Leslie Glass - Burning Time

Emma wanted to keep her eyes closed and miss her death. Let him kill her in her sleep. She’d kill herself first, if she could. Heroes did that, too, when there was no other option. She wanted to scream and cry because no one had given her a cyanide capsule. She was the prisoner of a madman and she didn’t have the capsule. But she couldn’t cry. It turned him on.

“What’d you do that for?” he demanded when she woke up. “I’m taking care of you.”

He was wearing his leather jacket and smelled of beer. His blond hair was all messed up, his eyes red and puffy. They were like stones, harder than any eyes she’d ever seen.

She coughed so much he had to loosen the ropes and let her sit up.

“Don’t barf on me,” he snapped.

She tried to catch her breath.

“What’d you do that for?” He wouldn’t let it go, kept asking her until she answered.

“I—”

“Yeah? You what?”

She swallowed. Her throat hurt. “I saw the sink. I needed some water.”

“Well, you got some.” He laughed. “Want some more?”

He had poured water down her throat until her lungs filled up, and she thought she was going to drown. She concentrated on breathing. Her throat hurt. Her headache was worse. He had put her in a different place. On a bed. How to get out. How to get out.

“Want some orange juice? I got some for you. It’s morning. You want some eggs?” he said. “See, if you’re nice, I’m nice.” He tweaked a nipple. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Her face didn’t change. “Eggs?” she muttered.

“Yeah, like from a chicken. I’m nice to you, see.”

Emma didn’t say anything.

“I said I was nice to you.”

“Then let me go. Let me go. I’ll pay you. How much do you want?”

He shook his head.

“I have some money.”

“I have money, too. You think I’m some kind of bum that I need your money?” he said furiously.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m a friend, remember. Friends don’t take money.”

What was the right line? She searched desperately for something that might get to him. But he was out of his mind. What could she say?

“Friends don’t tie each other up,” she said at last.

“Yeah, sometimes they do.”

“Why? Why are you doing this?” Her throat was raw. She eyed the water. She wanted it, but was afraid he’d start suffocating her with it again.

He was sitting beside her on the bed, making a strange noise from the back of his throat instead of answering why. The noise didn’t sound human. He adjusted the wick on the Zippo so the flame flared higher. He flicked it on and off He held the switchblade in his other hand. He was trying to scare her.

Emma had the terrifying feeling she’d played this scene before. Only last time it was an acting improvisation, an exercise. This time she didn’t have to imagine what it felt like. Her whole body really did ache, every joint, every muscle. And the point here was she couldn’t just pretend to be brave. She couldn’t afford to be a coward. This was the real thing. She had to survive.

She closed her eyes to get into that place where she could think about survival.

“Don’t do that,” he snapped.

She waited for a second before opening them.

“Damn it, fucking bitch. You’re not dying on me.” He smacked the bed with his hand. “You hear me? You better not die.”

He seemed to think she had some kind of choice in the matter. If he stabbed her with the knife, or electrocuted her with the battery he had down there on the floor, she’d die all right. But maybe not today. She opened her eyes.

“I’ll take the orange juice,” she said.

He got up to get it for her, then held it up to her lips so she could drink. This encouraged her. When she finished drinking all of it, she had another idea.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure.” He put down the glass.

She heard it clink on the floor when he set it down. He leaned over her to untie the knots. She could smell the beer more strongly now, and old sweat. It made her want to gag up the orange juice, but she kept it down.

When all the knots were untied, he helped her up. She shuddered when he touched her. His hands were all over her as he pulled her to her feet. She hated herself for moving so slowly. Everything took time. She had thought that when she was free she’d find a way to get him. Maybe grab the knife. Her heart started beating faster. She was going to make a move.

But before she was even up and on her feet, he wrenched her arms behind her back so hard she gasped. Then he tied her hands. He was behind her. She had no chance to get him. He guided her to the door with one hand around her neck, squeezing just enough to let her know he could end it right then. In the bathroom he stood there in the doorway, watching her pee. Even though the pressure on her bladder was great, it took a long time to get it out with him watching. She struggled to reach for the toilet paper, couldn’t reach it.

“Dirty bitch,” he cried. “Didn’t anybody teach you to flush the toilet?” He laughed suddenly. “Don’t move.” He set the knife on the floor.

The window was behind her, high over her head. He started filling the tub. The knife was on the floor beside him. She eyed it. What now?

“Get in the tub,” he commanded.

“What?” She couldn’t move.

“Are you deaf? I said get in the tub.” He grabbed her and shoved her into it, knocking her legs against the cold porcelain. He turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature carefully. Not too cold, not too hot. Water splashed into the tub. He closed the toilet and sat on it, waiting for the tub to fill up.

Emma’s eyes widened with the sudden terror that she would not live through the day, after all. He was going to drown her as soon as there was enough water in the tub. She started to gasp and pant.

“Take it easy. Don’t you want a bath?”

Emma whimpered. A bath?

He reached for a bar of Irish Spring and started lathering up her chest and arms.

“Don’t! I’ll do it myself,” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”

“Shut up.” He was getting hard. She could see it. She went limp and closed her eyes.

“Shit! Get up. I told you, don’t do that.” He pinched her.

He didn’t like it when she fainted. That was a good tiling to know. She groaned a little.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Water sloshed around her chin as she sank deeper. Maybe he’d drown her now and put her out of her misery.

“Get out.”

She opened her eyes. “Huh?”

“Get the fuck out. Are you stupid?”

That was it? That was the bath? She struggled to get out. It wasn’t easy to move with her hands tied behind her back. He had to help her up, and wrap her in a towel. Out of the warm water, she started shivering again. She moved so slowly, staggering as he held her up. He swore at her.

“You’re no good at all,” he said.

“Let me go,” she said weakly. “I may die. Then what will you do?”

“Uh-uh. You are not going to die.”

He put her back to bed, tying all the knots, one by one, just as he had untied them before. When he was finished, he tucked some towels around her and squirted some menthol-scented shaving foam on her from neck to ankles, concentrating on the crotch area.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she cried. “Don’t do that.”

He picked up the razor. He didn’t hear any protests. He was tired of her. He put her out of his mind and began shaving her all over, muttering to Willy. He could see his hands get bigger and bigger. He felt a lot better when she started screaming.

60

Newt Regis couldn’t really afford to send two men down to San Diego, but he did it anyway. The image of his own daughter, Clarissa, so happy with her husband and new baby, wouldn’t leave him alone. He thought about what it would mean to lose Clarissa, all the time he was talking with Jennifer Roane, the mother of the dead girl, who’d come from New York to get her.