‘My name is Hobie,’ he said.
She was up on tiptoes, trying to take the weight off her throat. She was starting to gag. She couldn’t remember taking a breath since she had opened the door.
‘Did Chester mention me?’
Her head was tilting upwards. She was staring at the
ceiling. The gun was digging into her breast. It was no longer cold. The heat of her body had warmed it. She shook her head, a small urgent motion, balanced on the pressure of the hook.
‘He didn’t mention me?’
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Why? Should he have?’
‘Is he a secretive man?’
She shook her head again. The same small urgent motion, side to side, the skin of her throat snagging left and right against the metal.
‘Did he tell you about his business problems?’
She blinked. Shook her head again.
‘So he is a secretive man.’
‘I guess,’ she gasped. ‘But I knew anyway.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend?’
She blinked again. Shook her head.
‘How can you be sure?’ Hobie asked. ‘If he’s a secretive man?’
‘What do you want?’ she gasped.
‘But I guess he doesn’t need a girlfriend. You’re a very beautiful woman.’
She blinked again. She was up on her toes. The Gucci heels were off the ground.
‘I just paid you a compliment,’ Hobie said. ‘Oughtn’t you say something in response? Politely?’
He increased the pressure. The steel dug into the flesh of her throat. One foot came free of the ground.
‘Thank you,’ she gasped.
The hook eased down. Her eye line came back to the horizontal and her heels touched the rug. She realized she was breathing. She was panting, in and out, in and out.
‘A very beautiful woman.’
He dropped the hook away from her throat. It
touched her waist. Traced down over the curve of her hip. Down over her thigh. He was staring at her face. The gun was jammed hard in her flesh. The hook turned, and the flat face of the curve lifted off her thigh, leaving just the point behind. It traced downward. She felt it slide off the silk onto her bare leg. It was sharp. Not like a needle. Like a pencil point. It stopped moving. It started back up. He was pressing with it, gently. It wasn’t cutting her. She knew that. But it was furrowing against the firmness of her skin. It moved up. It slid under the silk. She felt the metal on the skin of her thigh. It moved up. She could feel the silk of her dress bunching and gathering in the radius of the hook. The hook moved up. The back of the hem was sliding up the backs of her legs. Sheryl stirred on the floor. The hook stopped moving and Hobie’s awful right eye swivelled slowly across and down.
‘Put your hand in my pocket,’ he said.
She stared at him.
‘Your left hand,’ he said. ‘My right pocket.’
She had to move closer and reach over and down between his arms. Her face was close to his. He smelled of soap. She felt around to his pocket. Darted her fingers inside and closed them over a small cylinder. Slid it out. It was a used roll of duct tape, an inch in diameter. Silver. Maybe five yards remaining. Hobie stepped away from her.
‘Tape Sheryl’s wrists together,’ he said.
She wriggled her hips to make the hem of her dress fall down into place. He watched her do it and smiled. She glanced between the roll of silver tape and Sheryl, down on the floor.
‘Turn her over,’ he said.
The light from the window was catching the gun. She knelt next to Sheryl. Pulled on one shoulder and pushed on the other until she flopped over on her front.
‘Put her elbows together,’ he said.
She hesitated. He raised the gun a fraction, and then the hook, arms wide, a display of superior weaponry. She grimaced. Sheryl stirred again. Her blood had pooled on the rug. It was brown and sticky. Marilyn used both hands and forced her elbows together, behind her back. Hobie looked down.
‘Get them real close,’ he said.
She picked at the tape with her nail and got a length free. Wrapped it around and around Sheryl’s forearms, just below her elbows.