Black Feathers

by Robert J. Wiersema

  He turned right onto Bay, headed toward Rock Bay.

  There were still hookers working the Government Street strip downtown, but more of the girls were around Rock Bay now.

  It was almost a hierarchy. The girls downtown were more experienced, higher end, catering to a more genteel crowd of casual gawkers and men who, on a whim, decided to try something new.

  The girls who worked Rock Bay generally had no other choice. Maybe it was a drug habit or a criminal record, but there was always a reason to offer themselves in this area of rundown rentals, silent factories, gas stations and dark-cornered, narrow streets.

  This was where the real girls hung out, the young ones. Downtown, the police would have picked them up in a second, comparing them to photos in their database of missing kids and runaways. Downtown, there was nowhere for them to hide; up in Rock Bay, they could disappear into the shadows, the stinking alleys, the moment they saw a police car in the distance.

  It was ironic, he thought as he turned off Bay. They came up here because they had something to hide, and then they did everything they could to put themselves on display.

  He took his first drive down the strip at a regular speed, checking out the situation, but not looking too hard. There were only a few girls out, but he had expected that. With all the news coverage, they were bound to be skittish.

  But that would only last until their desperation took hold.

  There was no point in rushing; good things come to those who wait.

  He drove to a nearby coffee shop and stood in line. There was a sign taped to the front of the counter: Ladies, be careful. Check your client. Know whose car you’re getting into. Keep an eye out for each other. Trust your instincts. Don’t take chances. Report any questionable activity.

  What would pass for questionable activity in this neighbourhood?

  He bought himself a coffee and drank it in the van, leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed, letting the music wash over him.

  Pickings were still slim on his next pass down the strip. There were more girls out now, but none that appealed to him. As he drove past, he evaluated each one: Too old. Too strung out. Too hard. Too blond.

  It wasn’t completely conscious, but he was looking for something, something in particular. He didn’t know exactly what, but he knew he would recognize it when he saw it.

  He found her on his third trip along the stroll. She was standing back from the edge of the street, almost in the shadows, a tiny redhead in a short black miniskirt with black leather boots to match the black leather jacket she wore open over a silky white top. Was it a camisole?

  She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, her eyes wide and guileless as they tracked the minivan along the street.

  She radiated uncertainty and hesitation. Doing her best to blend into the darkness, she wouldn’t have drawn most eyes, but for him, she seemed to glow, a soft white light that he couldn’t take his eyes away from.

  He pulled up to the curb in front of her on his next trip around the block. He couldn’t breathe as he watched her approach him: tentatively, rocking a bit on her boot heels. There was something long and awkward about her, vaguely deer-like, as he unrolled the window.

  “You look cold,” he said, as friendly as could be. He knew how he looked: the minivan, the haircut, the smile.

  He looked like a dad. Not a father: a dad.

  She clutched the edge of the window with both hands. “A little, yeah.” Up close, he could see that he had been right: she was maybe fifteen, cheeks still slightly rounded with baby fat. Her skin looked like it would be smooth and clear, once he scraped off the heavy makeup.

  When she smiled, her teeth were a little crooked, like they didn’t fit her mouth. None of her seemed to fit together quite right, like she wasn’t quite set yet.

  “Why don’t you get in, try to warm up a bit?”

  She looked at him for a moment, and he thought of the poster in the coffee shop, the warnings and advice.

  “Are you a cop?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you?”

  She smiled, as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard, then opened the door.

  He watched her as she climbed into the van, the gawky, awkward angles of her, the paleness of her skin, the way she seemed to glow in the dim light.

  Cassie and Skylark had spent the previous hour listening to music from Cassie’s CD player, trading out discs from the dozen in the wallet, sharing Cassie’s earphones, one ear each.

  It was only when people started unrolling sleeping bags and unfolding blankets that Cassie realized something had changed.

  “Are there more people here tonight?” she asked Skylark, making her own bed against the wall.

  Our spot, as she had come to think of it.

  Skylark took a slow look around the area. “That’s what’s been happening,” she said. “There were only a few people here at the start.”

  “Were you one of them?”

  Skylark shook her head. “No, I didn’t get here till later. There were a dozen or so of us then.” She spread out the comforter she used as a groundsheet, lining up the edge against Cassie’s.

  “How long ago was that?”

  Skylark thought for a moment. “Last Tuesday?” she said, sounding not entirely sure.

  Cassie was sure that she had misunderstood. “Last Tuesday? Like a week ago?”

  “That sounds about right.” Laying down her blankets, then the ragged sleeping bag over the top.

  “Seriously?”

  “What?”

  Cassie shook her head. “I don’t know. Listening to Brother Paul talk, it sounded to me like this place had been around a lot longer.”

  “Well, that’s sort of his thing, right? That this has always been our place.” She fluffed the pillow she had pulled from the bottom of her knapsack before placing it at the foot of the wall.

  Cassie flattened out her blankets.

  “That’s not enough.”

  “What?” Cassie stopped in her tracks, trying to figure out if she had missed something.

  Skylark pointed at her bed. “You don’t have enough blankets. You’re going to freeze.”

  “I’ll keep my gloves on. And I’ve got a scarf.”

  But Skylark was already in motion. “Here,” she said, taking Cassie’s bed apart. “If we put all the blankets together”—she laid Cassie’s blankets over the top of her sleeping bag—“we’ll probably be toasty. Is that all right? I figure the two of us can keep each other warm.”

  It was the matter-of-fact way she said it, the complete guilelessness of the comment, that caused Cassie to nod.

  “Is it all right? I don’t mean anything weird by it or anything. I just figure …”

  “No, that’s fine,” Cassie said. “That’s a good idea.” She glanced around the breezeway, Bob’s last taunt ringing in her ears.

  They were just keeping warm, that’s all. They weren’t friends like that.

  She thought of Ali, her pale, strong hands, and felt herself starting to blush.

  She was about to turn back toward the bed, back toward Skylark, when she saw Sarah.

  The old woman was sitting across the breezeway, nestled in the lee of one of the pillars, a shapeless grey lump of jacket and scarf and hat.

  The only part of her visible was her eyes.

  And she was looking straight at Cassie.

  Cassie froze under her gaze, not sure what to do. She tried smiling, but the woman’s eyes didn’t change. She didn’t blink, and her stare never wavered.

  Cassie waited, expecting her to say something, or gesture, anything to indicate that she had actually seen Cassie. Instead, she just stared.

  It was like she was looking through her.

  Pushing down her feelings of unease, Cassie turned back to Skylark, who was unlacing her heavy boots, tucking them away. Rolling slightly, Skylark shimmied under the covers, letting them fall around her lap as she crossed her legs. Cassie watched as she
wound the scarf around her neck once, twice, some sort of twist that created a loose width of knit around her throat, then lay down.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Yeah.”

  She sat on the foot of the makeshift bed and untied her shoes. It was only when she was putting them under her backpack that she realized she was doing exactly what Skylark had done.

  Copying her.

  That made sense. Skylark knew how to do things and how things worked. There were worse people to use as examples.

  Worse people to have as friends.

  Rewrapping her scarf roughly around her neck, Cassie crawled into the bed.

  She glanced back out at the breezeway as she settled. There was still no sign of Bob and his friends; Brother Paul was crouched in front of Sarah, talking to her in hushed, gentle tones.

  “Is this okay?” Skylark asked again, close enough that Cassie could almost feel every word.

  “Yes,” Cassie said, though the word didn’t seem to be or say enough, as she lay down.

  “Good,” Skylark said, snuggling closer. “I’m glad.”

  He washed himself in the icy water.

  Balancing precariously on the rocks, he dipped his hands into the waves, rubbing them briskly together, splashing up his arms where the blood had sprayed: it was starting to get tacky, drying too fast.

  In the silver snowlight, the blood on his hands had looked black: now he imagined the seafoam tinged pink.

  He scrubbed his hands until they gleamed ghostly white. The water burned, but it felt good. Like a cleansing fire.

  Clean again. Fresh. New.

  She hadn’t fought much.

  But then, she hadn’t had much of a chance.

  They had talked a bit while he drove. She was such a cliché: claiming to be a student at the college, only doing this to get enough money to get home for Christmas.

  Poor little girl.

  Then they had talked price.

  Getting the business out of the way meant there was no delay. He had pulled into a deserted spot close to the water, and the moment he had turned the key in the ignition, her head was in his lap.

  She had unzipped him with admirable skill, and he was still partly soft when she had taken him into her mouth.

  It seemed like eagerness, but he knew that she just wanted to get it over with.

  He luxuriated in the feeling for a moment, closing his eyes as he got hard, then he wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed, pulling her mouth away and tightening his hands in a single, smooth motion. She jerked, turned to look at him, her eyes wider than he would have thought possible. She tried to scream, but there was no air, and the change in her position meant he could adjust his grip, get his thumbs and fingers just right.

  It didn’t take long at all.

  He had squeezed until she stopped flailing and kicking, until her body sagged heavy against his, until her eyes went red and dull.

  Then a little longer.

  After a time, he pushed her back into the passenger seat and zipped himself back up. He was fully hard now, his pants almost painfully tight.

  Going around the van, he pulled her from the seat and dragged her to the rocky beach. He had to go back for the knife.

  He took his time.

  He savoured every moment: dabbing tenderly at her cheeks and around her eyes with the baby wipes from the glove compartment, getting rid of the caked-on makeup. The sighing sound that came from her as he cut across her throat. The puff of steam as he ran the knife up from her belly button to her breastbone. The way the blood oozed onto the rocks as he cut her apart, moved her around, cut into her again.

  When it was done, he stood up and stepped back, looking down at what he had done.

  She was so beautiful, it almost broke his heart.

  He leaned back down, tugged at her jaw to open her mouth. Just one more thing.

  As he worked with the knife, there was a sound like metal scraping against metal. A crow had landed on the roof of the minivan. Rocking back and forth, its claws scritched against the paint. Its black eyes gleamed in the dark.

  It had all gone so well.

  Driving home, though, he felt a niggling sense of regret. It had all been over so quickly. After all that waiting, that joyful, painful anticipation, it had gone by so fast.

  Like Christmas. All that preparation and then—he snapped his fingers—it was over.

  Had it been everything he had hoped for?

  No, it hadn’t. There was so much more that he wanted to do.

  Next time. He’d do better next time. He’d take his time, not get caught up in the moment. Really enjoy it. Get the most out of the experience.

  Wasn’t that what life was all about, really? Truly feeling the joy when you experienced it?

  Next time.

  He turned up the CD player, sang along as he drove home.

  Next time.

  From out of the shadows, Cassie was watching.

  Everything was silent, calm. Everyone was asleep, small clouds of breath hanging in the still, cold air.

  No, not everyone.

  She wasn’t asleep.

  “Sarah,” she called, her voice high, to carry in the dark.

  The grey blankets close to one of the pillars shifted, moved. The older woman emerged, rumpled and grey, and shuffled toward the square.

  “Sarah,” she murmured, her fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife.

  She felt herself moving closer, as if they were drawn together by some strange magnetism. Closer, closer, ever closer.

  Her hand began to ache around the knife.

  And then she was behind Sarah, following her through the square toward the parkade. She could hear her breathing, the rustle of her movements, the echo of Sarah’s footsteps.

  Closer. Ever closer.

  Close enough now to reach out, grab her by the hair.

  Sarah stopped. “I know you’re there,” she said, without turning, perfectly still.

  Cassie circled around her, staying to the shadows.

  And then their eyes locked.

  “I knew it was you.”

  Cassie buried the knife in Sarah’s throat before she could say anything else, twisting the width of the blade in her windpipe, grinding against the flesh and the bone as blood gushed forth, spilling onto the snow.

  The blood steamed and sizzled where it fell.

  “I knew it was you,” Sarah said again, each word spraying a fine mist of blood.

  Cassie twisted the knife again.

  Cassie awoke to the sound of her own scream, and sprung upward to a sitting position as it tore her throat raw. She pulled the scarf away from her face, and the sudden sharpness of the air was boiling water against her breath-moist skin.

  She gasped and heaved, leaning over and pressing her eyes shut against the bright light on the wall above her.

  Oh, God, oh, God, what have I done?

  Breath whooped and howled in her throat. All she could think of was the way the knife had felt in her hand as she had twisted it in Sarah’s neck, the grinding, gristly vibrations of it—

  Oh, God.

  And then Skylark was there, rubbing her back, whispering close to her ear, “It’s okay. You’re all right.”

  She whooped and gasped.

  “Shh, it’s okay.”

  One breath caught, and her lungs filled, the air so cold it burned, but oh so sweet. As she breathed, her heart slowed.

  In two three four …

  “Shh, you’re all right.”

  Someone screamed in the square, and they both turned.

  Katherine, one of the younger girls, had found her.

  She had been on her way back from the bathroom and had thought at first that the dark shadow in the fountain was a bag of garbage.

  “Oh my God,” Skylark muttered, turning back to the camp.

  Cassie wouldn’t let herself look away.

  Sarah had fallen backward into the dry fountain. Her feet were in the air, her legs
against the inside of the rim at a right angle to her body. Her arms were spread wide. There was a knife in her right hand. The other was empty. Her head lolled to one side, her eyes staring wide and unseeing into the violet sky, her lips white-blue and slightly parted. There was a deep gash, bloody and gaping, across her throat, a glistening red smile. Her head was framed by a nimbus of blood that pooled around her, copper in the rising light.

  There was another pool of blood on the snowy ground outside the fountain.

  When she couldn’t look any longer, Cassie turned, took several steps and vomited near a garbage can.

  It’s happening here, she thought.

  “She said her name was Sarah.” Cassie’s voice was barely a whisper: she couldn’t seem to take in enough air to form words.

  “Okay,” Constable Farrow said, writing in her notebook. “Had you known Sarah long?”

  Cassie shook her head. “I only met her yesterday. The day before yesterday.” Time was starting to blur; it was getting harder and harder to keep track.

  “Did she seem troubled to you?”

  Cassie looked around the breezeway. Almost everyone was gone. When Brother Paul had said that he was going to call the police, everyone had scattered. Nobody wanted to be around when the police arrived; nobody wanted to answer any questions.

  Cassie had stayed.

  “Well?”

  “Pardon me?” Cassie asked, shaking her head, trying to clear it.

  The cop muttered something that Cassie didn’t catch. “Did Sarah seem troubled to you?” She spoke slowly and clearly.

  Over by the fountain, several police officers were talking with Brother Paul while a group of cops and paramedics milled around, voices hushed, giving wide berth to people in white full-body suits who were examining Sarah’s body and the ground around her. From that distance and angle, Cassie couldn’t see the blood, but she didn’t need to: the images were seared onto her brain.

  It’s happening here now.

  “Jesus Christ,” the cop muttered, when Cassie didn’t answer. She shook her head and paced a few steps away.

  “Hey, cut her some slack,” her partner said, stepping toward Cassie. “This has got to be tough.”

  Farrow waved her hand dismissively.