“I do remember this,” he murmurs. “Quite well, actually. I bought it off a madam who’d worked in Storyville as a girl. It’s a terror weapon, really, made for teaching whores lessons, not for killing. The blade is too fragile.” He cocks his head at Caitlin. “You actually remind me of Pithy Nolan in some ways. She thought she knew it all, too. How strange that this gift circled all the way back to me after all this time … and nearly killed me. I believe I’ll pay Pithy a visit next week. Get reacquainted.”

As I try to hide my fear for Pithy, he says, “Ladies’ choice, Ms. Masters. The flame or the knife?”

She gazes back at him without fear. “What are you hoping to find out? I don’t know the name.”

Royal touches the duct tape ringing his neck. “I’m sorry I can’t take your word for that.”

After another contemplative drag off the Camel, he reaches out and cups his left hand behind Caitlin’s head. Then he draws the blade of the straight razor from the corner of her eye to the crease at the edge of her mouth.

I scream, but when he pulls away the blade, I see no blood. He was just teasing her …

As Caitlin and I sag with relief, Royal stabs the tip of the cigarette into her left cheek, pressing it deep into the skin. The pole clangs as she yanks her head away, banging her skull against the steel.

An angry red welt like a bullet wound has risen in the center of her once-perfect cheek. I kick my manacled leg away from the pillar, hoping to break a weak link, but it’s pointless. Caitlin is moaning now. Tears pour from her eyes. Stooping, I seize the chain with both hands and yank it as hard as I can. In seconds, my palms are lacerated and bleeding.

“All is vanity,” murmurs Royal, stepping behind her. “Amazing what the prospect of a permanent scar will do to motivate a woman.”

Now Caitlin’s trembling from head to toe. The old man draws on the cigarette, and its tip glows bright again. My chain clinks and rattles as I try to break free from the wall, but it’s no use.

Royal beckons his son-in-law forward, and Regan obeys, brandishing the flamethrower. “Do you know what German infantrymen nicknamed the Flammenwerfer?” Brody muses. “Skinstealer.”

This nickname has its intended effect. Brody may not see it, but the threat of imminent agony and disfigurement has unsettled the deepest part of Caitlin’s being. Outwardly, though, she somehow remains composed.

“Now … about that witness.”

Caitlin closes her eyes and turns her head away from her tormentor.