from the prospect as if the air outside Cielo Vista was purest poison.
Thomas could never be argued or cajoled out of that agoraphobic mood,
and Julie knew better than to push the issue.
“Maybe next time,” she said.
“Maybe,” Thomas said, looking at the floor.
“But feel really bad. I… sort of feel it… the badness… cold
over my skin.”
For a while Bobby and Julie tried various subjects, but Thomas was
talked out. He said nothing, did not make eye contact, and gave no
indication that he even heard them.
They sat together in silence, then, until after a few minutes Thomas
said, “Don’t go yet.”
“We’re not going,” Bobby assured him.
“Just ’cause I can’t talk… don’t mean I want you gone.”
“We know that, kiddo,” Julie said.
“I… need you.”
“I need you too,” Julie said. She lifted one of her brother’s
thick-fingered hands and kissed his knuckles.
AFter BUYING an electric razor at a drug store Frank Pollard shaved and
washed as best he could in a service station restroom. He stopped at a
shopping mall and bought a suitcase, underwear, socks, a couple of
shirts, another pair of jeans, and incidentals. In the mall parking
lot, with the stolen Chevy rocking slightly in the gusting wind, he
packed the other purchases in the suitcase. Then he drove to a motel in
Irvine, where he checked in under the name of George Ferris, using one
of the sets of ID he possessed, making a cash deposit because he lacked
a credit card. He had cash in advance.
He could have stayed in the Laguna area; but he sensed that he should
not remain in one place too long. Maybe his wariness was based on hard
experience. Or maybe he had been on the run for so long that he had
become a creature of motion could never again be truly comfortable at
rest.
The motel room was large, clean, and tastefully decorated The designer
had been swept up in the southwest craze: white washed wood, rattan side
chairs with cushions upholstered peach and pale-blue patterns,
seafoam-green drapes. Only mottled-brown carpet, evidently chosen for
its ability to conceal stains and wear, spoiled the effect; by contrast,
the light hued furnishings seemed not merely to stand on the dark carpet
but to float above it, creating spatial illusions that were
disconcerting, even slightly eerie.
For most of the afternoon Frank sat on the bed, using a pile of pillows
as a back rest. The television was on, but he didn’t watch it. Instead,
he probed at the black hole of his past. Hard as he tried, he could
still not recall anything of his life prior to waking in the alleyway
the previous night. Some strange a exceedingly malevolent shape loomed
at the edge of recollection, however, and he wondered uneasily if
forgetfulness actually might be a blessing.
He needed help. Given the cash in the flight bag and his two sets of
ID, he suspected that he would be unwise to seek assistance from the
authorities. He withdrew the Yellow Pages from one of the night stands
and studied the listings for private investigators. But a PI called to
mind old Humphrey Bogart movies and seemed like an anachronism in this
modern age. How could a guy in a trench coat and a snap-brimmed fedora
help him recover his memory?
Eventually, with the wind singing melodies at the window, Frank
stretched out to get some of the sleep he had missed last night.
A few hours later, just an hour before dusk, he woke suddenly,
whimpering, gasping for breath. His heart pounded furiously.
When he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, he saw that
his hands were wet and scarlet. His shirt and jeans were smeared with
blood. Some, though surely not all of it, was his own blood, for both
of his hands bore deep, oozing scratches. His face stung, and in the
bathroom, the mirror revealed two long scratches on his right cheek, one
on his left cheek, and a fourth on his chin.
He could not understand how this could have happened in his sleep. If
he had torn at himself in some bizarre dream frenzy-and he could recall