Burning Time

74

Emma heard a car backfire on the street. She had one knot to go. She turned her head toward the door. He’d taken the butane torch but not the gun. What now?

He’d been gone for a long time. With each knot she untied, the ends of the nylon rope had become more frayed. They were badly tangled now. Emma worked one thin strand out at a time, holding her breath without realizing it. How much time did she have left? She had to hurry, but her fingers were stiff. Her body was slick with Mennen Speed Stick and A and D ointment, smelled of menthol and fear. But there was another odor in the room, deep and persistent. Way under the surface, vague and teasing, like a feather stirring the air, was the faint smell of gas. Emma tried to ignore it. The rope had to be her only concern. She couldn’t worry about what he was up to now.

Emma worked at the last knot, her eye on the gun that lay on the table among half a dozen little paper cups filled with colored ink. She hadn’t heard the outside door open and close since he left the room. She was pretty sure he was still in the house. She couldn’t let him get her this time.

The last strand pulled free of the tangles. She sat up, shivering and rubbing her arms. Her fingers were stiff. Her arms were numb. She was shaking all over. For a second the sight of her naked body, shiny and colored all over, stunned her. She looked like an eighties poster for a heavy metal rock group. Between her breasts, the skin was white, but her shoulders, her stomach, her arms and legs were a madman’s sick fantasy of a woman tormented by devouring animals and flames. Get a grip. Get the gun, she told herself.

She rubbed her arms with the stiff fingers. Move. Now her arms were tingling all over as feeling returned. She couldn’t move. Pick up the gun. Her fingers cramped. She kneaded the muscles in her hands. PICK UP THE DAMN GUN. She reached for the gun. It was cold and heavy. She flexed her fingers around it. She’d shot a gun. She’d done it in an off-Broadway play. How did this one work? She wasted precious seconds fiddling with it, couldn’t find a safety catch. She decided there wasn’t one, put the gun down in her lap so she could free her legs.

With the pistol cold on her thighs, she leaned over to untie her feet. Everything hurt. Her body had been confined, the muscles shut down, for a long time. She hunched her shoulders up and down, easing the cramps. Arched her back. Come on. Come on, body, warm up.

The feet were easier. She could see what she was doing. This time only three knots held the rope around each ankle, but they were more complicated ones. She worked at them, her heart beating wildly. If he opened the door, she had only a few seconds to pick up the gun and blow him away.

After what seemed like an hour, the last knot was undone. Emma slid to the floor and crawled to the window. Shaking all over and numb with fear, she could no longer feel the tattoo burn on her stomach. All she thought of was the gun in her hand, the madman out there somewhere, and the smell of gas leaking slowly into the room.

Quietly, she lifted the shade an inch. Across the street she saw a guy tinkering with his car engine. Beside him another man seemed to be helping him. She raised the shade higher to get their attention, then heard footsteps. She ducked behind the bed. The door opened.

“There’s somebody out there,” Troland said softly. “We’ve got to move.”

Emma fired the gun.