The Stolen - Jason Pinter [63]
They were cigarette burns. And there were dozens of them.
"So what did Petrovsky tell you?" he said, his voice
frighteningly calm.
"I told you, nothing. Leave us alone."
He scratched his chin, looked at me. "Hmm...no."
He took another step forward, leaned down and pressed
the lit end of the cigarette against my chest.
I screamed as I heard the sound of burning, waves of
pain shooting through me as I bucked and tried to kick to
no avail. The pain was horrific. I hoped I would pass out.
Finally the man removed the cigarette from my skin.
Then he leaned over and blew gently on the spot where
he'd just burned me.
"That's gonna leave a mark," he said.
I was panting. I could felt sweat pouring down my
body, getting into my eyes. I felt around where my hands
were bound, found that piece of metal I'd felt before. I
rubbed it with my thumb. It was a screw attached to a bolt.
The end of the screw jutted out from the metal about half
an inch. Just maybe...
I slowly moved my wrists until the half-inch screw was
fitted snugly inside one of the loops of knot that bound my
wrists. I moved it slowly up and down, back and forth,
trying to loosen the knot, to create some slack.
The man tossed his cigarette onto the floor, stubbed it
out with his shoe. "I hate to waste one, but I don't think
you taste quite as good on the end of a butt as tobacco
does."
My breath was ragged, but I tried to focus. I gently
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tugged down on my wrist bonds, felt the reassuring pull
that the screw was fastened inside the knot. I began to work
it more, continuously pressing my wrists against the metal
to wedge it in even farther. I nearly gasped when I realized
the screw was in as far as it would go. I'd created a hole
in the knot. Now all I had to do was make it bigger.
"Do you smoke?" the man asked.
"Fuck you," I said.
"That's a brand I'm unfamiliar with. But since you
seem to be full of answers now, I'll ask again. What did
Petrovsky tell you?"
"He told me your mother's a whore and your father
liked to dress up like Raggedy Ann for Christmas."
The man sighed deeply. I didn't care. The longer we
played this game the more time I had. I felt the knot begin
to loosen, and soon I was able to slip my index finger
inside the knot hole. I pulled down on the screw, worked
the loop with my finger, felt it began to slip more. I
couldn't let him notice, so I did it slowly. Methodically.
My chest hurt like hell, but I blocked it out. Amanda
was somewhere in this house, and even if I did talk, there
was no way I trusted this guy to let her live. Rule number
one, when a sociopath makes a promise, believe the
opposite.
"First time I got burned by one of these," the man said,
"I was serving time up in Attica. The guards, hoo, man,
the guards. They sure liked to have their fun with us. One
of the prisoners got out of line, talked back, caused a
ruckus at the mess hall, they'd take a lit butt to the guy's
armpit. Maybe the bottom of his feet. Something sweet
like that. Something that wouldn't go away so fast. At
least it would smell sweet after they got done with you. I
guess you can see they did a little number on my arms
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here. Fifty-two, if I counted right, and I won't even get into
the rest of my body. 'Course, one time they burnt my
arches so bad I couldn't walk for a week. So first thing I
did when we got a hold of that place? When us boys took
over that prison back in '71? I took a cig, lit the mother
up, and stuck it in that same man's eye until it started
smoking."
I heard the strike of another match, and he lit another
cigarette. Another Chesterfield.
"Did you know," he said, taking a long drag, "that the
human hand alone has more than nine thousand nerve
endings and six hundred pain sensors? And most of that
is concentrated in the fingertips?"
"Yeah, I learned that back in health class."
"What do you think it would feel like to experience
mind-numbing pain in the most sensitive area of your
body? Do you think you'd enjoy that? Better yet,