Arsonist

CHAPTER 44

Nehor Stark sat quietly in the recliner as the young girl across from him woke up. He had cleaned and bandaged her head as well as he could with the supplies he’d found in the condominium. At present, the wound on the back of her skull had stopped bleeding and he was confident she hadn’t suffered any permanent injury. He didn’t say anything as she came to and looked around the living room.

“Where am I?” she said, her voice thick from grogginess that hadn’t left yet.

“You’re home, dear.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your friend. Don’t you remember?”

“No.” She leaned her head back. “My head hurts.”

“Would you like some medication? I found quite a stash of Percocet pills in your bathroom.” He rose and took two pills out of an amber bottle that was on the coffee table. He held them up and she opened her mouth without protest. He placed them on her tongue and grabbed the plastic water bottle that was on a side table, putting it to her lips and allowing her to drink.

“What happened?” she said.

“Apparently you fell down and hit your head. Quite hard I’m afraid.”

“Shouldn’t I go to the hospital?”

“Not yet, but you will.”

“Who are you again?”

“Dear, I swear, you’re going to start hurting my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, lifting her head only to have it collapse back down. “I don’t feel good.”

Nehor rose. “Get some sleep. I’ll be back to check on you.”

As he walked around the couch he checked the cuffs on her ankles locking her to the chains that had been wrapped around the massive entertainment center. They gave her almost nine feet of slack, but it didn’t matter. All the phones had been smashed and the two entrances to the condo were at least twenty feet away.

Nehor stepped outside and got into Amber’s BMW. It purred to life and he pressed the accelerator a few times to hear the engine. He smiled to himself as he pulled out of the parking stall and onto Balboa Avenue. Pacific Beach wasn’t far and he briefly considered going there and putting his feet in the ocean. It’d been so long since he’d seen the ocean he had forgotten what it looked like. He had an image of it in his mind, but he knew it wasn’t accurate any longer.

He drove for a long time and got on Interstate 15 for a while, putting the top down and enjoying the blasts of warm air over him. He pulled off when he spotted a police cruiser behind him and came to a quaint neighborhood he hadn’t been to before. There was a yoga studio on one corner and a coffee shop next door with an alternative jewelry retailer across the street. He parked behind the yoga studio and went inside the coffee shop.

It never ceased to amaze him how much the style of clothing had changed since he was young. Then again, his memories were little more than fragments and even those had been altered in the time he’d spent in the little square room with no window. He didn’t trust his memories anymore to give him accurate information and he considered himself lucky. He was a man that wasn’t bound to anything.

He ordered a coffee with milk and argued with the cashier who quoted him four dollars for it. He paid with a five and went to a little station, mixing in sugar with a thin straw before finding a seat by the window. He watched the passing traffic, the monstrous SUVs and trucks that swallowed the road. Cars had gotten larger, more shiny, more a status symbol and less transportation. He remembered suddenly the smell of his mother’s Buick as they drove from Nevada to California, stopping only once a day to eat at greasy fast food restaurants to save money.

A man sitting across from him at the next table was staring at him. Nehor caught his glance and smiled and the man turned away. When he thought Nehor wasn’t looking he turned back, and then his eyes lifted to the television screen. Nehor glanced up to see a drawing of his face.

His heart began to beat in his ears and the world seemed to slow. There was no sound and the television had writing across it in white lettering, something he knew well but didn’t know the name for. Many times, as punishment at the institution, they would turn off the sound to the television or leave the sound on and turn off the picture. They weren’t allowed to starve or beat them, so it was the little things they used as punishment. He watched in amazement and phrases caught his attention.

…LEAD DETECTIVE JON STANTON…MASS MURDER OF…SEVERAL FIRES IN THE LA JOLLA AREA…MULTI-JURISDICTION MANHUNT…REWARD OFFERED

Jonathan Stanton. He spoke on the television and Nehor watched him with wonder. He was lean and Caucasian with a light olive skin. As if part of his heritage was Mediterranean. He had soft eyes.

Nehor flipped over the table he was sitting at to the shock of the patrons before storming out of the coffee shop. One man tried to get in his way, saying something about the cost of the table before Nehor grabbed a glass bottle out of a girl’s hand and smashed it into his head, the man instantly toppling over into a heap.

The sun was high and bright as Nehor hopped into his BMW and pulled away. Led Zeppelin, a band he was fond of, was playing but the music was far away in the background and he didn’t really notice it. There was only one thought on his mind now: Jon Stanton.