The Twelve-Fingered Boy (23 page)

I follow it, tracking the cord with my eyes. A large chest lurks there in the shadow of the open stairs. I yank the chest away. The floor sounds funny and hollow.

Oh, thank you.

I throw open the trapdoor and see a rough clay and stone stairway. Dubrovnik made this with his own two hands.

At the bottom is a door with a combination lock.

Racing back up the stairs, into the dark hall, I find Dubrovnik still unconscious.

“Jack! Jack! I need your help! Bring water.”

No response.

He must have gotten a serious whack from Dubrovnik. Probably has a concussion. I dash down the hall, into the kitchen. Jack's slumped over, resting his head on the counter like a bored student in class. Rummaging through the cabinets, I find a large pot, jam it underneath the faucet, and fill it with water.

I dump it all on Jack's head. Spluttering, he jerks his body upright. Blood streams down his cheek and neck.

“Stay with me, Jack. Stay awake.”

He blinks. Nods once, tersely.

I fill the pot again and carry it back down the hall to where Dubrovnik lies. Did I see his hands move?

I kick him—as viciously as I can—in the stomach. He twists, and I dump the water on his face.

Dubrovnik gasps. I really did a number on his throat, I think.

“I know you're awake, you freak. Look at me.”

Getting in his head is harder this time. My agitation may be to blame, or it might be his pain and discomfort from being hog-tied. I don't know. This ain't a science, I'm coming to understand.

“Look at me!”

He turns his head and opens one yellowed eye. I'm happy to report the other is swollen shut.

He's fighting me, on the inside. He knows I'm in his head.

“What's the combination?”

“Huh…” He voice rasps like sandpaper. “I don't know what you're talking—”

Just hearing him lie makes me furious again. So I go ahead and kick him in the stomach once more. I wish I was wearing boots. Tennis shoes aren't the best for interrogation.

“What's the combination?”

He smiles a bloody smile, the evil bastard. He's still fighting me. But just by my asking, he's thought of it. I guess he can't help but think of the answer.

12-26-05.

“Where are your car keys?”

He shakes his head, but I get a clear image of them in a drawer in the kitchen.

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

He's not smiling anymore.

I dash back into the basement, down the steps, and get the lock open on my second try.

I push open the door.

He keeps her in the dark. I can hear her whimper and cringe as the door squeaks open.

We're born into pain, our constant companion through life. There are things you see, things you experience that you can never wash away or rid yourself of—
never
. They're like ink impregnated into skin, tattooed on your consciousness, malformed and dark and hideous.

There are things we see that we will never be able to unsee. They change us to the core.

What I see now in the pit, I will never speak of it, not the way Dubrovnik kept that child, not the evidence of the things he did to her.

Never.

She huddles in the corner of the cell. In the cold.

Looking at the girl, I fall to my knees on the roughhewn packed-clay floor. When the heaves stop, my breath coming in dim white plumes from my mouth, I can see again through my tears. I force myself to stand, force myself to go behind
her
eyes, truly terrified of what I'll find there. I see things, things he's done to her—

I'll never speak of them.
Never
.

It's as though she's always been here. She has no recollection of light, or love, or her mother's touch, or even warmth. This disgusting little hole in the ground is her world.

Her mind is a jumble, and I get strange flashes of Dubrovnik's loathsome face, sometimes sad, sometimes angry. Sometimes it is wreathed in long hair and makeup, as if he'd dressed himself as a—

Inside her pain I can barely function, I'm filled with such hatred and disgust and rage.

There's nothing I can do to help. Only time and love can heal her. All I can do is help her body.

I have to get her under covers before I can take her out of the cell. I have to cover her. I remember seeing some blankets in a box in the basement, and I dash back up the stairs and root around until I find one. Then I go back down. It nearly breaks my heart when I wrap her in the blanket and she sighs. When she rediscovers what it means to be warm again instead, my heart loosens in my chest. For a moment, I feel her remember what it's like to be human.

She's light as a doll stuffed with sawdust. I carry her into the basement and up the stairs. She's trying hard to cover her eyes.

In the hallway I have a moment of confusion. Dubrovnik remains on the floor, squirming. But at the end of the hall he stands, silhouetted by the kitchen light. In a dress. Holding a large knife.

“Step away from him.”

It's a woman's voice.

His twin. The girl's memories were of two different people. Two monsters living in the same house. Not Dubrovnik wearing a wig and makeup at all. Twins.

“No.” I grip the girl tighter and she moans, maybe terrified of the pressure. Maybe of the sound of the woman's voice. I don't know. I put my foot on Dubrovnik's throat. He stops squirming. “I can crush his windpipe before you can reach me.”

Where is Jack? Was that what he was trying to say, when he wanted to know…

She walks toward me, taking careful steps. I scrabble to try and get inside her head. Her mind is smooth and hard. She's the strong one in the relationship.

I put some pressure on Dubrovnik's neck. She stops.

“You are one ugly lady, lady.”

I see her tense. Then she launches herself at me like a sprinter.

Poor child, I have to drop you to save you
. The girl's body hits the floor with a dull thud, and I raise my arms to keep the knife away from my throat. It flickers at me in the low light of the hallway. The woman is on me now, and I feel a burning warmth down the length of my arm. But I'm moving forward, and her ugly face shows some surprise as I push her backward, away from Dubrovnik and the girl.

I thought I was tough. I did. I thought that when attacked, I'd be able to swing punches or gouge eyes. But when a crazy woman has a knife, fighting is gone. There are no punches, just her lurching around, trying to jam the blade inside me and me trying to embrace her, to bite her face, to stay so close to her she can't stab me.

I thrash my head to headbutt her. I writhe and kick. I try to plant a knee in her stomach or crotch. But she's as strong as Dubrovnik and faster than a cobra. I sling my arm at her to slam her nose with my elbow. Blood splatters her face, and I see a flap of skin on my forearm flopping around. I've been cut to the bone, but I don't feel anything. My hand isn't working properly anymore, but that's okay because she's blinded with a face-full of my blood.

I'm still inside the reach of her arms, and we embrace like vicious lovers. She rakes the knife down my back, still trying to stab me, but I'm moving too much for her to draw the point inward. I shove and jerk her around until I'm able to slam her against the wall. Once, twice. I outweigh her, but she's strong in the way only crazy people are strong.

I twist and shove, my fists gripping her hair and her dress, my back burning like someone ran a hot coal from my shoulder blade to my ass. I slam her head against the wood paneling, and her long hair swings into my face and sticks to the blood.

She stops wriggling for an instant, and I bring my left fist up and swing at her face. As I do, the knife glints red, and she's got it stuck in my side, buried deep.

I have five inches of steel stabbed inside me, and each inch, each millimeter, contains a mile of pain. The hurt is sharp and ever-expanding. I'll finally be released from this flesh to do the Ghost Dance, to fly like Jack in the wide blue yonder. To die. To go on permanent vacation from this meatsuit.

I can see her face, her eyes wide and excited with my bloodshed and my pain.

I'm having trouble breathing. She must have gotten a lung, because it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest and I'm standing up, for chrissakes. But not for long. I slide down to the floor.

“Stop!” Jack. His voice is bright and angry, confident. “The police are on their way.”

She slowly turns her head. She's inhumanly cold.

When she yanks the knife out, it hurts all over again. I feel pain I could only make you understand if I invaded your mind. But there's a release when the blade finally leaves my flesh. And then a looseness, as if my insides are making their exit. That's what it feels like, anyway. I don't have the energy for self-examination.

I'm still alive enough to see Jack standing at the far end of the hall, a portable phone in his hand.

“Drop the knife. They'll be here any minute.”

She didn't drop the knife when I told her I was going to crush her brother's windpipe. I doubt she'll drop it now.

I don't have the air to tell Jack that, though.

He looks at me over the bodies of Dubrovnik and the girl.

“Shreve, get ready,” he says, and he drops the phone. It clatters to the floor. His posture goes beyond the Angry Kid statue. For a moment I can see the man he'll become— tall, broad-shouldered, and unafraid. I'm so proud of him then that I almost forget what he's saying.

The girl. I have to cover her.

“I'm warning you. You try to hurt anyone else, and you'll regret it.”

The woman is still holding the knife out to the side. In the stillness of the hallway, I can hear the
pat, pat
of the blood drops as they hit the hardwood floor.

I crawl toward the girl, using my elbows and legs. I feel like my intestines have spooled out of my stomach. I can only breathe in shallow gasps, and the taste of blood is in my mouth, unmistakable and savage.

Jack raises his hands. He shows the woman his fingers. All of them.

I reach the girl and pull myself over her, gasping apologies for lying on top of her. I do it to save her.

“Now, Shreve!”

I hear the woman's thundering footsteps, fast and urgent.

I cover my head and grip the girl tightly as the world explodes into darkness.

I remember this show, the one with the hospital and the lights and the blurry faces. Not the most original story, but not too bad either. The actors are energetic, and the dialogue is realistic. There are long moments of silence, though, and that makes me wonder if it might be a documentary. The documentaries always do the trick with the bright light and the worried voice-over of paramedics and cops. This show is no different.

“He's bleeding heavily from his side and arm. We'll need a transfusion. And he's got a punctured lung. She might have nicked his spleen, and she definitely got some of his intestines.”

“The girl?”

“We found her under him. She's near-catatonic but in no danger physically.”

“What caused the explosion?”

“The police officer said it looked like a grenade went off, but there's no scorch marks or fire. Just the man and woman, and the two kids.”

“Looks like this one's a hero.”

“Let's hope he lives to hear it.”

This is the part where the light grows brighter and brighter until it whites out the frame.

And there it goes.

There's a war going on, every day. You just might not know it's there.

The void left by Oprah's departure from daytime TV has really upset the balance of power. Dr. Phil vies with Dr. Dharmesh; Christy Williams grapples with the other black woman with gigantic breasts and a beautiful smile. There's a model (breasts not as big, but nice anyway) and a politician from some far northern state, all shooting for Oprah's still-warm seat.

“Hey, shooter, let's check out CNN and see what they're saying about you today.”