Burning Time

by Glass, Leslie

  When she got there, the way the big cop looked down at her from a great height made her feel like an old, old woman.

  “I’m Mrs. Bartello.” She peered up at the name tag on his chest but couldn’t make out the letters.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bartello,” he replied pleasantly.

  “It’s not a such a good morning,” she snapped. “I didn’t sleep at all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” They were standing outside, by his car. He looked down at her with a big friendly smile, like she was his great grandmother with a hip complaint. Well, she had a complaint all right, but it wasn’t about joints.

  “There’s a woman in my garage apartment, walking around naked for all the world to see,” she told him angrily. “I don’t like that kind of thing.”

  “Hmm. What’s she doing there?” he asked.

  “That’s a good question. He said he wouldn’t have no women or parties.” Claudia was indignant.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My tenant.”

  “You have a tenant, and he has a girl in there. Is that the problem?” he said, smiling just a little bit.

  “My name is Mrs. Arturo Bartello,” Claudia said. “That’s my house, right there. Fourteen twenty-five Hoyt Avenue. I don’t want no women there.”

  “Have you talked about this with your tenant?” the cop asked.

  “No, I have not. How can I with her still there?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I watched the door. He was out. He came back. She didn’t leave. That young man was out half the night with the woman in there. She’s got some kind of thing on her forehead. I don’t like it at all.”

  The cop frowned. “What kind of thing?”

  “I don’t know. Like blood or something. Maybe he beat her, too.”

  “And you could see all that?” he said, like maybe she was making something like that up.

  “Course I could see it. She was standing right in front of me, no clothes, waving at me like some kind of crazy woman. Probably taking drugs. I won’t have that. I have my rights.” She paused for a breath. “You’re a cop. Take care of it for me.”

  “What would you like me to do? Do you have any reason to believe he’s doing drugs? Or is it the woman in the house that’s bothering you?”

  She hesitated. It was both and everything that was bothering her. His head was tilted like he was really waiting for her answer. But then he didn’t wait for one.

  “Maybe you should just wait for the woman to go, and then have a talk with your tenant. Tell him how you 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. Gimme a clock and a machine gun. Please God give me a knife, just a little one. Half the time she was too terrified almost to breathe, and then she got angry. The air was stale and stuffy. The guy had all the windows closed. Every breath she dared to take was foul. The brown curtains were tied back, but the roller shades were down. She couldn’t see out, couldn’t see the light.

  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.
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  “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.

  She heard it clink on the floor when he set it down. He leaned over her to untie the knots. She could smell the beer more strongly now, and old sweat. It made her want to gag up the orange juice, but she kept it down.

  When all the knots were untied, he helped her up. She shuddered when he touched her. His hands were all over her as he pulled her to her feet. She hated herself for moving so slowly. Everything took time. She had thought that when she was free she’d find a way to get him. Maybe grab the knife. Her heart started beating faster. She was going to make a move.

  But before she was even up and on her feet, he wrenched her arms behind her back so hard she gasped. Then he tied her hands. He was behind her. She had no chance to get him. He guided her to the door with one hand around her neck, squeezing just enough to let her know he could end it right then. In the bathroom he stood there in the doorway, watching her pee. Even though the pressure on her bladder was great, it took a long time to get it out with him watching. She struggled to reach for the toilet paper, couldn’t reach it.

  “Dirty bitch,” he cried. “Didn’t anybody teach you to flush the toilet?” He laughed suddenly. “Don’t move.” He set the knife on the floor.

  The window was behind her, high over her head. He started filling the tub. The knife was on the floor beside him. She eyed it. What now?

  “Get in the tub,” he commanded.

  “What?” She couldn’t move.

  “Are you deaf? I said get in the tub.” He grabbed her and shoved her into it, knocking her legs against the cold porcelain. He turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature carefully. Not too cold, not too hot. Water splashed into the tub. He closed the toilet and sat on it, waiting for the tub to fill up.

  Emma’s eyes widened with the sudden terror that she would not live through the day, after all. He was going to drown her as soon as there was enough water in the tub. She started to gasp and pant.

  “Take it easy. Don’t you want a bath?”

  Emma whimpered. A bath?

  He reached for a bar of Irish Spring and started lathering up her chest and arms.

  “Don’t! I’ll do it myself,” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Shut up.” He was getting hard. She could see it. She went limp and closed her eyes.

  “Shit! Get up. I told you, don’t do that.” He pinched her.

  He didn’t like it when she fainted. That was a good tiling to know. She groaned a little.

  “Get up,” he ordered.

  Water sloshed around her chin as she sank deeper. Maybe he’d drown her now and put her out of her misery.

  “Get out.”

  She opened her eyes. “Huh?”

  “Get the fuck out. Are you stupid?”

  That was it? That was the bath? She struggled to get out. It wasn’t easy to move with her hands tied behind her back. He had to help her up, and wrap her in a towel. Out of the warm water, she started shivering again. She moved so slowly, staggering as he held her up. He swore at her.

  “You’re no good at all,” he said.

  “Let me go,” she said weakly. “I may die. Then what will you do?”

  “Uh-uh. You are not going to die.”

  He put her back to bed, tying all the knots, one by one, just as he had untied them before. When he was finished, he tucked some towels around her and squirted some menthol-scented shaving foam on her from neck to ankles, concentrating on the crotch area.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” she cried. “Don’t do that.”

  He picked up the razor. He didn’t hear any protests. He was tired of her. He put her out of his mind and began shaving her all over, muttering to Willy. He could see his hands get bigger and bigger. He felt a lot better when she started screaming.

  60

  Newt Regis couldn’t really afford to send two men down to San Diego, but he did it anyway. The image of his own daughter, Clarissa, so happy with her husband and new baby, wouldn’t leave him alone. He thought about what it would mean to lose Clarissa, all the time he was talking with Jennifer Roane, the mother of the dead girl, who’d come from New York to get her.

  Without any warning, she’d come in a rented car all the way to Newt’s office in Potoway Village, and Raymond had to lope across the street to get Newt at the café where he was having a late lunch.

  “I thought I told her that wasn’t necessary.” Newt shook his head with disbelief.

  Raymond looked at the half-eaten hamburger in Newt’s hand. “She wanted to see where it happened,” he muttered. “Said she needed it for closure.”

  “Closure, huh.” Newt put down the hamburger and wiped his hands on the too-small paper napkin in his lap. He got up, shrugging. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder to the surprised waitress.

  Mrs. Roane was sitting stiffly on a chair outside the sheriff’s office. She was wearing a khaki bush jacket, as if she’d come to Africa, a wrinkled matching skirt, and huge sunglasses. She was working at the large wad of tissues balled up in her hands.

  “Mrs. Roane? I’m Sheriff Regis.”

  She stood up and held out the hand without the tissues. “You were the one who found her?”

  Newt took the slender hand, nodding. “No one told me you were coming.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. The policewoman in New York said I didn’t have to.…”

  “No,” Newt said gently. “You didn’t have to.” He held the hand sympathetically, taking a minute to assess the situation, then let it go.

  The woman’s dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her white skin was puffy. She wore no makeup and sniffed back tears Newt guessed had been pouring out nonstop for days.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked. Coffee was all he could think of to offer.

  She shook her head. “Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “We’ve—taken good care of her,” Newt said slowly, ushering the woman into his office.

  “I want to see her.”

 
“I understand.”

  She looked around the office, at the cheap furniture, the cluttered desk, the window with its dusty Venetian blinds that didn’t prevent the afternoon sun from streaming in between the slats. He couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses.

  “What was Ellen doing out here?” she asked.

  Newt didn’t respond to that question.

  “Tell me. I loved her so much.…” She let go and sobbed.

  Newt never could bear to see a woman cry. He took a deep breath. Right under his fingertips was a folder that contained all the photos he had of the dead girl who was this woman’s child. Before a madman, the desert, and the vultures got to Ellen Roane, she had been a beautiful, healthy, much-loved college girl. If the suspect was ever apprehended and went to trial, Mrs. Roane might hear the testimony and see the photos of what happened to her daughter. As far as Newt was concerned, that would be too soon.

  “Mrs. Roane,” he said, “if it were my daughter, I’d hold onto that love. I’d hold onto it real tight.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I need to see her … to say good-bye.”

  “No. You got her whole in your heart. Keep her that way. Take her back home with you and say good-bye when you bury her.”

  Since she didn’t want to do that, it took Newt a long time to convince her. It wasn’t until the next day that he could send Raymond and Jesse down to San Diego with the photos of Ellen and Troland Grebs that Sergeant Grove had supplied. They also had copies of the six credit card charges Ellen Roane had made, sent by the detective from New York. There was no hotel or motel charge, so Newt figured Ellen never checked out. He had the sheet on Troland Grebs. He couldn’t tell from the old arrests on it why the detective in New York was so sure it was Grebs. But one witness tying Grebs and Ellen Roane together would do it.

  “Find out where she stayed first,” he told his officers. “They’re probably still holding her things at some hotel. Maybe they saw who she was with.”