The captor lowers the photograph slowly, shakes his head in a dramatic fashion to let Luke know he’s not happy with this response. And she’s terrified by the thought that he’s been reacting to his captors with too much swagger because he’s got no idea how bad their security situation is and he’s sure Cole’s sent a small army of Navy SEALs to his location.
She knows what’s coming, knows the guy’s about to walk over to the winch and lower Luke closer to the flames. And she knows if she hesitates, she’ll overthink what she needs to do next, and nobody ever improved their aim through overthinking.
She holds the edges of the chimney on either side of her waist, then she tucks her feet up onto the rim.
Should she try to stand before she leaps?
She tries it, but at the last second, she loses her balance. Still, she manages to pitch herself forward headfirst, which was the objective. As she falls, she extends her arms in front of her like an imitation Olympian and drives straight for the kettle drum’s bed of flame.
When her hands strike the firepit’s metal instead of the dirt floor, she feels a surge of relief. Bull’s-eye. Then, just as she’d hoped, her impact flips the firepit up over her back, dumping burning logs and branches down onto her body. There’s no pain at first, but her vision’s spotting madly. The surfaces of her eyes are being burned. The sensations all along her back, arms, and hands are like stinging needles, enough to make her cry out if she weren’t triggered. When she is triggered, that’s a sign she’s actually on fire.
But she’s got one freshly warped edge of the firepit in her left hand, while she braces the empty bottom against her right. Blinking madly, hoping her eyes will heal quickly enough for her to get her vision back, she stands, holding the upturned firepit over her head now like a giant helmet.
She blinks, sees a pair of black boots several feet away. They must be Milo’s, and she’s struggling to her feet.
She lowers the firepit some, spins in the direction of the boots, and runs at him with all her strength.
First she hears unfamiliar, piercing screams as the scalding-hot steel meets the body on the other side. Then she hears snapping sounds that are either bones or the bricks in the wall behind him as they crack under her impossible pressure.
She keeps pressing. She tells herself she’s doing it because she can’t see him and so she has to be sure she’s got him. But really she’s doing it because the man on the other side of the burning-hot steel is a man who loves torture, because he derives pleasure from the agony of those who get in his way, because his way is fire and hate and he tried to defile the only man she’s ever loved. She does it because she wants him to feel pain. Deep, constant pain like the kind he’s caused to who knows how many others. So she keeps pressing until there’s nothing but silence from the other side of the hot steel.
When she releases the firepit, it doesn’t come free from its fresh crater. The imprint of the man’s body pushes up through the steel, including a lump in front of his chest that suggests he’d crossed his arms in front of him to stop her assault and failed.
All around her feet are scattered flames, and when she looks down at it, she realizes her jeans are on fire.
She turns. Luke’s bare, bloody chest rises and falls with labored breaths. His eyes are so wide it’s as if she’s changed size before his eyes and he’s struggling to take in all of her. Either that, or she’s just become an incomprehensible mystery to him.
The metal frame could still be burning his back. But she can’t untie him while her clothes are burning, so she tears off her jeans and her shirt. The top of the frame’s too high for her to reach without jumping. If she does that and misses, she could knock the whole thing off its platform and break Luke’s neck. Rotating him flat on his back, his face to the ceiling, might press his flesh more tightly to the hot metal. She drags the wooden base away from where the remains of the fire burn like little bright islands on the dirt floor, then she starts turning the winch, lowering Luke face-first to the floor. It makes her stomach knot, turning the winch in the direction meant for torture, but it’s working.
“Charley.” He sounds like she’s not really there and he’s asking for her.
Her words pour from her in whispers and coos—any tone she can think of that doesn’t sound like the voice of a human monster.
Once he’s parallel with the floor, she cuts the flex-cuffs around his wrists by sliding a finger under each one and tugging outward. He braces his hands on the dirt as she does the same thing to his ankles. Once his feet are free, he lowers his knees to the earth. Something about this new posture unleashes a series of phlegm-filled, hacking coughs. On all fours now, he looks at her, eyes bloodshot and watering. For the first time, she sees the grill marks along his back. They’re bright red and blistering.
“Charley.” There’s no denying the confused, broken tone in his voice. He still sounds like he’s not sure it’s really her.
He crumples to the floor, curls into the fetal position. One hand’s extended in her direction, but there’s no life in it, so she can’t be sure he’s reaching out to her. She takes it as gently as she can anyway. What she wants to do is take him in her arms, but she can’t; not with the burns on his back so fresh. And in the silence that follows, she’s reminded there’s nothing in Zypraxon that protects her soul from the things she does while she’s on it.