Burning Time

72

“Wake up.” Troland stood over Emma. “Want some soup before we get back to work?”

“What?” Emma struggled to focus. Everything was numb except for the fire on her stomach where he had been working on her.

“Soup. You have to eat something.”

She could see him now. Still wearing the leather jacket, open with nothing under it. And the jeans. The gun was in his right hand.

She shook her head, couldn’t make a sound with the tape over her mouth.

“Oh.” He remembered the tape and ripped it off.

“Ow.” Tears jumped into her eyes.

“Don’t start that. I’m being nice,” he said.

She didn’t reply.

“You got to be hungry. You want soup or not? I got Campbell’s Tomato.”

“No, thanks.” She didn’t recognize her own voice.

“Good—anybody touches the stove, and the place blows up.” He laughed like he’d pulled a good joke. She could have the soup, but couldn’t touch the stove. He kept laughing.

“Huh?” Emma was shivering uncontrollably.

“What’s the matter now?” Abruptly he sounded angry.

“Place blows up?” Emma tried to stop her face from twitching, her body from trembling all over. She wasn’t successful. He was trying something new to scare her. He liked to do that. She didn’t want to believe him.

“Yeah, it’s brick on the outside. Well, not this part, up here is aluminum siding. But it won’t go without some help.”

He was telling her he planned to blow up the house. Emma had to keep focused. She couldn’t play his game.

“Relax,” he said, genial now. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. That’s for later.”

“My wrists hurt,” she said faintly. “Could you fix the ropes?”

He bent to check them, adjusting them just a little. “You’re all right,” he told her. “Want some juice?”

“What about the fridge?”

“What about it?”

“Will that blow up, too?”

“Ha ha, you’re very funny.” He sat down and pulled on the rubber gloves, forgot about the juice.

“I thought you said I could have some juice,” Emma complained. “I want some juice.”

“Too late. I was nice, but you weren’t nice.”

“I’m sorry. Please may I have some juice.”

He ignored her. “You should see my work. It’s great. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

Emma took a deep breath. “I’d like to see it. If you let me go to the bathroom, I could see it.”

Troland turned on the machine, and the whine filled the room. He dipped the needles into the ink and bent over her.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Emma insisted, grimacing when the needles bit into her skin.

He had begun to spread out lower now, along her pelvis. Her eyes filled with tears. They spilled over and ran down into her mouth and hair. “Please.”

He ignored her.

She had the end of the rope in her left hand. It had always been harder with her left hand. She worked at it, trying not to think of his blowing up the house. He said a lot of weird things. Half the time he didn’t know what he was saying.

Emma closed her eyes against the dipping of the needles into the ink, the dabbing of the Vaseline on her skin, the whine of the machine, and the excruciating sting that quickly heated up into a steady burn. She concentrated on the rope in her left hand. She stopped thinking about the machine. She was a soldier working the second knot.

Then suddenly, without warning, Troland tensed all over and turned the machine off.

“What—?” she asked.

“Shh,” he said sharply. “One sound, and you’re dead.” He was out of his chair and in the other room in a second.