Mean Streak(4)

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.”

The panic that she had willed away earlier seized her now. With the realization that she was at this stranger’s mercy, a baffling situation became a terrifying one. Her aching head was suddenly packed with stories of missing women. They disappeared and often their families never knew what their fate had been. Religious fanatics took wives. Deviants kept woman chained inside cellars, starved them, tortured them in unspeakable ways.

She swallowed another surge of nausea. Keeping her voice as steady as she was capable of, she said, “Surely you have a car.”

“A pickup.”

“Then could you please drive me to where I left my car this morning?”

“I could, but it—”

“Don’t tell me. It’s out of gas.”

“No, it’s got gas.”

“Then what?”

“I can’t drive you down.”

“Down?”

“Down the mountain.”

“Why not?”

He reached for her hand. She snatched it back, out of his reach. He frowned with annoyance then walked across the room to the only door and pulled it open.