“Come out of the shop real fast, don’t give her time to think about it, cross the street. When you get to your car, drop your keys and bend down to retrieve them.”
He said,
“Jack, you ready for this? You really don’t want to fuck this up.
Tell me you know what you’re doing.”
I clicked off.
Best to keep him on high alert.
A minute later, he emerged, looking for all the world like a young harassed entrepreneur, and did exactly as I said. Nearly got run over as he pushed across the street. It worked, took her by complete surprise, but she rallied.
Went after him.
I moved.
She was looming over the bending Stewart when I hit her with the needle. She never sensed me, so sure was she of her prey. I plunged the needle into her jugular, slapped the Stanley knife easily from her hand, grabbed her as she began to crumble, pulled open the back door, shoved her in. Stewart was right: that concoction was fast. I could hear a slight whimper from her. Now, the rough part. Stewart was in the driver’s seat. I took a deep breath, leant against the door, nonchalance personified, lit a cig, scanned the area, and saw nothing, and heavens blessed, heard no sirens. My nerves only evident in the flicking of the Zippo. I knew Stewart was going crazy and to see me leaning against the car must have upped his anxiety to a whole new level. I risked a glance into the backseat. She was out.
Phew-oh.
I stubbed the cig under my boot, casually slid into the shotgun seat. Stewart was shaking, and, as I watched, he reached in his pocket, took out a pill, dry-swallowed it. I asked,
“Thought you didn’t take dope.”
He waited as he let the pill slide down, said,
“Thought I didn’t abduct people either.”
He let out a breath, put the car in gear, said,
“Your apartment, right?”
I nodded and we got out of there. Our insane luck held and we got to the apartment without any attention or screams of outrage. Carried the girl to the apartment. Inside, we faced the hard kitchen chair, lined with tarpaulin. For show, on the counter, were a range of what looked like surgical instruments, gleaming like terror. If she was like most young people, she’d have seen:
Saw,
Hostel,
The Ring, and all the other gruesome torture flicks doing the biz. Her imagination would do the rest.
Convinced Stewart, who croaked,
“You’re not seriously going to use… those?”
I didn’t look at him, said,
“I seriously don’t know.”
We put her in the chair and I produced the rope. Stewart went pale, said,
“Jesus, Jack, are we going too far?”
I lost it, ranted,
“We? The fuck is the we shite? You’re going to fuck off for an hour, have some Zen time, and when you return, I’ll have the answers.”
He left reluctantly, reiterated,
“One hour?”
“Yeah, fucking time me if you like.”
Slammed the door. Maybe that, or the drug wearing off, but I heard Bethany stir. I turned back into the apartment. The next hour is not something I ever want to think about, ever. Two voices running rabid in my head. The first:
“Torturing and psychologically destroying a young girl. Is this what you’ve slithered your way down to?”
The second:
“The devil drives.”
I clung to this as it elaborated,
“She is a stone killer. Preys on the weak and vulnerable and about to go after a special needs school.”
Her eyes widened as I approached and she spat,
“Taylor.”
I held up my mutilated hand, said,
“Now you get a choice. Tell me what I want to know without any incentives.”
Threw a glance at the ugly shining instruments, as she did, continued,
“Or we can do it your way. Sorry I don’t have a headstone but you’ll find it’s memorable anyway and, trust me, you’ll talk, so why not spare us both the grief?”
I moved back as she roared,
“Fuck you, alkie.”
I took the other kitchen chair, sat cowboy style, my arms resting on the back. She looked at the bindings, spat,
“Into bondage, is that it?”
I said,