Fragments

by James F. David

  Elizabeth’s description of Luis being pushed backward into traffic had been confirmed by witnesses, and some had described a person fitting Gil’s description leaving the scene—no one at the house had seen Gil since before the accident. There was too much proof not to believe Gil had done it, yet Wes still struggled to accept it. He had to hope for a more rational explanation.

  Now mesmerized by the TV, Yu and Archie seemed oblivious of what had happened. Even after witnessing Luis’s death they had simply stood, staring blankly. Ralph had been affected, though, bursting into tears—something he had never done in his life. He was quiet now, his eyes red and puffy.

  Daphne too, had suffered, even though she hadn’t been at the scene, playing constantly since Elizabeth called with the news of Luis’s death. There had been no tears, but Daphne had retreated, pounding the world away with vigorous piano playing.

  When he had exhausted his questions, Roy folded his notebook into his shirt pocket and left. Elizabeth headed for the kitchen and a cup of coffee. Wes joined her, not knowing what to say but willing to listen.

  “It’s my fault. I knew he was dangerous. I should have insisted they arrest him, or at least get him out of the house.”

  “It might have been worse that way. What if they came to arrest him and he lashed out—the savants could have been hurt. The same could have happened if we had confronted him. There was no right answer to this—the one we came up with was as good a choice as any.”

  Wes meant it when he used “we.” This was his project, and the savants were his responsibility. Going along with a decision was the same as making it.

  “I keep telling myself that,” she said. “But there must have been something I could have done.”

  Abruptly the piano music stopped in midstanza, and they could hear Daphne stomp up the stairs and her bedroom door slam.

  “Poor Daphne. She’s experienced so many deaths for someone so young. Her mother, her grandmother, and now Luis. I hope this doesn’t set her back, she was showing remarkable progress—they all were. Did I tell you Luis mailed a letter? Really, he mailed it at the student union. He said it was for his mother, but I know he was abandoned as a baby. Now I’ll never know what was in that letter, or who he mailed it to. Poor Luis, he died just when he was reaching out, ready to make contact with people. That’s the saddest part—he never really lived life.”

  “He seemed happy here,” Wes said. “He adjusted more quickly than the rest. I think he genuinely liked Ralph—especially the trips for the Slurpees.”

  “Everyone likes Ralph, except you of course. But you can’t really say Luis was happy—I don’t know if he was capable of that emotion. At best he wasn’t unhappy.”

  “Elizabeth, I know you’re the expert on this, but Luis had an active, full life. I know life here doesn’t seem like much, but he was busy, he took walks, he ate meals with people who cared for him, who also took care of his needs like a parent. It was a good life, Elizabeth, and I know in one way that makes it sadder he died, but he also had something many people out there never have. He had a family.”

  Wes took Elizabeth’s silence to mean she was at least thinking about what he said even if she didn’t agree with it.

  “Wes, I don’t want the state to bury him. I want to do it. I’ll pay for the funeral. I’ll get a plot where my mother is. He’ll get visited then.”

  “We can pay for it out of the grant—”

  “No! I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. Let’s not talk for a while.”

  Wes sat uncomfortably for a minute, wanting to comfort her physically, but realizing it would be awkward in the kitchen chairs. “Elizabeth, would you sit on the porch with me?”

  She smiled briefly and nodded her head. “After we get the others off to bed.”

  As soon as the savants were in their rooms they settled onto the porch swing, rocking gently. He snaked his arm around her, flashing back as he did to his teen years. She didn’t snuggle close to him, it wasn’t that kind of mood, but the contact comforted both of them, and they rocked gently, watching the darkness.

  Daphne paced her room, wishing for the buzz to block out her thoughts. Luis was dead and they said he was killed by Gil, but she wasn’t sure that was true. That other thought was there, poking up from the black hole in her unconscious. Then the memory slithered out of the hole. In a panic her arms came up and she began playing the imaginary piano, the music pouring into her mind—it didn’t help now, the memory was unfolding—she mustn’t look at it.

  Daphne flopped on the bed and spread her arms and legs wide, breathing deeply, but the only images her mind conjured up were of Luis squashed like a bug under a big truck. Daphne dug deeper, picking out good thoughts and warm feelings, but still the Luis picture floated through her head. Then she heard a voice, a soft whispering voice.

  It called to her from a part of her mind she had never visited. There was no bad thought there, or image of Luis. It wasn’t a good-feeling place but the voice was comforting and seductive. So Daphne drifted down to the voice, hearing it call her name as if from a cave. Down she drifted, the buzz, Luis’s bloody image, the bad memory and the world left behind. Over and over she heard her name, growing louder as she fell toward the voice until she heard nothing else, saw nothing else. Then she slipped into the comforting void of the voice.

  Gil was tired of listening to the salesman talk and was glad they were nearly to Portland. He would get a bus there, maybe to Seattle, or even to Canada. He needed to let things die down. He’d use the time to develop his new power. After that he didn’t know—maybe he’d go back to the parapsychologists and see what else he might develop. Telekinesis wasn’t what he’d come looking for, just a welcome bonus, and it made him wonder what other talents might be hidden away.

  “You don’t mind country, do you?” the salesman asked, turning on the car radio.

  Gil hated country music, but smiled and said, “Fine.” Listening to the radio was preferable to hearing more about the window coverings business.

  “I like just about every kind of music there is, but when I’m traveling I’m always in the country mood. Listen to it night and day when I’m on the road. I bet I could name a country radio station in every major city in the western states.”

  Gil ignored the salesman’s chatter and soon he was humming along with the songs, leaving Gil alone. It was welcome relief, and Gil could finally relax. His breathing deepened and he felt the tension flowing from his body. The rhythm of the highway soothed him and he concentrated on the thrumming sound of the tires on the blacktop. Soon the car sound seemed louder than the music and Gil’s mind filtered out the music and then the humming.

  Slowly he drifted down, his mind clearing, his body awareness slipping away. The twangy beat of the country music had faded completely from consciousness—he was falling asleep. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled, turning himself over to the urge to sleep. Deeper he drifted, completely losing himself to the emptiness that preceded sleep. Too late he realized it wasn’t sleep that was taking him. It was Frankie.

  Keith lagged behind Hanson and the other members of the Kappa house. He was sick of going everywhere in groups. Since the killings no one left the house alone, not even in the daytime. It made them look chicken, walking in groups like this, and he was sick of it. Tonight was the worst. They’d gotten a rare invitation to a sorority party and went in a group. The party had been kickass and he was making good time with Jenn, when Classen started to mother-hen them and head them back to the house. He wasn’t taking that crap, though, and told Classen to shove it, but he kept pushing. Finally, Hanson had intervened and split the group in two, so those who wanted to stay longer could. Having a big fight over walking a few blocks home in the dark was embarrassing and he was fed up—and drunk, and when he was drunk he got brave.

  They were almost to the house when he dropped farther behind just to prove he wasn’t afraid. Thoughts of danc
ing with Jenn and how good she felt pressed up against him kept drifting through the alcoholic haze. The more he thought about her the more he wanted to go back for her, and the slower he walked, letting the others plod on without him. Suddenly he staggered off the curb, quickly steadying himself against a car. When he was sure of his footing again, he ducked down behind the car, watching his friends through the windows. “Hello Jenn, here I come,” he whispered to himself.

  When his fraternity brothers disappeared into the house, he stood slowly, still not quite sure of his balance. When he did he saw someone lying behind the front seat on the floor. It was an unnatural position, and he stared, trying to make sense of it. The person was hidden in the dark between the seats, one arm flopped over his back, one leg hooked over the edge of the back seat where shades or blinds were piled high. Looking closer at the blinds, he could see that one was spattered with red paint—or was it paint?

  He tried the back door, opening it and speaking to the man on the floor. “Hey, are you asleep or what?” No answer, so he reached in, pushing gently on the man’s back, then harder. “Hey, wake up. Are you OK?” This time he reached in with two hands and rocked him firmly. His hands came away sticky. Staggering back to the streetlight, he could see that it was blood. Dulled by alcohol, he was slow to grasp the implication. “You’re dead. Oh man, it’s a dead guy.”

  Turning to run for help, he found himself facing another man. Startled, he babbled out a plea for help. “He’s dead. That guy is dead in there. The guy behind the seat.”

  “You’re from the Kappa house, aren’t you?”

  “Huh? Yeah, but that guy is dead.”

  “There’s worse things than being dead.”

  “What are you talking about? We’ve got to get some help!”

  “I’ve been dead, and there are worse things.”

  “You’re too weird, man. I’m gonna get some help.”

  “You know what’s worse than being dead? Being helpless! Having other people do things to you and there’s nothing you can do about it. No matter how much you plead or beg, they just keep hurting you.”

  “Hell with you!” Keith tried pushing past, but the man shoved him back with a strong arm. Keith’s anger flared, but he wasn’t scared. Even drunk, Keith knew he could take this guy.

  “Keep your hands off of me, or you’ll lose them.”

  “Ever raped a girl? I’ll bet you have. You did and you liked it, didn’t you?”

  “Get out of my way or I’ll take you out, man!”

  “You and your friends, you like to rape girls like me, don’t you!”

  Keith knew the man was losing it, so he launched himself into his chest, driving him back. The man staggered from the blow, dropping to one knee. Keith hesitated, seeing the man’s vulnerability; then he reared back and kicked him in the chest.

  Air exploded from the man, and he was left gasping, but at the same time his hand gripped Keith’s ankle, holding it. Keith stumbled, trying to keep his balance and get leverage so he could pull his leg free. Suddenly a sharp pain tore through his leg. Keith looked to see a knife being pulled from his calf. The pain cleared his brain of the alcohol fog and he twisted, trying to pull free. Too late—another stab and the knife was buried in his thigh. As the knife was pulled free he was suddenly loose and he fell to the sidewalk, struggling to get to his feet. His bleeding leg wouldn’t support him, though, and he tumbled onto his side.

  Rolling over, he saw the man get slowly to his feet, the knife dripping with blood—his blood. Pushing with his good leg and pulling with his arms, he tried to get away. He got to his feet and limped away, every step agony, rivulets of blood running down his leg. Suddenly his hurting leg was kicked from under him and he fell. Turning to look behind him, he saw the man’s foot swinging toward his head. A powerful kick to the face turned Keith onto his back, the man towering over him, his face lost in a shadow.

  “Now do you know what it feels like to be helpless? To be at the mercy of someone who has no mercy!”

  “Please, I never did anything to you.”

  “But it’s not the same. For you it won’t last long, the agony will be over soon. You won’t have to live with it because you won’t live.”

  Keith screamed when the knife plunged down, burying into his abdomen. Then the stabbing came fast and furious, but the agony quickly faded to a hot burning, and then to no feeling at all.

  Wes answered the phone before he was awake, having no memory of it ringing. Then the receiver was at his ear and there was a voice whispering. “Hello? Hello? I can’t hear you.”

  “I said there’s someone sneaking around outside your house.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Mrs. Clayton. I live across the street, remember?”

  “Oh yeah!” Wes said, now realizing it wasn’t a crank call. “What were you saying?”

  “I said there’s someone sneaking around your house. He came up the street and then went around to the back. If he had legitimate business he would have rung the bell, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Clayton, thanks for calling us. I’ll check it out right away.”

  Wes jumped out of bed and put his pants on, then stepped into the hall to find Elizabeth waiting for him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Mrs. Clayton says we have a prowler.” Wes didn’t need to say more.

  “It could be Gil! Call the police.”

  Wes hesitated briefly, then went back to his room, deciding to report a prowler and let the police handle it. The woman at the other end took his address and name and promised a car would be there in minutes.

  Elizabeth was gone when he returned to the hall, but when he turned toward her bedroom he heard a whisper at the bottom of the stairs. Elizabeth was there, gesturing frantically to Wes. Wes’s heart rate shot up as he tiptoed down the stairs.

  “Someone’s in the basement.”

  Gesturing for him to follow, Elizabeth led him to the kitchen and the door to the basement. The door was ajar, but when Elizabeth pulled the door open Wes stopped her.

  “Wait for the police. I’ll see who it is.”

  “Don’t go macho on me. Just stay close.”

  Carefully Elizabeth led the way down the stairs, testing each stair for squeaks before putting her full weight on the step. Halfway down, Wes heard the water running and tapped Elizabeth on the shoulder.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “Yes, it’s coming from over there.”

  With Elizabeth in the lead they worked their way through the clutter in the basement. Gasping softly, Elizabeth stopped and pointed. “It’s Gil.”

  Wes saw him at the same time, standing in the hidden room. He was at the sink washing something. Elizabeth quickly pushed Wes back and then up the stairs.

  “What’s he doing here?” she said.

  “I don’t know, but the police will be here soon. They can arrest him.”

  Sounds of someone walking up the stairs sent them scurrying for hiding places. They both wedged themselves behind a chair in the living room and waited, listening. The basement door creaked as Gil came through, followed by the sound of the door closing softly. Wes held his breath when Gil walked through the dark living room and went up the stairs. A knife glistened in his hand. Hesitating only until Gil’s feet disappeared up the stairs, he followed. When Wes reached the bottom of the stairs he padded up until he could see over the top. Gil stood there, looking from door to door, seemingly confused, the knife still in his hand. Wes felt Elizabeth behind him, her hand on his back. Wes summoned up his courage, getting ready to rush Gil. Then Gil walked to his own room, and went in, closing the door softly. When Wes started forward Elizabeth stopped him with a touch.

  “Let him stay there,” she said. “You watch his door—I’ll wait for the police on the porch.” She turned away and then came back, putting her hand on his back again. “Don’t do anything foolish, he’s got a knife.”

  Wes appreciated her concern, but was so afr
aid he wasn’t sure he could move even if Gil reappeared.

  Gil woke confused. He should have been in a car—the salesman’s car—but he was in a room. It was his room—he was back! Gil jumped to his feet, listening hard. The house was silent and the window told him it was night. Then he realized he wasn’t free yet. It had taken him again! But how? He’d killed Frankie when he’d killed Luis.

  He was in danger, he knew that. Luis was dead and he’d disappeared—it had to look suspicious. Listening again, Gil realized they might not know he was home. Frankie had brought him back to the house, but done it surreptitiously. But could he leave now? Why would Frankie let him get away now? No, he would not get away, not without killing the rest of the savants. Gil looked around the room and was shocked to see a knife lying on the nightstand, just as the gun had. Picking it up, he had no memory of it in his hand, yet he must have carried it—must have used it. The thought of murder didn’t bother him, but the loss of control sent shivers up his spine.

  Realizing there was only one way to end this, Gil flipped the knife over into a stabbing position, then thought about Frankie and how she was using him. When his anger was sufficient to energize his power, he stepped into the hall.

  His eyes dark-adapted, he studied the doors, making sure they were all closed. He decided to start with Daphne and stepped to her door. Reaching out carefully until he touched the knob, he twisted it slowly, moving like the hands of a clock. A barely audible snap announced that the latch was free, and he pushed the door open until it was wide enough to pass through. Then he raised the knife, ready to step in.

  Suddenly someone charged up the steps screaming “No!”—it was Wes. Gil whirled, lashing out with his power, and blindly sending a wall of force at the charging figure. Wes was thrown backward, then rolled across the floor to the stairs. Wes flailed, trying to grab on to something, but continued over the edge and down the stairs. Gil smiled as he heard his body bumping and crashing. Stepping to the edge, he saw Wes spread-eagled at the bottom. When Wes stirred Gil’s anger flared again. He was about to hammer Wes with another blow when he heard someone behind him.