“So what?” Skinny asked. “I didn’t bring my camera.”
“I’ve got something better. Get me loose and I’ll show you.”
Skinny didn’t like that. He eyed me a moment and turned for a look at the others. Mrs. Carlisle was backed against the bed, and W-J stood studying her with his fists on his hips. Skinny returned to me. “I’ll do it. Maybe. What is it?”
“Damn it,” I snapped, “at least put me right side up. These cords are eating my wrists.”
He came and got the back of the chair with one hand and my arm with the other, and I clamped my feet to the floor to give us leverage. He was stronger than he looked. Upright on the chair again, I was still blocking the door.
“Get a bottle,” I told him, “out of my right-hand coat pocket — no, here, the coat I’ve got on. I hope to God it didn’t break.”
He fished it out. It was intact. He held it to the light to read the label.
“What is it?”
“Silver nitrate. It makes a black indelible mark on most things, including skin. Pull up her pants leg and mark her with it.”
“Then what?”