The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [308]
He’d gotten so used to silence over the past two weeks that hearing himself talk on and on felt strange. He felt the echo of his own voice inside himself.
After he’d heated enough hot water and poured it into the tub, he heated more for her to rinse her hair and set the pots beside the tub. While she was in the bathroom, he sat down at the old Olivetti typewriter that had belonged to his mom. It felt comfortable hammering away at those dinosaur keys. He put on his glasses and began reading what he’d written the day before.
He didn’t know how long he read. But suddenly he looked up to see her standing there beside his desk, making no noise, just standing there, her hair wet and tangled around her face, her wrists and ankles raw and ugly, her face shiny and clean, wearing his undershirt.
“Hi,” he said, taking off his glasses. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come out. When I work I tend to forget where I am. Why don’t you come over and sit on the couch.”
He took his own comb, washed it first, then spent the next ten minutes combing the tangles out of her hair. Then he put more medicated cream on her wrists and ankles and bandaged them again. He knew he had to check her over but he couldn’t see himself pulling off that undershirt. No, he’d have to be more devious. He rose. “Now, clothes for you.”
He wasn’t about to put her back into what she was wearing when he’d found her. He could only begin to imagine what sorts of memories those clothes would bring her.
“You’re going to be a Ralph Lauren Polo girl. What do you think?” It was a long-sleeved soft wool pullover sweater. At least it would keep her warm. No underwear, no pants, no shoes.
He handed her the sweater. “Why don’t you change in the bathroom?”
She left him. This time she came back in five minutes. He was gaining ground. The sweater came to her ankles, the sleeves flopping a foot beyond her hands. He rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. She looked ridiculous and endearing.
What was one to do with a little kid?
“Do you know the capital of Colorado?”
She nodded. He pulled out a map then realized he didn’t know if she could read. Well, it didn’t matter. She pointed to Denver. It had a red star beside it. So she lived in Colorado.
“That’s really good. I don’t think my nieces and nephews know the capital of any state, even Pennsylvania, where they live. Do you know where we are?”
Fear, cold, frozen fear.
He said easily, “We’re in the Rockies, about a two-hour drive southwest of Denver. There aren’t any ski resorts close by, so it’s pretty empty. Still, it’s a really pretty place. Do you watch Star Trek?”
She nodded, some color coming back into her face.
“I’m told the local folks call the mountain peaks opposite us the Ferengi Range.”
She opened her mouth and rubbed her fingers over her teeth.
He laughed. “That’s it. All the peaks are jagged and crooked and spaced funny. Ferengi teeth.”
The sleeves of his shirt were dragging on the floor again. He leaned forward to roll them up. She made that deep mewling sound and ran over to the wall by the fireplace. She curled up just as she had in the kitchen.
He’d scared her. Slowly, he got up and walked to the sofa. He sat down. “I’m sorry I scared you. All I wanted to do was roll up your sleeves. Your arms aren’t quite as long as mine yet. I should have told you what I intended. Can I roll up your sleeves? I think there are some safety pins in the kitchen drawer. If I can pin them up, you won’t have to worry about them.”
She got up and started to walk to him. One step, and she paused. Another step. Another pause, studying him, weighing if she could trust him, wondering if he wouldn’t turn on her. Finally she was beside him. She looked up at his face. He smiled and slowly lifted his hand. He rolled up the sleeves. Then he said, “I can try to braid your hair. It won’t be great