Drawn

by James Hankins

  With considerable effort, Boone raised his head from the cement.

  “Damn,” the kid said and Boone knew he’d seen the scarred half of his face.

  “I need help,” Boone whispered.

  “You think?”

  “Help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Cross the street.”

  “There a hospital across the street? ’Cause that’s where you need to go.”

  Boone shook his head and felt the drops of sweat rolling down his forehead and cheeks.

  “You’re bleeding,” the kid said. “You know that?”

  “I just need to get across the street. Can you help me?”

  The kid thought for a moment. “Help you cross the street?”

  Boone nodded. He tried to climb to his knees, but the sound of a car passing reminded him how close he was to the street, how close he was to the very outer edge of his comfort zone, and he dropped on his face again.

  “You really need a bagel bad or something? Cause that’s all I see on the other side of the street there. A bagel shop.”

  Boone began to inch backward, away from the curb. He put his hand in something wet and knew it was his vomit. He wiped his palm on his pant leg and kept moving backward. The effort it took was unbelievable. Finally, when he figured he was a good five feet from the curb, he rested. He was able to get up on one knee. He was drenched with perspiration. His head hurt. His joints ached. And he was still totally blind.

  “You’re shaking, dude,” the kid said, “and sweating like a pig. You got a disease or something?”

  “I’ll give you twenty bucks,” Boone said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Twenty bucks to get me across the street. Just help me walk across and the twenty’s yours.”

  The kid hesitated. “Show me the money.”

  With an unsteady hand, Boone pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He knew in which section he kept his twenties. He extracted one, fumbled the wallet back into his rear pocket, and held up the bill for a moment before slipping it into the right front pocket of his jeans.

  “What do you say?” he asked.

  “Let’s do it,” the kid said.

  With the kid’s help, Boone struggled to his feet. He put his arm over the young man’s shoulders.

  “You blind or a gimp?” the kid asked.

  “You want your twenty, just get me across, okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  Boone leaned on the kid and took a shuffling step forward. The throbbing in his head increased. The air began to thicken again. Another step and Boone’s legs gave out.

  “Whoa,” the kid said, holding him up. “Need to take a break? We’ve gone two feet.”

  Boone shook his head, which doubled the intensity of the pounding inside his skull. He got his feet under him again. He hated feeling like this. He hated being completely blind and helpless. He hated himself. He took two quick steps forward and his blood felt like liquid fire sizzling through his body.

  “We got a walk sign,” the kid said. “You ready?”

  Boone tried to speak but his tongue felt swollen. He nodded.

  “Here we go,” the kid said as he practically carried Boone off the curb and into the street.

  And Boone’s panic-induced symptoms hit him all at once with the force of a speeding bus. His lungs were starving, his eyes useless, his skull threatening to explode, his veins burning.

  He might have screamed.

  Or shed tears.

  After half a dozen steps, he was pretty sure he died.

  “HEY, YOU OKAY?”

  The voice was close. Something touched his left cheek—the good side.

  “You all right? I tried to stop him.”

  Boone opened his eyes. His peripheral vision had returned. He was never so grateful for so little sight.

  “I called for help,” the woman squatting beside him said, “but he took your money and ran away.”

  Boone realized he was lying on a hard surface. Very hard. He wasn’t in his apartment. How was that possible? He never went anywhere. He sat up and leaned back against a cement wall.

  “Who did?” he said. His tongue no longer felt swollen, though it was sore, like he’d bitten the side of it.

  “That young man. I thought he was helping you across the street. It looked that way at first. But then you—”

  “I what?”

  “Then you started fighting him. Halfway across the street you started thrashing around. I think you punched him, the young man who was with you. You fell and I thought you were having a seizure. Then you went limp. I thought maybe you…I don’t know…maybe you had a heart attack or something. Then the light changed and cars started honking. The man tried to pick you up but he couldn’t seem to get a good grip or something. The drivers kept honking. I couldn’t believe that. Didn’t they see you lying there? Anyway, the man couldn’t seem to pick you up so he just—”

  “He what?”

  “He dragged you the rest of the way across the street.”

  That explained why the back of his head felt the way it did.

  “Then he took money out of your pocket and ran off. Left you lying right there.”

  Sounds like the kid earned his twenty bucks, Boone thought.

  “Do you need help?” the woman asked. “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so,” Boone said.

  “Is there someone I could call for you?”

  “Not a soul.”

  She hesitated. She’d done the right thing. She seemed to want to be finished now, but didn’t feel right about leaving.

  “I’ll be fine,” Boone said. “Really. Thanks for your concern.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…”

  “I am. Thanks again.”

  She stood and walked quickly away. Boone tried to stand and fell back onto his butt. He decided to rest for a few more minutes. He felt his pockets. Cell phone still there. Wallet? Check. Money inside? Still felt like the two hundred or so he should have had, plus all his credit cards. The kid had come through. He’d gotten Boone across the street—and it certainly sounded as though Boone hadn’t made it easy—and he took only the twenty bucks they’d agreed on. Boone’s faith in humanity just went up a tiny tick.

  Boone tipped his head to the side and tried to see across the street. He looked for the windows of his apartment in the corner of his eye. He thought he could just make them out. He felt like he was looking at a prison from the outside. He hadn’t left that city block in six years.

  He did a systems check. Here he was, across the street, and he was able to breathe, though his breathing was a bit labored. How could the air be thicker on this side of the street? But somehow it was. He felt like he was on an alien planet with a different atmosphere than Earth—breathable, but denser.

  He wasn’t completely blind. That was good.

  He still felt flushed but the hellfire flames had stopped licking his body, which was also good.

  The back of his head was sore, presumably because he’d been dragged across the street, but that was the least of his concerns.

  He got to his knees, then, using the wall for support, was able to stand. His legs were weak but they supported his weight.

  Maybe he’d be okay.

  Then, suddenly, he desperately wanted to cross that street again. He wanted to go home. Wanted nothing more than to be back in his apartment.

  This was wrong. He didn’t belong here. Not out here in the open. He wasn’t safe here. He belonged in his apartment. He never should have left. Who cared if it was haunted? It was safer than being here, out here in the wide open.

  His heart was pounding again. His head ached. The air was thick as butter.

  He wanted to run, to race across the street, heedless of passing cars. The urge to flee was almost irresistible. He felt like a rabbit, aching to bolt but frozen with fear while the fox circles. The pull of his apartment was terrible, a black hole sucking at him, threatening to drag hi
m into its darkness, a darkness Boone actually welcomed.

  He took a step toward the street. He heard cars, cars he could barely see, zipping by. He took another step. He was going to do it. He couldn’t stop himself. He wasn’t safe here. He had to get back home. His vision was dimming again but he didn’t care. He was going to make a blind run for it and hope the drivers saw him. He started to push forward when—

  “Now what?” a familiar voice said.

  Boone stopped himself.

  “After all that, you’re heading back across the same damn street?” It was the kid from before. “Grass is always greener, huh? Where’s your bagel?”

  Boone couldn’t breathe.

  “Dude, take it easy. You need to go back across again? You need a doctor? What?”

  Boone stepped backward until he bumped into the building behind him. He took a deep breath, which calmed him a little.

  “Don’t let me cross that street,” Boone said.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll give you another twenty bucks if you don’t let me cross that street.”

  “How am I supposed to stop you?”

  “However you need to. Just don’t let me cross again.”

  “What, I’m supposed to sit with you till bedtime and make sure you don’t go across the street, and for that I get twenty bucks?”

  “Fifteen minutes. Just keep me here for fifteen minutes.”

  So they sat side by side on the sidewalk, in silence, for fifteen minutes while what little vision Boone had returned, and his breathing slowed a little, and his heart calmed a bit. He couldn’t relax, he couldn’t get his pulse to stop revving far higher than normal, but at least he wasn’t in a total panic.

  “Why’d you come back?” Boone finally asked the kid.

  “Just wondering what happened to you, is all. Whether you’d gotten your bagel or whatever.”

  “No bagel. I just needed to get across the street, that’s all.”

  “You made it.”

  “Yup.”

  “Wasn’t easy on either of us.”

  “Guess not. Sorry.”

  “Whatever.”

  Boone thought the kid might have been looking at Boone’s scarred face.

  “You wondering about my face?”

  “Nah. Those are burns, right? Seen stuff like that before.”

  Boone nodded.

  The kid said, “I gotta get home, dude. You good now?”

  Not even close.

  “Good enough,” Boone said. He pulled a twenty from his wallet.

  “Nah, man, keep it. I didn’t do nothing but sit here. I thought you was gonna make me tackle you in the street or something, or get me hit by a car. This wasn’t anything, though. Just sat here a while.”

  The kid stood. He reached down and helped Boone to his feet. They stood in silence for a moment.

  “All right then,” the kid said, then walked away.

  “All right then,” Boone said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MIGUEL CLUTCHED HIS backpack tightly to his chest. It kept the bag close to him while also covering his lap, which had begun to feel like the right thing to do. Miguel looked over at Larry, who was watching the road. Miguel let his eyes drop to Larry’s lap. There was no bulge in his pants now.

  “What are you looking at, Miguel?”

  Miguel quickly looked up. His face flushed. Larry grinned at him.

  “Relax,” Larry said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t—”

  “Hey, calm down. I understand. I’m a grown man. My stuff probably looks different from yours. You’re just curious.”

  “No, I…I was just—”

  “Nothing wrong with being curious. If you want to see it, you let me know. I’ll give you a quick peek.” He smiled. When he saw Miguel’s face, he laughed. “Jesus, Miguel, relax. Don’t look so freaking scared. I’m not trying any funny stuff here. I was only kidding. What, you think I’m some kind of pervert or something?”

  Miguel looked away. His heart was beating fast.

  “Wait a damn second here, Miguel. Is that what you think? You think I’m a goddamn pervert?”

  Larry’s voice had developed a sharp edge. Miguel said nothing.

  “Here I am, taking you to a lake house, offering you a lot of money for a little bit of work, letting you ride in my boat, taking you fishing, for God’s sake, and you accuse me of being a pervert? Jesus Christ. I never should have brought you along. I should have stuck you on a bus and gotten the hell rid of you.”

  Larry scowled. His hands were tight on the wheel, the muscles in his forearms rippling. Miguel didn’t know what to do. He wondered if Larry might actually lean over and hit him.

  “Shit, Miguel. Thanks a lot, kid.”

  Miguel didn’t know what to believe. Maybe he had misread the situation. After all, Larry had had plenty of opportunities to hurt Miguel. They’d been alone together since last night. In Larry’s apartment, the big man could easily have overpowered Miguel and done anything he wanted to him.

  “I’m sorry, Larry. I didn’t think…I mean, I don’t think that. I just…I don’t know…I’m sorry.”

  Larry took a deep breath, blew it out, and said. “Shit. Forget about it.”

  Larry turned the music up and they drove without speaking. The miles rolled by and Miguel’s eyelids grew heavy. He closed them and let his head fall forward to rest on the backpack in his lap.

  WHEN MIGUEL AWOKE, he opened his eyes but immediately shut them again. Then, slowly, he slitted them open just a hair. First, Larry was watching the road, then he glanced over at Miguel, and Miguel held his breath, held himself very still, until Larry looked back out the windshield. He had one hand on the wheel. The other hand was resting in his lap. No, it wasn’t resting. It was moving. It was moving like—

  Miguel shut his eyes. He considered how fast he could get to the length of pipe he kept in his backpack. He thought about Larry’s powerful arms, about the menace that seemed to be coiled and waiting inside the man. He hadn’t noticed it when they left Philadelphia, but he’d seen glimpses since then and it frightened him.

  Miguel made a show of stirring, then stretching, then finally opening his eyes and looking out his window, away from Larry.

  “Where are we?”

  “Past New York. Got a few more hours to go.”

  Miguel looked over at Larry, who now had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the doorframe, his elbow sticking out the open window. Miguel turned to his own window. It was dark outside. Shapes of trees flew by in the night. He looked ahead, hoping again for a sign indicating that a rest stop was coming up. Finally, after another fifteen minutes, one appeared.

  “I have to pee,” Miguel said.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No.”

  “We just pissed a little while ago.”

  I did. You just stood there with a bulge in your pants watching me pee. “I can’t help it. I have to go again.”

  “Jesus, you got a bladder the size of grape, you know that?”

  Miguel held tightly to his backpack as Larry pulled into the rest stop.

  “I’ll be right back,” Miguel said. He opened his door.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have to pee already, too.”

  “No, but I can’t let a young kid walk around a rest stop by himself at night. There are creeps in places like this just watching for kids like you to come along.”

  Like you and David? “I can take care of myself.”

  “Too dangerous. I’m coming.”

  This was going to be trickier than Miguel thought.

  “Okay,” he said. He started to get out of the car with his backpack. Larry put a huge hand on Miguel’s arm, restraining him.

  “Whoa, there, you can’t take that inside. Someone snatches it, you’re out twenty grand.”

  “Last time we left it in the car, I was real nervous. I don’t want
to let it out of my sight.”

  Larry squinted at Miguel. Trying to read him, it seemed.

  “The bag stays,” Larry said. “It’s safer here.” He paused. He squinted at Miguel. “I’ll tell you what, though. Go on in without me. As you said, you can take care of yourself. I’ve seen you in action. I’ll just wait here and watch your bag for you.”

  He reached over and took hold of one of the shoulder straps on the bag. Miguel hesitated.

  “Well,” Larry said, “go on in and pee. I’ll be right here when you come out.”

  Miguel looked around. There were a fair number of people at the rest stop. He could easily get lost among them, find someplace to hide from Larry until he gave up looking and left. But Miguel didn’t want to leave without his money.

  “We don’t have all night, Miguel.”

  Miguel saw a state trooper walking toward the building, just thirty feet from their car. Miguel looked at Larry. He’d seen him, too.

  “Well?” Larry said. “What’s it gonna be, Miguel?”

  Miguel’s window was open. He could call to the cop. But what would he say? And if the cop searched his backpack, how would he explain the money? There was no way the guy would let a kid keep twenty thousand dollars. And then there was the wallet Miguel stole. And anyway, Miguel didn’t know for sure that Larry was a pervert. Not for sure.

  But the way he watched Miguel pee…and the way he simply looked at him sometimes. And smiled at him. The way he was watching Miguel sleeping last night. The way he rubbed the front of his pants while Miguel was napping in the car. Miguel thought about those huge hands of his, the powerful arms, the intensity that seemed to always be bubbling just under his skin, and knew he wouldn’t have the strength to fight him off if it came to that. The thought of those hands on him, that mouth on him, his pants open—

  Miguel turned his head toward the window and opened his mouth to yell. He never saw the blow coming. Larry shot a fist out, hit Miguel in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious before he could make a sound.

  LARRY SHOOK HIS head. That was a close one. If he had hesitated for a fraction of a second, the little bastard would have called out to that trooper, and Larry would have had some explaining to do. He hadn’t really done anything wrong…not yet, of course…but the trooper would have had questions…like what the hell was he doing with an eleven-year-old Hispanic runaway and why did he have twenty thousand bucks in a backpack. So Larry was glad he’d been quick-fisted.