Vacation

Until he knew he was close.

More rocking, using the scant movement all the ropes and lashings gave him.

And then he felt it.

The chair starting to fall over, not to the front or the back, but a strange sideways slip. All he could do was let it happen as the chair banged against the table, his head smacking hard against the edge, then slipping down to the cookery’s floor.

He looked left. Fresh blood spatters. He realized after a moment that they were his own.

The chair had landed on its side. Jack looked around to the right, trying to see a side wall of the building.

Please be there, he thought.

Straining as much as possible, he saw it. The beautiful shining silver of the blade, the dull black of the handle.

His right leg on the floor, his weight on it.

The foot was nearly immobilized, but there was some room for movement in the leg. Again, only inches.

He heard voices.

Outside.

Dunphy back?

But the voices moved on.

He couldn’t have much time.

The leg kicked. More pathetic miniscule movements.

Kick. Kick. Kick

Over and over. Gaining mere inches. But he kept doing it, barely aware that this was his fucked-up leg. Barely aware of anything but this need to contract, relax, using this pathetic kicking movement to move the chair inches closer to the knife, the chair that seemed to weigh a ton.

He paid no attention to the progress he made. As though the only thing in the universe that could bring him pleasure was each small kick, giddy with ecstasy every time he came closer to the knife.

His sole obsession: to kick, to move.

He saw the blade near his head. That made him only kick more. He had to get past the blade, yes … get it closer to his hands.

Taking so long. Too long. No way he’d make it.

Fuck that idea, he thought.

I’ll make it.

He couldn’t get his head in position to see if he was close enough. It would be a guess, an estimate of how far he had come.

He might have only one chance.

He stopped.

Was the knife close in line with his tied hands?

Because, he thought, while my wrists are lashed tight to the chair … my fingers, my palm—they are goddamned free.

He looked around and saw the other end of the table nearby, a foot away.

An estimate.

He guessed he was close to the knife.

Now, more rocking, leaning left and right, needing to get the chair’s back to edge closer to where he thought the knife was. Then, more inaccurate kicking, using his weight, his legs.

Fingers scratched desperately against the floor, feeling nothing.

Again, more rocking, more crazy grasping with his fingers.

Then, a different sensation. Metal.

Another kick, and his right hand briefly grasped the blade, felt the sharp metal dig into the soft skin of his fingertips.

No matter; he was close.

One hand would have to hold the knife. By the handle or by the blade—it didn’t matter—then slowly saw the rope. Ignoring the metal if it slid past the rope and bit into his hand, his wrist.

Another crazed grasp and his right hand locked around the knife, partly around the handle, partly around the blade.

Now his fingers had to perform a weird fumbling, knowing that the knife could simply slip away. More guesses as he positioned it, hoping he had the knife tip resting against rope.

His palm and fingers could make the blade go back and forth with only the smallest movements.

His new obsession now, and he thought of nothing else but this movement.

Once he felt the tip of the blade dip, burying itself in skin.

If I hit a vein, this will all be for nothing.

He slowed a bit, taking more care with his strange sawing at such a difficult angle.

He felt the rope actually loosen.

Loose, and that meant he could make bigger slicing movements, now almost a mad butcher himself.

Looser still.

His tied wrists now had some space.

He forced himself not to rush. One wrong move here could fuck it up.

Slowly, slowly, as that beautiful distance between the two wrists opened even more. He felt he could slide a hand out, maybe both. But he kept at it.

The need to be absolutely sure that important.

Then … as if they had never been tied at all … his wrists were free.

His hands, free.

Now, with a mad speed, he cut the band around his chest. Not bothering to sit up, he sliced the ropes at his legs and ankles.

He was untied. Still on the floor, still in the same odd position that he had landed in.

Then, a creak. The cookery door opening. Early evening air from outside.

Dunphy’s voice.

“Willy, want another hit? You want—”

The voice stopped.

Jack didn’t move.

He realized …

They think I’m gone.

37

6:01 P.M.

Jack heard a clanking noise, the sound of metal. Dunphy and his helper had stopped talking.

The sound of them grabbing blades. The clang of metal.

Jack still held the knife that had freed him. But then he heard a sound like a lawn mower. The smoky smell of gas.

There was no time to wait anymore.