The Raptor & the Wren

by Chuck Wendig

  FORTY-THREE

  THE CURIOUS SILENCE BEFORE TOTAL DISASTER

  For two days, it feels like the snow globe is patching itself back together. A new snow falls on the first night—just flurries, but enough to light the dark with the white of softly falling stars. Louis chops wood. Miriam and Wren hunt a little, but mostly, they just talk. They talk about their lives before all of this went down. They talk about their bad mothers. About how Miriam got to reconcile with hers, and how Wren never found that chance. They talk about life on the road. How bad it is. But sometimes, how good it can be, too—the freedom, the open road, the endless unrolling possibilities. They talk about their powers, too. Miriam says she doesn’t know if she’s using hers for good or for evil anymore, and if she’s just a pawn in someone’s game or if everyone else is a pawn in her game. She explains too that her head’s been cracked around so many times, there is at least a 17 percent chance that all of this is just a collective hallucination anyway, so fuck it.

  The best thing that comes out of it is that Wren says she’s going to do better. She’s going to think more about what she does and what her power is, and if she even wants to use it. Miriam says she’ll work with her. They can work together. And here blooms a curious, improbable feeling that somehow, in the middle of this snow globe (freshly repaired with duct tape and clean water), maybe what they’ll have is something a little bit like family. A twisted, fucked-up version, maybe. But a version just the same.

  Then comes the midnight that begins the third day.

  And that’s when it all goes wrong.

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE DRIVER AND THE PASSENGER

  Midnight.

  Headlights spear the dark at the top of the long road leading to the cabin. They gaze ahead like demon’s eyes, and slowly, surely, the demon crawls forward down the gravel, leaving tracks in the dusting of fresh snow.

  The demon, like many demons, travels in an unassuming form: it’s a forest green Ford Focus, a couple years old. It’s in good shape but for a dent in the door.

  As it gains speed, the tires spin a little when they hit a frozen puddle. Then it hops the slick pothole and lurches forward, quarter-mile after quarter-mile until the cabin is in sight. The trees lining the road and surrounding the cabin stand like the spear-tips of shadowy sentinels standing guard in the night. The forest seems to swallow everything whole.

  The car pins the cabin with its headlights. It eases up, still rumbling for a couple minutes before the driver turns the key, cuts the engine.

  The door opens.

  And the driver gets out.

  The passenger, though, remains hidden.

  FORTY-FIVE

  THE BOON OF A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

  Miriam is not sleeping.

  She’s had a good run of it. Last few nights, she’s managed some deep Zs. But ever since kicking cigarettes, booze, and now coffee, it’s like her body’s chemicals are a kite in a strong wind. Sometimes she’s in free fall, plunging toward the earth and sticking fast in the mud as fatigue draws her down. Other times it’s like, hey brain, hello brain, what the fuck, brain, no, no, sure, let’s lie here and just think and think and think about things like hey yeah let’s go over every mistake and every moment of trauma and abuse and terror and let’s wad them all together and force them to fight inside my head like coked-up squirrels. And when that happens, the kite takes flight in an erratic wind. Up, down, around and around. Battered by the elements. Buoyed into the storm.

  So, she’s awake. Louis is on the chair. Wren is next to her, snoring. Because of course she snores. The girl snores worse than Grosky.

  Grosky. There we go—add another name to the frenzy of thoughts feasting on her sleep. More chum churning the water. His severed head floating up out of the mists of memory, tied to a string like a hovering balloon.

  Regrets, I have a few.

  Then: light through the window. Headlights brighten the room. The others stay asleep, but Miriam, she’s up. She was already right on the edge of fight-or-flight mode, and now she’s deep in it. Someone’s here, and she wants to know who it is. Because whoever it is, it’s not good. It’s not Gordy. It’s not the ice cream man. It’s someone bad. Someone with ill intent.

  She grabs the Remington 700 rifle. Slings it over her shoulder.

  On the way to the door, she bats at Louis’s hand. She hisses at him to get up. He snorts but doesn’t wake. Fine. She can handle this.

  The lights cut out. Darkness returns.

  The sound of a car door opening and closing reaches her.

  Miriam gets by the door. She hears keys jingling. Footsteps, too. Coming closer: the soft cough of boots on loose, snowy stone. Gently, Miriam eases back the bolt of the rifle, then urges it forward again—a bullet rattles into its cradle, is put into play. I’m ready.

  Closer, closer.

  Miriam draws a deep breath, and—

  Wham. She throws open the door. Rifle up. It’s got a scope and that won’t help here, so she keeps her left eye open. Her thumb flicks forward the safety. Her index finger snakes toward the trigger.

  “Don’t move,” she says to the shadow standing there.

  “I . . .”

  A woman’s voice. Trembling in fear.

  It’s not Harriet.

  It’s not a cop.

  Not even Gabby.

  Who the . . .

  “It’s me,” the woman says. “Samantha. Do you remember me?”

  A chill, one unrelated to the weather, one deeper than winter’s bite, ripples through Miriam’s body. She keeps the rifle up. “I remember you.”

  “I . . . Please . . . put that gun down.”

  “Not a Popsicle’s chance in hell, honey.”

  “Miriam. I’m just here for Louis.”

  Panic throttles her. Because this doesn’t make any sense. Samantha? Just showing up, unbidden, on a gnarly winter’s night? “First, explain how you even found this place. In fact, I’ve got a whole bucket of questions that need answering before I’ll let you set foot in this cabin.”

  “Gordon. Gordy. He answered my email two days ago.”

  Shit. Of course. He saw them with Wren up here and—to his credit, he didn’t call the cops. But he did send out for Samantha. Right now, she wants to kick that old bastard in the teeth, even though what he did was fair as cookies.

  “So, you thought what? You’d come up here and . . .”

  “I don’t really know. I was hoping just to see him, Louis, I mean. Just to find out what was going on and why he ran away. Please. Put the gun down.”

  She’s pleading now. Hands up and out. Palms forward.

  But Miriam doesn’t trust her. Something’s up. This bitch has been creeping at her margins. A scarlet tanager up in the trees, trying to hide the flash of her red feathers.

  And she’s about to lay into her, too. But then a voice—

  “Miriam,” Louis says. “What’s going on?” A half-beat later: “Samantha? Is that you?” Instantly, his trust is a wide-open door. He puts a steadying hand on the top of the rifle’s scope, trying to ease it downward. “Put the gun down, Miriam.”

  “Fuck that,” Miriam says, yanking the gun away. She takes a few steps in a half-circle away from him and away from Samantha, keeping her gun trained the whole time. “Louis, use your head. This doesn’t seem strange to you?”

  “Please, Louis,” Samantha says. “I’ve missed you. I’m just here to talk.”

  “Miriam,” he says, “I’m sure it’s—”

  “It’s not fine,” she barks. “Think about it. How’d she find us? How’d she get up here? Something’s off.”

  “Gordy told me,” Samantha answers. “Louis, it was Gordon.”

  “Gordy. Of course.” He nods, like it makes sense. Maybe it does. Maybe this is all perfectly aboveboard. So, why does Miriam’s blood feel like ice water?

  “Louis,” Miriam says. “I think we have questions.”

  “We do. But we can do it inside. Like civilized people. Put th
e gun down and we can all go inside and work this out.”

  Her skin prickles. It’s cold out here but she feels like she’s burning up. Don’t trust her, she thinks. Something’s not right. Just shoot her. But that’s not right either. Miriam’s a killer. But she’s not a murderer.

  There’s a difference, isn’t there?

  Like the difference between being a bird who kills to eat and a cat who kills to play with its prey. One wants to survive. The other wants to revel in death.

  Which one am I, again? Which one is Wren?

  She keeps the gun pointed and says, “I’m not putting it down. But go on. You two go ahead. I’ll follow in. But hooker, I swear: you flip your pretty hair the wrong way and I’ll put a bullet through your lung.”

  To that, Samantha says nothing. Nor does Louis.

  Together, they march inside.

  Everyone but the passenger.

  FORTY-SIX

  NO ONE EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION

  They sit Samantha in the recliner in the corner. Already, Wren is awake. Her hair sticks up at odd angles, like the broken feathers of a car-struck crow. “What the fuck is going on? Who is she? Why are you holding a fucking rifle?”

  Miriam gives the hastiest, shittiest explanation she can muster: “This is Louis’s fiancée. She shouldn’t be here.”

  Louis shoots Miriam a look. He’s on the fence. She can see that. He still loves Samantha—or, at least, loves some idea of her. But he also knows she’s not telling them the whole truth. Worse, he’s with Miriam. He’s already cheated. Louis has gone over the barrel in that waterfall and there’s no way back up. Life doesn’t have a rewind button, and he’s too good a guy to even try.

  But just the same, the war is playing out on his face. In his one good eye is a battle of loyalty. He believes Miriam. But does he trust her? Will he side with her when all is said and done? She hopes so. She needs him to.

  “Samantha,” he says. The war in his heart makes his chest rise and fall like a surging tide. “You lied to me. I think you’ve been lying to me. I don’t understand what’s going on. You need to help me understand it.”

  “Louis, I love you,” Samantha stammers. “I just—”

  “Please.” That one word, dropped like an axe splitting a log. “You don’t get to play that game with me right now. You don’t start there. You start with the truth. Anything less than that . . . and I don’t know.”

  Miriam thinks, We can’t just let her go. We do that, she goes and brings the police. Not that they can just put a bullet through her head, either. Which means keeping Samantha here until . . . until what? Until when?

  All these are Future Miriam problems. Present Miriam has a different set of concerns. And she’s thankful Louis seems to share them. She eases the gun down, pointing it to the floor. Maybe Louis will be her big gun. Maybe he’s always been her big gun.

  Wren, though, seems uncomfortable. She’s cagey. Staying to the edge of the room, staring. “I don’t like him grilling her like that,” she says. “Something’s wrong. I don’t like any of this.”

  “Wren, now’s not the time. Shut up,” Miriam says. Because anything that’s not Samantha spilling her guts is a distraction.

  “The feather in the glass,” Louis says. He looks sad as he lays it out. “And your screen name. Scarlet-tanager99? Same email and name attached to a forum where people are talking about Miriam. And then I think back to how eager you were to meet her. And how much you talked about her, almost like you knew Miriam already, even though there was no way you could have—”

  Samantha stammers, “She seemed important to you, so I—I just wanted to know m-more—”

  “That’s not it,” he says. “That’s not all of it.”

  “I worried she was dangerous—”

  “Enough!” he barks, filling the space with his booming voice. It startles even Miriam. It’s not often he gets angry, pushed to this point. She’s gotten him to this place before: lied to him, same way Samantha has.

  Wren moves in from the edge of the room. Her jaw is set. She’s staring daggers at him. “Miriam, I don’t like him like this. Tell him to quit.” Then, to Louis: “Don’t you hurt her, dude. Don’t you dare.”

  Miriam fires off a glare in Wren’s direction. “Wren—shut up. He’s not going to hurt her. For once, this doesn’t fucking involve you.”

  But Louis ignores the both of them. He is like a storm—a great anvil-headed cloud, dark and looming, as he steps forward, planting his hands on the arms of the chair and crushing Samantha with his shadow. Miriam’s mind flashes suddenly to him doing the same to her in a tub: his bulk dwarfing her, his hands around her neck. Miriam’s muscles tighten.

  “Louis,” Miriam cautions.

  Through clamped teeth, he says, “Tell the truth, Sam. Now.” The threat is clear. Miriam doesn’t believe he’ll do anything. He’s not that guy.

  But then again—

  Hands around her throat—

  Screaming as he pushes her under the water—

  Samantha’s eyes brim with tears and those tears run in shining rivulets down her cheeks. Her lip quivers as she says two words: “You’re right.”

  Miriam gulps. “Right about what?”

  “You’re right. I . . .” Samantha turns to Miriam. “It’s about you. It’s always been about you. I . . . I’m sorry, Louis. I’ve been looking for her. I was there. In Florida. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I was at a tiki bar in the Keys—”

  It’s like her heart stops.

  Synapses fire. Connections thread together. Pine Key. A tiki bar. Miriam is there drinking some epic tiki drink called an Ancient Mariner and in comes Ashley Gaynes. . . . Gaynes, gone mad, had been hunting her. He found her, as she suspected he would. But her extraction was not easy. Ashley pulled a pistol and shot every last person in the place. They all died. The bartender. The old salts in the corner. The two girls drinking Windex-colored booze out of a fishbowl.

  “No,” Miriam says. “Everyone died at that bar. I saw them die.”

  “I didn’t. I—I was in the bathroom.”

  This is a lie. It has to be. “Don’t fuck with me, Samantha.”

  “I was there with a couple girlfriends. We’d been down in Key West, but it was too busy down there, so we came up a ways and found that bar. And the three of us ordered a big drink, some sweet drink with blue curacao in a bowl—”

  Two girls drinking Windex-colored booze out of a fishbowl.

  Was there ever a third girl? A third chair? She can’t remember. All she remembers from that day are moments punctuating the horror: Ashley stepping to the bar, making a joke, threatening, then a pistol dancing to his hand and bang, bang, bang. All before he put the gun under her chin and dragged her out of there.

  But Samantha knows. She has that one detail—the ladies with the shitty 2000 Flushes girl drink. You can’t just pluck that out of nowhere.

  But it still doesn’t explain.

  “Why me?” Miriam asks. “Why find me?”

  Samantha tells her.

  INTERLUDE

  SAMANTHA

  They kept wheeling bodies out of the bar. All strangers. I sat there at two AM and I couldn’t stop sweating and shaking. The policemen had given me a blanket and it was like, you know how you sleep at night and you’re hot one minute and cold the next? I kept taking the blanket off, then putting it back on. I felt like I had a fever. Shivering and my teeth chattering. And then they wheeled out my two friends, Becky and Martina, and I just lost it. I remember the police asking me questions. I don’t remember much of what I said.

  Somehow, I ended up back in my hotel room in Coral Gables. I have memories of the police driving me, but then, my car was also there and so maybe I drove. I honestly don’t know. The next couple days passed by in bits and just . . . images. I barely remember what happened. Sometimes, I’d find myself standing in front of the mirror. Staring. In midsentence, saying things . . . like I was practicing a speech. Like I was practicing my own vo
ice.

  I know I turned on the TV at one point and they said the man in the bar was a mass murderer, or maybe a serial killer, and his name was Ashley Gaynes and they found his body on a boat. Or part of his body. The news said there was a survivor, too. A woman. And I knew I’d seen a woman—when I was there in the bathroom, I peered out in time to see that man with the gun pulling you outside. Pale woman. Dark hair fringed with scarlet. Was that her, I thought? The same woman they found on the boat?

  They never named her.

  But someone named you.

  I still don’t understand it to this day. I was there on the bed in the hotel watching TV, and I had room service around me, and then I heard it from the corner of the room—I heard a name. Whispered to me.

  It was your name.

  Miriam Black.

  And I . . . I looked, and I saw someone there in the corner. Someone who shouldn’t be there. It was just a big shadow, like someone who was there but not there at the same time. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. The shadow lifted a finger to its lips and shushed me. I saw that the shadow had no eyes, just two black X shapes across each socket. It told me that if I wanted to understand what happened, I had to find you.

  After that, you were like a . . . hole inside my mind, and everything ran toward it like water toward a train. I kept reliving the event in fits and starts. Replaying it all over and over again. And I kept thinking about that name, Miriam Black, Miriam Black, Miriam Black, whispered to me but not in my ears. It was inside me. Like a living thing. It ran toward that hole, that drain, and it fell in and stoppered it all up. And I went online and I looked you up. I don’t even remember doing it. I just remember being there, one day, your name already typed into the search bar. I hadn’t showered. I hadn’t eaten. I . . . couldn’t stop myself.

  You had no real presence online. No Facebook. No Instagram. No social media at all. You were just these little blips. These footnotes in news stories. News stories about serial killers or other people dying. Your name floated in the last paragraph here, the middle of a buried story there.