He groaned as he scanned the sparsely furnished room. Everything was sturdy and practical. There was no warmth, no color, only an impersonal coldness. He shivered and closed his eyes, staying that way until his head grew heavy in his hands and tilted sideways as his muscles relaxed toward sleep.
Rising, he undressed where he stood, his clothes falling in a disheveled heap beside the bed. Sliding under the cover, he pulled the pillow under his head and hoped tonight would be different—that the wine had sufficiently dulled his brain to hold the nightmares at bay. His last thought was that he had forgotten to lock his door.
The hell with it. No one wants me anyway.
The nightmare torment always seemed to wait until he was the most vulnerable. This time Fletcher was drifting, floating on a sea of searing pain, the waves of it lapping at him from all sides. A monotonous jostling motion jarred his agonized limbs. A hot glare burned through his closed eyelids.
Thirsty! So thirsty!
He felt material binding his head and neck, choking him.
It’s tight! Too tight!
His confused beleaguered brain told his hand to remove the binding, but the throbbing appendage wouldn't obey the command. Every movement brought a fresh wave of pain, causing him to cry out but only guttural sounds surfaced. To move his head brought on such dizziness that he was attacked by dry heaves which forced his muscles to convulse, making the torture a vicious excruciating circle.
Fletcher knew he had died and gone to hell. At church, the minister had always talked of a place for wicked people. Now he was there, in that dreaded underground, waiting for the master of sin to tell him what his sins were. His mind faded into blackness and when the blackness cleared the air was cool, yet the jostling motion continued endlessly...endlessly, until the hot glare returned to scorch his skin. How long he drifted—how many minutes, hours or days he'd been there, he had no way of knowing or caring. He only knew the jocular voices droned in his ears oblivious to his moaning. Finally, the excruciating movement stopped.
"Here's your man," he heard someone say. "Talk to whoever's in charge. Everything's been arranged. He's to stay here until he's well. It's supposed to take a long time—a very long time if you get my meaning."
"The way he looks, he ain't goin' t' be here long; he'll be dead. He's bleedin' like a pig," someone else said. "Come on. Let's bring him in."
They were lifting him.
No! Please, God, no!
Stakes of burning agony shot through him. His back arched, and his eyes flew open with the shock of it. Faces were spinning; the world was careening. Of their own accord his arms flailed, his fingers splayed wide, grasping for any steady object to give him a base. Other hands gripped him and held him down hard.
No—stop—don't move me.
He vomited, but he had nothing to expel. The heaves tore through him again and again. The agony was exacerbated by their rough handling as he felt them strip him, bandage him, splint him without regard to his intense suffering. They pushed, turned and prodded him—the whole time talking and joking as if he were a slab of meat. While they pulled and set his broken bones, his writhing and hoarse gasping seemed nothing more than an inconvenience.
Fletcher drifted in and out of consciousness.
"Y' know, they never told us his name." The voice came blurred to him as if from under water.
"It says 'Zachary Brown' on the door," someone answered.
"Is that him or the fella what was in the cell before?"
The first voice sounded irritated. "I don't know an' I don't care. Zachary Brown it says, so Zachary Brown he is!"
Who's Zachary Brown? I'm not Zachary Brown, am I? No, I'm—who? Think! Can't...too hard. Head hurts...cracked...broken. Hurts to think.
"I'm layin' claim t' his boots," another voice said. "He ain't goin' t' be needin' anythin' that good where he's stayin'."
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they stopped torturing him.
"That's it. We'll finish him in the mornin'," a voice muttered. "It's no matter if he don't heal right. He ain't never leavin'. I don't think we even need t' bother puttin' the shackles on him."
"But—" the other voice protested.
"Don't think he's in any condition t' go anywhere tonight. 'Cept maybe t' hell." They had laughed at that.
They left him there in the dark—heaving, helpless, and alone. The sea of nausea and pain was a raging storm. He was tossed upon it like a piece of driftwood totally at its mercy.
While he lay shivering, too sick to even beg for clemency from whatever god might listen, he knew with absolute certainty that that minister hadn't the slightest idea what hell was really like.
In his weakness he wanted to weep but his body wouldn't release its precious fluid. Help me. I'm thirsty. Oh God—I hurt.
Out of the dark, hands gripped him again. No, don't touch me! I'll do whatever you want...no more...no more... With the last of his strength, he struggled to be free of them...
"Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown! Wake up!" the voice said.
Coolness touched his brow. It was heavenly against his hot face. He turned his head toward it and dizziness enveloped him.
"Lie still. There now. Shhhh," the soft voice soothed again.
Fletcher came awake bit by bit. His heart was hammering against his ribs sounding like a barrage of cannon-fire in his ears. His lungs were desperately sucking in air. Something touched his face. It startled him, and he jerked away with a gasp.
"It's all right. It's only me—Miss Jurrell."
Fletcher rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, willed them to focus while he tried to control himself. Sweat poured from him, and he knew Miss Jurrell could see the tremors that wracked him.
Her cool hands touched him again but this time he didn't flinch. He lay back and puerilely gave in to the trembling.
"That's it. Shhhh. That's right," she repeated. She continued stroking his forehead and blotting the droplets that had formed at his temple. He opened and closed his eyes again and again in an effort to breathe deeper.
Moments later, as the quivering subsided, he found his voice. "I don't mean to s-seem ungrateful, but why are you here?" he whispered. He was tired and weak.
"I was walking down the hall," she said, "and I heard your call for help. I knocked but you only groaned louder. Your door was unlocked and being the independent wench I am, I came to see if I could help. It wasn't easy. You struggled with me brutally, and I fear tomorrow I shall have bruises that will give the gossip mongers around here no end of enjoyment."
The moonlight lit her face with a soft glow. Her expression was full of concern. "Are you all right now?"
He closed his burning eyes and nodded, felt her smooth the hair from his damp forehead. He wanted her to leave. He was self-conscious that she should see him helpless. But he hadn't the will to ask because he wanted her beside him to ward off the nightmare's return. Pressing his fingers to his forehead, he opened his eyes. She was still there, gazing at him with intensity.
"Does your head hurt?" she queried in a soft tone.
"It's pounding unmercifully."
He saw her start to rise, hiked himself to one elbow and caught her hand to stop her. "Might you stay with me—just for a while?” He chuckled and stared at the floor, feeling as sheepish as a schoolboy. "I could use the company right now."
She retrieved her hand, seemed to hesitate a moment then smiled. "I guess it is a way of insuring you won't wake up the rest of my guests with any more outbursts."
"Indeed. That's one way of looking at it," Fletcher said wryly.
Miss Jurrell bit her lip. "Do