Free Scratch Fever by Max Allan Collins

been so conscious of her heart, pounding in her chest, as if trying to get out.
    Sally touched her arm; his touch was cold as a snake.
    “If you rape me,” she said, tightly, teeth clenched, “Nolan’ll kill you.”
    Sally laughed; it was almost a gentle laugh. He patted her arm. “We’re not going to rape you.” Then Infante was there, holding the Kleenex out to Sally, who took it and passed it on to Sherry. “We’re not going to rape her, are we, Infante?”
    Infante looked at Sherry as though she was a slug. “Are you kidding?”
    Sally held Sherry’s hand; in the background Barry Manilow sang. Sally said, “All we want to know is where Nolan is.”
    Sherry said nothing.
    “Is he coming back soon?”
    Sherry said nothing.
    “He’s out of town, isn’t he?”
    Sherry said nothing.
    Sally said, “Flick your Bic, would you, Infante?”
    “Sure,” Infante said. He got his lighter out. Sally held both of Sherry’s arms down while Infante grasped both of her feet around the ankles and locked them in the crook of one arm as he held the lighter’s flame to the bottom of her right foot, just under the toes.
    She screamed. The pain was intense; it went on forever.
    “Three seconds,” Sally said to her. “You want to try for ten?”
    “Please . . .”
    “I don’t get pleasure from this. Infante doesn’t get pleasure from this. Do you, Infante?”
    Infante, still gripping her ankles, grinned and said, “No.”
    “If we were sadists,” Sally said, leaning in close, “we’d burn your face, not the bottom of your feet.” He blew against her cheek; his breath was minty.
    “There’s nothing I can tell you,” she managed.
    “Infante. Flick your Bic.”
    “No!”
    “Wait a second, Infante.”
    Barry Manilow was singing about the Copa; Infante was singing along, softly.
    “Well?” Sally said to her.
    “He didn’t tell me where he was going. He just said he’d be gone most of the day, on business.”
    “Flick your Bic, Infante.”
    “That’s the truth!”
    The other foot, this time; the pain was searing, like a branding iron, lasting for days.
    “Five seconds, that time,” Sally said. “You want to get serious, dear? Or you’ll never dance again.”
    Infante snickered at that, still singing to himself.
    “I’m telling the truth!” she said.
    Sally thought about that.
    “Please,” she said, “he didn’t tell me, he didn’t tell me, why should he bother telling me?”
    “When will he be home?”
    “I thought he’d be back by now. He said about midnight.”
    Sally let go of her arms, looked at his watch. “Jesus,” he said to himself.
    “Maybe she’s telling the truth, Sally,” Infante said, still gripping her ankles, the lighter in hand.
    “Maybe. I wouldn’t want him coming in on this, that’s for sure.”
    The phone rang.
    Sally looked at her sharply. “Could that be him?”
    She nodded.
    “Where’s the phone?”
    Another ring.
    “In the kitchen,” she said.
    Infante said, “Extension’s in the bedroom,” releasing her ankles and running to the bedroom.
    “Pick it up on the fourth ring!” Sally called out.
    He was dragging her to the kitchen; she felt the skin on her burned feet catching and tearing against the carpet.
    He pushed her toward the phone, and she picked it up on the fourth ring.
    It was Nolan.
    She answered his questions, Sally’s automatic with its attachment kissing her neck.
    Got to warn him, give him a sign, she thought.
    “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he was saying.
    “Fine,” she heard herself say.
    “Bye, doll.”
    “Bye, Logan.”
    She hung up.
    Would he pick up on it? That she’d called him Logan? Had that been warning enough?
    In the other room, Barry Manilow was singing, “This Time We Made It.”
    Sally dragged her back to the couch and she passed out.
     
     
    8
     
     
    NOLAN LEFT his LTD on the street, a block away, and made his way up behind the house, through the sloping woods. He stayed within the trees, not going across