feel.”
Claudia was getting tired standing there getting nowhere.
He tried another tack. “If you think he’s doing something illegal, like drugs, you can make a complaint. You want to do that?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Police Officer O’Brien,” he said. “Let me know if you have any trouble.”
She turned around and started hobbling back. Fat lot of good that did. She saw that he made a note and then sat in his car for a while just like he always did, digesting his breakfast without a worry in the world.
59
There was not a clock anywhere. That scared Emma as much as some of the other things. She had lived with so many clocks for so long, not having a single one to look at now made her feel her time was running out. When she was awake she was thinking all the time.
What she saw was a lot of peculiar stuff laid out on a table the guy put by the bed. What scared her most was the black box that looked like a car battery. You could kill someone jump-starting a car. He must know about that, too. It happened to some boy just after she moved to California. It was in the papers. Emma shuddered. It happened miles away, in another county, couldn’t have been him. Don’t let it have been him. It was hot in the room, but she couldn’t stop shivering.
She didn’t like looking at him. He wore a motorcycle jacket and tight black jeans. He kicked the furniture with his motorcycle boots, his face twitching with rage.
She had to close her eyes to get away from him. The guy was crazy, and furious at her for untying the ropes he thought were secure. If she had a chance of survival before she untied the ropes, she didn’t have one now. Her hands were tied tighter now. He moved her around angrily, twisting her arms, and pinching her breasts, trying to make her cry. He flicked his lighter on and off, teasing her with it like a kid torturing a frog. Only she wasn’t a frog. The switchblade terrified her, too. It seemed to be his second-favorite toy. He had a name for it. He called it Willy. Sometimes he put the lighter in his pocket in the tight black jeans and fondled it there. But the switchblade was always out. He stabbed at the air with it when he got frustrated.
What was the worst thing that could happen? Emma asked herself the question the way she had as a kid when they played war games. What was the worst pain a person could take? How many hours, how many days could pain last? What could they do to stop it? On navy bases all around the country they used to play the game. What if Daddy were caught and put in a tiger cage? What would he do? What would I do if it were me? What if I were a captured spy? What if our ship went down in the ocean, and there were a thousand sharks circling our lifeboat? Survival. How did survivors make it out? There were a hundred hundred hero stories from a hundred hundred battles, and every story absolutely true. Navy juniors knew them all, and in all their stories the hero always got away. Now she was a captive who’d had a chance and didn’t get away.
Why didn’t she get away? In the movies the heroes got away. Only the walk-ons were strangled, got their throats cut. What was the battery for?
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.
