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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