Mr Hands

by Gary A Braunbeck

  So familiar.

  “Mommy,” said Paper-Flesh Sarah. “Mommy, what’cha gonna do?”

  “I don’t know, honey,” replied Lucy from her prison of chronos.

  “He didn’t mean to. It was a accident. Did’ya tell Misserhands?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t care.”

  “Can I help?”

  Lucy smiled sadly. “I don’t know how, babe.”

  “I gotta do something, Mommy.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “Mommy?”

  “What is it, honey?”

  “Are you a monster now?”

  Lucy had no answer. She downed the rest of her drink and when she looked again, Paper-Flesh Sarah was gone, and in her place were the usual occupants of the Walls of Madness.

  “Please don’t hate me for this, honey,” Lucy whispered.

  Then: “You don’t hate me, do you?”

  No reply.

  “I’ll make this right, somehow,” Lucy swore to her daughter. “I promise.”

  Then, very quietly: “Please forgive me?”

  Silence.

  Chapter Seven

  At the same moment Lucy stood before the Walls of Madness asking her daughter to forgive her, Randy Patterson—sleeping off one of the mild sedatives prescribed for him—came violently awake in his bed, crying loudly and calling for his parents. When they came rushing into the room he threw himself into their arms, shuddering and coughing. “I had a dream ‘bout this little girl, she s-s-said that a monster was coming to get me b-b-because of what I d-d-did to Kylie...”

  “Shhh, honey,” whispered his mother, refusing to cry in front of him, wanting to be strong for her remaining child. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I d-didn’t mean it,” he cried.

  “We know, hon, we know...”

  “I’m scared.” His voice was loud and raw and ragged with fear. “Don’t let Mr. Hands get me, please?”

  His parents looked into one another’s eyes, both their gazes asking the same question: Mr. Hands?

  * * *

  Lucy stopped by the Children’s Services offices Monday morning under the pretense that she’d left something there last week. The director and three case workers were there, all of them busy.

  She made a show of looking around for her lost something-or-other until everyone else filed into the conference room for the morning meeting. Moving quickly and quietly, Lucy went into the director’s office and took the woman’s purse from under her desk, opened it, and removed the small wallet that contained her CS identification and badge. Slipping the wallet into her pocket and replacing the purse where she’d found it, she stopped by the conference room to say good-bye, telling everyone she’d be back on Wednesday.

  She would never see any of them again.

  * * *

  The rest of her busy day: A stop at the bank to close one of her three accounts, this one to the tune of five thousand dollars, one-third of which was spent over the next several hours: two hardware stores, an electronics “warehouse,” a sporting goods clearance center, Toys ‘R’ Us, and the grocery store.

  Back at the house, she packed all the food into the coolers she’d bought. That done, she picked up the medium-sized duffel bag (another new purchase), went into the middle room, and unlocked the gun cabinet.

  She chose a Mossberg handle-grip pump-action shotgun, an M19-11A Colt .45 pistol, a 9mm Python, a snub-nose .22, and—after much debate with herself—her late father-in-law’s M-16 and two hunting knives, one with a five-inch blade, the other a ten-inch with serrated edge. She slid the knives into their leathers, then loaded chambers and clips, set safeties, and carefully loaded all but two of the weapons into the duffel bag along with boxes containing extra rounds.

  The .45 went into its shoulder holster (which had taken her longer to get on than she’d thought), and the five-inch knife, after some fidgeting, was strapped to the back of her belt where it would be easily concealed under her coat.

  She loaded the duffel bag into the trunk of the car along with the other supplies.

  She checked her watch. Almost seven-thirty. Visiting hours were over at nine.

  She spent ten minutes tidying up the house and rinsing her breakfast dishes.

  The last thing she did before leaving the house was blow a good-bye kiss to those faces that were still part of the Walls of Madness.

  “Don’t forget me,” she whispered.

  * * *

  A photograph of Kylie Ann Patterson, taken at her second birthday party, had been enlarged and set on an easel near the head of the closed casket. Even from the back of the crowded room, you could see her sweet, grinning face and know how much had been lost.

  There must have been at least seventy-five people there, possibly more.

  Lucy looked upon the scene and released a small sigh of relief; she’d been hoping it would be just like this.

  She spotted the Pattersons near the center of the room, surrounded by mourning friends and family. Randy was not with them.

  Lucy spotted him sitting by himself in a chair along one of the walls. He held a Styrofoam cup of juice that he did not drink from but rather stared into. He was far too pale and thin and looked as if he didn’t want to stand because he was afraid the earth might fall away beneath his feet.

  After a moment, he lifted his head and saw her looking at him. She smiled and waved.

  “Do you know Randy?” said a voice beside her. She turned around and found herself facing both Pattersons.

  “No, I’ve never met him.”

  “Do we know you?” asked Mr. Patterson.

  Lucy removed the director’s wallet and flipped it open, careful to make sure her thumb covered the face on the ID, but she knew at once she needn’t have worried; all they saw was the badge.

  “I’m Rachel Wagner, director of Children’s Services.” She slipped the wallet back into her pocket. “I wanted to offer my condolences. I…I lost my own daughter about eighteen months ago and...” Surprisingly, she found there were tears forming in her eyes. “...and I just wanted to let you know that you’re not alone in your sadness.” Her voice cracked on the word ‘alone.’ “My heart goes out to both of you…and to Randy.”

  The Pattersons were both visibly touched by her words. After a moment, Mr. Patterson wiped one of his eyes and said, “He’s not been doing too well, poor little guy.”

  “That’s the other reason I’m here,” said Lucy. “If you think I’m being presumptuous or tactless, please say so and I promise you I won’t be offended—nor do I mean to offend. It’s just that…look, I’m a licensed grief counselor for children. I thought perhaps the two of you might…well, might have thought about getting some help for Randy but might not have any idea how to go about it.”

  “We’ve talked about it some,” said Mrs. Patterson. “He’s been having these dreams—hell, nightmares, really, about some little girl named Sarah who tells him that a monster is coming to get him.”

  Lucy hoped the shock didn’t show on her face.

  (I gotta do something, Mommy.)

  Mr. Patterson put his arm around his wife. “He even has a name for the thing. He calls it ‘Mr. Hands.’”

  Lucy was astonished that she was able to hold her composure. “Even though what happened was a horrible, tragic accident,” she said, “he still feels guilty. This monster, this Mr. Hands, is it? It’s just a subconscious manifestation of his guilt.” It was over-simplified pop-psychology bullshit, but it must have sounded good to the Pattersons because both of them smiled relieved smiles.

  “Could you maybe talk with him a little tonight?” asked Mrs. Patterson.

  Lucy smiled, took hold of the other woman’s hand, and squeezed it with genuine affection. “I was hoping you’d let me. There’s a small coffee lounge at the end of the hall. It was empty when I came in. I could take him there for a little while.”

  Their faces filled with so much gratitude Lucy had to fight her own feelings of guilt over what s
he was about to put them through.

  Mrs. Patterson moved forward and gave Lucy a short but warm embrace. “That would be so kind of you, Miss Wagner.”

  “Rachel, please.”

  So much gratitude in his mother’s eyes. “Rachel. Like in the Bible.”

  They took her over and introduced her to Randy and told him that she was going to take him someplace for a little bit and talk about Kylie Ann and how he was feeling.

  “I want you to tell me all about Mr. Hands,” Lucy said to him as they walked into the hallway. She turned and smiled at the Pattersons, who smiled their grateful smiles in return before going back into the room where Kylie Ann’s face grinned at the world over her closed casket.

  Taking hold of Randy’s hand, Lucy led him toward the lounge, then—with a last, sad, apologetic look over her shoulder—veered right and went out the nearest exit.

  Randy offered no resistance.

  Through the parking lot and into her car; she secured Randy’s seat belt, then her own, and a minute later they drove into the welcoming night.

  Chapter Eight

  Randy Patterson said nothing for the longest time, only sat staring down at his hands or looking out the window. They had been on the freeway for the better part of ninety minutes before he spoke.

  “Are you taking me to Mr. Hands?” he whispered.

  Lucy looked at him and wanted to cry. He looked so broken and scared and alone…but there was also something too-soon-dead in his eyes, infecting the rest of his face. She reached over and squeezed one of his hands. “No, honey, I’m not taking you to him. I’m trying to get you as far away from him as I can.”

  Randy’s head snapped around, his eyes wide. “You…you d-don’t th-think I made him up?”

  “No.”

  His face sparked with something like hope. “You b-believe me?”

  “Yes, Randy, I do.”

  He tilted his head slightly to the side. “Are you really from…from, uh...”

  “Children’s Services?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No, I’m not. I had to lie about that and I’m sorry.” She fumbled in her purse and removed her wallet, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while she flipped through the photographs.

  “Here,” she said, holding up the wallet so he could see the picture. “Know who that is?”

  His eyes grew even wider. “That’s…th-that’s Sarah! Sh-she’s th-the one who told me that Mr. Hands was coming to get me.”

  Lucy dropped the wallet back into her purse. “I’m Sarah’s mother, Randy. My name is Lucy Thompson.”

  “Oh.”

  She couldn’t quite get a reading on that.

  Randy swallowed once. Very hard. Then asked: “Is Sarah…is she dead?”

  Lucy swallowed once. Very hard. Then replied: “I don’t really know for sure, but I think she probably is.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Some part of her wished that she’d just said yes, Sarah had died, and left it at that, but this little boy needed to hear truth and nothing but. “Someone took her.”

  “You mean, like, they stole her?”

  The bloody underwear, the bloodied toy horse, the stains on Big Bird’s wings...

  A deep breath, hold it…there you go. “Yes, Randy, someone stole her.”

  “Awww.” There was genuine sorrow in his voice, and he reached over and patted her arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Is she a ghost now?”

  “...yes...”

  “She wasn’t scary, not really.”

  “Not all ghosts are scary, hon.”

  “You believe in ghosts?”

  A nod. “Very much.”

  “Me, too.” He sounded so serious and grown-up.

  After a few moments of silence, he said: “Mom and Dad are gonna be mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause I ain’t there. Kylie’s funeral is tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “I d-didn’t mean to do it. It was a accident.”

  Lucy squeezed his hand again. “Of course it was. Everyone knows that. You were only trying to help.”

  “Uh-huh, I was. The grill wouldn’t start and I was hungry, so…so…so I wanted t-to—you know what? I wanted to cook for Dad ‘cause he always does the cooking. I wanted to make the hamburgers for everybody. An’ Kylie, sh-she was standin’ there and giggling at me an’ I said, ‘What’re you laughing at?’ an’ she pointed at the grill an’ she said, ‘Cold!’ on account there was only some smoke an’ everybody knows you can’t cook a hamburger with just smoke, so I got the can of lighter fluid an’…I was real careful, really, I was!” His face was getting red. Tears glistened in his eyes. “Dad always told me that y-you had to be real careful when you squirted the lighter fluid, an’ I was! But all of a sudden it just made this big…this big whoosh! an’ there was all this fire an’ it scared me an’ I didn’t mean to drop the can but I was scared an’…an’ you know what? I fell down, an’ then there was another big ‘splosion an’ then I saw Kylie, sh-she was on fire all over an’ she…she was screaming, I heard her, she even said my name, she s-said, ‘Wandee!’—she always said it like that, ‘Wandee,’ an’ I tried to help but she ran away an’ when I caught up sh-she was too h-h-hot to touch an’…an’...” His face collapsed in on itself and he reached out to her. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” The words came out in thick, wet splutters. “Kylie’s d-d-dead an’…I killed her! I didn’t mean to, it was a accident and I m-m-miss her so much and I’m…I’m...so…s-s-sorry...”

  He began to weep so violently that he had trouble breathing.

  Despite her not wanting to stop, Lucy pulled over to the side, unfastened her seat belt, and slid across the seat, taking him in her arms, stroking his hair, kissing the top of his head while he wept and shuddered against her. “Shhh, there, there, hon, it’s all right, it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault, it was an accident, nobody blames you, he won’t get you, Mr. Hands won’t get you, I promise, nothing’s gonna hurt you, I swear it...”

  She held on tighter. It felt good to be holding a child in her arms again, to be needed by a child, to feel a child’s fragility and know that she could protect it, could make things better, could take away the fear—and she would protect him, at all costs.

  You will not harm him, she thought toward the night, hoping Mr. Hands heard her.

  You won’t. Under. No. Circumstances.

  When his sobs finally subsided, she gave him a few Kleenex to wipe his nose and eyes, kissed his head, then touched his cheek and said, “Hey, I’ve got some ice-cream sandwiches in one of the coolers in the back seat. You want one?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She dug one out and gave it to him, then put her seatbelt back on and drove back onto the freeway.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Randy. And you can call me Lucy.”

  He almost laughed.

  “What?” said Lucy. “What is it? C’mon, you—what’s so funny?”

  “You’re the first grownup who ever told me I could do that.”

  “Call them by their first name?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s because I’m your friend.”

  “Really?” It was a prayer.

  “Really. You can count on that—but you have to trust me, Randy, all right?”

  “...’kay,” he said around a mouthful of the sandwich. Then: “You gonna take me back home later?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. I like it there.” Then: “You’re a nice lady.”

  Lucy smiled. “I like you, too.”

  * * *

  For a while, Randy played with the hand-held Star Wars video game Lucy had bought earlier that day, but every time it seemed that he was enjoying himself, the ghost of his little sister crossed his face and he looked away, sniffling, the game lying bright and blinking and unused on his lap.

  Event
ually, around eleven-forty-five p.m., he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Stopping for gas a few minutes later, Lucy covered him with a blanket and managed to raise his head enough to slip a small pillow underneath it.

  Illuminated only by the glow of the dashboard’s lights, he looked even smaller and more vulnerable.

  Watching him now, Lucy thought of a passage from Shakespeare that she’d come across in her college days, one that returned to her time and again in the weeks and months after Sarah’s disappearance:

  Grief fills up the room of my absent child,

  Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

  Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

  Remembers me all of his gracious parts,

  Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form...

  Try as she did, she couldn’t recall the last few lines of the passage.

  Then, looking at the child sleeping next to her, decided that maybe that was for the best.

  A little while later, too exhausted to go on, she pulled into a rest stop and parked among the trucks and campers and slept a little.

  She did not feel the presence of Mr. Hands anywhere near them.

  Maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t tracked them down yet.

  Chapter Nine

  She spotted the parking-lot carnival around six-thirty p.m. as they drove through one of the many small nameless towns that lay between Cedar Hill and the cabin.

  Randy spotted it a second later and his face lit up; no longer a grief-stricken, heartbroken, soul-sick shell of the child he once was, but a kid again, eyes filled with wonder and excitement.

  “Do you want to stop for a little bit?” Lucy asked, hoping that the cold terror she was feeling in her gut wasn’t evident to him.

  “Could we?”

  “Of course.”

  Then: “It’ll be fun.”