Page 3 of Mean Streak

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E mory came awake gradually but didn’t open her eyes, fearing that admitting light would make the excruciating headache worse.

It had jarred her out of a deep sleep with pains so piercing it was as though a nail gun were being used inside her skull.

She was hearing a noise not ordinarily heard in her bedroom, but even her curiosity wasn’t enough to embolden her to lift her eyelids.

In addition to the sharp pains inside her head, her right foot was throbbing constantly. She’d run too hard on it this morning.

The aroma of food was making her queasy.

Why was she smelling food in her bedroom, when it and the kitchen were on opposite sides of the house? Whatever Jeff was cooking—

Jeff didn’t cook.

Her eyes sprang open, and, when met with nothing she recognized, she sat bolt upright.

The alien scene before her blurred and spun. Scalding bile gushed into her throat. She barely managed to choke it down before spewing it. Dizziness thrust her back down onto the pillow, which she realized wasn’t her pillow.

And the man looming at the side of the bed wasn’t Jeff.

She blurted, “Who are you?”

He came a step closer.

“Stay away from me!” She held up her hand, palm out, although she had no chance of fighting him off. She was as weak as a newborn. He was a giant.

But on her command, he stayed where he was. “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“You’re safe.”

That remained to be seen. Her breaths were short and quick, and her heart was pounding. She willed herself to calm down, knowing that panicking wouldn’t benefit her.

“How do you feel?” His voice was low and rusty, as though he hadn’t used it in a while.

She just stared at him, trying to piece together the disjointed stimuli and form an explanation of where she was and why she was here.

“How’s your head?” He hitched his chin up.

Tentatively she felt the area indicated and groaned when her fingertips touched a knot behind her left ear.

It was like she’d struck a mallet to a gong, sending waves of pain through her head.

Her hair was sticky and matted with blood, and her fingers came away stained red. She noticed blood on the pillowcase.

“What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

Her mind backtracked. “I remember running. Did I fall?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me.”

She was about to shake her head, but the motion made her ill and caused another sunburst of pain. “How did I get here?”

“I’d been watching you through binoculars.”

He’d been watching her through binoculars? She disliked the sound of that. “From where?”

“A ridge on another peak. But I lost track of you and thought I should check it out. I found you lying unconscious, picked you up, brought you here.”

“Where is here ?”

He made a motion with his hand, inviting her to see for herself.

Every movement of her head meant a fresh agony, but she pushed herself up onto her elbows. After giving the vertigo several moments to subside, she took in her surroundings, specifically looking for a possible means of escape should one become necessary.

There were four windows. Only one door. Only one room, in fact.

The bed on which she lay occupied a corner of it. A screen of louvered panels, probably meant to separate the sleeping area from the rest of the room, had been folded flat and propped against the wall, which was constructed of split logs.

Other furnishings consisted of a brown leather recliner and matching sofa.

Both had creases, wrinkles, and scratches testifying to decades of use.

Between them stood an end table, and on it was a lamp with a burlap shade.

These pieces were grouped together on a square of carpet with a hemmed border.

The kitchen was open to the rest of the room.

There was a sink, a narrow cookstove, an outmoded refrigerator, and a maple wood table with two ladder-back chairs painted olive green.

A large stone fireplace comprised most of one wall.

The fire burning in it was making the crackling sound she’d been unable to identify when she first woke up.

He’d given her time to survey the room. Now he said, “Only one of your water bottles is empty. You must be thirsty.”

Her mouth was dry, but other matters concerned her more. “I was unconscious when you found me?”

“Out cold. I’ve tried several times to wake you up.”

“How long have I been out?”

“I found you around seven thirty this morning.”

She looked down at her wristwatch and saw that it was twenty past six in the evening. She bicycled her legs to kick off the layers of covers. Throwing her legs over the side of the bed, she stood up. Immediately she swayed.

“Whoa!”

He caught her upper arms. She didn’t like his touching her, but she would have fallen on her face if he hadn’t.

He guided her back down onto the side of the bed.

Her head felt as though it was about to explode.

Her stomach heaved. She covered her eyes with her hand because everything within sight was alternately zooming close and then receding, like the wavering images in a fun house mirror.

“Want to lie back down or can you sit up?” he asked.

“I’ll sit.”

He gradually withdrew his hands from her arms, then left her. He went into the kitchen and took a gallon jug of water from the refrigerator. He filled a glass and carried it back to her.

She regarded it suspiciously, wondering if he’d drugged her.

The date-rape drug was odorless, tasteless, and effective.

It not only debilitated the victim, it wiped clean the memory.

But if this man had some nefarious purpose in mind, what would have been the point of drugging her if she was already unconscious?

He said, “I tried to get some water down you earlier. You kept gagging and spitting it out.”

Which explained why the front of her shirt was damp.

She was fully clothed except for her jacket, gloves, and headband.

Her running shoes had also been removed and placed on the floor beside the bed, lined up evenly side by side.

She looked up from them to the man extending her the drinking glass. “I’m certain I have a concussion.”

“That’s what I figured, since I couldn’t wake you up.”

“My scalp is bleeding.”

“Not anymore. It clotted quick enough. I’ve been dabbing it with peroxide. That’s why the blood on your fingers looks fresh.”

“I probably need stitches.”

“It bled a lot, but it’s not that deep of a gash.”

He’d made that assessment himself? Why? “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?”

“I’m off the beaten path up here, and I can’t vouch for the quality of the emergency services. I thought it best just to bring you here and let you sleep it off.”

She didn’t agree. Anyone who’d sustained a blow to the head should be seen by a physician to determine the extent of the damage done, but she didn’t yet have the energy to argue the point. She needed to get her bearings and clear her head a bit first.

She took the glass of water from him. “Thank you.”

Although she was desperately thirsty, she sipped the water, afraid that if she drank it too quickly, she’d only throw it up.

She was feeling a mite less anxious. At least her heart was no longer racing and her breathing was close to normal.

She would take her blood pressure soon—her wristwatch allowed for that—but she didn’t feel up to doing it yet.

She was having to white-knuckle the glass of water to keep it steady. He must have noticed.

“Dizzy?”

“Very.”

“Head hurt?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I had a concussion once. Didn’t amount to anything except a really bad headache, but that was bad enough.”

“I don’t think mine is serious. My vision is a little blurry, but I remember what year it is and the name of the vice president.”

“Then you’re one up on me.”

He’d probably meant it as a joke, but there was no humor either in his inflection or in his expression. He didn’t come across as a man who laughed gustily and frequently. Or ever.

She sipped once more from the glass and then set it on the small table at the side of the bed. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mr.—”

“Emory Charbonneau.”

She looked up at him with surprise.

He motioned toward the end of the bed. Until now, she hadn’t noticed her fanny pack laying there, along with her other things. One of the earpieces on her sunglasses was broken. There was blood on it.

“I got your name off your driver’s license,” he said. “Georgia license. But your name sounds like Louisiana.”

“I’m originally from Baton Rouge.”

“How long have you lived in Atlanta?”

Apparently he’d noted her address, too. “Long enough to call it home. Speaking of which…” Not trusting herself to stand again, she scooted along the edge of the bed until she could reach her fanny pack.

Inside it, along with two water bottles, one of them empty, were two twenty-dollar bills, a credit card, her driver’s license, the map she’d used to mark her trail, and, what she most needed right now, her cell phone.

“What were you doing up here?” he asked. “Besides running.”

“That’s what I was doing up here. Running.” When she tried unsuccessfully for the third time to turn her phone on, she cursed softly. “I think my battery is completely out of juice. Can I borrow your charger?”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

Who doesn’t have a cell phone? “Then if I could use your land line, I’ll pay for—”

“No phone of any kind. Sorry.”

She gaped at him. “No telephone?”

He shrugged. “Nobody to call. Nobody to call me.”