The Cormorant

by Chuck Wendig

  VACANCY

  Three days.

  In three days, Miriam will watch as Ashley Gaynes returns to her life and stabs her mother to death on a boat.

  She can’t let that happen.

  She can’t even let it get to that point.

  When she saved Louis, it was by a hair’s breadth – a half second between Louis getting dead and Louis staying alive. That’s too small a window. She can’t crawl between seconds like that again.

  Which means finding Ashley before any of this happens.

  Three days to find him. Three days to kill him.

  He’s somewhere in the Keys. He has to be. It adds up. In the vision, he’s out on a boat. The vision didn’t show her much but it looked like what she saw when she was down in the Keys: the crystal blue-green waters. The swampy mangrove. He would have been watching her there, too. At Torch Key. Maybe even in Key West.

  Plus, the whole mystique of the Keys – it’s mile zero. It’s the end of the road. She appreciates the poetry and he would, too. Or he’d at least expect her to appreciate it, and since this seems to be about her…

  The hot breath of the day comes in through the car window and she takes it all in: the stench of sea-wind, the stink of fish, the smell of sun and salt and sand. Again threading the needle through palms and inlets, past marinas and dinky motels.

  She sees one such dive motel: THE CONCH OUT INN.

  The big weathered sign sticks up above the black palms like the flag on a mailbox, except this flag is shaped like a conch shell, most of the color blasted out of it except for a few zebra striations of bright coral.

  Beneath the sign is another sign: VACANCY.

  That’s all she needs.

  She whips the Malibu into the lot.

  Time to get a room.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE SPIRIT OF THE THING

  Miriam gets the key from the proprietor – Jerry Wu, a chubby-cheeked Chinese guy with a New York accent. Jerry says he bought the place a couple years back and is trying to fix it up. Right now it’s a mish-mash slap-dash cram-together affair: not a motel so much as a bunch of buildings and trailers (and even a small Quonset hut) connected by a walkway made of mismatched stone pavers. A walkway winds between palm trees that shed bark the way a leper sheds skin.

  The key in her hand is on a massive boat anchor keychain – made of pewter or something. It makes her hand smell funny. Heavy enough too that she could probably use it to gag a shark.

  The anchor says FLORIDA KEYS.

  Keys, keys, everywhere, keys. It’s keys all the way down.

  Keys with locks she hasn’t found yet.

  The room is toward the back. Not far from the water and the boat loading ramp, not far from a fallen hedge of prehistoric bougainvillea where she can see into the neighboring lot – a trailer park.

  (It occurs to her that she can’t seem to get away from trailer parks. She gravitates toward them like flies toward garbage.)

  As she goes to unlock her door, someone whistles to her.

  She turns. Through the hedge of little purple flowers she sees an old dude sitting on a ratty fabric deck chair. He’s got the muscle tone of a crumpled jerkoff tissue. Skin like you’d find on fried chicken: sun-crisped and wrinkly. Long Fu Manchu beard. Bald on top, but long hair, too – gray streamers, wispy as dandelion seed.

  “Fuckin’ taxes, man,” the guy says.

  She pauses, key hovering before the lock. “What?”

  “It’s like they fuckin’ tax you comin’ in and goin’ out,” he says, waggling a finger at her. He’s got the cadence of a burnout. Got that marijuana wheeze, that LSD stare. “We’re rebels down here, girl. Conch Republic. Look it up, look it up. April 23rd, 1982, they set up some border patrol shit up at the top of the Keys, searching cars for drugs and Cubans and whatever and we were like, Hell, no, we won’t go slow, and next thing you know we seceded from the United Suppressions of America and formed a micro-nation of pirates and scallywags and free-born deviants. The Mayor declared our independence and claimed himself prime minister. Then he declared war on the Untied Subjugators of Anarchy.”

  Miriam turns. Hands on hips. “How long that last?”

  “Like, five minutes. He broke a loaf of bread over some Navy dude’s head and then surrendered, demanding a billion dollars in aid and reparations.”

  “I bet that worked out well.”

  He shrugs. “It’s all in the spirit of the thing, man.”

  “Thanks for sharing.”

  “You look new here is all.”

  “I don’t live here.”

  “You better put on some suntan lotion, man. Look like you’re starting to burn up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Sure thing, Tommy Chong.

  She unlocks the door and walks in.

  Closes it behind her.

  Thumbs the deadbolt shut.

  And about pisses her pants when she sees Ashley Gaynes sitting on the bed.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE FOX

  He’s grinning like a fox in a pile of bloody chicken feathers.

  Miriam acts before thinking. She sees a glass lamp full of seashells on a nearby dresser, palms it, flings it at Ashley’s head.

  He claps his hands–

  The lamp shatters against the wood paneling–

  A cheesy flea market painting of a lighthouse rattles on the wall and drops to the floor, the frame popping out of joint–

  He’s gone.

  Gone off the bed. Like he never existed.

  A little bruise-purple seashell rolls up and taps her boot.

  Suddenly: someone knocking at the door. She whirls–

  There’s the Fu Manchu burnout peering in the window. “Hey,” he yells through the door. “You OK in there?”

  She quickly yanks the blinds shut over the window.

  “Fine,” she yells. “Just… doing some karate to break in the room.”

  She wheels, tosses her backpack on the bed–

  And there’s Ashley again. Sitting on the other side of the room. Next to the window unit air conditioner. Running the sharp end of a black feather up and down the AC grating – t-t-t-t-t-tink, t-t-t-t-t-tink.

  “You gonna drink that,” he says, “or is it just foreplay?”

  Miriam clucks her tongue. “Cute. First thing you – he – said to me when we met. Very cute. Trespasser motherfucker.”

  The Trespasser does a good job mirroring the Ashley from her vision. Dark eyes, flashing like new quarters. His hair is no longer pushed up over his head in some ill-gotten fauxhawk; it now hangs down around his ears. Messy. Tar-and-feather black. Still got that wicked boomerang smile, though. He produces a hunting knife out of nowhere. Twirls it.

  “You’re too pretty to leave for dead,” he says.

  “Quit with the script,” she says. “I’ve read that book already.”

  “Howzabout this,” he says. “Time is always your enemy. Have you noticed that? It’s chasing you, and you’re chasing it. A dog and her tail.”

  She sits on the edge of the bed. “That’s life, isn’t it?”

  “A game you lose?”

  She mmms. “Like pinball. Get as many points as you want, you always lose the ball in the end.”

  “Three days,” Ashley says. He whistles low and slow. “Not a lot of time to do the work that needs doing.”

  “I’ve had worse and done better.”

  “Not when your own mother’s life is on the line.”

  Suddenly, the knife he’s holding is no longer a knife.

  It’s a string. And it dead-ends at the base of a red Mylar balloon. The balloon dips and bobs in the breeze coming off the AC unit.

  Blood drips from the bottom of the balloon. Runs down the length of string to Ashley’s hand.

  She sees now that he’s wearing a Santa hat. A roguish lean to it on his scalp. He winks, kisses the air.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  The balloon pops.

  Ashley – the Trespasser – is
gone.

  Miriam lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and flings open the door.

  “I told you, you old stoner–”

  But it’s not the old stoner.

  It’s Jerry Wu. The proprietor.

  “Eh, hey, Miss Black,” he says. “I forgot to mention earlier–” And here he’s trying to get a look past Miriam at the broken lamp on the ground but she’s tilting and leaning and putting her body in the way. “I do a fish-fry here every night. Free fish, catch of the day sorta thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah, great, whatever. Thanks, Jer.”

  “I’m about to head out. I offer all the guests the chance to go out with me. You do much fishin’?”

  It’s weird hearing a Noo Yawk accent coming from this little Asian dude in Florida. She supposes that’s racist, but these are the thoughts.

  “Do I look like a fisherman? Fisherwoman? Fisher… person?”

  “No worries. Not for everybody. Five o’clock, free fish. See ya later.”

  He turns around, and when he moves she sees it – a big-ass bird standing nearby on the stump of a cut-down palm. Long neck. Black feathers. Lean, crooked beak the color of bright butter. And those eyes. Like someone hammered emeralds into the bird’s head.

  The bird stretches out its wings like it’s the Batman about to pounce.

  Jerry walks up to the bird and grabs it by the neck.

  To Miriam’s surprise, the bird doesn’t seem to mind.

  As Jerry cradles the thing like it’s his buddy, she asks, “What the fuck is that thing? It’s like some kind of Satanic duck.”

  “She’s a cormorant,” he says with a chuckle. “Her name’s Corie.”

  “Corie the cormorant.”

  “Right, Corie the cormorant.”

  “And you do what with Corie the cormorant? Is this a sex thing?”

  He laughs, and not in a nervous, this-girl-is-freaking-me-out, way. “No, I don’t bang the bird. She helps me fish.”

  “Still don’t get it.”

  “You wanna come see? I’ll show you. Last chance.”

  She thinks, I don’t have time for this.

  She has seventy-two hours. Less, now.

  But that bird. Those eyes. It’s like the damn thing is watching her.

  Over a year ago, when she was facing death at the hands of the Mockingbird, she was able to do something she’d never done before. Without meaning to, she was able to enter the mind of a nearby crow – not just as a passenger but as its puppet master.

  It saved her life.

  She hasn’t been able to do it since.

  She’s stood around trying to psychically urge pigeons, doves, blackbirds, crows, sparrows, robins – every stupid bird hopping around on this stupid earth – and none of them seemed to give a good goddamn.

  They mostly just flew away. Some took shits.

  Still. A little practice time with a bird in close proximity. A pet bird. A trained bird. And she can ask Jerry questions about the Keys. Better than sitting around, flicking her clit.

  Besides, I happen to like last chances.

  “You know a lot about the Keys?” she asks him.

  “I know some things.”

  “Then I’m in,” she says. “Let’s go fishing.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE FISHER QUEEN

  Miriam thought, Oh, we’ll just stand on shore and cast lines and something-something bobber-bait-chum-rod-and-reel, but oh, no. They’re out on a boat not far from shore. Miriam didn’t expect to be in a boat. She doesn’t like boats. Doesn’t like water. Especially since almost drowning in the Susquehanna. Just thinking about it gives her the shivers, even in the heat.

  This is not a big boat. Two-seater. So they’re right there on the surface, water slapping against the side, and Miriam’s brain does strange things and she thinks that the slapping sound reminds her of the sounds made during sex – skin on skin, thighs against thighs – and now she’s thinking about Gabby and that’s more than a little awkward because Jerry’s staring at her like he knows she’s thinking impure thoughts.

  The bird is looking at her, too.

  It oinks like a pig at her.

  “It just oinked at me,” Miriam says. The boat rocking back and forth. Her stomach going the other way.

  “She,” Jerry corrects.

  “She just oinked at me.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “They kinda grunt?”

  She presses her fingers to her temples and tries to tell the bird to do something, anything. Jump. Fly. Nod. Poop. All it does is oink. She’s not sure why she has her fingers to her temples other than she saw it in a movie once and it just feels right.

  Jerry’s looking at her again.

  “You put some suntan lotion on, right?”

  “What? Yeah. Sure.” She mentally commands the bird to open its mouth and get her a cigarette. The bird clacks its beak together but does nothing more. Almost like it’s mocking her. “It’s – she’s – mocking me.”

  “She’s not mocking you.”

  “I think she’s totally mocking me.”

  Jerry laughs again, starts looping a rope around the bird’s neck.

  “What are you doing?” Miriam asks.

  “This is my fishing line.”

  “This is goofy.”

  “I know, but it’s pretty cool, right? My family are fishermen on the River Li. Or were, anyway. A lot of them used cormorants to fish. Way it works is–” He finishes looping the rope and then he positions the bird so it’s facing the water. “The bird goes down in the water–” He gives the bird a gentle shove and the bird squawks and dives, disappearing beneath the waters. “And then catches me some fish.”

  “And she doesn’t eat them? Because if I were that bird, I’d just eat the fish.”

  “She tries to eat the big ones but the rope around her neck prevents her from swallowin’ those suckers. She can eat the little ones, but that’s OK – I don’t want the little ones. Meanwhile, the big ones stick in her throat. You’ll see.”

  “So you’re choking a bird underwater for fish.”

  “She eats, too. And she likes it.”

  “That’s what every man says.”

  And here she sees she’s reached Jerry’s discomfort point. It happens eventually. Rare is the other human who doesn’t mind being dragged over the deepening lines of impropriety while talking to Miriam Black.

  With her, every conversation is a landmine.

  Eventually: boom.

  One of the few people who could hack it was Ashley Gaynes.

  How fucked up is that?

  Jerry shifts nervously now.

  “You’re not from around here,” Jerry says.

  “Neither are you,” she says.

  “Yeah, but I live here now. You, you’re just passing through.” He says through as true. “Who are you?”

  She thinks for a moment to use the truth to break a window, see how he handles all that broken glass and ugly reality, but this calls for the touch of the screwdriver because a lie will be more useful. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

  “Like on the TV?”

  “Uh-huh. Looking for a, uh, perp.” Is that the word? Perp? “A perp hiding out here in the Keys somewhere.”

  “The Keys seem small but they’re pretty big.”

  “No kidding. Where would a–” But before she can finish the question the bird emerges from the water with a splash. Throat bulging like a snake that ate a fat-ass rabbit. Jerry helps the bird stand on the edge of the boat and he reaches into the creature’s mouth like he’s rooting around in a trash can for something he accidentally threw away–

  And he pulls out two fish.

  Plop. Plop.

  The smell of seawater and the life that comes with it crawls up her nose. Corie the cormorant squawk-oinks.

  Then it gives Miriam a look.

  She’s sure of it. It turns that freaky turquoise eye right toward her. The skin around it is puckered and leathery, kinda what she imagines a dino
saur’s asshole looks like. It blinks but it doesn’t blink – something slides over its eye, something cloudy and opaque that darkens the eye but does not hide it.

  Jerry must see the look on Miriam’s face. He says, “Nictitating membrane. She slides that over her eye so when she dives she can see underwater. It’s like a reptile thing.”

  “But she’s a bird.”

  “The dinosaurs never went extinct. They just became birds.”

  That explains it. “So they’re all operating on a reptile brain.”

  “More advanced than a reptile’s. But at the core, yeah – it’s still that prehistoric kill-screw-sleep-eat thing.”

  Miriam thinks, That sounds familiar.

  Maybe that’s why she likes birds and they like her.

  Though the way this one’s giving her the shit-eye, she’s not sure.

  Suddenly the bird splashes back into the water.

  “Sorry,” Jerry says. “You were saying?”

  “Oh, ah. Yeah. I was gonna ask where you think a… perp might hide out down here.”

  He thrusts his tongue into the pocket of his cheek like he’s thinking. “Well, lots of places. Thing about these islands is, there’s a whole lot of ’em. Like, close to two thousand of them. Some of them are practically no bigger than this boat. But it’s not just the ones the roads connect – it’s like, all these little outliers.” He points to little dark pockets of palm and earth out on the horizon. “Now, most of those islands are down by Key West. Lots of places to hide down there. That’s why the Keys are known for some… less savory actions, you know what I mean?” Knowwhaddamean? “Smuggling pot. Smuggling coke. Making meth. Smuggling Cuban immigrants out of the Keys. Bringing bodies down to hide in the Keys.”

  The enormity of the situation is a tsunami crashing down on her shores. Three days to find a ghost. Three days to fail.

  “You ever hear about submarines carrying drugs?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Sometimes they come up from Cuba or Columbia. Narco-subs, they call ‘em. They used to use fast boats, then switched to these little subs that couldn’t go deep. But they do pretty deep now. Radar slides off ‘em like water off Corie’s back.”

  “Do those go through the Keys?”

  “Sure they do. Usually down through those little islands I was talking about. You lookin’ for someone into the drug thing?”