Chapter Nine

The girl wobbled a little unsteadily as she took another sip from the small glass bottle held in her hand. When she reached the end of the narrow side street she stopped and dug out the key from a small, ratty hand purse to the tiny one room back alley dump she called home. It was then a sudden noise coming from a pile of wooden crates under a stairwell startled her. She dropped the key and it clinked out of sight.

"Shit!"

She stared at the crates, then jumped back when two large rats scampered out of the shadows and ran down the side of the building.

Squatting down and hoping there weren't anymore, she nervously felt around for the key until she finally found it. It was then the noise came again, this time louder, and to her fright, one of the crates was pushed aside exposing a leg, an arm, a hand reaching towards her.

She jumped back up against the door, the small glass bottle slipping out of her hand and shattering on the ground.

"Stay back! Get away!"

In a panic she saw another crate move, revealing a dark head of hair.

"Get out of here, you hear me! I've got mace and I swear I'll use it if you come any closer!" she screamed, scrambling to fit the key into the lock.

Finally she got the door open and practically fell inside, slamming it shut. Shaky fingers threw the lock then reached up and slipped the chain lock in place as well.

With her heart racing she backed away from the door to the far side of the tiny room until she bumped into the small counter. Opening the drawer beneath, her fingers frantically rooted around until they closed over a serrated steak knife she kept for protection. Holding it in a two fisted grip in front of her chest, she stared at the door, eyes wide, frightened, knowing the battered door and flimsy locks were no real protection for someone determined to get in.

When no pounding or the crack of splintering wood followed after several minutes though, she put trembling fingers to her lips and cautiously crossed the room to press her ear to the door.

Still nothing.

Keeping the chain lock in place, she slowly opened it just a crack.

In the dark space underneath the stairs she heard a moan, followed by a soft incoherent mumble.

She quickly slammed the door shut again. She stood behind it for a full five minutes gnawing her lower lip, shaking and uncertain of what she should do next. Finally she opened it a crack once again, and a few seconds later heard a tiny shuffle of movement and another moan that drew her brow down in concern.

Working up her courage, she slid the door closed enough to shakily slip the chain lock off. When she opened it and nothing sprung out at her from the shadows, she cautiously ventured outside, the knife still in her hand. She could make out a sneaker, a leg in the shadowed light of the stairwell. As she drew nearer she saw the outline of a man lying prone among the crates.

The painful moan came again, and this time she could see the fingers of his left hand twitching and weakly trying to reach out for something.

Her voice cracked. "H-hey…You okay?"

The hand retracted back as if startled. A few seconds later the man struggled to bring his knees up underneath him and raise himself up, dragging his forearm up on top of the small wooden crates for support while the other stayed wrapped around his waist. But when he tried to push himself into a standing position, he let out a painful grunt and suddenly toppled over, rolling out from underneath the stairwell and onto his back, his right arm flung out to the side, his head flopping over onto his cheek.

He lay still, unmoving.

Hesitantly she came to his side and knelt down, gnawing nervously on her thumbnail. The man's breathing was labored and dirt covered the whole left side of his face and neck. Timidly she reached out and placed her hand on his chest. He flinched and shrank back before letting out another groan.

"Hey…It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

She wasn't sure but she thought his eyes opened just a little for a second.

Leaning over, she touched the side of his face and he jerked, moving his head away from her hand and grimaced. She scrambled a little ways back, suddenly scared.

His right hand lifted off the ground, reached out, before falling weakly back.

"Hur'tch," he mumbled.

The simply act was so pitiful, so needy, his voice filled with such tired pain, that it overcame her natural fears of strangers and she returned to his side.

"Hey. It's okay."

When she touched his chest again, this time he didn't startle.

She bit her lip, indecisive as to what to do. The man was obviously hurt, needed help, but did she really want to get involved?

Then to her surprise he reached up and grabbed her hand, not in a painful way, in a way meant to hurt and abuse as she was used to, but rather to seek an almost childlike comfort in. It tugged at her heart and her fear melted.

"Hey mister…can…can you help me? Help me to get you up? I can take you inside, okay?"

For a moment she didn't think he was coherent enough to understand, but then he nodded and to her surprise he struggled to roll over on his side.

What followed next was several minutes of a joined effort to get the injured man upright and into her little room, more or less falling onto the small narrow unmade bed with the young woman collapsing on top of him.

She untangled herself from his arms, got up and quickly shut and locked the door before returning to his side. The man's breathing was still labored from the effort of moving. The dark wild curls framing his face were stuck and matted to his skin. His lip was split open and his face was covered in black streaks of sweat and grime.

For several moments she just stared at him until his face screwed up and he turned his head to the side. It was then she saw the streak of blood mixed with dirt down the back of his neck just behind his left ear.

Retrieving a faded washcloth and filling a plastic bowl with water from the squeaking rusty tap, she attempted to clean his face. As she touched the side of his head with the wet rag though, he winced and pulled back.

"'S'urts."

"I'm sorry."

Her hand shook and she nervously looked away. But when she glanced back, she saw that his eyelids were half open and he was staring at her with dark glazed orbs filled with pain and confusion.

"I'm sorry didn't mean to hurt you. I...I was just trying to help."

Suddenly his body started to shake violently.

"Hey! Hey! It's okay."

She tugged and pulled at a wadded up blanket trapped under his legs until it came free, but as soon as she tried to tuck it around him, his eyes widened in sudden fear. He fought her for a moment before he gave a twisted moan and suddenly went limp.

She covered her mouth, suddenly scared. Oh God. Was he dead?

A moment later relief washed over her as she saw the slight rise and fall of his chest and realized that he had just passed out.

She removed the rest of the dirt and blood from the back of his neck and face as best as she could, being careful around the cuts and bruises. She also noticed several scratches and puncture marks on his arms and remembered the rats outside her door. She shuddered.

When she was done she just sat for a while staring at him.

In his unconscious state the man had such a boyish vulnerable look beneath the otherwise rugged features. The dark fan of lashes rested against his pale skin, while damp curls fell across his forehead and framed his cheeks. She reached out, hesitantly at first, then shyly ran her fingers curiously through one soft cluster of curls and smiled when his face seemed to relax a little under her touch. But when his features pinched up a few seconds later, she retracted her hand swiftly, a flush of guilty shyness evading her cheeks.

She wondered who he was, where he had come from, but after nervously patting him down, she couldn't find anything on him, not even a wallet.

Reluctantly she backed away to an armchair, curling her legs up and wrapping her arms about her bent knees, not really knowing what else to do and wondering just what the hell she had gotten herself into.

~S/H~

The prick of a needle pulled him briefly from the dark haze he was wallowing in.

His eyes opened into tiny slits.

"Just a little more blood, Rudy."

He could feel hands on his arm. He tried to pull back, but his limbs felt like lead weights. Glassy, drugged eyes stared down at his arm while the figured hovered over him. Memories resurfaced.

No..No…please…not again…he tried to say but his mouth couldn't seem to form the words as a familiar panic rose within him.

Then the fat, obese face came into view. Small beady eyes behind thick glasses glittered. "I've been watching you, Skyler. Reading your files. Rape, aggravated assault, in and out of mental facilities all your life…A very troubled, disturbed young man, indeed. You'll be a perfect addition to my research."

His eyes widened, yet still he was unable to move.

The strange, surreal laughter echoed around him as Matwick finished his task, and then leaned back over him. Fat jowls ballooned out as he smiled, pleased, excited. "This time I know it will work"

He shuddered as the darkness pulled him back down.

~S/H~

It took several minutes before he realized that he was awake and a few more to realize he wasn't lying in a locked room with linoleum floors but lying in a small, narrow bed butted up against a wall. His eyes quickly darted across the small space searching until they settled, to his surprise, on a woman curled up in an armchair staring back at him. He shrank back against the thin mattress confused.

Her smile, when it came, seemed nervous, forced when she finally spoke. "Hey. Y-you're finally awake."

When he didn't make a reply but continued to stare, she frowned and stood up, moving a little away from him, her manner skittish, but he was too weak, too tired to process the reason why.

His throat felt parched.

"Thirsty," he mumbled.

He heard the sound of a squeaky tap, water running, and then a moment later a small glass appeared. He tried to lift his head, take it from her, but to his surprise his hands shook, spilling the water. A hand slipped under his neck, another steadied the glass, pressing it to his dry lips.

He took a drink. The water had a heavy metallic rusty taste to it, but it nevertheless felt good against his parched throat. He took several more sips, coughed suddenly, and then pushed it away.

He sank weakly back. "Thanks."

The girl nervously smiled. "Sure, mister."

She continued to hold the glass, her fingers twitching, almost as if she weren't sure of what to do next. She wiped her palms on her skirt and finally set the glass back on the small counter.

He stared at her. In a thick raspy voice, he asked. "Who are you?"

She tugged, fidgeted with the straps to her halter top. "My name's Tracee."

"How…" he started, but closed his eyes suddenly as his head throbbed, realizing he had one mother of a headache.

"I…I found you a couple hours ago. You were passed out next to my door. Don't you remember?"

He stared back numbly.

"Oh…um…well, I guess that's not so surprising. You…you got a pretty good lump on the back of your head."

He did? He reached up, touched the back of his head behind his ear and winced.

"You should probably have that checked. I know a guy that runs a free clinic down here. I could take you…"

"No!" His sudden firm refusal startled her. He didn't know why, but the idea of doctors, hospitals were frightening to him.

She moved away and returned a few moments later holding several vials of pills, her hands nervously twitching. "May-be one of these will help then. I've got uppers, downers, um…even penicillin?" She laughed a little embarrassed. "A friend of mine gets them for me, you know, for a few favors."

He shook his head.

"Yeah. Okay." A long pause followed as he remained silent. "Um…you gotta name? I mean I hate to have'ta keep calling you mister."

The question made him frown deeply. Of course he had name. What kind of question was that?

And then his eyes widened and panic washed over him when he realized he couldn't remember, couldn't remember anything.

Then just as suddenly, a surge of memories flooded into his brain: pain and waking up in the dark, running and feeling scared, a newspaper headline: "Mental Patient Escapes Cabrillo," being chased by the man in white. His shoulders shook as he remembered more: injections, a straight jacket, the lights going out, and someone trying to choke him.

And then Matwick was leaning over him, "Don't worry, Rudy, all will be fine after your treatment. Nurse Bycroft, see to it the patient is kept restrained until then, for his own safety, of course."

Treatment?

He jerked violently as a hand touched his shoulder. Wild, almost feral eyes darted frantically about expecting to see the blond man in white, Switek and Jackson with the straight jacket and gag. But they weren't there. He was alone in the small room except for the girl staring back at him out of wide, frightened eyes.

His body sagged, went limp. His reached up to his head, wincing as he curled onto his side. "M'sorry," he mumbled.

His eyes drooped tiredly.

He felt the blanket being pulled back over him, a hand lingering a bit nervously on his shoulder.

"It's okay. Guess that bump just got you a little confused, that's all. Why don't you just try and rest?'

An increasing fog was wrapping around his mind again as he mumbled, "I-It's Rudy…My name is Rudy Skyler."

TBC...