Forty Words for Sorrow

50

ERIC AND EDIE HAD BEEN RIGHT about duct tape. It was even more effective—and less trouble for them—than the drugs. Strain as he might, Keith London could not get the tape to give even a sixteenth of an inch. Each wrist, each ankle was securely fastened. The only tape he had managed to loosen at all was the tape on his mouth. By wetting it, he had gradually loosened it so he could actually make audible sounds now.

But there was some give in the wooden chair to which he was fastened. Rocking from side to side, he could feel the joints loosening.

Whenever Eric and Edie were out of the house, as they were now, Keith rocked from side to side, feeling the joints widening, the screws chewing their way through the wood. They hadn’t fed him for a couple of days now, and his efforts were exhausting. He had to stop every few minutes to catch his breath.

Eric and Edie would be moving him soon. They would inject him with a sedative and haul him to some isolated place and—he tried to banish from his mind the memory of the videotape.

He had been rocking for over an hour this morning, ever since he had woken up; his wrists and ankles were chafed raw; his wounded leg was pure agony. But there was some progress: he could feel some give in the chair. It leaned about twenty degrees to either side when he shifted his weight.

He paused, listening. Footsteps crossed the ceiling, and then there was the sound of chairs scraping. Eric and Edie were directly overhead. Keith started rocking again, despite his terror that they would hear him. No, he told himself, the chair is on concrete, the noise won’t travel, they won’t be able to hear.

He leaned again, side to side, side to side, rocking the chair and straining at the tape. Once. Twice. Three times. Yes, the chair back was definitely looser. He could twist it a little now. If he could just put strain in the right place, shift his weight over just the right spot, put stress where the chair back joined the seat, it could be broken.

Upstairs, Eric opened the duffle bag—Keith’s duffle bag—and emptied it onto the floor. He felt no sense of trespass, exposing another’s personal belongings: the pairs of socks, neatly folded, the long underwear slightly stained. There were sunglasses and suntan lotion—Christ, was he planning to take up skiing?—a Frommer’s guide to Ontario and a dog-eared paperback of The Glass Bead Game.

Eric stood up and brushed off his jeans. “I’ll read from the list. You put the stuff in the bag.” He took the list from his back pocket and unfolded it. “Duct tape.”

Edie pulled it from the drawer beside the fridge and put it in the duffle. “Duct tape.”

“Rope.”

Edie picked up the tight coil of clothesline, purchased in Toronto, and put it into the bag.

“Screwdriver, flat head …”

“Screwdriver, flat head.”

“Screwdriver, Phillips head …”

“God, Eric. Who else would make a list of screwdrivers? Whole categories of screwdrivers.”

Eric looked at her coolly. “Someone else would get caught. Pliers …”

“Pliers.”

“Blowtorch …”

“We’d better test it first, make sure it works.” Edie pulled a box of kitchen matches from the drawer. Eric opened a brass collar on the blowtorch, and the nozzle started to hiss. Edie struck the match and held it out; the torch lit with a pok. She turned the collar, and the blue, bullet-shaped flame nearly caught Eric’s sleeve. “Oo,” she said. “This’ll be incredible.” She turned the collar, and the flame slipped back into the bottle like a tongue.

“Crowbar …”

“We don’t have a crowbar.”

“I left it here after the island. It’s down the basement, beside the stairs.”

Edie left the table and headed for the basement.

“Check on the prisoner while you’re at it.”

Eric took a filleting knife out of his knapsack. He unsheathed it and tested it with his thumb. He turned toward the basement and called, “Bring a whetstone too, if you have one!”

He pulled the shrink wrap off a package of PowerUp and laid out six pills along the edge of the table. He found a glass in the cupboard, and ran the water until it was cold and clear. Then he sat at the table and took the tablets one by one, shaking his head each time to help them go down. A shiver ran up his spine.

“Edie!” he yelled again at the doorway. “Bring a whetstone!” He listened for a moment, one ear cocked toward the basement. Then he set down his glass of water, very deliberately, not making a sound. He sheathed the filleting knife and stuck it in his front pocket. He moved to the top of the stairs. This time he spoke quietly. “Edie?”

“Come and get her, you pathetic prick.”

Eric stepped softly down the stairs. He could get around this, he could handle it. Everything depended on conquering emotion. At the bottom of the stairs he picked up the crowbar and hooked it on his belt behind his back. It felt heavy and it dangled precariously, but it would not be visible from the front—unless it fell from his belt.

Eric took a deep breath and stepped into the tiny room. It stank of shit and fear. The chair was a tangle of tape and broken wood. The prisoner had Edie from behind, a wooden bar—a piece of the chair—pressed against her throat.

“Lie down on the floor.”

“No. Let her go.”

“Lie down on the floor or I’ll break her neck.”

He won’t kill anyone, Eric thought. If he was strong enough to kill, he would have forced Edie to the top of the stairs. Edie was looking frightened and ugly, her skin glistening where the eczema cracked and wept, her whimpering muffled by duct tape. The wooden bar pressed tighter against her throat, and her face purpled.

“Lie down on the fucking floor! I’ll kill her, you creep, I don’t give a fuck.”

Remain calm, Eric told himself. The prisoner is half-starved, he’s terrified and he’s still wounded—how strong can he be? If we fight, I will win. Remain calm. Think. “The problem, Keith, is that once I lie down, there’s nothing to stop you killing us.”

“I’ll kill her right now if you don’t.”

“Calm down, Keith. You’re choking her.”

“Damn right I am.” His words were tough, but tears were streaming down the prisoner’s face; he was sobbing so hard he could hardly speak. A weird reaction, Eric thought. Was it nerves? Was it self-pity? Whatever the prisoner’s emotional state, the wooden bar was biting cruelly into Edie’s throat. Oh, prisoner, you are making such a mistake, you will die so badly for this.

“You’ve got a knife in your front pocket. I can see the handle. Take it out slowly and toss it over here.”

Eric did as he was told, bringing the knife out, sheath and all, and tossing it past the prisoner, where he could not reach it.

“Now get the fuck down on the floor.” Eric hesitated, and the prisoner started shrieking, “Do it now!” over and over again until Eric started to lower himself toward the floor.

Behind him, the crowbar hung heavily from his belt. The problem was, he couldn’t swing it at the prisoner without bashing Edie. “I’m getting down, Keith. Just don’t hurt anyone, all right? I’m getting down.” He sank slowly toward his knees.

What happened next took only a moment to unfold. Eric reached behind for the crowbar. Keith screamed something at the top of his lungs and pulled back on Edie’s throat, trying to shield himself with her. But Eric didn’t swing for the prisoner, he swung for Edie.

The iron bar caught her a solid blow to the side of the head. Her knees buckled and she sank toward the floor. The prisoner staggered and lost his grip. He launched himself toward the door, but by then Eric had flipped the crowbar so that he was holding it by the straight end. The prisoner was not even halfway out when the crowbar hit him—a terrible blow to the back of his neck just below the skull—and he crumpled like a poleaxed cow.