The Twelve-Fingered Boy

by John Hornor Jacobs

  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.

  EIGHTEEN

  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.

  NINETEEN

  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 wit
h 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.”

  Jerry’s seventy if he’s a day. Jerome Abraham Aaronson, Korean vet, teller of tall tales, sufferer of massive gallstones, and totally impenetrable to any kind of mind-tinkering or intrusion. He’s a jolly iron man.

  “Eh.”

  My side gives me a twinge of pain, but it’s much better today. Dr. Stevens told me I need to move around so the tissues can get micro-tears that will help the healing process along. I read his mind when he was saying it. He didn’t know if what he said was true, but it was possible and it sounded good. Dr. Stevens is in free fall. He’s so terrified he’ll make a mistake and someone will die that, when he leaves for lunch and sits in his car, he cries. I mean, blubbering, big-time. Titty-baby stuff. It’s sad, but there’s nothing I can do for him.

  I stand and move to the window.

  “Not that interested, Jerry.”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Whoa. Mr. Big Shot. Can a person ask him a question? Is everything so bad? You can save a little girl, but you can’t answer one old man’s question?”

  It’s like he’s my grandfather or something. Always with the questions.

  “Okay, Jerry. Shoot.”

  He looks like Mel Brooks, Jerry does. When I told him that, he said, “I wish that were true and the wife looked like Anne Bancroft. Now that was one gorgeous lady.”

  Today he asks, “How did you know Dubrovnik had the girl in his basement?”

  I sigh. Same old question. Reporters, police, all asking the same things. How did you get from Arkansas to North Carolina? How did you know he kept her in his basement?

  To reporters I always respond with silence. I’m fifteen. A minor. They’ve got to keep their distance. At least for now.

  To Jerry I tell the truth.

  “I read his mind.”

  Jerry laughs. “No, really. How’d you know?”

  “I pulled the thought right out of his head.”

  “Okay, you don’t want to tell me. Why don’t you just say so?”

  I look out the window. I saw him yesterday.

  He was standing on top of the UNC’s main hospital building, peering at the building I’m in. He looked gaunt. Haggard. The wind whipped at his coat and tore at his hair. For a moment I was struck by the sight: a dark figure on an empty, wind-whipped roof, staring intensely.

  The roof is the same height as this room, an easy view. I hobbled over to the window and banged on it, but he didn’t see me. He’s out there. He must really know how to jump now, because if he didn’t he’d be as flat as a pancake and leaking fluids everywhere.

  It’s winter, and while there hasn’t been any snow yet, Jack’s got to be cold and hungry.

  When Jack and I first came here, we each had three or four hundred dollars in our wallets. Except Jack paid for our tickets back to Jacksonville the night we discovered Dubrovnik. So he had far less. I can’t remember if I gave Jack the rest of my cash or the paramedic took it off me for safekeeping. I guess I could ask the policeman standing at the door, but he’s large and wide, and quite the low-watt bulb. Believe me, I’ve been inside his head. It’s like a huge ballroom with nobody dancing in there. He reminds me a little of Ox, though I never had the pleasure of peeking inside Ox’s head.

  I’m back to being a ward of the state. Only it’s North Carolina now, instead of Arkansas.

  Jerome flips the channel to CNN. At the moment the pundits are talking about the new terrorist bombing in Pakistan and not about poor Elissa Jameson, the girl Dubrovnik kept in the cellar. Or me. Whenever I think about her, I have to believe it was all worth it. Whenever I think about myself, I have to hope it is.

  There’s blood in the water, and I don’t just mean in daytime TV.

  Quincrux is out there. I’ve felt the vibrations from his passing, seen his image and heard his voice in the minds of the nurses and doctors. I have no guests, though before long a lawyer or a representative from the Arkansas Department of Corrections is bound to show up. Maybe that is what’s keeping Quincrux away.

  He’s going to be coming for me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “You and that window. You waiting for the sky to fall?” Jerry takes a sip of water from a paper cup, grimaces, scratches his ass through the itchy hospital gown. “How ’bout a game of Double Shutter?”

  Anything to stop his questions.

  Jerry tells me Double Shutter is an ancient game invented by his ancestors. But it looks like it was packaged by Hasbro. Domino-like pieces are lodged on small axles inside a red metal tin, so you can flip down the numbers. Two rows, one to ten, going left to right and then back again on the rear row. You roll the dice; then you turn down the corresponding tiles or a combination of tiles that equals the sum. It’s harder than it looks. Lowest score wins.

  I walk over to Jerry. My side does hurt, but far less than a week ago. Maybe Dr. Stevens was right about the micro-tears. I should tell him. Might make him feel better.

  My arm and fingers are still numb. I had to crap in a bag for nearly two weeks, and they removed a foot or two of my intestines—which is a nice conversation piece, I guess. When I look at myself shirtless in the mirror, I can count my ribs and see the bones of my pelvis. There’s the puckered forget-me-not gunshot wound that Billy Cather gave me, so long ago, gracing my right shoulder and balanced now by cottonfields of dressing gauzing my left side, courtesy of the Dubrovnik twins. My left forearm is pink and shiny with new skin from where Matilda tried to skin me.

  Pretty worthless to look at, really, this meatsuit. I could shuck it off and fly into the wild blue yonder and never return. What would that be like? Weightlessness? The cold empty spaces between the stars? A warm bath? Nothing?

  I look at the gunshot wound. Old now, with no pain except for that in my heart.

  I ran away once before and lost my little dude, my Vig. I have this wound as a reminder. I can’t run again. Sometimes I feel like my insides might spill out of me, onto the floor. It’s happened before. So I remain where I am, looking at my scars. My reminders. They’re a symbol. A tether. A cage.

  I’ll stay incarcerado.

  Back when I was dealing, I was thicker, to say the least. But I wouldn’t recommend the Knife in Your Guts Diet Plan.

  Matilda Dubrovnik did a number on me. She cut me deep and removed the possibility I’ll ever be a classical pianist. Or a mountain climber.

  Jerry and I play a quick game of Double Shutter, me standing by his bed while he holds the game on his blanket. They operated on Jerry to remove gallstones. They could have just let him pass them, but the pain from passing them might have screwed with his heart condition. Or they could have just operated to put more money in their pockets.

  I score fifteen, a seven and an eight remaining, which isn’t too bad. On Jerry’s turn he shuts it down, closing all the tiles. The old bastard. He does that every time nearly. It’s uncanny.

  “Why do you even play me? You never lose.”

  “I’m waiting for the magic to happen.” He winks. He might irritate me, but I can’t stay permanently ticked. Well, maybe at night. He snores something fierce.

  Nurse Larsson comes in, checks Jerry’s chart, and then tells him he’s off for another test. She helps him into a wheelchair.

  On their way out, Jerry asks the nurse to stop. He turns his head toward me.

  “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, okay? Like go running off to be another hero?”

  “I’m not a hero. Why do you keep saying that?”

  He smiles. “Be good, Shreve.”

  Jerry’s a good dude. I feel sorry that he’s peeing rocks.

  “I’ll try, boss.”

  Nurse Larsson wheels him out just as the announce
r on CNN starts to talk about Elissa Jameson.

  “And now for developing news on the horrific Elissa Jameson story. Forensics has identified the remains of two other children on the property, meaning the Dubrovnik twins held captive other children. Now we have forensic anthropologist Dr. Cherri Pittle to talk to us a little about what the police on the scene might have found…”

  The Dubrovniks, the house, the girl—it all seems like someone else’s memory.

  Last week I was watching the news, and my face popped up on-screen. And then an exterior shot of good old Casimir, and then a driver’s license mug shot of Moms.

  So they discovered I’m a fugitive. But no word on Jack. Which makes me think someone is covering up his existence. And that someone has to be Quincrux.

  Today, the anchor and the doctor consultant drone on about the case, and I return to staring out the window and letting the noise wash over me.

  I watch for Jack. This time I’ll be ready.

  I hear someone come in, and I turn. An orderly. But he’s staring at me intently, and he’s without a mop or a cart. He walks over to the guest chair and sits down. He’s got a pronounced limp.

  He crosses his legs slowly, very slowly, never breaking eye contact. He looks infinitely bored with the situation. He puts his hands in his lap in a delicate manner, making me think of Englishmen on AMC.

  Maybe he’s a reporter. Why didn’t the guard stop him?

  For a long while he stares at me.

  “What do you want?” I ask. “The trash is over there.” I point to the bin under the sink.

  “So, Mr. Cannon, it seems you have proved more resourceful than either Ilsa or I guessed. How long have you hidden your skills?”

  Ah.

  Quincrux. He’s possessing this guy. Driving him like a remote-controlled car. He must be near. In the building.

  I don’t feel so good.

  They say honesty is the best policy, but I think they’re idiots. I don’t have any problem allowing Quincrux to go on believing something that’s not true. He doesn’t realize that he gave me this ability. So I stay quiet.

  “No matter. No matter, Mr. Cannon. I can’t take you out of here now, not with,” he tosses his head in the direction of the dull-witted police officer, “that gentleman and the reporters swarming the lobby and the atrium. But rest assured, I will take you.”