“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.”

Mr. Four said, “If she’s lucky.” He gripped the fire extinguisher in white-knuckled hands.