Page 25 of Slow Burn

“Of course. Busy people, I understand. Now, we’ve agreed to go by neutral names here, so you can call me Mr. Zero.”

“How about calling me a cab,” said the blond man, rising. “I haven’t got time for these games.”

“Please, sit down, sir. Please.” Thankfully, the man did, though he kept glaring. “You can call me anything you like. Now, I’ll call you numbers, all right? You, sir, you’re One—sir, you’re Two—ma’am, you’re Three—Four—and Five.

“Why’s he One?” the woman asked immediately. The African-American man—One—turned to her and said amiably, “Shut up.”

“Ms. Three, the numbers don’t mean anything at all. Each of you represent organizations that seek to purchase my new breakthrough process. No names of organizations should be mentioned here. No causes. Your religious or political affiliations do not matter. You are just—numbers.”

She subsided. Ed looked around at each of them in turn, fixing their identities in his head. IRA, the blond. The Patriot Brotherhood, the other Caucasian. The black man was shopping for a corporate client. The Arab was a broker, not a player. The woman—

He gave her a nervous smile.

“You all received the list of names I sent you via Federal Express ten days ago?” he asked. The heads nodded in various degrees of enthusiasm. “I believe Kevin Baird Tannery was one of them.”

Rustles of paper as lists were removed from pockets and examined. Everyone agreed that Tannery was on the list.

Ed pulled a newspaper from the coffee table.Chicago Tribune.The below-the-fold story was of a man burned to death in his apartment, apparently by a disgruntled girlfriend.

Kevin Baird Tannery.

The paper passed silently from hand to hand. Each of them noted the date, the circumstances, the time.

“Also on your list, I believe was Jerry Lintz of El Paso, Texas. Yes?”

He passed the second newspaper, watched their expressions change.

“And, of course, Burt Everard Marshall, Dallas, Texas,” he continued. The third paper made the rounds.

“How do we know you didn’t hire someone to torch these people and say it was some new chemical process?” Mr. Two asked sensibly. Ed checked his watch.

“Well, as a matter of fact, you can’t. I’m not here to sell you snake oil, Mr. Two. I’m a very successful, very busy man. Do you seriously think that I’d take the chance of bilking people in your particular lines of work?”

“You’d have to be insane,” Mr. Four agreed unblinkingly. “But that don’t change the fact that you could be crazy. We’re gonna need a little more proof.”

“And you’ll get it. In the next ten days, the rest of the names on this list should go up in flames. I’m sure you’ll know how to find out the facts of the cases. Believe me or not—” Ed paused to pick some lint from his gray wool pants. His fingers were ever so slightly shaking. “As you like.”

“I think we’re going to need a little more dramatic proof,” said Mr. Five, the Arab. He was still smiling. Ed smiled back, feeling the strain in his facial muscles.

“Of course you are. Could I ask your help in a little demonstration?” Ed stood up. Mr. Five shrugged and stood, hands folded before him. Close to a gun, Ed suspected, and felt a dizzy wave of nervousness. No time for that. He’d come so far—

“Hold her, please,” he said, and nodded toward Ms. Three. Her eyes went wide. She went for a weapon hidden somewhere in her jacket, but Mr. Five wrenched her arms behind her and held them cruelly tight. She struggled until they all heard cartilage pop, then subsided into limp surrender, face dirty white with shock.

Ed nodded at Mr. Five. “Take her jacket off, please.”

She fought so hard it took Mr. One’s help to get her coat off, revealing a shoulder holster and a small deadly-looking .38. They searched her thoroughly for a wire, but found nothing. Ed opened the coat closet next to the door and took out a long black coat—cheap knock-off leather of no particular pedigree. Ms. Three started to struggle in earnest when he came back with it, kicking over the coffee table, sending cups flying. Mr. One drew the .38 from the shoulder holster and held it to her head. She subsided into stillness, except for the labored rise and fall of her chest. A drop of sweat glided down her cheek.

“Sorry about this,” Mr. One said, and leaned forward to look into her face with disturbing intimacy. “Nothing personal, dear.”

She took a deep breath to scream. Mr. Two jammed a handkerchief in her mouth.

Between One and Five, they got the coat on. Ed provided a length of nylon rope and tied her to the pastel chair, hand and foot. She tossed her head madly from side to side, sweat-slick black hair flying, and the rest of them pulled their chairs away from her. Ed retrieved a red fire extinguisher from the closet and handed it to Mr. Four.

And then he turned the heat up in the room.

“Normally, now, you wouldn’t have to do this,” he said as the fans kicked on and hot air whispered in around them. He perched on the edge of a table near the windows, eyeing the sweating face of Ms. Three. “Body heat is quite sufficient to build up the reaction, but sweating increases the speed, and, of course, we don’t want to spend all day waiting. If you’ll watch her face, you’ll see the disorientation first—there. It hits two or three times, in waves, and then becomes nausea.”

Ten minutes later, she made muffled wretching sounds. Mr. Two leaned forward and said, “She might choke on that gag.”

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