Chapter 6: Chapter 6

He heaved for breathe and could still feel his body falling. He looked around. White walls, wooden floor upon which he lay, and a doorway leading into another room. Next to him was the girl.

"Not so tough and mean anymore," she said.

"What's that?"

"I said your not that tough and mean anymore. I saw you the other day. You looked terrible, savage, and now, you're not so tough and mean." He felt his pulse slowing and smiled.

"One less finger doesn't make much of a difference. I could hurt you just as easily."

"True." She put the heal of her foot on his stomach and Preston bit his lip. "But you won't." He grabbed her foot.

"Why won't I?"

"I saved your life, healed your finger, you owe me that much." He nodded his head, tiring of her tart little words.

"I didn't ask for help, and I don't owe you anything." Talking was painful and he changed the subject.

"Do you have any water?" he croaked. His voice was raspy and feeble and he hated the weight of her foot on his belly. He wanted to grab it and twist her around but with great difficulty he restrained himself. He curled his damaged finger into a ball and tucked them under his shirt to hide his wound. She stared at him for a minute and he asked again.

"Hey, you, please, do you have anything to drink, any water." She silently rose to her feet and walked to the kitchen. She poured a glass of water and sat beside him. Furiously, Preston realized he couldn't raise the glass of water to his lips. His arms felt like jello, and he tried futily to push it up his chest and towards his face.

"It bothers you doesn't it, it hurts that you have to rely on me?" He closed his eyes and said nothing. She disappeared and returned with a few pillows. After she had propped him up, she grabbed the glass from his hand, brought it to his lips and tilted it. The water poured smoothly and he hungrily sipped at the liquid. He pulled his face away and several drops of water dribbled down his chin, looking like drool. She mopped it up using one of the bloodstained towels. They sat in silence for a minute and he looked her over. She was pretty with dark hair and eyes and a well proportioned body. Nice breasts and ass. Her dress was plain and conservative, a pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt with a red vest on top of it. He was sure he had never seen her before.

He broke the silence.

"Can I ask who you are and where I am?"

"I'm Ryan and you're in my house."

"Well that's a great answer. Is this supposed to be some type of mystery game? You hold me hostage until I do you some favor or complete some perverted task."

"That's good, you're imaginative."

"Fuck you," he said sullenly.

"This is the Ames' house," he guessed.

"Yes, I found you in my basement." He vaguely remembered smashing the window. "I could have called the police and reported you as a vagrant."

"Why didn't you."

"You're finger. You would have died if I had waited for the police or if I had been nice enough to call an ambulance. You were lucky I found you when I did." He thought it had been a dream but now Preston remembered the red glow and the miraculous healing of his fingers. He wasn't sure how to proceed.

"Exactly how did you heal me?" She shrugged.

"I'm not really sure." She changed the subject. "That poor kid you beat up last week, did you kill him?" He looked at her and the memories became a confused jumble. The smearing of the carbon paper, the chase through the woods, the days spent in the forest all became a surreal series of events.

"No, I didn't kill him. He..." and he stopped himself from telling this stranger about how his finger had been lost. "Dead, when was he found dead?"

"The night after you stenciled his face."

"Your a liar, I saw him the woods last night, alive."

"Suit yourself; you were a suspect until someone said they saw you wandering around in the woods that night. But he's dead, I'm not lying." Dead, how could the little dweeb be dead? Different perhaps, high on some new narcotic, but dead? Dead little boys didn't go running through the woods with big silver nails in their hands. He looked at his missing finger as proof that he was somewhat sane. Had Martin been a dream? Had he lost his finger some other way? He remembered looking at Martin from across the ledge and it had occurred to him that the boy was not alive, that he was somehow supernatural. Now, the idea seemed silly and preposterous. But was it? She saw him examining the missing digit.

"What happened, how did you lose it?"

"That's my business," he said defensively as Preston's confusion grew. It was her fault. She was working with the little nerd, trying to not only kill him but ensure that he was thoroughly humiliated.

"What do you have going with that little nerd?" Preston demanded grabbing her shirt and pulling her towards him. She didn't recoil but met his gaze straight on.

"You're going to have to figure that out for yourself. But let me tell you something. I know you think you're the biggest baddest man around. I've seen you walking around like you own the world and every living creature on it. Well Mr. Bully, if you want, I can call the hospital right now and have them pick you up. Should I do that? And then you can answer all of their questions and not have to deal with me." His father would be notified if he was in the hospital. He didn't say anything.

"What happened to your hand?" she persisted.

"Did you hear what I said!" he screamed in fury. The exertion tired Preston and he collapsed back onto the pillows. "I really appreciate what you've done, I really do, but I'm tired and I need to sleep now." His words blurred and his breathing slowed. "This must be a dream anyway, maybe I'm dead," he whispered before his eyes closed and he sank into the pillow.

His life had always had an intrinsic order to it. Yes, his father had beaten him, but deep inside Preston knew there was a reason. That didn't make it better or right, but it explained it. The same was true for his disposition. He accepted the rage that he felt and could not control. It too had its roots in feelings and it also had an explanation. But the Nerd and this girl were different. He could not so easily explain their behavior and it bothered him. It made Preston want to smash his fist through the window or shatter the big bulb which was perched above his head. Because his life had taught him that if he couldn't understand what was going on, he should at least try to smash it. Brute force was sometimes needed. He lay thinking for most of the day as the shadows lengthened and the light began to fade.

He had slept and with the rest his strength had begun to return. At first he had just tried to sit up and when that proved easy he slowly rose to a standing position. His legs were shaky but the groaning in his stomach made him think it was more from a lack of food than anything else. The return of his strength also brought a strong curiosity. He slowly shuffled across the room and through the doorway into the kitchen. Oven, refrigerator, it looked pretty standard. The wallpaper was a crummy yellow and the linoleum needed to be replaced. He poured himself a glass of water and sauntered back from where he had started. It was a living room although it lacked any furniture or decoration. The entire house looked the same. He walked through the kitchen, into a hallway, and through it to the base of stairs. Slowly, he climbed up and rested at the top. The hallway on the second floor was equally sparse. The hardwood floors and the darker colored walls gave it a more somber and eerie look. Preston walked into two empty rooms before he came to a closed door. It opened and he walked into a bedroom. The queen sized bed was the only piece of furniture in the entire house and with that came the realization that Ryan must live alone.

"Alone," he whispered, "is that possible?" As he walked into the room, his finger began to itch. He scratched it and stopped in front of a closet. The itch in his had begun to throb and he absently shook his hand to dissipate the pain. He reached out his good hand and grabbed a hold of the brass knob. It turned and Preston heard the lock unlatch, but the door would not open. He pulled with all of his strength but the door refused to yield. The front door opened and Preston froze. He heard her footsteps and then she called out.

"Preston, are you home?" Unsure of whether or not to respond, Preston tiptoed out of the room and into the hallway. The footsteps approached and he heard the stairs creak and groan as she ascended. "Preston are you up there?"

"Yes, I'm here," he said realizing she was going to find him anyway. "Where have you been?" he demanded to throw her onto the defensive. She was dressed in jeans with a white short sleeve shirt and a sweater over it. She carried a bag. He tried to relax and not get angry but it was so hard to maintain control.

"Out," she replied curtly, putting down a bag and walking over to him.

"Who do you live with? Where's your furniture? Who the hell are you?" She shrugged her shoulders and Preston grabbed her. "Answer me goddammit, am I going crazy? What the hell is going on!" Silence and then in Preston whispered almost mournfully more to himself than to her:

"I don't understand you. I just can't figure it out."

"I can't figure it out myself so don't feel so bad." He looked at her and then pushed her gently away. "I brought you some things, I hope they'll cheer you up."

"You brought me something?" he asked, wondering why she should be so generous. He had long ago learned that every present had something attached to it. She smiled and Preston had to admit to himself that it was radiant, beautiful and for an instant he forgot the fading throb in his finger and the confusion which seemed to be eroding the stable world he had built for himself. Her hand went into the bag and pulled up some hamburger and a few other grocery items. Preston's stomach flipped and his hunger redoubled.

"Food," he said returning her smile.

"I thought you might be hungry. I also thought you might want to know the latest in Wellow Fall's gossip. I thought it might interest you." She withdrew the paper and he took it from her hands. "Come on, let's go downstairs, I'll cook and you can read."

Preston's hunger nearly became a physical illness as the smell of her cooking wafted throughout the kitchen and house. She expertly chopped the onions and flipped them into the pan. She added a little oil and allowed it to sizzle. When the onions were done, she shook them out and replaced them with the chopped hamburg. He looked at the newspaper and began to read it as she continued with her slicing, dicing, and frying.

The Wellow Falls Gazette was not much of a newspaper. It was a ten or eleven page weekly that covered local elderly events, midget baseball games, and the other boring happenings of small town politics. Preston had been featured in the paper twice. The first had been for an incident when he smashed the headlights of every single car in the Brownie & Sons supermarket parking lot. He had been seven at the time. The second article had been about reforming juvenile delinquents. As the town's principal delinquent, his name was prominently mentioned in a side article. It printed his latest exploits which had consisted of switching the paper and glass recycling bags at the collection site, fouling the entire system up for days.

Today the headline of the paper read:

MURDER TRAGEDY DESTROYS LOCAL FAMILY.

He shrugged and saw that she was watching him read. It was written by Luis Sanchez and Preston groaned. He was the local town gossip monger and Luis managed to burrow his way into every small town scandal. Besides, his writing style was annoying.

"WellowFalls lies in a state of shock! In the last two days, this small community has witnessed several grisly murders which have shattered the calm of this tranquil town and raised several disturbing and inexplicable questions. On Wednesday, police found local high schooler Martin Hanson dead in his car. He had apparently been stabbed to death and left beside route 1A near the Wellow Falls Dry-cleaning Emporium. Only two days after he was buried by his family and friends, his mother and father, David and Joan Hanson were found dead in there homes, apparently murdered in the same manner as their son. Police have no leads or suspects although they are not ruling out the possibility of a narcotics connection. Perhaps equally disturbing is that Martin Hanson's grave was found opened and his body removed. Once again, police are baffled by these odd turn events.

Although no suspect has been mentioned, police are investigating an altercation between Martin Hanson and Preston Dregor that occurred only hours before the murder. While police decline to comment whether the two events may be related, they have stated that Mr Dregor was spotted at the opposite end of Wellow Falls at the approximate time of the murder.

The Hanson's were known as a friendly, decent family that..."

Preston reread the article and slowly put the newspaper down. He closed his eyes to try to calm the flurry of thoughts and questions that had multiplied in his brain.

"It means something to you, doesn't it? He didn't know how to respond. Confusion. He felt confusion and he wanted to become angry. He clenched his fists and unrealized that this time anger would not solve the problem. It would not explain how a dead boy had chased him through the woods or how this stranger had mysteriously healed his finger. He bludgeoned the anger down and responded.

"Yes, it does mean something." She too was searching for something and that was why she had helped him.

"Did you murder the Hanson boy?"

"Murder!" he roared jumping up from his seat. "I'd like to kill him after this!" he shouted showing her his missing finger. He realized the volume and harshness of his voice and he relaxed. "I didn't do it though. I wanted to, and I could've but I didn't." He covered his stubbled face with his hands. In the silence that followed she scooped the food off the oven and placed it on a plate.

"I don't have a table so you can eat where you're sitting, sorry."

"That's fine." She took a bite and then began to talk.

"I understand the confusion you're going through. I can't tell you the number of times I've found myself in a different town, or the number of houses I have entered and left. My mind and body seem to be searching for something although I have no idea of what that is.

There are spells, or periods of time, or instants when I can't remember anything. When I was young, they almost never came. Some part of me might have sensed them for an instant, like a faint scent in the air, but before I could place the feeling or define it, it's usually gone. I call these periods dark spells and they are becoming more frequent now.

This house, I live alone. I have no recollection of how I arrived, of who bought it, of how I even received the key. One minute I was at home, wherever that was, and the next I was here in Wellow Falls. Throughout my life it has all seemed so natural that I haven't either bothered to question it.

But I know it's not normal. Normal girls do not live by themselves in houses. Normal girls do not have dark spells and wake up in towns hundreds and even thousands of miles away. My entire existence seems to be locked away in the dark spells." He wasn't sure what to think.

"How did you heal my finger?"

"I don't know." but her face betrayed the lie. It didn't really matter and he let is pass. Maybe he didn't want to know? What was important was that his finger was whole. The hamburg had further re-fortified him and he announced what had been on his mind for the last few minutes. He summoned the politest voice he could and addressed her.

"Ryan, I don't have any answers for you. I can only thank you for the help you've given me. If you did save my life, I'm very grateful. Unfortunately, I must be going."

"Tell me Preston," she pleaded," tell me what happened. You can trust me." Her neediness made him want to get out as soon as possible. Emotions only led to pain. He had told the old man about things but instead of a pat on the back or a word of advice the bastard had raised his fist and smashed it into his young face.

"No, I'm sorry Ryan. There's nothing to tell. I've got to go. Thanks for dinner and everything else."

"I don't think you're in any condition to leave."

"Thanks mom, I'll remember that." He looked at her for a minute and smiled.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"I appreciate your help. A lot of people in this town would have left me to die." It was difficult to say the words and Preston turned his back to her to hide his discomfort.

"Don't die Preston. I'd hate to think that the time I spent to heal you was a complete waste. And don't show up in my basement bloody again, because this was a one shot deal." He couldn't tell if she was serious or not so he just shrugged and said:

"Yeah, right." He turned around, walked through the foyer, and out the front door. The night was pleasantly cool and he breathed a lung full of fresh air. It felt good to be on his own again. He walked to the top of the driveway and looked into the well-lit kitchen.

She was weird, very weird. Con-artist or misfit, liar or weirdo, he couldn't decide. The questions turned and turned in his head and he decided that if he did not give pause and stop thinking about them, they would whirl him into madness. A thought formed:

"Some puzzles can be thought, others can be forced, and yet others must be forgotten, at least for a while." Yeah, that's it he said to himself, just forget her for awhile.

There were a row of rhododendrons at the top of the driveway that were at the peak of their bloom. He walked over to one of the large plants and twisted a flower back and forth until he was able to rip it from the brittle branch. He opened the black mailbox at the top of the driveway gently placed the flower in it. Preston closed the lid and pushed up the mail-marker on the side of the black tin can.

Very weird and appealing. For a minute he considered taking the flower out and throwing it onto the ground. Instead, he pointed his gaze away and headed towards the cemetery. In between strides he massaged the stump where his finger had been a few days earlier.

He had an idea of where Martin would be and this time he would not be so unprepared. Because while Ryan sat in her house crying about her dark spells, he was determined to do something about his own problems.