Dean R. Koontz - Ollie's Hands

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OLLIE'S HANDS By Dean R. Koontz THE JULY NIGHT WAS HOT. THE AIR AGAINST

OLLIE'S PALMS MADE HIM aware of the discomfort of the city's sweltering

residents: millions of people wishing for winter. Even in the cruelest

weather, however, even on a bitterly cold night filled with dry January wind,

Ollie's hands would have been soft, moist, warm - and sensitive. His thin

fingers were tapered in an extraordinary manner. When he gripped anything, his

fingers seemed to fuse with the surface of the object. When he let it go, the

release was like a sigh. Every night, regardless of the season, Ollie

visited the unlighted alleyway behind Staznik's Restaurant, where he searched

for the accidentally discarded silverware in the three large overflowing

garbage bins. Because Staznik himself believed in quality, and because his

prices were high, the tableware was expensive enough to make Ollie's

undignified rooting worthwhile. Every two weeks, he managed to sense out

enough pieces to constitute a matched set, which he sold to one of several

used-furniture stores in exchange for wine money. Recovered tableware was

only one source of his funds. In his own way, Ollie was a clever man. On

that Tuesday night early in July, his cleverness was tested to its limits.

When he made his nightly trip into the alley to sense out the knives, forks,

and spoons, he found instead the unconscious girl. She was lying against

the last Dumpster, face toward the brick wall, eyes closed, hands drawn across

her small breasts as if she were a sleeping child. Her cheap, tight, short

dress revealed that she was no child; her pale flesh glimmered like a soft

flame viewed through smoked glass. Otherwise, Ollie could not see much of

her. "Miss?" he asked, leaning toward her. She didn't respond. She

didn't move. He knelt beside her, shook her, but was unable to wake her.

When he rolled her onto her back to look at her face, something rattled.

Striking a match, he discovered that she had been curled against the

paraphernalia of a junkie's habit: syringe, charred spoon, metal cup,

half-used candle, several packets of white powder wrapped in plastic and then

in foil. He might have left her and continued searching for spoons - he

didn't like or understand snowbirds, being strictly a man of spirits himself -

but the match flame revealed her face and thereby ensured his concern. She had

a broad forehead, well-set eyes, a pert and freckled nose, full lips that

somehow promised both erotic pleasure and childlike innocence. When the match

went out and the darkness rushed in again, Ollie knew that he could not leave

her there, for she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. "Miss?"

he asked, shaking her shoulder again. She did not respond. He looked

toward both ends of the alleyway, but he did not see anyone who might

misinterpret his intentions. Thus assured, he bent close to her and felt for a

heartbeat, found a weak one, held his moist palm close to her nostrils, and

detected the barest exhalation of warm breath. She was alive. He stood and

wiped his palms on his rumpled, dirty trousers, cast one mournful glance at

the unplumbed bins of waste, then lifted her. She weighed little, and he

carried her in his arms like a groom crossing the threshold with his bride,

although he gave no thought to the carnal aspect of the ritual. Heart pounding

with the unaccustomed exertion, he took her to the far end of the alley,

hurried across the deserted avenue, and disappeared into the mouth of another

unlighted back-street. Ten minutes later he unlocked the door of his

basement room and carried her inside. He put her on the bed, locked the door,

and switched on a low-watt bulb in a newspaper-shaded junk lamp beside the

bed. She was still breathing. He gazed at her, wondering what to do next.

Thus far, he had been purposeful; now, he was confused. Frustrated by his

inability to think clearly, he went outside again, locked the door after

himself, and retraced his course to the rear of the restaurant. He located her

purse and filled it with the skag and other items. Possessed by a strange

anxiety that he could not understand at all, he returned to his basement

room. He had utterly forgotten the tableware in Staznik's garbage.

Sitting beside the bed in a straight-backed chair, Ollie pored through the

contents of the purse. He removed the syringe and candle, destroyed them, and

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threw them into the waste can. In the bathroom, he ripped open the packets of

heroin and flushed the contents down the toilet. She had used the metal cup to

hold the candle with which she cooked each batch of dope; he placed the cup on

the floor and methodically stamped it flat. He washed his hands, dried them on

a tattered hotel towel, and felt much better. The girl's breathing had

grown shallower and less rhythmic. Her face was gray, and drops of

perspiration were strung like bright beads across her forehead. Standing over

her, Ollie realized that she was dying, and he was frightened. He folded

his arms so his long-fingered hands were hidden in his armpits. The fleshy

pads of his fingertips were excessively moist. Dimly, he was aware that his

hands could perform more useful tricks than locating silverware buried in

mounds of garbage, but he did not want to admit to their capabilities: That

way lay danger .... He retrieved a gallon of wine from the rickety

cardboard clothes cupboard and drank straight from the jug. It tasted like

water. He knew that he was not going to find release in wine - not with the

girl lying on his bed. Not with his hands trembling as they were. He put

the wine away. Ollie despised using his hands for anything but earning wine

money, but now he had no choice. Other, more basic motivations drove him to

act. The girl was beautiful. The smooth clear lines of her face were so

symmetrical that even the hue of sickness could not much detract from them.

Like a delicate web, her beauty caught him, held him. He followed his hands to

the bed as if he were a blind man feeling for obstacles in a strange room.

For his hands to perform properly, he needed to undress her. She wore no

underclothes. Her breasts were small, firm, high; her waist was too small, and

the bones in her hips were sharp, though even malnutrition hardly detracted

from the sublime beauty of her legs. Ollie appreciated her only as an objet

d'art, not as a source of physical gratification. He was a man ignorant of

women. Until now, he had lived in a sexless world, driven there by hands that

any lover would instantly have recognized as more than ordinary. He placed

his hands at her temples, smoothed her hair, and traced his fleshy fingertips

across her forehead, cheeks, jawline, chin. He felt the pulse at her neck,

gently pressed her breasts, stomach, and legs, seeking the cause of her

illness. In a moment he knew: She had overdosed. He also perceived a truth

that he did not want to believe: The overdose had been intentional. His

hands ached. He touched her again, moved his open palms in lazy circles

until he was not sure where his hands ended and her fair skin began, until

they seemed to have melted together. They might have been two clouds of smoke,

blending into one. Half an hour later, she was no longer comatose, merely

sleeping. Gently, he turned her onto her stomach and worked his hands along

her back, shoulders, buttocks, thighs, finishing what he had begun. He traced

her spinal cord, massaged her scalp, blanked from his mind all appreciation of

her form, the better to let the power seep out of him and into her. Fifteen

minutes later, he had not only remedied her current condition but had

permanently cured her of her desire for drugs. If she even thought of shooting

up again, she would become violently ill. He had seen to that. With his

hands. Then he leaned back in his chair and slept. He bolted out of his

chair an hour later, pursued by nightmares that he could not identify. He went

quickly to the door, found it still locked, and peered through the curtains.

He had expected to see someone lurking there, but he found only the night. No

one had seen him use his hands. The girl was still asleep. As he pulled

the sheets over her, he realized that he didn't even know her name. In her

purse, he found identification: Annie Grice, twenty-six, unmarried. Nothing

more, no address or relatives' names. He lifted a glass-bead necklace but

received no images from those small smooth spheres. He decided that the

necklace was a recent purchase, imbued with none of her aura, and he put it

aside. In her well-worn wallet, he discovered a wealth of impressions, a

fiercely compressed picture of the last several years of Annie's life: her

first cocaine purchase, first use, subsequent dependence; her first time with

skag, dependence, addiction; theft to maintain the habit; jobs in less

reputable bars, hustling drinks; prostitution that she called something else

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摘要：

OLLIE'SHANDSByDeanR.KoontzTHEJULYNIGHTWASHOT.THEAIRAGAINSTOLLIE'SPALMSMADEHIMawareofthediscomfortofthecity'sswelteringresidents:millionsofpeoplewishingforwinter.Eveninthecruelestweather,however,evenonabitterlycoldnightfilledwithdryJanuarywind,Ollie'shandswouldhavebeensoft,moist,warm-andsensitive.His...

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