Burning Time

47

The gun was on the table. Emma could just see it through the slit between her closed lids. She could see his lap, too, because of the way he was sitting in a chair next to her, his legs apart. The knife was in his hand, some kind of switchblade. The blade popped in and out, flashing silver as he played restlessly with it.

She was shivering all over, freezing. The pain in her head was severe, but she couldn’t reach up her hand to touch it. In her mind’s eye she could see nails in her head piercing the nerves.

“Come on wake up, honey. I want you to know what a good friend I was to you at North. You never had a better friend.”

Terror shot through her. The guy with the knife was talking to her like he knew her. She had trouble concentrating. Sometimes she thought she was in a movie, but she couldn’t move her hands or her head. The sound of her groans came from a long way away.

“Come on, wake up. Your best friend is talking.”

Never had a friend. She slipped way back to the smell of Virginia. Salt and seaweed filled her nose, like sand packed in a bucket. Her head hit a rock and she fell down, sliding on the mossy stones into the water. She could feel the water filling her mouth and dragging the dress down with her. “You got to watch what you wear, Emma. You’re not the pink, girlish type.” Her best dress, green, all tangled up and heavy, dragging at her while people shouted, “Pull her in. There, get her arm.” Ripped the dress. Mommy, don’t be mad. What navy kid can’t swim? Stop the shouting. “You bad girl. Made a spectacle of yourself. The whole navy knows, all the way to China. You’re not getting another dress.” Oh no! Mommy. Please listen. I didn’t fall. He hit me with a rock and knocked me down. Liar, liar, stick your hand in fire. “You know better than to say things like that, Emma Jane. His daddy’s a captain. You don’t say such things. You don’t lose your self-control.” Paramount. Paramount importance. Now Hear This. Now Hear This. “Navy juniors ride waves. They don’t make them.”

Emma drifted in and out of consciousness while the guy in the chair talked to her.

“Where’s my stuff?” she whimpered. “I lost my hat.”

The guy touched her arm with the point of the switchblade. “Yeah, you’re okay.”

She opened her eyes. “What’s going on?” She had no idea where she was or how she got there. It didn’t even sound like her own voice speaking. It was so hoarse and slurred it could have been someone else’s.

“You’re some slow learner. I already told you.”

He made the blade flick in and out again, trying to keep her attention.

Don’t do that. She started to say it, but he began talking again, playing with the knife, touching her with it. The point pressed into her nipple. Fear poked at her from every side. Animal sounds of alarm jumped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He smiled. “I already told you. I’m your old friend. I did a lot for you. Now I’m going to do something real special. Like nothing ever before.”

He wiped the switchblade on his knee and looked at her through a square he made of his fingers.

Nausea pushed up into her throat. “It’s wrong,” she said thickly.

“No, it’s right, baby. Just right.”

“No. All wrong.” A whimper of protest escaped her. “No,” she mumbled. Need a cup of coffee. “Gotta to go home. Feel sick.”

“You don’t say ‘No’ to me.” He stood, taking the switchblade with him. “Are you stupid or something?” He started walking back and forth, furiously flicking the blade open and closed. She twisted her head so she could see him. “I could cut your nipple off. You want that?”

“Uh.” Emma grunted in terror.

“Now say no.”

“Nnn.” She tried to get her lips around the word. Sound came out of her stomach and not her mouth.

“NO!” He stopped pacing and shouted the word. “I could rape you. I could stick this knife right up your cunt.”

“Nuh.” The sound wouldn’t come out.

“Say it,” he screamed.

“Nn, no.”

“Okay.” He backed off, his hand in his pants. “Don’t give me problems. Don’t wire me. I got a schedule. I’m making it right, see. I did that for you before. You should have been better. You shouldn’t have messed me up.”

He raved, one hand in his pocket and the other clutching the knife. She got it in one tremendous, horrifying piece: He was turned on. It felt like a wave the size of Hawaii crashing over her. He wasn’t an actor acting. He took her clothes away. He tied her hands and feet. She couldn’t get up and walk out of the frame he was making with his hands. He wasn’t in a movie. He was a lunatic. And she was his prisoner.

Sounds of pure terror came out of her mouth. She didn’t recognize them as hers. She had to push them back the way she did when her mother told her not to show a thing. Don’t cry, Emma. Don’t let them know they can get to you. Never. Never, never, never. Just do the job and don’t ask questions.

He kicked the sofa. It jerked backward. “You messed me up.”

She had to gulp it back and listen now. Push it way back in her brain before it could take control of her. Fear had a shape of its own. It could fill her mouth and throat, fill the whole cavity of her body. She knew all about fear. It was something she was trained to master a long time ago. Strength comes from fear was her motto from the day she started school. Only this time it wasn’t about being shunned or humiliated. This time, if she didn’t concentrate and find a way out, fear would kill her.

She could see him rubbing the bulge in his pants with the handle of the knife. She could see it clearly. Her terror turned him on.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled thickly, her eyes closing again. “I’m sick. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember Andy?”

“Andy?” She didn’t move, but the eyes in her brain shot open. Andy. How did he know about Andy?

“Yeah, Andy the Animal. The Football Star, Big Man on Campus?”

Emma chewed her lips to keep from crying.

“Yeah, you remember Andy the Animal.” He paced back and forth. “Maybe you don’t know enough about me. I take care of things. I took care of that for you.”

There’s never a good reason to lose your self-control, Emma Jane. She could hear her mother’s voice from a long way away.

Sometimes when someone got too close to her on the street, coming from behind, she could still feel Andy’s breath on her neck. Smell the beer. All these years later. And the panic bubbled up all over again. Big guy, drunk at a party. She didn’t even know him.

Her eyes squeezed tight, pushing it away, but she saw it anyway. The blood suddenly coming out of her at a dance; running to the girls’ room. Realizing that the machine was empty. Coming out of the girls’ room and running upstairs to her locker, where the long hall was dark. Hurry, hurry so no one would see her with blood on her dress. She didn’t hear a thing until he was on her, breathing on her, his hands all over her. On her breasts, up her skirt. Big guy, sweaty and drunk, dragging her into the dark classroom, mumbling how great he was, how lucky she was he wanted her. Stop it, get off, get away. No way he would stop. He was on top of her, all his weight trying to shove it in her around her bloody panties.

“No, no,” she whimpered, telling him to stop even now.

“Yeah, you remember.”

And suddenly the fire alarm was ringing and all the lights were on. People everywhere. Blood all over her and her dress torn. Asking what happened to her. So humiliated about her period. So ashamed that someone would do that to her. Don’t tell, captain of the football team. No one will believe you.

“My head hurts,” Emma moaned.

“I took care of him,” he said impatiently, “and you never thanked me.”

“Wha?” She had to think.

“I saw it. I could have let him nail you. So what?”

Emma moved her wrists in the ropes, just a little. “Hurts,” she cried.

“So what? I took care of him.”

“My hands. My head. I’m so dizzy.”

“Listen to me. I took care of him. I’m your best friend, see.”

“If you’re my best friend,” she muttered, “get me some aspirin.”

“Forget the fucking aspirin.”

“If you’re my friend, untie me.” She didn’t dare look at him.

“Oh, Christ.”

He checked the ropes around her wrists. Her hands were white, but they weren’t blue. There was no color in her face at all, but she was a little blue around the lips. Like the flake in California. It worried him. She was so out of it and confused he was afraid she might die.

“Ah, shit. You better not die on me.” He played with the knots, loosening them just a fraction.

A little scream escaped her at his touch. He touched her breast with his finger, then with the tip of his switchblade.

“Shut up,” he cried.

“No circulation, I can’t breathe.”

He started pacing again, his hand in his pants. “Look at what you’re doing. I got a schedule. Don’t mess me up.”

Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it had lost its rhythm and was out of control. She could feel herself dying of fear. She let go. If fakirs could stop their hearts, so could she.

“I’m getting tired of this. Look at me, you stupid bitch. It wasn’t an accident. I offed the guy. It was easy. A little gasoline in a condom. The condom in a toilet paper roll. Fits right in the pocket. You don’t even have to get under the car. Just reach down in the parking lot and put it in the exhaust manifold. Know what kind of heat is generated a few minutes after a car is turned on? Burns the toilet paper tube and starts a nice big fire. Bye-bye, Andy.”

Emma’s mouth fell open; her head lolled to one side.

“Say thank you.” He slapped her face. Nothing happened. She was out of it, again. He didn’t want to do her like the flake who slept through the whole thing. He kicked the sofa again.

“Shit. I got a schedule,” he muttered.

He paced back and forth in front of her, framing her with his hands and mumbling. When she showed no signs of reviving, he grabbed a few things and slammed out the door.