the table.”
He eased himself into one of the chairs, set the keys on the table, then slid them away from himself toward her. She picked them up and put them in her pocket.
“This must be a first offense,” he said.
“It’s not,” she lied. “Put your arms behind you.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Just do it,” she snapped.
“So, you’re a hardened criminal? Is that what you’re saying?” He put his arms around the back of the chair, though it was clearly hard for him to comply.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
With his arms behind him, she threaded the twine through the lathed spokes of the chair’s back and around his wrists, tying them tightly, testing the twine’s strength.
“This is gonna get damned uncomfortable real fast,” he muttered.
“Be quiet. Please.”
“First offense,” he said. “You’re way too polite.”
“Shut up.”
She’d set the .38 on the table out of his reach while she tied him up, but if he made a move for it, she was pretty certain she could beat him to it. He might be able to take her down with brute strength, but there was the chance she could get a shot or two off were it loaded, and since he believed it was, he let her truss him to the chair with no resistance though the dark, mutinous look on his face didn’t bode well if he should chance to get free. With that thought in mind, she tested his bonds a second, then a third time until she was satisfied that he was contained.
Finally, she checked his pockets and found a cell phone, which he clearly wanted to protest about but kept his mouth a taut, grim line. She saw that it was turned off, but when she tried to switch it on, nothing happened.
“Out of juice,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Where’s the charger?” she asked.
“Not here. Why? You wanna use my phone? Where’s yours?”
“I don’t own one.” He looked at her as if she were an exotic species, which annoyed her. “Not everyone has to have a cell phone,” she said with a touch of asperity.
He shook his head and changed the subject. “What’s your plan?” She could discern a faintly mocking tone to his voice and decided he wasn’t taking this seriously enough.
“If you try anything, I will shoot you.”
“I’m having serious trouble believing you.”
The image of Aaron Dirkus’s body and the blood—all the blood—crossed the screen of her mind again, and she had to look away, tears welling. She drew a quivering breath and swallowed hard, several times. “I will,” she said with more conviction and her desperation must have penetrated because his expression grew more serious.
Needing to get outside his range of vision, she walked behind him, obsessively testing the twine yet again. When she was convinced it would hold him but wouldn’t cut off his circulation, she backed away until she felt the kitchen counter behind her. Leaning against it, her legs seemed to lose all strength and she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, the .38 hanging loosely from her hands. Tears ran down her cheeks and she stared into space, reviewing the scene at Zuma though she’d told herself she wouldn’t.
“What’s your name?” he asked. She could only see the back of his head.
Blinking hard, she cleared her throat. “Livvie,” she said, invoking the name of her younger self.
“Well, Livvie, I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of hungry. I hope you’re not planning to starve me.”
It took her long moments to pull herself together, but finally she got to her feet and wandered to his refrigerator. Inside were some sliced deli ham, a loaf of bread, mayonnaise, mustard and some dicey-looking iceberg lettuce. She put together a sandwich, leaving off the lettuce, put it on a plate, found a steak knife in a drawer—he hardly had any utensils or kitchenware of any kind, she noticed—and cut the sandwich in half.
Sliding the plate in front of him, she asked, “What do you drink?”
“Beer. Coke. Water.
He eased himself into one of the chairs, set the keys on the table, then slid them away from himself toward her. She picked them up and put them in her pocket.
“This must be a first offense,” he said.
“It’s not,” she lied. “Put your arms behind you.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Just do it,” she snapped.
“So, you’re a hardened criminal? Is that what you’re saying?” He put his arms around the back of the chair, though it was clearly hard for him to comply.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
With his arms behind him, she threaded the twine through the lathed spokes of the chair’s back and around his wrists, tying them tightly, testing the twine’s strength.
“This is gonna get damned uncomfortable real fast,” he muttered.
“Be quiet. Please.”
“First offense,” he said. “You’re way too polite.”
“Shut up.”
She’d set the .38 on the table out of his reach while she tied him up, but if he made a move for it, she was pretty certain she could beat him to it. He might be able to take her down with brute strength, but there was the chance she could get a shot or two off were it loaded, and since he believed it was, he let her truss him to the chair with no resistance though the dark, mutinous look on his face didn’t bode well if he should chance to get free. With that thought in mind, she tested his bonds a second, then a third time until she was satisfied that he was contained.
Finally, she checked his pockets and found a cell phone, which he clearly wanted to protest about but kept his mouth a taut, grim line. She saw that it was turned off, but when she tried to switch it on, nothing happened.
“Out of juice,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Where’s the charger?” she asked.
“Not here. Why? You wanna use my phone? Where’s yours?”
“I don’t own one.” He looked at her as if she were an exotic species, which annoyed her. “Not everyone has to have a cell phone,” she said with a touch of asperity.
He shook his head and changed the subject. “What’s your plan?” She could discern a faintly mocking tone to his voice and decided he wasn’t taking this seriously enough.
“If you try anything, I will shoot you.”
“I’m having serious trouble believing you.”
The image of Aaron Dirkus’s body and the blood—all the blood—crossed the screen of her mind again, and she had to look away, tears welling. She drew a quivering breath and swallowed hard, several times. “I will,” she said with more conviction and her desperation must have penetrated because his expression grew more serious.
Needing to get outside his range of vision, she walked behind him, obsessively testing the twine yet again. When she was convinced it would hold him but wouldn’t cut off his circulation, she backed away until she felt the kitchen counter behind her. Leaning against it, her legs seemed to lose all strength and she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, the .38 hanging loosely from her hands. Tears ran down her cheeks and she stared into space, reviewing the scene at Zuma though she’d told herself she wouldn’t.
“What’s your name?” he asked. She could only see the back of his head.
Blinking hard, she cleared her throat. “Livvie,” she said, invoking the name of her younger self.
“Well, Livvie, I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of hungry. I hope you’re not planning to starve me.”
It took her long moments to pull herself together, but finally she got to her feet and wandered to his refrigerator. Inside were some sliced deli ham, a loaf of bread, mayonnaise, mustard and some dicey-looking iceberg lettuce. She put together a sandwich, leaving off the lettuce, put it on a plate, found a steak knife in a drawer—he hardly had any utensils or kitchenware of any kind, she noticed—and cut the sandwich in half.
Sliding the plate in front of him, she asked, “What do you drink?”
“Beer. Coke. Water.
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