Catherine Coulter: The Target

She stared at that piece of toast with a glob of jam about ready to fall over the edge. "Let me put it on a napkin." Thank heaven he'd bought napkins.

He handed it to her. She took three fast bites, hardly chewing, then sighed and ate more slowly. She licked strawberry jam off her lower lip. For the first time she looked happy.

"Has it been a long time since you've eaten?"

She was chewing slowly on a bite of toast. She seemed to think about it. Then she nodded slowly.

"I see I've got to ask you only yes or no questions. Do you feel better this morning?"

Fear washed all the color from her face.

She was looking at her bandaged wrist holding the half slice of toast.

"I'll put some more medicated cream on your wrists and ankles after you finish your toast." He said nothing more, just ate his own toast. What about the rest of her body? He knew he should examine her again but he didn't want to, not with her awake and terrified.

When they'd both finished, he rose and said as he walked away from her into the living area, "Would you like to have a bath? I can heat some water over the stove and pour it into the tub. I've got a couple of really big pans just for that purpose." He knew without looking at her that she was probably shaking her head, pressed against the kitchen wall. "You're a big girl. You can bathe yourself, right?" He turned, smiling toward her. Slowly, she rose. She nodded.

"I've got some shampoo in the bathroom. Can you wash your own hair? Good. Then I can put more cream on your wrists and ankles. There are a couple of other spots that need some medicated cream too. Now we've got a clothing problem. Tell you what. When you're through, just put the undershirt back on. I'll see what I can scrounge up for you." 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 but at least you won't have your hair in your face."

The braid wasn't all that bad. He fastened the end with a rubber band that had come around the bag of peaches.

"The sun's really bright. It's not too cold out. If I bundle you up, would you like to go outside?"

He should have known. She was gone in a flash, into the kitchen. He knew she was against the damned wall. At least she didn't lock herself in the bathroom.

What to do?

Whatever he did with her, he had to do it slowly, really slowly.

Thank God there were some old magazines in the cabin. He said, "Would you like to look at the photos?

If you like, we could look at them together and I could read to you what they say about the photos."

Finally, she nodded slowly. "First let me get those safety pins and fasten your arms up."

Then she followed him into the living area. It was tough because she didn't want to get anywhere close to him. The magazine ended up between them on the sofa. At least he got her to wrap the afghan around her. He looked over at her and said, "Socks." She blinked and cocked her head to one side. "I was worried about you walking around in your bare feet. Do you want to try some of my socks? They'll look funny and come up to your neck. Maybe you could practice to be a clown. You could wear my socks and see if I laugh.

What do you say?"

The socks were a big hit. She didn't try to be funny, but she did give one tiny smile when she pulled them over her knees.

It took them nearly an hour to get through a People magazine from the previous October. He didn't think he ever wanted to see a picture of Cindy Crawford again. She was on every other page. He looked up after reading about a movie star's painful reunion with her long-lost brother. She was asleep, her cheek on her hands, resting on the arm of the sofa. He smoothed the afghan around her and went back to his typewriter.

He nearly knocked his glasses off he roared up out of his chair so quickly. That horrible low mewling sound was louder this time. She was having a nightmare, twisting inside the afghan, her small face flushed, strained with fear. He had to touch her, no choice.

He shook her shoulder. "Wake up, sweetheart. Come on, wake up."