by J. M. Snyder
Packing up his art supplies, Beau tried to warm himself by remembering the praise he would get on those good days, when he would do several portraits. He remembered one woman, a regal looking, olive-complexioned lady with a mass of graying hair she had pulled sloppily atop her head, effusing over her portrait. In it, Beau had captured the beauty that shone from her, luminosity not immediately apparent to the casual observer. He didn’t think the woman was being conceited when she smiled at the drawing, tears springing to her eyes, and said, “Why it’s like you captured my very soul.”
And that’s exactly what Beau tried to do when he drew someone—find their essence, some unique feature that made them them. He knew he was good, better than the hardscrabble existence he eked out, but aside from times being hard these days, he also constantly told himself that, albeit poor, he was free. He had no boss to answer to, save himself and his own biological imperatives—which were sometimes very demanding indeed—no set hours around which he would be forced to fashion his life.
Yes, he had to admit to himself, he was homeless, even though he usually made enough money to keep him off the streets most nights. Yet he had no permanent address, no real place to store his art supplies and to hang the straw hat he favored wearing. But when the fact of his aimlessness left him low, he could always remind himself he was free.
Free.
And alone.
Beau finished putting what he could in the large backpack that transformed him into a beast of burden. He folded up his easel, compacting it, and turned to look once more at the waters of the sound, now still and shiny, mirror-like, reflecting the last of the dying light of day. Below him, rush hour traffic rushed north and south. He checked his pockets, pulling out its meager contents. Today, he had five dollars and fifty-three cents to his name, barely enough to buy him a bowl of pho, the flavorful Vietnamese noodle soup that could be found in just about every neighborhood here in Seattle. It certainly didn’t leave him enough for shelter for the night.
That was okay.
He was free.
He would find a doorway in Belltown, the close-to-downtown neighborhood, and curl up in layers of fleece and denim, and perhaps tomorrow would dawn a brighter day—and a more prosperous one.
He began trudging away from the waterfront and toward the market and Post Alley, looking forward to being away from his makeshift workplace, to eating some pho, and finding a quiet place where he could sleep for a while.
The walk toward food and possible shelter was all uphill and Beau wished he had not left it so late to attempt to find either. Quickly, as it did in winter, the sun beat a hasty retreat behind the mountains, barely noticeable anyway behind its thick shield of dark clouds—and now it had fallen to dull dark, the only illumination the artificial lights of the city.
Beau squared his broad shoulders, looking forward to sitting down for a while in the little Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Bac, near the downtown Greyhound station. He could practically taste the savory, star-anise flavored broth as he trudged uphill toward downtown, imagining the steaming noodles wrapped around chopsticks, the Thai basil, bean sprouts, and mint leaves floating in the soup, the tender pieces of beef tendon.
Simple thoughts like these kept him going, kept his mind off the ache in his shoulders and back from lugging around virtually everything he owned.
He was so focused on food, as hungry people often are, that he didn’t notice the two strangers trailing him. They were young men about Beau’s own age, but lacking his delicate, fragile, yet manly grace and beauty. These two were thugs, apparent in the cockiness of their walks, the fierceness of their frowns framed by dark stubble, and their attire, which leaned toward too-baggy jeans, hoodies, and heavy, steel-toed boots.
When Beau at last did spy the pair out of the corner of his eye, it was too late to do anything about avoiding them. He had already slipped down an alley, planning a shortcut to the pho restaurant, and there, the bricked pavement was barely visible among the claustrophobic shadows.
Beau was not too weary to tense when he first felt, then spied, the men. They were too close, too quiet, to simply be passing the same way as he. He had lived on the street long enough to be able to tell the difference between ill intent and coincidence.
He began talking to himself in his mind, trying to ward off the panic and the fear. Why would they bother you? You have nothing. You’re probably poorer than they are.
But Beau knew he had art supplies and a leather satchel that would be worth something in a pawnshop. And if these two were hungry for their next fix of horse or Tina, they might be willing to take him down, even though it would be easier to rob someone who had some cash on him or at least looked like he did.
Don’t let them know you sense their presence. Don’t hurry. Don’t run. Just walk at a normal pace. Maybe you will get to the mouth of the alley—and brighter light—before they overtake you. Perhaps they will see you for the bad prospect you are.
Perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they, fueled by whatever chemicals are thrumming in their systems, get off on pain and cruelty. And here you are—alone and isolated—just as beasts prefer their prey.
Beau tried to swallow, but found his mouth had gone dry. His heart was beating at twice its normal rate. In spite of the damp and the chill, he felt a crawly trickle of sweat run down his back on insect legs.
He was almost to the end of the alley when he sensed them coming closer, heard their throaty, whispered laughter.
Had one of them called him a faggot?
Was it that obvious?
At last, Beau started to run and that was when he knew—for sure—he was in trouble.
He heard their pace pick up to match his own.
The mouth of the alley, the streetlights, the buses and other passing traffic, were only a few feet away, but Beau would never get to experience them because it was then he felt the blow, hard, to the back of his head.
His vision blurred. He dropped to his knees and could hear only laughter. He braced himself for another strike before everything went black.
Chapter 2
When Beau awakened, he wondered if he had arrived in heaven. No, there were no angels strumming harps, clouds underfoot, or St. Peter standing at the Pearly Gates.
But what was before his eyes was something unexpected and something, well, plush beyond Beau’s wildest imaginings. He sat up slightly in the large bed he was lying in. Rich, thick sheets slithered to his waist; a fluffy white down comforter was folded up at the foot of the bed. He surveyed the room he was in, despite the pain such movement caused to rise up in his head. It felt like a little man with an ice pick was wielding it behind his eyes, rhythmically striking again and again and again.
Through a wave of nausea and vision that went from clear to blurry with no warning, he managed to take in a gorgeous, sun-dappled bedroom. He lay in a sleigh bed of rich mahogany wood, carved at the top corners with a delicate oak leaf pattern. Light streamed in through plantation shutters at each of the two windows. The floor was highly polished hardwood, stained black, a wonderful contrast to the faded parchment color of the walls. Across from the bed was a little sitting area, with a loveseat, small table, and two overstuffed chairs, all covered in a deep velvet, the cushions so fluffy they begged to be sat upon. The table was piled with books, leather-bound.
On the walls were black and white framed photos of Seattle—the famous elephant of the Pink Elephant car wash, the Needle, a neon sign in the window of a bar called the Five Point where someone had blocked out the words “cook on duty” to read “cock on duty,” the Crittenden locks in Ballard, Gas Works Park, Mt. Rainier, sunrise over the Cascade mountains. Yet, Beau noted there were no mirrors on any of the walls.
He was curious to see how he looked. Was he bruised? Did he have one or two black eyes? He reached up gingerly, touching his head, which pounded, and felt layers of gauze.
How bad off was he?
And where was he?
He tried to put his feet to the fl
oor, but that same floor tilted when his feet connected with it and a wave of nausea rose up from his belly, shooting bile he imagined as a sickly yellow up the back of his throat, burning.
He lay back down, panting, trying to remember the last several hours of his life, so he could figure out what had brought him here—wherever here was….
But all he could see in his mind’s eye was himself set up on the Elliott Bay waterfront, his art supplies at the ready, should a tourist want to take him up on his offer of a portrait for the bargain-basement price of only ten dollars.
Everything after that was a blank.
Beau tensed as he heard footsteps approaching. His gaze moved to a heavy oak door opposite the bed. The footfalls sounded heavy, indicating someone large drawing closer, closer. Beau felt a sudden flash of irrational fear course through him and he pressed his back against the bed’s headboard, eyes intent on the brass doorknob, waiting for it to turn.
He found it hard to breathe.
Only seconds passed as he listened to the silence created by the footsteps stopping outside his door. As he had imagined, he watched the slow turn of the doorknob. He felt like he was in some kind of horror movie and the notion made him feel panicky and giddy all at once—the absurdity of it causing him to restrain a hysterical giggle lodged deep in his throat.
Whoever was out there, opening the door—Beau did not want to see. What he wanted, really wanted, was to know where he was and how he had gotten here.
The door opened and a large figure, clothed all in black, stood for a moment, framed in the doorway. His massive shoulders were so broad that Beau wondered if he would have difficulty making his way across the threshold. The man—and Beau was sure it was a man despite not being able to see his face—stood well over six feet tall, perhaps closer to seven. In the form-fitting black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, Beau made out a pumped-up body in which the muscles were piled on like slabs. His hands, huge, dwarfed the silver tray he clutched, a tray containing a ceramic teapot and several bowls and plates.
Breakfast? Dinner? What time was it, anyway?
And, more importantly, was he a prisoner here?
The last thought came unbidden, but bolstered by the logic of the most mysterious and disconcerting aspect of the man standing before him—his face was completely covered.
And it wasn’t merely covered, but covered in a most unusual fashion: with a mask made of rubber that looked surprisingly realistic—the visage of a wolf. The salt and pepper fur crowning the top of the mask blended perfectly with a mane of salt and pepper hair that hung halfway down the man’s back.
“Who are you?” Beau managed to stammer and his words seemed to propel the man forward, although he offered no response. His silence was equal to his appearance in eeriness.
Beau caught his breath as the man approached the bed, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood. Beau wanted to ask more, but suddenly lost the power to form words. He could only stare.
The man paused at the bed and stooped over, one hand outstretched. Beau imagined he was going to touch him and recoiled, drawing back.
But all the guy did was push the Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table over a few inches, so he could set down the tray. Once he positioned the tray just so, he stood back up and clasped his hands together, staring down at Beau.
Even though Beau could not see his face, he had a certainty that this man, creature, whatever was hiding behind the mask, was smiling. Beau glanced up at him and, for the first time, their eyes met.
Beau was struck by the intensity of the eyes peering out from behind the holes in the wolf mask. Not only was the gaze fixed and passionate, but also the eyes themselves were remarkable. They were a pale green, the palest shade of green Beau had ever seen on a person, almost a kind of aquamarine, and they were rimmed by long black lashes.
They were the kind of eyes, Beau thought, that had inspired that careworn cliché for the eyes: the window to the soul.
Just this connection with the man’s eyes calmed Beau somewhat. Even though the man had spoken not a word, there was something in those eyes of his that told Beau he was safe and that the man standing above him meant no harm.
Beau cocked his head and repeated his original question, “Who are you?”
But the man said nothing. He reached down and gently patted Beau’s leg beneath the sheet. He straightened back up and pointed to the tray, nodding. Then, just as silently as he had entered the room, he turned and left it, closing the door with a barely audible click.
Beau’s heart rate and breathing had returned to normal levels and he found he felt marginally better, well enough to at least sit up in bed and turn and look at what the creature had left for him. The tray contained two soft-boiled eggs in cups and a pot of Earl Grey tea that Beau could recognize because of the delicious aroma of bergamot wafting up. There was also a linen napkin in a sterling silver ring, and a plate upon which rested two slices of golden buttered toast, cut into thin strips for dipping. A small silver bowl held a sectioned orange.
This could all be poisoned. He could be trying to kill me or at least put me out so he can do God only knows what kind of unspeakable acts and I won’t fight.
Beau shook his head. The man’s green eyes, the kindness in the way he touched him, reassured Beau—he knew it wasn’t logical, but he felt a kind of warmth and trust for his savior.
The name—savior—had come to him without conscious thought, and suddenly seemed right.
Beau could not recall what had happened to him. But he knew it was bad and something deep within his mind—no, make that heart—told him, with no doubt at all, that the man who had left him breakfast had played a role in his salvation.
Beau breathed easier when he realized he could sit up enough to turn toward the bedside table, placing his feet on the floor.
With a hand trembling only slightly, he poured himself a cup of tea and added a couple of sugar cubes. He then lifted a spoon with which to crack the first egg.
Suddenly, he was ravenous.
Chapter 3
The food must have calmed something deep within him to allow him to sleep. When Beau next awakened, the light coming in through his windows was wan, watery, the shadows long. The house, as before, was silent all around him, as if he had come to here alone—as if the place, indeed, had some sort of supernatural life of its own.
Beau found he could now sit up in bed with no pain other than a slightly annoying headache. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. So far, so good. Testing himself, and keeping his hands braced on the mattress behind him, he tentatively stood.
And it was all right. The floor did not tilt; the room did not spin. The contents of his stomach stayed put.
Another urge came upon him, with a vengeance—the need to pee. He glanced around the room, searching for another doorway aside from the one through which his mysterious visitor had entered and exited. And there it was—a similar door to the main one, standing open upon a darkened room.
Beau hurried over and flipped the lights on, confirming his suspicions—and hopes—that the door led to an en suite bathroom.
The room was done in shades of ochre, cream, and black, the floors polished marble and the walls a darker shade of beige, almost brown, with a hint of yellow. There was a large, glass-enclosed shower with a rain showerhead, and a garden tub, surrounded by candles of varying hues and sizes, big enough at least for two.
But enough of admiring the plumbing—Beau’s own plumbing reminded him urgently. He hurried to the toilet and sighed as he relieved himself, one hand braced on the wall above him.
Finished, he headed over to the sink to wash his hands and here is where he finally had an encounter, face-to-face, with himself.
Here was a mirror.
The silver glass, bordered with a scalloped gilt frame, threw back a surprising—and horrifying—image. Yes, all the usual parts were in place and Beau recognized himself—the shock of amber hair, wav
y, that often fell fetchingly or annoyingly, depending on his mood, over his right eye. His eyes were the same, a slight almond shape, filled with hazel irises. His cheekbones, chin, and nose remained where they always had.
But there, the difference between what Beau saw in the mirror before and what he saw right now, became apparent.
Those same features, once handsome, youthful, vibrant, with a kind of artsy allure, had been twisted almost beyond recognition. His piercing hazel eyes, once rimmed by long black lashes, were now bordered by swelling and bruises, in shades of deep purple, lavender, and yellow. The bridge of his nose was swollen and wore the same violent shades as the bruises around his eyes. With a shaking hand, he reached up and touched the nose, wincing at the pain a gentle prod created. Still, he had to know, so he pinched his nose at the base and moved it cautiously from side to side. At least it appeared not to be broken.
Most of his hair was hidden behind a turban of gauze that had been wrapped around his head. Near the top of his forehead, a splotch of blood had seeped through, now dried to an almost chocolate brown. He touched the bandages and wondered if the stranger in black had been the one who had wound the fabric so tightly around his skull, stopping the bleeding of whatever wound hid beneath.
Beau stood back, looking down at his body, clad only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, both new and neither his. Below the neck, he seemed to have fared better, with only a dull ache around his midsection. He lifted the T-shirt and saw that the side of his torso and his belly both bore red, purple, and yellow signs of violence.
Beau turned away from the mirror, feeling like weeping. It was obvious he had been beaten and he wished he could recall who had done this to him. Was it his mystery man? He left the bathroom and wandered back out into the bedroom, which had now grown dark—winter’s pale light had a way of fading quickly.