She looked at it again. Still, she couldn’t see any movement.
His gray pants hung low on his hips, showing the waistband of his underwear. Baggy boxer shorts. Striped. Donna looked down at his feet. His sneakers were soiled gray, and held together with tape.
“Sandy?”
“Hmmm?”
“Stay inside.”
“What are you doing?” Fright in the girl’s voice.
“I’m going out for a second.”
“No!”
“He can’t hurt us, honey.”
“Please.”
“I think he might be dead.”
She opened the car door and climbed out carefully. She locked the door. Shut it. Tried it. Fingering the side of the car for balance, she eased herself down the slope. She stood above the man. He didn’t move. She zipped her windbreaker, and knelt beside him.
“Hey,” she said. She jiggled his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”
She pressed a hand flat against his chest, felt its rise and fall, felt the light throbbing of his heart.
“Can you wake up?” she asked. “I want to help you. Are you hurt?”
In the growing darkness, she didn’t notice the moving, gloved hand until it grabbed her wrist. 4.
With a startled yelp, Donna tried to twist free. She couldn’t break the man’s stiff grip.
His eyes opened.
“Let go. Please.”
“It hurts,” he said.
His hand squeezed more tightly. His grip felt strange. Glancing down, Donna saw that he was holding her with only two fingers and the thumb of his right hand. The other two glove fingers remained straight. With a vague stir of revulsion, she realized there were probably no fingers inside those parts of the glove.
“I’m sorry it hurts,” Donna said, “but you’re hurting me, now.”
“You’ll run.”
“No. I promise.”
His tight grip eased. “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said. He sounded as if he might cry. “I just wanted in. You didn’t have to hurt me.”
“I was frightened.”
“I just wanted in.”
“Where are you hurt?”
“Here.” He pointed at the back of his head.
“I can’t see.”
Groaning, he rolled over. Donna saw the pale shape of a rock on the ground where his head had been. Though the night was too dark to be certain, there didn’t seem to be blood on his head. She touched it, feeling the soft brush of his hair stubble, and found a lump. Then she inspected her fingers. She rubbed them together. No blood.
“I’m Axel,” the man said. “Axel Kutch.”
“I’m Donna. I don’t think you’re bleeding.”
“Dah-nuh.”
“Yes.”
“Donna.”
“Axel.”
He got to his hands and knees and turned his face to her. “I just wanted in.”
“That’s okay, Axel.”
“Do I have to go now?”
“No.”
“Can I stay with you?”
“Maybe we can all go away. Will you drive us somewhere for help?”
“I drive good.”
Donna helped him to stand. “Why don’t we wait for the fog to lift, then you can drive us somewhere for help.”
“Home.”
“Your home?”
He nodded. “It’s safe.”
“Where do you live?”
“Malcasa Point.”
“Is that nearby?”
“We’ll go there.”
“Where is it, Axel?”
He pointed into the darkness. North.
“We’ll go home. It’s safe.”
“Okay. But we have to wait for the fog to lift. You wait in your car, and we’ll wait in ours.”
“Come with me.”
“When the fog lifts. Good-bye.” She feared he would try to stop her from getting into the car, but he didn’t. She shut the door and rolled down the window. “Axel?” He limped closer. “This is my daughter, Sandy.”
“San-dee,” he said.
“This is Axel Kutch.”
“Hi,” Sandy greeted him, her voice soft and uncertain.
“We’ll see you later,” Donna said. She waved good-bye and rolled up the window.
For a few moments, Axel stared silently in at them. Then he climbed the slope and was gone.
“What’s wrong with him?” the girl asked.
“I think he’s…slow.”
“You mean a retard?”
“That’s not a nice way to put it, Sandy.”
“We’ve got them like that at school. Retards. Know what they’re called? Special.”
“That sounds a lot better.”
“Yeah, I guess. Where’d he go?”
“Back to his car.”
“Is he leaving?” Sandy’s voice was eager with hope.
“Nope. We’ll wait for the fog to thin out, then he’s going to drive us out of here.”
“We’re going in his car?”
“Ours isn’t going anyplace.”
“I know, but…”
“Would you rather stay here?”
“He scares me.”
“That’s just because he’s strange. If he wanted to do us harm, he’s had plenty of opportunity. He certainly couldn’t find a better location for it than right here.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Anyway, we can’t just stay here.”
“I know. Dad’ll get us.” The girl’s eyes were black holes in the oval of her face. “Dad’s not in prison anymore, is he?”
“No, he’s not. The district attorney…remember Mr. Goldstein?…he telephoned this morning. They let Dad out yesterday. Mr. Goldstein called to warn us.”
