Leslie Glass - Burning Time

“You live here?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. It’s a friend’s.” She had her shirt off now and was peeling her tights down, like she was in a locker room getting ready for a game.

Troland watched her with little interest. The pressure he felt before had eased with the trip into the city, and the cruising up and down in a car. He didn’t like driving a car unless he had to. He didn’t feel that great now. He wanted to get back to the real girl and get started.

He sat down at the table, suddenly disgusted. Although it seemed right at first, inside the place had a lot of things wrong with it. It was dirty. Troland didn’t like dirty. His lip curled at the smell of glue and old leather that leaked up from the shoe repair downstairs. The guy from there was probably the one whose place this was. Troland didn’t like that, either. He might come back in the middle and give him some trouble.

He switched his attention to the body that was now fully naked in front of him. He was turned off by a number of blemishes on its neck and arms. There were a few black-and-blue marks on the thighs, too. In fact, except for the thin, pale, young-girl hair, this body wasn’t as good as the one he already had. That made him feel a little better. He had a real prize waiting for him. Something that was well kept and smelled good, didn’t have any diseases like this probably did. He had a real movie star, all his own. He snorted, and instinctively reached for the items in the pocket of his leather jacket.

“There’s a bed in there.” The girl pointed to a closed door.

“You have somebody coming back?” Troland asked.

There were four lengths of the thin nylon rope he had specially cut to size, his knife, his Zippo lighter, and several marking pens with medium points. The feel of the familiar items comforted him. He fondled the lighter, pumping himself up.

“Not for a while. What do you have in mind?”

She came over and sat on his lap. He pushed her off. “Do it my way,” he snapped.

“Hey, just being nice.” She retreated through the half-closed door into the other room.

It occurred to Troland the guy might be in there, and the whole thing was a scam. That made him mad. He jumped up and kicked the door open with a bang, the switchblade in his hand.

“What’s going on?” he snarled. He didn’t like scams.

The girl was dancing on the bed. “Nothing,” she protested. “Hey, you’re really wired.”

“I’m not wired. I don’t get wired. Look at you, you’re the one that’s bouncing off the wall.”

He kicked around for a minute, looking for a hiding place, or a mirror someone could be looking through from the other side.

“Why don’t you chill out and have a good time,” she said.

“Get out of there,” he commanded.

“What’s the matter?” Now the baby voice with the New York accent was offended and a little scared. That was good.

“I don’t like it in here,” he said.

“Okay. That’s fine.”

She got off the bed. The sheets were grimy. He didn’t like the setup. When she got close to him he grabbed her arm. “Okay. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You lie down over there. I tie you up. You try to get out.”

“Okay. I can get out.”

She walked the short distance to the sofa and sat down.

Troland clicked his tongue against his teeth with annoyance. “You don’t get out,” he said. “That’s the whole point.”

She made a little half-shrug with her shoulders. “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

“I don’t hurt people.”

She lay back on the sofa. “Okay, so you tie me up, and I don’t get out. Then what?”

“Then I draw some pretty pictures on you and I fuck you.” Troland took one of her wrists and started to tie it to the sofa leg.

The girl popped up, wrenching her arm away. “No kidding,” she said with interest. “What kind of pictures?”

He grabbed the arm and yanked it until she squeaked. “Don’t do that. It’s not a game.”

“Ow.”

“Do it right.”

“I just wanted to know what kind of pictures,” she whined. “You can’t mess me up.”

“I only do good pictures. Now hold still.” He tied her hands together over her head.

She giggled. Then he went to the other end of the sofa and grabbed a foot. She stopped laughing.

“Hey, don’t tie my feet. I got claustrophobia.”

“Shut up. I’m doing this.” She didn’t look so bad like this. Now he was feeling better.

She kicked with the free foot. “Hey. I said not the feet.”

He pulled the switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open.

Her eyes bulged at the knife. “Oh, shit. You said you weren’t going to hurt me.”

“You’re supposed to give me a good time,” he said angrily. He kicked the sofa. “Now do it right. Act like you’re in a movie.”

“I’m going to need another hit,” she wheedled.

“When I’m finished.” He grabbed the other foot and tied the ankle down.

She pouted.

He was satisfied at the picture she made. This sofa was not as good as the other one. He had to tie her hands over her head, but she was spread-eagled from the waist down. The sparse tuft of pubic hair showed she was a real blond. He cursed himself for not thinking of bringing a razor to shave it off. He knew just what to draw there. He pulled up the chair and laid out his equipment: four pens—red, blue, black, and green—rubber gloves, the switchblade, the Zippo, and two condoms.

She giggled nervously when he put on the gloves. But he had already forgotten her. He was planning the picture. Snakes going up the inner thighs with fangs darting into her cunt. Then the torso would have a new addition, the doctor’s staff, since he was the Doctor of Death. The flames would curl out of the staff, burning it up.

When the first pen tip touched her thigh, she jumped back in alarm. But after he unzipped his pants, and had her suck on him, she got into it. By the time he began shoving rubber fingers into her, and his double-sheathed penis, and biting the pictures he had drawn, she was way out in outer space.

54

In the early hours of the morning, Jason pulled himself out of the taxi and headed for his front door. As he rang the bell for the doorman, he was seized again with the same wild, unreasonable hope that had been nudging at the corners of his mind all the way across the country, the hope that his instincts had been wrong all along. Emma was not really threatened. She had just moved into another life without him. The letters were just an excuse for him to develop an elaborate fantasy of a madman’s retribution for his wife’s transformation from teen angel to movie-star whore. In this scenario he was the one who was threatened by it, and the hurt and anger were his alone. Nothing else was acceptable. He desperately wanted to be the crazy one, so caught up in the fantasy of retribution that he went all the way to San Diego to find himself an imaginary serial killer.

Francis wasn’t at the door. Jason had to ring twice. Maybe Emma had come home, and he would be proven a fool. Rumpled and exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, he thought about that as he waited for Francis to appear.

Not many people actually did what they dreamed of doing. Even Charles had suggested more than once that there was a big difference between writing letters and acting on the rage and hatred expressed in them.

Francis shuffled across the lobby and started at the sight of him. “Oh, Dr. Frank, Dr. Frank. Thank God you’re back. The police were here,” the doorman cried as he swung the heavy door open.

“I know,” Jason said.

“What do they think happened to Mrs. Frank?” he demanded. “They just didn’t give me no choice. They forced their way in. What did they expect to find anyway?”