Black Feathers

by Robert J. Wiersema

  Cassie had to force herself to breathe. “Did he—”

  “He surrendered his weapon and his badge to the officer on duty, and requested emergency leave. It looks like some sort of breakdown.”

  “Did you know? Did he say anything?”

  “I had no idea.” Her voice was almost disappointed. “But you saw him,” she said. “He wasn’t sleeping. He was just—” She motioned with her hand beside her head.

  “But why—”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Farrow said, cutting her off.

  Cassie brought the cup to her lips and was surprised to discover that it was almost empty.

  Farrow started speaking as she poured her more. Steam billowed from the mouth of the Thermos. “Chris left me a note. He asked me to find you.” She screwed the lid back on the Thermos. “He wanted me to tell you that it isn’t safe for you.”

  Cassie stopped with the cup at her lips. “I thought—I mean, Cliff Wolcott is the guy, right? He killed all those girls, right?”

  “Not all of them.”

  Cassie flinched. Almost dropped the cup. “What?”

  Farrow shook her head slightly. “Your friend Laura?”

  Cassie nodded.

  “Cliff Wolcott didn’t kill her.” She held up her hand as Cassie started to speak. “I know,” she said. “But we’re sure. The MO doesn’t match. And”—she bit her lip—“there are other … pieces of evidence.”

  The coffee started to slosh ominously in Cassie’s stomach.

  “Chris wanted me to tell you that you need to be careful.”

  Cassie tightened her grip on the cup; it was the only thing anchoring her to the sidewalk.

  It all made sense now.

  Of course Cliff Wolcott hadn’t killed Skylark.

  She had known it all along, but she had let everything else push it out of the way.

  She had killed her. Just like she had been about to kill Ali this morning.

  It was all she could do to hold herself together.

  “Are you okay?” Farrow leaned forward, touched her arm. “I know this is a lot to take in.”

  Cassie nodded slowly, her head spinning, but not for the reason that Farrow thought.

  She couldn’t believe that she had been so stupid, that she had let herself believe that everything might actually be all right. Skylark was dead and her father was dead and Ali was in danger and it was all her.

  It had always been her.

  But that stopped now. Today she would figure out a way to end it. It was all that she could do. No amount of running would be enough: it needed to end.

  “I’m okay,” she said finally.

  “I don’t mean to be intrusive, but is there somewhere you can go? Someplace safe?”

  Cassie rocked at the sound of concern in the cop’s voice. “I’ll figure something out,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Listen—” Farrow started, but she cut herself off. “I know that there might be issues but … Why don’t you at least think about going home? I’m sure—”

  “No,” she said, taking a step away. “I can’t.” She shook her head furiously. “I can’t.”

  “Cassandra,” she said, moving toward her, reaching again for her arm. “I know it’s hard. Your mom told me about the dreams and the fire, and Chris mentioned the investigation—”

  “What?” She took two steps away from Farrow, ramming her back into the top of the railing so hard it took her breath away. “What are you talking about?”

  Farrow bit her lips. “The investigation.” She took a deep breath. “When you told your doctor that your father was abusing you.”

  Cassie glanced both ways up and down the sidewalk, fought to keep from putting her hands over her ears. “That was a mistake,” she said quickly. “I was just dreaming.”

  “Were you?” There was a challenge in Farrow’s voice, but a warmth too. It was like Dr. Livingston all over again, arguing with her about what she knew to be true. “What about when you were in the hospital, when you were twelve?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You tried to kill yourself.”

  “No.” The word trailed off into a high-pitched whine, and Cassie shrank into herself.

  “Cassie,” Farrow said, taking a step toward her.

  Cassie pulled back, turned her shoulder to the police officer.

  “Cassie,” she said, and Cassie felt a hand on her shoulder. “I understand.”

  Cassie sniffed.

  “I believe you.”

  For a moment, Cassie’s legs wouldn’t hold her and she slipped back against the railing. It was like the world had opened up under her feet, like she was tumbling into a bottomless darkness.

  “What?”

  “I believe you.”

  Hearing the words for a second time didn’t make them make any more sense.

  “I know that other people … maybe they didn’t. Maybe they … couldn’t. But, Cassie …”

  She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, and shook her head harder. “I can’t.”

  “Cassie, I—”

  Cassie pulled away from the woman, spinning away, spinning free, falling into the darkness.

  The coffee arced out of the cup in a brown parabola as it fell to the ground.

  He knew that waiting would bear fruit.

  He watched from across the street as she talked to the police officer, as she scurried crying down the block.

  The police officer had started after her, but stopped after only a few steps, shaking her head and turning back to the car, picking up the cup from the Thermos.

  He waited until she had gotten back into the car, until she drove off, before he slipped out of the shadows to follow the girl downtown.

  He wasn’t worried about losing her. There were only so many places she would go.

  She went to the most obvious.

  When he found her again, she was sitting on the edge of the dry fountain in Centennial Square, on the opposite side from where that woman’s body had been found.

  That woman. How quickly the names disappeared.

  But this one … this one would be remembered. Watching her in the square was a sharp reminder of what had drawn him to her from the start.

  The flame still burned within her, but it had changed from orange-gold to blue. She was running on desperation now, fear, anger, sadness.

  Despair.

  In the absence of fuel, the fire burned itself, blazing hot, but short-lived.

  He would need to take her soon; the way she was burning, she wouldn’t last long.

  While it still burned, though, she would be the rarest of delicacies.

  The burning called to him, fed the darkness within him.

  Tonight. It would be tonight.

  But then something happened that he had not foreseen: a woman entered the square, tall and slim, scarf pulled up to her face, knit cap pulled down tight on her head.

  She went directly to the girl at the fountain, and when she touched her shoulder, the girl’s blue flame flared, almost exploded, then turned the blinding white of burning magnesium. Tendrils of white trailed up the girl’s arm and into the woman’s hand.

  He stepped back as the white flame seared down the woman’s arm and met the flame burning at the heart of her, turning the steady red glow to a vibrant, pulsing orange.

  At the same time, the woman’s red flame coursed up her own arm and leapt to the girl’s body. The white flame wavered, then burst into rich orange life.

  He frowned, then smiled.

  It was beautiful, in its own way, how the flames fed each other, how they burned without consuming themselves, or their hosts.

  It was sad; that blue flame would have been so sweet.

  But now there were two.

  He would wait.

  He would watch.

  He would feed.

  Tonight.

  “I’m sorry,” Cassie said, snuffling and brushing the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve.


  “For what?” Drawing her coat around herself, Ali sat down on the edge of the fountain next to Cassie.

  Cassie shook her head, wrinkled her face in a disgusted smile. “Everything,” she said.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” She reached out to brush an errant lock of hair from Cassie’s face, but she seemd to catch herself and withdrew her hand. “I should probably be the one apologizing.”

  “What? Why?”

  Ali shook her head and looked away. “All of it,” she said. “My part in all of it.” She turned back to Cassie, and met her eye. “I really like you,” she said. “So I think … it wasn’t fair. I maybe pressured you into something you weren’t … that maybe you didn’t want. Don’t want.” She shrugged again and turned away. “Anyway. I’m sorry. I won’t …”

  When Cassie touched her leg, Ali turned back.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Cassie said. Leaning forward, she kissed her, softly but firmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered, without pulling away. She smiled sadly. “I think you’re the only right thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Then what is it?” she asked. “What’s—”

  Cassie shook her head and pulled away.

  “Don’t,” Ali said, and Cassie started. “Don’t run away. Please don’t.”

  “I …” She felt so small.

  “I don’t like …” Ali cleared her throat, thick with emotion. “I didn’t like waking up and finding you gone. I worry about you. I want to help.”

  “You can’t.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a sad statement of fact.

  “Cassie—”

  “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” Cassie blurted. She needed to get the words out as quickly as she could.

  Ali looked confused. “What?”

  Cassie shook her head, already regretting saying the words, bringing up something that she couldn’t understand, let alone explain.

  “Tell me, please.”

  Cassie shook her head. “I thought I had it all figured out. I thought …” She took a deep, steeling breath. “When I was little, I had these dreams. Night terrors. I couldn’t”—she sniffed—“I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. My dad—”

  “Oh, Cassie …”

  “But I thought, it couldn’t be real, right? What he did to me? God!” She clenched her fists and her eyes shut. “How do I know this isn’t a dream?” she asked, the tears streaking silver on her face. “It feels real—” She looked directly, openly, at Ali. “But when I’m asleep, it feels just as real. I’m back home, and it’s just as real as this. And this feels like a dream, then.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m worried that I’m going to do something. Something terrible.” She looked at the curve of Ali’s throat.

  Ali nodded slowly. “I don’t …”

  Cassie shuddered into sobbing. Ali leaned forward and held her as she cried, rubbing her back gently, whispering soothing words in her ear.

  “My father,” Cassie said, sniffling, wiping her face. “He’s alive.”

  “What?”

  Cassie nodded and told her about Harrison and Farrow, what they had told her, about Farrow finding her at the courthouse, about what Harrison had done.

  “Oh my God,” Ali whispered. “That’s—”

  Cassie nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  “But …” She spoke slowly, carefully. “I don’t understand.”

  Cassie smiled sadly. “That’s what I mean.”

  Ali thought for a moment, absently rubbing Cassie’s back. “So …” Again: slowly, carefully. “You dreamed that your father was dead?”

  “Maybe,” Cassie said, just as slowly and carefully.

  “Or?”

  “That’s what I mean,” Cassie said, her back shuddering again as she fought back tears. “I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know what’s been real my whole life. I don’t—” She looked at Ali desperately. “What if this is just a dream? What if … Alicia?” She sobbed. “I don’t know what’s real.”

  “I’m real,” Ali said. “I’m right here.”

  Cassie’s smile was wide, a mask over fear. “Well,” she said, her words dry, “you would say that, wouldn’t you?” She almost laughed. “This could all be …” She swept her arm around the square. “I can’t trust any of it, can I?” She stared at Ali, half-defiant, half-hopeful, desperate that she might have an answer. “Can I?”

  “No,” Ali said.

  “Right.”

  “You can’t trust anything. It could all be a dream. I could …” Ali shook her head. “You can’t trust anything.”

  Cassie looked at her, stunned.

  “Except yourself.”

  Cassie met Ali’s eyes, and neither of them looked away.

  She felt a weight starting to lift from her, a looseness in her chest that let her breathe.

  A small smile played at the corners of Ali’s mouth. “Trust yourself. You’re not crazy, you’re just dreaming.” She paused. “You’re not crazy, are you?” she asked with a sly smile.

  Cassie smiled back. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  She leaned in to Ali, let herself breathe. In two three four.

  Ali squeezed her hand again. “You’re going to be okay,” she said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Cassie loved the way she said it, as if nothing could stop them, as if it was only a matter of figuring it out, that it would be all right in the end.

  We.

  She smiled, but the smile quickly faded from her face.

  “What is it?” Ali asked.

  “What—” Cassie said, and stopped, her voice thick again with tears. “What if this is a dream?”

  Ali reached out and, with the gentlest of touches, wiped away the tears from her cheeks.

  “It’s not,” she said. “This is real.”

  In the dark of the bedroom, in the quiet of the night, it seemed natural to whisper.

  “I’m scared,” Cassie said, in a voice even softer than a whisper. So soft, she was sure that Ali wouldn’t hear.

  But she did.

  “Oh, Cassie,” she said, turning over to face her. “It’ll be okay. I’m right here.”

  Cassie couldn’t tell her that her being right there was one of the things that she was afraid of. She hadn’t told her about how she had woken up that morning, standing beside the bed, looking down at her.

  It wasn’t the sort of thing you could just tell someone, was it?

  And, to be honest, she had expected Ali to ask her about it, to ask why there had been a knife on her bedroom floor that morning. All evening, that thought, that inevitability, had lurked at the back of her mind. What could she possibly say?

  But Ali hadn’t asked, hadn’t even hinted at it, and it was only when they were in the bedroom, getting ready for bed, that Cassie understood why.

  The knife she had dropped that morning was still on the floor, right where it had fallen: just under the edge of the bed, half-concealed by the fall of the covers. She never would have seen it if she hadn’t been looking for it.

  While Ali’s back was turned, she had nudged the knife farther under the bed with her toe.

  Now, in bed, Ali draped her arm loosely over Cassie’s midsection: the warmth of her skin crackled against her.

  “Thank you,” Cassie said, even more quietly, after a moment.

  “For what?” Cassie could hear the sleep in Ali’s voice.

  She wasn’t really sure how to answer the question; it all seemed so clear, so self-evident. “For coming after me. For finding me,” she said, finally.

  The arm around her belly tightened. “I’ll always come after you,” Ali said. “I’ll always find you.”

  The words were warmer than the blanket over her, warmer than the breath that carried them.

  In the dark, she listened as Ali’s breathing slowed and deepened, the arm around her loosening, growing heavy.

  The room brigh
tened by degrees, the squares of the windows taking on a faint silver glow. Not much light, but enough.

  Slowly, and with as much stillness as she could manage, Cassie rolled out from under Ali’s arm and out of the bed, gently setting both feet on the floor and waiting. When there was no sign of Ali waking, Cassie rose slowly to her feet.

  She didn’t need any light: it was only a few careful steps to the corner of the room where her backpack stood. Crouching down, ignoring the hint of cold in the air, Cassie lifted the flap of the bag and reached inside.

  When she had what she was looking for, Cassie padded slowly back to the bed. Careful not to make any sharp movements, she crawled back under the covers, shimmying under Ali’s arm and nestling it around herself. Ali’s breathing caught, and Cassie used the moment to shift position to snuggle in beside her, her back to the woman’s front, wrapped in her sleeping arms.

  When Ali—still asleep—sensed her there, she pulled Cassie close, until Cassie could feel the whole warm length of her against her back, her breath soft and regular at the back of her neck.

  It was only then, safe in her embrace, her own arms wrapped tightly around Mr. Monkey, pulling him close, that Cassie let herself drift off to sleep.

  Outside, the world was quiet. The wind had died off, and the snow that had been threatening for days was finally falling, a thick wall of pasty, heavy flakes shrouding the house from view.

  No need now to hide in the shadows. He watched the house from the sidewalk across the street. It was Christmas Eve, and anyone tempted to be out on that night of lights had been driven indoors by the snow.

  The night belonged to the Darkness.

  “Miss Weathers.”

  Mrs. Murrow had a way of saying her name that sounded like curdled milk in her mouth.

  She clutched her binder to her chest and stepped into the otherwise empty classroom.

  The teacher was writing on the chalkboard, and she turned her back on the girl as she approached.

  “You have your assignments?” she asked, without looking at her.

  Cassie nodded, then, realizing that the teacher couldn’t see her, said, “Yes. Yes I do.”

  She hated the way her voice came out, thin and weak.

  “Leave them on my desk.” The chalk screeched on the board as the teacher sketched out a sample problem.