dochermes

"Refugees of the Group Mind"

7/13/1981

I.

He walked to forget. For half his life, since he was barely out of his teens, Gitano had been wandering without a destination, putting one foot in front of the other to keep his mind distant while his body moved.

On an July morning already too warm for comfort, he strode steadily past Forsythe Park with its playground and a tiny zoo with the most prominent specimen a black bear. Gitano wore sturdy hiking shoes, jeans and a dark blue flannel shirt with a well-worn denim jacket over it. A nearly empty knapsack strapped to his back held some socks, a plain white T-shirt, scissors and comb, a washcloth and towel. In his pockets were a folding knife, handkerchief, two cigarette lighters and eleven dollar in singles. No wallet, no ID, no keys. All he owned in the world, this was more than he usually possessed.

Gitano walked on, seemingly tireless as ever. He was not remarkable looking. An inch under six feet tall, wiry, he had a thick black hair and a short beard. His most striking feature was the mismatched nature of his hands. The left was long-fingered and artistic, the right was broad and sinewy with thick nails that curled like claws. Once people noticed those hands, they could not help staring.

As he headed up the gentle incline of the street, Gitano began to remember a little about this city. Kingston, first capital of New York State, for some reason was a nexus for Midnight War activity. Many eerie and unexplainable events had taken place here that the general public never heard about. Some of the old buildings of cobble stone had been built by the Dutch and were said to be haunted for three hundred years. In his foggy memory, he realized he had not been in Kingston for years. Why? Who could say? Certainly he didn't know.

Wrapped in his timeless limbo of thought, the wanderer observed the neat, impeccably maintained houses with their lawns manicured as if about to be inspected. One of the better neighborhoods. Here were doctors, lawyers, minor politicians. And here he hoped to find Garrison Nebel before it was too late.

Traffic was sparse. He crossed over onto Plymouth Avenue, read the numbers on the houses and located number 92. This was a one-story white frame building like a shingled roof and a tiny round garden encircled by black stones. He had forgotten Nebel's number long ago, or he would have phoned as he had passed the Trailways station.

A short path of flat shale stones led from the sidewalk to the front door. As soon as he set a foot on the first stone, the insolid attenae of his senses screamed a warning. Gitano's dark eyes narrowed. He held up his brutal right hand, gnarled fingers clenching and unclenching in readiness as he stepped up and pressed the doorbell.

No answer came. He tried again, glanced up and down the street but saw no one watching. The feeling of imminent danger was overwhelming. Gitano pressed his right hand against the door and the lock snapped cleanly even though he had not applied any pressure. The wanderer moved quickly inside, closing the door behind him, his right hand swinging from side to side as if it were a weapon in itself.

Gitano stalked through unoccuopied rooms, not calling Nebel's name, tense and jumpy. No one was here. The double bed was neatly made, the kitchen was tidy. there were no signs of any violence nor of Nebel having left hurriedly or against his will. Reluctantly, the wander lowered his shoulders and stood frowning in the living room while he thought.

He had only one other possible lead to follow. A year earlier, Nebel had given him an address and phone number where he might possibly be reached in a crisis. The number was long forgotten but the address had stuck in his mind because it was unusual. 7766 Browning Terrace. Not only did Gitano have more gaps in his memories than actual memories, he wasn't even aware of it. Any time his thoughts tried to dig into the past, his mind recoiled violently.

Back outside, he took off at a trot just shy of breaking into a full run. Yes. He remembered Browning Terrace, only a few blocks away from Nebel's house. Here was a four story brick apartment building, with its own parking area. The ground floor apartments had small front yards no more than five feet to a side, the top floor apartments each boasted a standing platform outside the sliding windows. These were barely wide enough to qualify as balconies.

Inside the lobby was a bank of name tags next to white buttons. What the hell was the name again? Gilliard, yes. He pressed the button next to GILLIARD, M/DEWITT, J and a buzzer sounded as the inner door unlocked. From a speaker atop the tags came a young woman's voice, "Finally! Come on up."

Gitano swung open the inner door and rushed up the staircase beyond with such frantic haste that he was unaware of a hand catching that door before it could close and lock again.

( the rest of the story )