sanchez’s smiles meant. He pushed the front door open and held it for her. There were blue uniforms everywhere, watching him hold the door for her. Why did he do that? She looked at her feet and walked out to the street.

“Hi,” she responded to the greetings of some uniformed officers. “I don’t need any help,” she told Sanchez.

“Everybody needs help.” Sanchez shrugged. “You can help me whenever you want.”