CHAPTER ELEVEN
Roland had purchased the handcuffs that afternoon at Spartan Sporting Goods for $24.50.
He had wanted to buy the cuffs when he’d first seen them a few weeks ago. Staring through the display case at the shiny bracelets, he’d been excited by thoughts of what he might do with them. Not that he would ever do such things. Still, just owning them would be nice, the same way it was nice to own a few knives even if you didn’t actually plan to run around carving up women with them. He’d bought the Buck knife that day. It wasn’t embarrassing, buying the knife, because people bought knives for camping, fishing, hunting. But if you’re not a cop, why do you need handcuffs? What would the salesperson think? It would be like buying a pack of condoms.
Roland had never bought condoms, even though he wanted them. And he hadn’t bought the handcuffs, either.
Until today.
When Dana challenged him to spend the night in the restaurant, he immediately remembered the cuffs and he knew how to win the bet. The cuffs would guarantee it. His courage, or lack of it, would be irrelevant once he had anchored himself to something in the restaurant. No matter what, he would win the bet.
With a hundred dollars and his reputation riding on the bet, he had returned to the store. He could feel himself blushing as he peered through the counter glass.
“Can I help you with something?” asked the clerk.
Roland kept his eyes down. “I’d like to see the handcuffs.”
“Black or nickle finish?”
“Nickle.”
Crouching, the man slid open the back of the counter and reached inside. He was heavyset, his brown hair long around the sides of his head as if to make up for what was lacking on top. He put the cuffs on the counter.
Roland picked them up. They felt heavy.
“Grade A tempered steel. The links’ll withstand a direct pull of twelve hundred pounds.”
Nodding, Roland tugged the bracelets. The connecting chain snapped taut. “Fine,” he said. “How much are they?”
“Twenty-four fifty. Interested in a case?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Anything else? We’ve got a sale on the Navy MK.3 Combat knife, regularly forty-nine ninety-five. A real beaut of a knife. Like to see one?”
Roland shook his head. “No, this’ll do it.”
“Cash or charge?”
That was all there was to it. No embarrassing questions, no snide remarks. Relieved, Roland left the store with his purchase.
And spotted Celia. Now, there was a gal he wouldn’t mind trying the handcuffs on. That other gal, too—the one in the jumpsuit. Looking at that one, he could see himself cuffing her hands behind her back and pulling down that zipper all the way past her waist.
Oh, yes. Either one of those gals. Cuff them, and they’d be at his mercy.
But he hadn’t bought the cuffs for that. He would never have the guts, anyway.
I’m not crazy, he had told himself.
He’d bought the handcuffs only because of the bet. With them, nothing could prevent him from winning, as long as the restaurant had a secure fixture to which he could fasten one bracelet. It was bound to.
A door handle. A pipe. Something.
A brilliant idea.
Sitting in the darkness cuffed to the bar rail, however, Roland wasn’t quite so sure the idea was brilliant. What if something happened and he
Like a fire, for instance.
Good thing he had blown out the candles.
The place isn’t going to burn down, he told himself. Don’t worry about it.
He couldn’t help worrying about it.
Suppose Dana started the place on fire to drive him out so he’d lose the bet? No. She’s not that crazy. A little crazy. That time at the movies when he reached across to get the popcorn from Jason and accidentally brushed her breast with his arm, she’d dumped her drink on his lap. Once when they went to the drive-in, she made him get in the trunk of Jason’s car so he could sneak in without paying, then she had talked Jason into leaving him there for almost an hour.
She really hates my guts, Roland thought. But she won’t burn the place down. That was too crazy even for Dana.
Probably.
What she might do is leave.
No, she wants the Polaroids. She’ll come in for them.
That doesn’t mean she’ll give me the key.
When she finds me cuffed here, she might just take the photos and go. Or worse.
Roland’s mouth went dry. A cold hand seemed to clutch his stomach.
Oh, shit what’ll she do to me?
It wasn’t a question of
You’ve got all night to wonder about that one.
Why didn’t I think of that before I cuffed myself to this fucking rail?
He jerked his left hand. The steel clattered and the edges of the cuff dug painfully into his wrist.
A twelve-hundred-pound pull. That’s what the salesman said it would take to break the links.
Roland felt along the floor at his side. He touched the flashlight, picked it up, and shined it at the card table. The bottles glinted in its beam. The key was up there, out of sight.
The table was eight or ten feet to his left.
With his cuffed left hand, he slid the bracelet along the rail. It made an awful, metallic scraping sound that sent a shiver through him. But it did move. Sliding it, he would be able to move sideways until he was close to the table. Then maybe he could hook a foot around one of the table legs and drag the thing over to him—and get the key.
Worth a try, he thought.
What about the bet?
No problem.
Roland grinned.
Just let me get the handcuff key, I’ll stay. A cinch.
A cinch because he realized that the restaurant no longer frightened him much. What really frightened him was knowing that Dana, at dawn, would come in and find him handcuffed.
I’ll get that damned key, he told himself.
He squirmed sideways off his sleeping bag, his back rubbing the smooth wood of the bar counter, his left hand scooting the cuff along the brass rail with that awful grating noise. A noise that made his teeth ache. A noise that tormented him like the scrape of fingernails down a blackboard.
He stopped to rest.
The silence was soothing.
Just a little more distance to go, and…
Roland heard a sound.
It was a soft thump, such as a rope might make dropping from a height onto the hardwood floor.
It came from…where?
