“I’ve loved you for a while,” he said.

“Let me go,” she said.

“I can’t do that. But.”

“Let me go. Please.”

“No, Heidi.”

“How did you get my address?”

“Not hard.”

“Listen. Let me go. I have a boyfriend. He’ll look for me.”

“He won’t find you.”

“He will.”

“He won’t. You don’t even know where you are.”

She cried. He was right. The ropes were tied tight around her wrists. Digging in. She could feel blood seeping out beneath the burn. He had stripped her down to her undershirt and panties. The shirt was soaked through with sweat. Her hair was in her face. He was moving back and forth in front of her holding a sawedoff shotgun across his chest. She watched the bottoms of his shoes. They were muddy. His shoes were all she could look at.

“Listen,” he said. “There’s no reason to be scared.”

“My boyfriend will come for me.”

He pulled a folding chair up and sat down in front of her, resting the shotgun against his leg. He took her by the chin and made her look at him. “I don’t even believe you have a boyfriend. That’s number one. Number two is nobody—not some madeup boyfriend, not your mother, not your best friend—is gonna find you out here where you are, Ms. Heidi Louisiana.” He smiled. “Heidi Louisiana. You know? That’s one hell of a name. Is it your real name?”

She said nothing.

“I asked if it’s your real name.”

He pressed his fingers deep around her chin. She could feel that his fingers were dirty and rough. And they smelled. Like he’d been scratching his ass and smoking handrolled cigarettes. She said, “It’s not my real name. It’s my stage name.”

“I knew that.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’ve seen you dance.”

“I don’t care.”

“Even seen your website. I don’t have a computer, but I went to the library and looked at your pictures. I thought about ordering one of those autographed pictures you have on there for sale.”

“Which library were you at?” she asked.

“Take it easy, you little detective.”

“Listen, what do you want? I’ll give it to you. Just let me go. Untie me and I’ll give you whatever you want. You wanna spill in me? Let me go and you can do it. Just let me go. That’s the deal. Don’t do it to me tied up.”

He laughed. “I got a song I wanna play for you, Heidi Louisiana.” He let go of her chin, got up, and left the room.

She struggled and tried to get free. The ropes were tight around her wrists and ankles and fastened to a series of heavy pipes next to a water heater. If she moved too much, she risked rubbing up against the water heater and burning herself.

He came back into the room with a beatup old guitar. “You like music?” he asked.

She said nothing.

“Tell me you like good music.”

She said, “Please. Let me go.”

He said, “I read the interview they had with you in that rockabilly magazine. The one where you were the centerfold. Or the kitten. Whatever they call it in that magazine. The one with that picture of you in the drain pipe. I didn’t know if that meant you liked rockabilly. The fact that you were in the magazine.”

She screamed.

“Do you like rockabilly?”

She screamed louder.

He started fiddling with the strings on the guitar. It sounded warped and out of tune. “I’m gonna play you a song, Heidi.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I don’t want.”

“You don’t want what?”

“To hear your song. I don’t want to.” She started to cry.

“Don’t cry, Heidi.” He laughed. “Look at me, giving you advice.”

“Please.”

“Listen to my song. Just stop crying and listen. Let’s see where we are after that.”

“No.”

“Come on. Deal?”

She said nothing. She held back tears and closed her eyes.

He started singing a song about a woman with a coal black heart. He had a terrible voice. His guitar sounded like somebody was playing a record backwards. She started crying again.

He stopped. “You don’t like my song?”

“No,” she said.

“I wrote it.”

“Please.”

“I never played in front of anybody. You’re the first.”

“Let me go.”

“What’s wrong with it?

“What’s your name?”

“Forget that.”

“Please. Let me go.”

He rolled a cigarette and lit it. “My name’s Henry.”

“Henry, let me go.”

“You don’t care that I love you?”

“My wrists hurt. My ankles hurt. I’m bleeding. I can feel it. The ropes are cutting into my skin. And I have to pee. I have to pee so bad, Henry.”

“Heidi.”

“Henry. Please.”

“I wrote a few songs for you, Heidi. But I won’t play em.”

“Let me go. Untie me. And then I’ll sit here and listen to em. I swear.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

“You’ll try to run.”

“I won’t run.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you. I’ll hurt you if you run.”

“I won’t.”

He thought about it. “I don’t want you pissin on yourself. I’ll let you free from the pipes. And I’ll untie your feet. Then I’ll stand you up and walk you over to the bathroom.”

“OK.”

He picked up the shotgun and untied her carefully. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. He helped her up and turned her away from him.

She stood there. She could feel the sawedoff barrel of the shotgun pressed against the small of her back. “I won’t.”

He walked her slowly across the room. In the corner, beyond a broken old washing machine, was a small dirty bathroom. It was about big enough for one person. “You sit down,” he said. “I have the gun on you. Just piss and get up.”

“OK.”

She went in and stood over the ruststained bowl.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t pee through my panties. Pull them down for me.”

He used the barrel of the shotgun to wriggle them down over her hips and past her knees.

She squatted over the bowl and started in on her stream.

He stood there and watched.

When she was done, she said, “I’m finished. Pull them back up.”

“No,” he said. “Step out of them. Leave them off.”

“Please,” she said.

He used the shotgun to take them off all the way.

“Step out of them.”

“No.”

“Step out.”

She stepped out of them and stood there. He stared at her.

“I like the way it looks,” he said.

“Don’t,” she said.

He brought the shotgun up her thigh and pressed it in where her legs came together.

“Don’t,” she said again.

“I won’t.”

“Please.”

“You’re all goose pimply.”

“I’m cold. Henry, don’t.”

He pulled the shotgun away. “Come out here.”

She moved out of the bathroom. “Don’t tie me back up to the pipes.”

“OK.”

He walked her back over and pushed her down into the chair where he had been sitting with the guitar. He put the shotgun down and tied her fast to the chair around her legs and stomach. Then he put her arms behind her back and tied her wrists. When he was done, his eyes lingered too long on the red patch between her legs.

“That better?” he asked.

“I don’t like being tied up. Either way, I don’t like it.”

“But it’s better than the pipes.”

She said nothing.

“It’s better than the pipes.”

“I don’t like being naked, Henry. Please cover me.”

“I like looking at you naked.”

“Henry, put a blanket over me. I’m begging you.”

“Heidi.” He laughed. Then he covered her bottom half with a musty old flannel blanket that he found folded on top of a pile of boxes across from the water heater.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What’s your real name?”

“Don’t.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Heidi.”

“You said it wasn’t Heidi.”

“It is.”

“What is it?” He picked up the shotgun and held it on her.

She cried, her chin trembling.

“What is it?” he asked again, pressing the shotgun against the hollow of her throat.

“Emma.”

“Emma what?”

“Emma Slattery.”

“Emma Slattery.”

“Don’t say my name.” She cried harder.

“Emma Slattery, I wanna play the songs I wrote for Heidi Louisiana.”

“No.”

“You said you’d listen if I let you piss.”

“Please.”

He put down the shotgun and picked up the guitar and played another song. It was worse than the first one. She couldn’t even make out what the words were.

“Did you like that one better?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’re tough.”

“It was.”

“What?”

“It was fucking terrible.” She spit at him.

He stepped back and the glob of spit landed on his shoe. He swung the guitar at her and broke it across her face. She screamed. She was bleeding where the wood had splintered off in her cheeks and forehead.

“Shit,” he said.

“Go to hell.”

He leaned down and picked up the pieces of the ruined guitar. Then he got the shotgun and held it across his arm at her from his perch on the floor.  

“Go straight to hell, Henry.”

He laughed.

She screamed through tears.

He laughed harder. “You must be hungry,” he said. “Getting busted in the face like that.”

“Shut up.”

“And all the crying. You gotta be hungry.”

“No.”

“You’re hungry.”

“No.”

He pushed the shotgun at her, pressing it between her breasts. “I’m gonna go get you somethin,” he said. “You don’t move.” He got up and left the room.

She heard a door close at the back end of the room and began to work at loosening the ropes. It didn’t take long to get the ropes off from around her wrists. He had made that knot halfheartedly. But her legs were pretty secure, and she was held fast around her center. She tried to stand, believing that she could bring down enough force on the chair that the legs would split and shatter and leave her writhing on the floor in a tangle of ropes. She tried over and over again to break the chair. She tasted blood on her lips. She heard him moving around upstairs.

When she heard he was coming back down, she put her hands back behind her and made like they were still tied. She didn’t know if it would fool him, but she managed to work the loose ropes twice around her wrists and it felt to her like something he would not notice.

He came back and stood in front of her. He had the shotgun in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He held the sandwich in front of her face.

She kept her mouth shut.

“Eat,” he said. “It’s a ham sandwich.”

She spit on the sandwich.

He laughed.

She spit on him. Across his chest this time.

“I’m out of guitars,” he said.

She was hoping he would swing the shotgun at her. If he did that, she could reach around and grab the barrel of the gun and turn it on him. He would not be expecting her to use her hands.

But he didn’t swing the gun. He let the sandwich fall into her lap and stepped back. “Upstairs is an old restaurant,” he said.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“It hasn’t been used in a long time. But there’s a cooler up there that still works. I keep food in there.”

“Where am I?”

“Don’t.”

“Am I still in the city?”

He moved close to her. “Don’t spit on me.”

“Where. Am. I.”

“Heidi.”

He was holding the shotgun in front of him. Across his body. She let the ropes go and went for it. She got both hands around the barrel and yanked. He was laughing. But she was strong enough to pull it into her. His index finger was on the trigger. He pressed down and it went off between them. The shot zinged off of a pipe. The kick knocked him back, and she was left with the gun in her lap. He was still laughing. She turned it on him and fired. A big hole opened up directly in the center of his chest and blood drizzled out. She cried and fired again. The second shot blew off half of his face. She threw the gun on the ground.

Fifteen minutes later she had worked herself out of the ropes. She found her panties and the rest of her clothes and put them on. She went over and looked at him and spit on the messy pulp of his face. She went upstairs. It truly was an abandoned restaurant. There were no windows. It was dark in there. There was graffiti on the walls and empty beer bottles broken on the tiled bar. She went into the kitchen and found the cooler he had told her about. It was full of canned food, beer, and packaged cold cuts. She took out a can of beer and snapped off the tab. It tasted cold and good.

She went outside and drank the beer. The restaurant was all boarded up and there was an old graffiti covered sign that said Peggy’s Runway in red. It must have been the name of the place. She didn’t recognize where she was. There was nothing else around. The restaurant was in a clearing. She listened for the sounds of a road. There had to be one nearby. She left the can on the ground outside the front door of the restaurant and set out walking.  

The End