Burning Time awm-1

by Leslie Glass

  A salad bowl in the sink had a head of lettuce soaking in it. Mixing tools and a small jar of what looked like vinegar and oil sat beside it. She took a tissue out of the tissue box on the counter and turned off the TV. It looked like the woman had started a meal and left it.

  April started at the faint dong of a clock in the other room, striking the quarter hour. She went out to take a look. Another struck with a different sound, and yet another. She switched on the lights and looked around with amazement. Every surface in the living room had some kind of working clock on it. It was like they were all alive, with their hearts ticking at different speeds. And there were books in neat stacks everywhere. There were so many books in the room April thought the clocks must be the Caucasian way to trick the Gods into getting more time to read them all.

  She returned to the kitchen. Down the back hallway was a room with a washing machine, dryer, and treadmill. The ceiling light was on in here, too. A light on the panel of the treadmill showed it was on Pause at 3.5 miles.

  Sanchez came out of the bedroom shaking his head as they met in the hall. “The tub and towels are wet in the bathroom, and her handbag is on the bed. Wallet, credit cards, fifty bucks. Everything but her keys.”

  April followed him back into the bedroom, and did a double-take at the bed. It was a king-size bed with a pale blue-green brocade bedspread and a lot of pastel satin pillows on it. It looked like a film star’s bed. She sneaked a look at Mike to see what he thought of it. He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows. She turned away to check the closets.

  They were both the walk-in kind. She walked in and looked all the way in the back. The doctor’s closet smelled a little musty, but there was nothing in either one that had ever been alive except the shoes. The wife had nice shoes, nice clothes, too, if you happened to like tans and beiges. Everything was understated, except the bed.

  April was beginning to feel something for the woman. You couldn’t go through someone’s things and not have some feelings. This woman had the kind of taste you couldn’t really get without being born with it. Everything was rich and smooth, the colors subtle. Husband and wife both seemed to be neat almost to a fault. April wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this. Beautiful clothes. Beautiful kitchen. Monkey business every night. On the table by the bed were some pictures of her and him together, smiling. Both of them American good-looking, like people out of a magazine.

  April picked one up with a sinking feeling. The photo was the first image she had of Emma Chapman, and it was disturbing. The picture showed another Caucasian beauty—a woman with long blond hair and clear blue eyes, the kind of well-formed lips models had, curved into a happy smile. She was on a beach somewhere, her arm around her husband, the man April had met, Jason Frank. People like this seemed always to be on vacation, wearing shorts. They always looked graceful and at ease with their long, suntanned legs hanging out. April felt hot all over and realized she had broken out into a sweat because Emma Chapman looked a whole lot like Ellen Roane.

  She handed the photo to Mike. “See anything that bothers you?” she asked.

  He studied it for a second, then put it back. “Yeah, there’s your connection.”

  The two women looked alike. It was eerie, and somehow it didn’t feel like a coincidence. April’s attention shifted to a flashing light on the answering machine. There were messages. She pushed the play button. Francis came into the bedroom.

  “Hurry up. I got to open the door for somebody. I can’t stand around here all night. People want to come in.”

  “Just a second,” Mike said. The tape was rewinding.

  “I got to go,” Francis insisted.

  “Well, then, go. We’re cops, remember.”

  “Yeah. Well, if you’re not out of here in five minutes I’ll call more cops. And don’t forget to lock the door.”

  The machine clicked and started playing. No sound came out. April frowned. There was another click, and it reset itself with the message light still flashing. She did it again, and the same thing happened. Mike fiddled with it.

  “It’s not recording,” he told her.

  The solution always turned out to be the thing April hadn’t thought of. The woman wasn’t getting her messages because her machine was broken. She shook her head. How did that fit into the picture?

  “Well, she went out for something,” Sanchez murmured; “some time before eleven, without turning the lights off or taking her purse with her. And she didn’t come back.”

  “She intended to come back.” April cocked her head in the direction of the laundry room where the treadmill had been on Pause and the news still played in the kitchen.

  Mike nodded. “Looks like it.”

  April felt sick. Even though statistics showed most missing persons returned, the last two cases she had been assigned had turned up dead. Lily Dong came home from school and opened the door to a neighbor. Ellen Roane went to California for spring break. Now there was Emma Chapman. What did she do?

  April could tell Mike desperately wanted a cigarette and couldn’t have one because he quit smoking two months ago.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  He flicked off the lights with his elbow and headed for the door. “Let’s get something to eat and talk about it.”

  April nodded, looking down at her feet. Didn’t want to show her face. She was a cop, wasn’t supposed to get freaked out by nasty surprises. She couldn’t imagine chewing something and swallowing right now, couldn’t imagine closing her eyes and getting any sleep in what was left of the night. But a lot of times there was nothing else to do before morning. All the way downstairs she tried not to think about where Emma Chapman was, concentrated instead on the car battery, praying it wasn’t dead.

  47

  The gun was on the table. Emma could just see it through the slit between her closed lids. She could see his lap, too, because of the way he was sitting in a chair next to her, his legs apart. The knife was in his hand, some kind of switchblade. The blade popped in and out, flashing silver as he played restlessly with it.

  She was shivering all over, freezing. The pain in her head was severe, but she couldn’t reach up her hand to touch it. In her mind’s eye she could see nails in her head piercing the nerves.

  “Come on wake up, honey. I want you to know what a good friend I was to you at North. You never had a better friend.”

  Terror shot through her. The guy with the knife was talking to her like he knew her. She had trouble concentrating. Sometimes she thought she was in a movie, but she couldn’t move her hands or her head. The sound of her groans came from a long way away.

  “Come on, wake up. Your best friend is talking.”

  Never had a friend. She slipped way back to the smell of Virginia. Salt and seaweed filled her nose, like sand packed in a bucket. Her head hit a rock and she fell down, sliding on the mossy stones into the water. She could feel the water filling her mouth and dragging the dress down with her. “You got to watch what you wear, Emma. You’re not the pink, girlish type.” Her best dress, green, all tangled up and heavy, dragging at her while people shouted, “Pull her in. There, get her arm.” Ripped the dress. Mommy, don’t be mad. What navy kid can’t swim? Stop the shouting. “You bad girl. Made a spectacle of yourself. The whole navy knows, all the way to China. You’re not getting another dress.” Oh no! Mommy. Please listen. I didn’t fall. He hit me with a rock and knocked me down. Liar, liar, stick your hand in fire. “You know better than to say things like that, Emma Jane. His daddy’s a captain. You don’t say such things. You don’t lose your self-control.” Paramount. Paramount importance. Now Hear This. Now Hear This. “Navy juniors ride waves. They don’t make them.”

  Emma drifted in and out of consciousness while the guy in the chair talked to her.

  “Where’s my stuff?” she whimpered. “I lost my hat.”

  The guy touched her arm with the point of the switchblade. “Yeah, you’re okay.”

  She opened her eyes.
“What’s going on?” She had no idea where she was or how she got there. It didn’t even sound like her own voice speaking. It was so hoarse and slurred it could have been someone else’s.

  “You’re some slow learner. I already told you.”

  He made the blade flick in and out again, trying to keep her attention.

  Don’t do that. She started to say it, but he began talking again, playing with the knife, touching her with it. The point pressed into her nipple. Fear poked at her from every side. Animal sounds of alarm jumped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  He smiled. “I already told you. I’m your old friend. I did a lot for you. Now I’m going to do something real special. Like nothing ever before.”

  He wiped the switchblade on his knee and looked at her through a square he made of his fingers.

  Nausea pushed up into her throat. “It’s wrong,” she said thickly.

  “No, it’s right, baby. Just right.”

  “No. All wrong.” A whimper of protest escaped her. “No,” she mumbled. Need a cup of coffee. “Gotta to go home. Feel sick.”

  “You don’t say ‘No’ to me.” He stood, taking the switchblade with him. “Are you stupid or something?” He started walking back and forth, furiously flicking the blade open and closed. She twisted her head so she could see him. “I could cut your nipple off. You want that?”

  “Uh.” Emma grunted in terror.

  “Now say no.”

  “Nnn.” She tried to get her lips around the word. Sound came out of her stomach and not her mouth.

  “NO!” He stopped pacing and shouted the word. “I could rape you. I could stick this knife right up your cunt.”

  “Nuh.” The sound wouldn’t come out.

  “Say it,” he screamed.

  “Nn, no.”

  “Okay.” He backed off, his hand in his pants. “Don’t give me problems. Don’t wire me. I got a schedule. I’m making it right, see. I did that for you before. You should have been better. You shouldn’t have messed me up.”

  He raved, one hand in his pocket and the other clutching the knife. She got it in one tremendous, horrifying piece: He was turned on. It felt like a wave the size of Hawaii crashing over her. He wasn’t an actor acting. He took her clothes away. He tied her hands and feet. She couldn’t get up and walk out of the frame he was making with his hands. He wasn’t in a movie. He was a lunatic. And she was his prisoner.

  Sounds of pure terror came out of her mouth. She didn’t recognize them as hers. She had to push them back the way she did when her mother told her not to show a thing. Don’t cry, Emma. Don’t let them know they can get to you. Never. Never, never, never. Just do the job and don’t ask questions.

  He kicked the sofa. It jerked backward. “You messed me up.”

  She had to gulp it back and listen now. Push it way back in her brain before it could take control of her. Fear had a shape of its own. It could fill her mouth and throat, fill the whole cavity of her body. She knew all about fear. It was something she was trained to master a long time ago. Strength comes from fear was her motto from the day she started school. Only this time it wasn’t about being shunned or humiliated. This time, if she didn’t concentrate and find a way out, fear would kill her.

  She could see him rubbing the bulge in his pants with the handle of the knife. She could see it clearly. Her terror turned him on.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled thickly, her eyes closing again. “I’m sick. I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember Andy?”

  “Andy?” She didn’t move, but the eyes in her brain shot open. Andy. How did he know about Andy?

  “Yeah, Andy the Animal. The Football Star, Big Man on Campus?”

  Emma chewed her lips to keep from crying.

  “Yeah, you remember Andy the Animal.” He paced back and forth. “Maybe you don’t know enough about me. I take care of things. I took care of that for you.”

  There’s never a good reason to lose your self-control, Emma Jane. She could hear her mother’s voice from a long way away.

  Sometimes when someone got too close to her on the street, coming from behind, she could still feel Andy’s breath on her neck. Smell the beer. All these years later. And the panic bubbled up all over again. Big guy, drunk at a party. She didn’t even know him.

  Her eyes squeezed tight, pushing it away, but she saw it anyway. The blood suddenly coming out of her at a dance; running to the girls’ room. Realizing that the machine was empty. Coming out of the girls’ room and running upstairs to her locker, where the long hall was dark. Hurry, hurry so no one would see her with blood on her dress. She didn’t hear a thing until he was on her, breathing on her, his hands all over her. On her breasts, up her skirt. Big guy, sweaty and drunk, dragging her into the dark classroom, mumbling how great he was, how lucky she was he wanted her. Stop it, get off, get away. No way he would stop. He was on top of her, all his weight trying to shove it in her around her bloody panties.

  “No, no,” she whimpered, telling him to stop even now.

  “Yeah, you remember.”

  And suddenly the fire alarm was ringing and all the lights were on. People everywhere. Blood all over her and her dress torn. Asking what happened to her. So humiliated about her period. So ashamed that someone would do that to her. Don’t tell, captain of the football team. No one will believe you.

  “My head hurts,” Emma moaned.

  “I took care of him,” he said impatiently, “and you never thanked me.”

  “Wha?” She had to think.

  “I saw it. I could have let him nail you. So what?”

  Emma moved her wrists in the ropes, just a little. “Hurts,” she cried.

  “So what? I took care of him.”

  “My hands. My head. I’m so dizzy.”

  “Listen to me. I took care of him. I’m your best friend, see.”

  “If you’re my best friend,” she muttered, “get me some aspirin.”

  “Forget the fucking aspirin.”

  “If you’re my friend, untie me.” She didn’t dare look at him.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  He checked the ropes around her wrists. Her hands were white, but they weren’t blue. There was no color in her face at all, but she was a little blue around the lips. Like the flake in California. It worried him. She was so out of it and confused he was afraid she might die.

  “Ah, shit. You better not die on me.” He played with the knots, loosening them just a fraction.

  A little scream escaped her at his touch. He touched her breast with his finger, then with the tip of his switchblade.

  “Shut up,” he cried.

  “No circulation, I can’t breathe.”

  He started pacing again, his hand in his pants. “Look at what you’re doing. I got a schedule. Don’t mess me up.”

  Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it had lost its rhythm and was out of control. She could feel herself dying of fear. She let go. If fakirs could stop their hearts, so could she.

  “I’m getting tired of this. Look at me, you stupid bitch. It wasn’t an accident. I offed the guy. It was easy. A little gasoline in a condom. The condom in a toilet paper roll. Fits right in the pocket. You don’t even have to get under the car. Just reach down in the parking lot and put it in the exhaust manifold. Know what kind of heat is generated a few minutes after a car is turned on? Burns the toilet paper tube and starts a nice big fire. Bye-bye, Andy.”

  Emma’s mouth fell open; her head lolled to one side.

  “Say thank you.” He slapped her face. Nothing happened. She was out of it, again. He didn’t want to do her like the flake who slept through the whole thing. He kicked the sofa again.

  “Shit. I got a schedule,” he muttered.

  He paced back and forth in front of her, framing her with his hands and mumbling. When she showed no signs of reviving, he grabbed a few things and slammed out the door.

  48

  There were a few vital inconsistenci
es in the information Detective Woo, calling him from New York, was giving him. Jason sat in the chair by the bed, looking out at the lights on the navy ships in San Diego Harbor.

  “Dr. Frank, from the appearance of your apartment, there is no indication that anything untoward happened to your wife,” she began.

  He sensed another message behind her words. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “Ah, there are no signs of anything being disturbed,” she said.

  There was some crackling in the background. The connection was not a good one. If nothing was wrong, why hadn’t she waited until morning to return his call? Jason looked at his watch. It was way past midnight her time. He had asked Detective Woo to check his apartment, but he more than half expected her not to do it until the next day.

  He had pegged her as a bureaucrat from the moment he saw her, from her very first words. There was a lot of tension around her mouth and eyes, a rigidity in the way she held her slender body. Her precisely layered haircut was extremely controlled, and the navy blue blazer and red-and-white blouse she wore buttoned all the way to the neck took no chances. Everything about her indicated a person who walked a straight line in the middle of the path, afraid of risk-taking, or of veering from the rules in the slightest detail. Jason had known a lot of bureaucrats, still did. Bureaucrats were the people who had accidents in hospitals, who let little things by them that resulted in very big consequences. There were times people died because bureaucrats were just doing their jobs. That’s why Jason didn’t trust them.

  “But she’s not there, and you tell me the lights and television were on. That’s already very untoward,” he said.

  “That depends on your wife,” Detective Woo said.

  What did that mean? What was the real story here? Jason shifted the phone from one ear to the other. He didn’t like the vibrations he was getting from the detective’s voice. He could feel how tightly wound she was. Clocks wound too tightly sometimes froze up and stopped working altogether.