Mesmerized for a moment by the awful realization that she was inextricably bound to a chair, gagged into silence, and watching the fibers of the carpet in the next room catch fire, a fire that would burn her to death should she remain there, Susan stared at the tiny flame grow slowly larger. There was a sudden urge to panic, but to her credit, Susan fought it.
She looked over at the tall black woman bound to the chair across from her, the woman from the FBI or CIA or whatever government agency she really represented. The woman, Shondra Lockwood, was already working with as much speed as she could muster on trying to wriggle her hands out of the loops of rope that held them behind the chair back, hoping sheer muscle power would free her. Susan thought to emulate her, but concluded immediately that it was a losing proposition. They could never manage to slip the ropes in time.
Her eyes darted around the dining room for something she could use to cut the cords. She had a nail file in her purse, but her purse lay near her feet where the French woman, Marie, had dropped it. There was silverware in the cabinet drawer and the drawer was opened from where Marie had searched it; but there were no knives with serrated edges in it and butter knifes were too dull. There had to be something.
A glance back at the fire showed Susan that it was growing, spreading in a circle from the spent match that had started it. The carpet wasn’t burning fast, nor was it giving off any toxic fumes. But it was burning and already there was an acrid smell to the air.
Susan cast her eyes over her left shoulder and instantly seized on it. Her sewing kit was on an end table in the corner of the room. In the kit was a long pair of shears she used for cutting cloth. She didn’t know how well it would work on rope, but there were no other options.
Pressing her toes to the floor, Susan lunged backwards with her entire body. The chair hopped back a few inches. This was going to be slow going—maybe too slow. Her ankles being bound to the crossbar of the chair limited the amount of push she got. Still Susan pressed on, lunging up again, only to have gravity deposit her back on the floor a few inches farther along.
"Mmmmph?" Shondra gurgled, her attention drawn by Susan’s violent movements. She saw her fellow victim was inching her chair back to something, but couldn’t see what it was. All the while, her hands continued to try to pull free of the ropes. She ignored the chafing of her skin and the pain in her thumb joints.
Another lunge put her inches closer. Susan looked over her shoulder again. The table was closer. Another lunge might just put her close enough to reach for the shears. She flung herself back, only to have the chair land against the table and jar the sewing kit. Susan heard objects clatter onto the table and the floor. The horrid realization that she may have just pitched the shears out of reach filled her soul with dread.
Painfully leaning forward, Susan felt around for the shears. She found spools of thread, the pincushion, some old elastic, but no shears. She glanced over at Shondra to gauge her reaction. The black woman was staring intently at her, seeing at last the nurse’s goal and silently urging her on even as she tugged at her wrist ropes. The shears must still be in her reach. With her chest ropes digging into her through the thin burgundy tank top and brown hair falling into her eyes, Susan altered her search slightly to the left and felt the tips of the shears. Slowly, carefully, willing herself to be patient, Susan eased them over until she gripped them in her hands.
"Mmmmmphh!" Shondra urged, a hint of desperation in her voice.
Smoke was beginning to filter into the room. The heat rose and brought beads of perspiration to her hands, arms, chest and face. Susan used all of her will to fight the urge to panic as she twisted her bound hands around and worked the blade of the shears under a cord. It took several moments to work it in. Cutting the rope was no easy task, either. It was far thicker than a piece of thread and the handles of the shears gouged deep furrows into Susan’s fingers as she squeezed them again and again. The blades were chewing into the rope, that she could feel. But would it be enough?
She glanced at Shondra, the concern in her unconcealed. Shondra returned her gaze, equally worried. Susan could hear the flames crackling in the other room, see the smoke thickening. Would it be enough?
Susan closed her eyes to the sting of the smoke, fought the urge to cough into the smothering gag and pressed on. Thoughts came unbidden into her mind:
"Are you afraid to die?"
"Are you reconciled with your life should you die?"
"If you should perish this night, will the thought that the disk perishes with you give you any comfort?"
Her head shook, trying to dispel the thoughts from her mind. The shears continued to chew into the ropes binding her wrists.
"Don’t give up, Suzie!" she thought, whipping herself on. "Don’t give up! You’ll get out of this!"
She glanced over at Shondra. The black woman was slumped against her bindings, head down. The fire or the smoke was already taking a toll on her. Susan, protected some by the wall, had a little more time. But how much? Would it be enough?
"I can’t die yet!" Susan thought. "Not without telling Mom that I love her! Not without seeing Cindy one more time! Cut, damn you! Cut!"
And she felt a rope part. For a moment Susan was too stunned to act upon it. Then the bitter irritant of the smoke spurred her into action. The parted rope loosened the bindings around her wrists just enough to let her pull her left hand painfully through the loops. Clawing up at her elbows as she painfully pressed them further together, the woman was just able to pull the elbow ropes down enough to squirm out of them. From there, she felt along the ropes over her chest until she found the knot holding them. By the time the ropes parted and she was able to lean over to untie her ankles, the smoke was thick in the room. She wanted desperately to pull the gag out of her mouth, but she didn’t have time.
Susan fought with the knots around her ankles for longer than she wished to before they parted. After untying her knees, she stumbled to her feet, scooped up her purse and staggered over to her fellow victim. To her credit, Shondra was still trying to wriggle out of her bonds, though much more feebly than before. Her head swimming and her limbs leaden, Susan grasped the back of the chair and dragged it and Shondra towards the back door even as the flames from the fully engulfed front room roared into the dining room. Knowing her own home by heart, Susan felt her way to the back door. The rush of fresh air momentarily revived her and Susan dragged her companion out into the back yard before the fire, fed by the rush of fresh air, could make its way into the kitchen. She staggered out, let Shondra and the chair fall on their sides into the grass, then collapsed to a sitting position near her.
She gulped in several breaths of sweet air before even attempting to pry the gag from her parched mouth. By the time she freed it and began fumbling to untie Shondra’s wrists, Susan could hear fire truck sirens in the distance. It took longer than she was used to, something she attributed to fatigue, shock and smoke inhalation, but Susan finally got the woman free from the chair. Shondra clawed the gag out of her mouth, sat up and looked at Susan.
"Thank you," she gasped earnestly, the first time Susan could sense genuine earnestness in this woman. "I owe you my life."
"You’re not with the FBI, are you?" Susan panted.
"No," she said, looking at the grass. The sirens grew closer.
"Are you CIA?"
"Not quite."
"Not quite?"
"It’s kind of a national security off-shoot."
"What kind of national security off-shoot?" demanded Susan.
"You’re better off not knowing," Shondra replied, her earnestness again obvious.
"BULLSHIT!" snapped Susan. "I’ve had my house burned down and nearly lost my life! I’d like to know why and who the players are!"
"And I’d like to tell you," Shondra whispered, "but you’re really better off not knowing. Look, I respect you. You kept a cool head in a situation where another civilian would have freaked. I’m sorry you got involved in this, but Marie has the disk now, so you won’t be involved any longer."
"That’s the French bimbo?"
Shondra smiled in spite of herself.
"Marie LeClair, professional thief and mercenary. Don’t be fooled by that sexpot act. She just does that to throw her adversaries off balance," then Shondra glanced at Susan mischievously, "most of the time."
"Well I hope it’s the last I ever see of her," sighed Susan. The fatigue was washing over her like a wave now and she just sat there staring at the ground for the longest time. "Well, the firemen are here. We can get you and me treated."
But Susan looked around and saw Shondra was gone.
The house was fully involved by the time the fire department got the fire under control. Susan sat in the grass in the back yard and watched an entire life full of memories and possessions disintegrate before her eyes. The fire fighters worked around her. A medic knelt down next to her and took her vitals. She answered his questions absently. Finally he gently pulled her up to her feet and escorted her to the medical van.
"This looks familiar," Susan said absently, sitting in the back of the fire medic van.
"Oh?" the medic replied, fixing the oxygen mask on her face. "Been in one before?"
"No, I see them at work. I’m an ER nurse…at Mercy."
"Yeah? You know Jim Coventry?"
"Yes, I do," Susan replied, the first light of life coming to her eyes since the medic had seen her. "How’s his knee?"
"He’s OK. Got a few days off on medical leave, the slacker."
A police officer approached.
"Can she answer questions?" the police officer, a slim blonde woman who probably packed more of a punch than she looked like she could, asked.
"Sure. I thought she was going into shock for a few, but she’s coming out of it. Her only injuries seem to be a little smoke inhalation and these abrasions on her mouth and arms." Turning back to Susan, the medic asked, "Were you tied up?"
"Uh huh," Susan nodded.
"Who tied you up?" asked the cop.
"Marie," sighed Susan, fatigue catching up with her. "Marie LeClair."
"How do you know this woman?"
"She’s some sort of professional thief," panted Susan, the oxygen clearing out the fog in her brain. "She’s after this CD I had. Took it, tied me up," then Susan’s lip began to quiver just slightly, "and left me to die."
The medic and the cop glanced at each other.
"What’s your name?" the officer asked Susan, placing her hands gently but firmly on Susan’s shoulders.
"Susan Hitchcock."
"Susan, I need you to wait right here. I think I need to call the Homicide detectives in on this."
Susan nodded absently. Then she let out a deep sigh.
"Looks like it’s going to be a few more hours until I can get some sleep," muttered Susan.
"You just get off shift?" asked the medic.
"A couple of hours ago now. And now I’m going to be up all night with these detectives. All I want to do right now is get some sleep! Man, I wish I’d never gotten that CD!"
"Wonder why it’s so important that someone would kill for it? Did you see what’s on it?"
Susan hesitated for a moment.
"No," she replied. "I don’t have a clue what’s on it."
The elevator opened onto the fourth floor and Marie exited, headed for the hotel room she shared with Armand. The disk was safely in their prearranged hiding place and would soon garner them enough money to live in comfortable luxury—at least for a few years, considering the way she spent money. The only two people who knew she had the disk were by now permanently silent and there seemed to be no other parties looking for it. They seemed to be free and clear.
Marie hoped Armand was back. She felt horny as a mink in heat.
"More than usual," she smirked to herself.
One hand inserted her key into the door lock while the other absently traced the line of her sternum between her breasts. Marie was so sure they had won this game of wits that she didn’t take her usual precautions and just burst into the room.
"{I’ve got it, Lover}!" she exclaimed excitedly. "{I’ve got…}", then her enthusiasm caught short.
In the corner, she spotted Armand. He was trussed up with criss-crosses of rope and gagged with electrical tape and propped up in the corner of the room. A trickle of blood was coming down his forehead from his scalp and was drying into brown.
Her breath caught in her chest, Marie silently backed to the door, her body tense and her senses alive. She got two paces back before the barrel of a gun pressed into the base of her skull.
"You will carefully lace your fingers behind your back," said a no nonsense female voice. "You will then kneel on the floor."
"You do not need the gun, Cherie," Marie replied sweetly. "I am just a weak little girl and very willing to do anything you wish."
The woman responded by kicking the back of Marie’s knees. Her support cut, Marie tumbled to her knees.
"Lace your fingers behind your back!" snapped the woman. "I will not ask again!’
Marie heard the hammer of the gun cock. She laced her fingers behind her back. A burly Chinese man dressed in dark, nondescript clothes appeared suddenly with rope in his hands. He knelt behind Marie and with practiced expertise tied her wrists together, then pressed her elbows painfully together and bound them to meet. Once knotted, the ends of the rope were brought over and under Marie’s chest and back behind her several times, then tied off. The sound of tape being pulled away from a roll was followed by strips of black electrical tape pulled over Marie’s lips and rudely smoothed down.
She was shoved face first to the floor. Her knees were bound tightly. Her ankles were crossed and roped together, then her legs were bent double and her ankles tied to her wrists. A grunt of exertion from Marie escaped the gag. While this was going on, the woman, a slim, athletic Chinese woman with long silky black hair, thin hooded eyes, beautiful lips and cheekbones and a business-like demeanor was searching the leather bag Marie had.
"{It is not here}," the woman, Xia Min, told her male companion. "{Remove the gag}." The tape peeled sharply off of Marie’s mouth, taking some skin with it. "Where is the disk?"
"What disk?" Marie said calmly.
Xia stepped over to her and pressed her foot on the back of Marie’s neck.
"Where is the disk?" she asked.
"I know of no disk," Marie replied more sharply. "Armand and I are here on holiday."
Xia sharply signaled her partner. He straddled Marie’s back and taped her mouth over again.
"{Find a laundry bag},"Xia commanded. "{We will take her back and persuade her to tell us}."
Chapter Four