A Cold Dark Place

Chapter Eight

Tuesday, 2:48 n.M., an abandoned mine office near Cherrystone

The blood had dried on his hands by the time daylight came through the Krueger-like slashes in the old roof over the smelly nylon plaid couch in the abandoned mining office where he'd spent a restless night. Or had it been longer than a single night? Maybe two? In a second of frazzled introspection, he struggled to knit together all that had really happened. He gripped his hands tightly, and opened them to reveal his lifelines, clear, clean. He almost smiled at the irony. The blood had turned to powder. He faced his palms downward and the fine dark particles snowed to his chest. Blood had stiffened his T-shirt, the taut fabric now more brown than green. He shuddered as he shifted his weight. If he had always felt somewhat alone, somewhat alien, he felt it no more so than then. His mouth was dry. His body ached. And all he could think of was her. She alone would understand.

But how could he get to her? To find her, to talk to her, would be to risk everything. He sat up. God, he hurt. His dark hooded eyes followed a rat as it skittered across the debris that blanketed the floor. It stood on its haunches and started to climb a power cord to a broken vending machine. As he watched the rodent, its scaly tail coiling around the cord like a snake, made its way to its source of food as hunger propelled him. He could feel tears push to the edge of his eyelids, but he flatly refused to allow any to fall. He knew he could be stronger. He had nothing left to lose.

No time for crying, he thought.