The Red Hunter

by Lisa Unger

  He was standing in the rear, near the drummer, not lead vocal on this one. The blond, the one that called himself Charge, was hammering out lyrics about wanting someone and needing her and what was she doing to him. But Andrew—Raven had seen when she was Twitter stalking him that most people called him Drew, sometimes they called him “Angry” she guessed a riff on his @angryyoungman Twitter tag. He was deep, deep into his thing, head bowed over the strings, not looking up at the crowd, not interested in giving or receiving energy. It was the artist’s space, the one she could never seem to find, where you only care about the work before you, the rest of the world disappearing.

  “Is that him?” Troy yelled, pointing.

  She nodded. He looked up then, and she watched Troy’s face. Would he see it? How much they looked alike? Sort of. But Troy just shrugged, gave her an easy smile.

  “He might look a little like you,” he yelled. “A little.”

  They listened to the rest of the set. Drew never sang, never even moved to lead guitar. Once, she thought he looked at her, but it was brief. He could have just been glancing out at the audience.

  “Okay,” said Troy, back by the bathrooms. “You’ve seen him. What now?”

  “I’m going to try to get backstage,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  “That’s not going to work,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” she said. “You’re a guy.”

  He nodded, getting it. Alone, with a smile, she had confidence that she could open almost any door. Girls had that kind of magical power, didn’t they? Boys not so much. He would just be a tagalong anyway, her conscience, her better judgment. This type of endeavor could not be second guessed. Because it was stupid and impulsive and did not withstand scrutiny of any kind.

  Of course, the muscle-bound Latino guy at the door let her right back to where the band was hanging out. And Drew was alone, toward the back of the room, reading. She felt eyes on her, the way men looked sometimes. She tried to make herself small. She wasn’t one of those girls. She didn’t want weird attention from boys and men; she didn’t vamp for it or ask for it. She didn’t blossom under it. You are the chooser, her mother always said. You are not chosen. They don’t get to pick and have you like a flower. They need to scale mountains and slay dragons. Then, maybe then, you might give them the time of day. Raven wasn’t interested in boys. She liked Troy, that was it.

  “Hey,” she said. “Are you Drew?”

  He looked up from the slim paperback in his hands. The Stranger, by Camus.

  “That’s right,” he said. His face stayed still, a little blank. He cocked his head, seemed to take her in, every detail of her.

  “Are you—?” he said.

  “Butterfly dreams,” she said. She tried for a smile, but something about him made her nervous, self-conscious. “I’m Raven.”

  She saw surprise flash across his face, a kind of angry startle. Then he seemed to shrink up. “What are you doing here? How did you get back here?”

  It wasn’t exactly the reaction she’d expected. She thought, she didn’t know why, that he’d be warmer, nicer. That at least he’d be kind. She realized that everyone around them was laughing and partying, that they were in this dark corner, separate utterly from the group.

  “I just wanted to—see you,” she said. Her voice sounded soft, stuttery. Her heart was a bird in a cage, flapping. “To see if there was a connection. I don’t know if Melvin Cutter is my father.”

  “Ten minutes!” someone called.

  His eyes were so dark, his gaze so level.

  “What do you mean, that you don’t know?”

  “Melvin Cutter—raped my mother.” She didn’t say the words very often. They sat in her mouth, tasted bitter. “But she had also been with my father—her husband—that night. They never got a test. They didn’t want to know, didn’t want it to matter.”

  “But they told you about the rape.”

  It never seemed odd until he said it.

  “They’re big on honesty.”

  He seemed to consider. “A certain kind of honesty, I guess. The truth, just not the whole truth. Like telling you a meteor is headed to Earth, just not telling you how big or whether or not it will destroy the planet.”

  She hadn’t thought of it like that. Her mother had her reasons and all of them were clear to Raven. Claudia and Ayers told Raven exactly what they knew and why they had decided not to know more. She wanted to explain this to him, but instead she just stared down at Ella’s boots which were so gorgeous but so painful. Raven’s feet were throbbing. She wished she’d let Troy come back with her.

  “It’s not like that,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Did she feel anything? Anything that joined them? Anything that was similar, kindred? No. He was a stranger, not a pleasant one.

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he said. “I’ve spent my whole life running away, pushing away, hiding from any connection I might have to Melvin Cutter. And here you are, chasing after him.”

  His tone was musing, not judgmental. “I’m not chasing after him,” she said. “He’s dead.”

  He blinked, moved back a little as if she’d hurt him. Maybe it did hurt. Maybe all of this hurt him, and that’s why he was so angry. She was starting to see her mother’s wisdom.

  “Five minutes!” That same gravelly voice. Conversations seemed to quiet, people left the room. Drew rose to his feet. He was small, not much taller or bigger than Raven.

  “Then what do you want?” he asked.

  “I want to know where I came from, where I belong,” she said. Tears were threatening, tingling at the back of her eyes and tightening her throat.

  “Why do you think where you came from has anything to do with where you belong?” His voice was gentle, almost pitying. “I certainly don’t believe that. I can’t. I have to believe that we create our lives. Do you get that?”

  She shook her head. She did get it—and she didn’t. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  He shifted as if to move past her, but then he put a hand on her arm.

  “Sounds like you have two nice parents that love you,” he said. “I’d take that if I were you and leave the rest of it alone. The alternatives are dark.”

  She felt a heat where his hand rested. “What if you’re my half brother?”

  He smiled a little. “What if?”

  Then he left her standing there. The room had cleared. She was alone except for a couple of girls that lounged on the couches. Outside, she heard the music start up again.

  “How old are you, sweetie?” one of women asked. She was giving Raven a look she’d seen before, a nasty up and down, a sneer over something hollow in the eyes. Behold the look of jealousy, her mother told her once. Not pretty, is it? But it didn’t feel like jealousy, that would mean she had something others wanted. And what could that possibly be? It felt like disdain, like hatred. It drained; it hurt.

  Raven didn’t answer, just bolted from the room and down the hall, and past the bouncer. What’s wrong, mami? Everything okay?

  Troy was flirting with some girl who looked like she might be in her twenties. He had that face on, that kind of smarmy, smiley, trying-too-hard look. The woman, a pretty, freckle-faced redhead just looked bored, like she was babysitting. Raven ran past him and heard him call her name. Then she was out on the street, breathing hard, taking in big gulps of the frigid air. Her chest hurt, and then big sobs took her over. People just looked on, indifferent. Then Troy was behind her, wrapping her up and leading her away. She burrowed into him, weeping like a complete loser, absolutely powerless to stop. They leaned against a building until the storm of her emotion passed and she’d left a big wet stain on his New School tee-shirt.

  When she finally looked up at him, his was the very face of loving friendship—accepting, concerned, present. He didn’t ask her what happened. He knew she’d tell him everything when she found t
he words. Why do you think where you came from has anything to do with where you belong?

  “I want to go home,” she said. She wiped at her nose with the sleeve of Ella’s jacket, shivering.

  He nodded, looked to the street for a cab. “To your dad’s place?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I need my mom.”

  He looked down at his watch and then back at her.

  “Okay,” he said. “If we hurry, we can make that last train.”

  seventeen

  When I got back to the hospital, Mike was there, sitting on the floor in the corner like a Buddha, legs folded beneath him, hands in prayer at his chest, head bowed. He was just a bulky shadow, breathing deep, in measure to Paul’s labored breath. White light made a rectangle on the floor. Outside more white rectangles, portals into other lives, other moments, hopefully, most of them better than this one. I sank into the chair, didn’t say anything.

  On the way in, the nurse asked me if I was Paul’s daughter and I had said yes, because it was easier and because in some senses it was true. Is it fair to lose two fathers in one lifetime? I loved my dad but also feared his disapproval, wasn’t sure what it felt like to be held in loving arms. He wasn’t a hugger, more just a peck-on-the-cheek kind of a guy, a pat on the shoulder, a tight smile. Paul was big on bear hugs, head stroking. He cooked, helped with homework, never angered. He was easy. We were kindred in a way I wasn’t with my own dad. At first it felt disloyal to love Paul, but in the end I loved him most. There was a band of sadness around my chest, tightening like a garrote.

  “Don’t worry about it, kid,” said my father from over by the window. “I loved him better than I did my old man, too.”

  “Someone was in the apartment,” I said to Mike.

  He didn’t say anything, but the shift in his energy sent a ripple through the room.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But they trashed it, looking for something.”

  He blew out a long breath through pursed lips. “I shouldn’t have helped you. It was a mistake.”

  “I’d have asked the questions of someone else,” I said. “Answered the questions on my own. I would have wound up in the same place.”

  Another long breath drawn, held, released. The sound of it filled the room, mingled with Paul’s watery breath. It made me think of the ocean, waves crashing.

  “Which is the reason why I did,” Mike said. “But I regret my decision.”

  “Does he know? Did you tell him?”

  “What? That you have taken it upon yourself to investigate the crime of your parents’ murder? That you have drawn some conclusions and taken matters into your own hands? That I helped you? He suspected. After Didion.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, “For the record, I didn’t think you would go there. I taught you better.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He shook his head at me. And I could see that he was angry, disappointed. It’s not just sad when you part company with your teacher. It’s also scary. You’re on your own.

  We sat in a tense silence for a couple of minutes. Outside the room, a phone rang and rang. Someone let out a laugh. After a few minutes, I started talking. I told Mike about the phone call, the trashed apartment, the key. I told him about what I’d seen online. The house where my parents were killed, now under renovation.

  Paul released a low moan, and I wondered how much he was taking in, if anything. Mike popped up lithely; I am always amazed at his speed and agility. Big usually means slow, stiff. Not so with Mike.

  He exited the room, and I followed him to the chapel at the end of the hall. It was empty, some weird mix between hospital room and church, all pastel pink and purple with a simple cross hanging high on the far wall. I always liked the idea of religion, a safe place, somewhere you could rest your troubles. I believed in God. My father was a passionate atheist. But my mother believed in a spiritual universe, and she taught me that there was something bigger, something wiser, than I am. I felt it, in a strange, shifting way, like the tumbling crystals of a kaleidoscope. I felt it in the kung fu temple, or when I settled into the watcher mind. There was something there, something benevolent, and light, something other. I believed in God. But I didn’t have any faith at all in man, and the church belonged to him.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Mike. We sat side by side in the front row gazing up at the gray metal cross.

  There in the quiet, with his eyes on me, I knew the answer I hadn’t known when I came there.

  “I’m going home,” I said. “I’m going back there. That’s where they’ll go if they’re still looking for it.”

  Mike shook his head again; apparently there were no words for his disappointment in me. But he didn’t say anything.

  “Will you stay with Paul?” I said into the silence. “Stay in touch with me. I won’t be long.”

  He nodded, looking down at hands he’d folded in his lap. Our arms touched; I pushed into him, leaning against his bulk, and he pushed back.

  “When Didion—was killed, I think it set something in motion,” said Mike. “Disturbed a resting energy. Maybe it’s time for closure on this.”

  “Paul said: they’re coming for it,” I told Mike. “What did he mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You said he was out of it, maybe he was delirious. But look. Why don’t you just lay low and see how this all shakes out? Focus on Paul, on the school. The girls need you. I need you.”

  If energy had been disturbed, then I was the one who’d disturbed it. It was my job to bring closure.

  “We’ll call Boz, maybe ask Seth to spend a couple days staking out the house,” said Mike. His brow creased with worry, and he looped his fingers through mine. “We’ll tell Boz about the phone call, give him that number, and see what he finds. There’s no reason for you to be involved in this, Zoey. Not like this.”

  I stood. We both knew it was too late for that.

  part two

  GHOSTS

  eighteen

  The room came into a kind of slatted, fuzzy focus, and all I could see was Paul, slouched and gray in the corner. I puzzled a moment—where was I? What was Paul doing?—still dwelling in the soft edges of wherever you go when you’re unconscious. There were a few blissful minutes of blank disorientation, while I watched him wondering why he looked so bad, what were those sounds, that smell, why did I feel so odd.

  Then he looked up, his steely blue eyes meeting mine. He’d aged a million years, looked bent and old, hollowed out by grief. And slowly, slowly, it started to come back.

  “Zoey,” he said. His voice was just a whisper and it was one word, my name, but everything, all the horror of the universe resided in those syllables.

  It’s hard to explain what followed in those weeks after my parents’ murders. A dark, sucking hole was ripped in the fabric of my universe. Where before I had been loved, secure, thought the world was one thing, after I had been violently instructed that it was another altogether.

  Buffeted by the gale-force winds of bone-crushing grief and unspeakable trauma, I was debris from a shipwreck, floating, not even trying to find shore. I began my fifteenth year as one thing, one girl, one kind of person, and ended it as someone else. I survived, but I didn’t. I was a zombie. Dead girl walking. No matter what they tell you, some things you don’t get over. You just don’t. You might still be breathing, walking around. You might still have a cake on your birthday, laugh again, heal some. But you don’t “get over it.”

  It was a long time, too long before I started asking questions. I barely had a language for my new universe for the first year; I was still getting used to its unusual gravitational pull. I could barely lift my feet to walk.

  Maybe if Detective Earl Bozmoski hadn’t paid us a visit, I wouldn’t have ever asked. Maybe I would have accepted the fact that the men who murdered my parents and thought they murdered me got away with it. I couldn’t identify them. They had been in n
o way familiar to me—no one who had worked on our property, who I knew from my mother’s life, from my dad’s, from school. I had never seen their faces. Their clothes, their shoes were generic—jeans and boots, flannel shirts, black ski masks. I was able to describe builds, the sounds of their voices, the color of their eyes. They wanted something, something they thought my father had. The house was thoroughly searched. They gathered hair and fibers. There was a single boot print outside the door, a size 10 work boot. One set of foreign fingerprints that didn’t match anything in the system. Hair fibers were collected from my clothes.

  The manhunt that night was exhaustive, the investigation tireless. A cop and his wife had been murdered in their home, their daughter tortured, left for dead. It would not stand, no lead too small, the investigation would not end until someone had been made to pay. It wound on and on, long after other cases would have been shelved. Still. Whoever they were, they got away with it.

  Nothing was ever found hidden in our house. Whatever they thought my father had, he didn’t have it. Of course he didn’t. He wasn’t an easy man, but I never doubted how much he loved me and my mom. There is nothing he wouldn’t have given up for us. He’d have lain down his life.

  • • •

  “JUST ONE MORE TIME, ZOEY.” Detective Bozmoski, or Boz, as I have come to know him over the years. “As much as it hurts, just tell me one more time.”

  I looked to Paul, who nodded solemnly. Boz had come into the city where I’d settled in with Paul. I had started school that week, lay in bed every night crying, was plagued by terrible nightmares, was in twice-weekly therapy. I watched a lot of television—cartoons mostly, SpongeBob and South Park, even other stuff just for babies like Little Einsteins and Special Agent Oso. Anything that wasn’t real, anything that let me vegetate, not think, not feel.

  I told him everything again, from the beginning, starting with Seth. It was he who had called the police. He got to the bridge late that night and followed the path I would have taken home, hoping to catch me. He watched, terrified in the trees, as the men dragged me across the property from the barn to the house, Catcher lifeless on the ground. (Catcher survived that night, lived with me and Paul for another couple of years before we had to put him down for dysplasia. At home he could have gotten around, but in the city, he couldn’t manage all those stairs. He was a good boy.) Seth ran, called the police. He probably saved my life that night. For what it’s worth. He told me later that he’d always felt like a coward for running. But he was just a kid. If he’d tried to play hero, he would have been dead. Maybe I would be, too.