Black Feathers

by Robert J. Wiersema

  Frank and Joe smirked, but Bob nodded, pondering the idea.

  The girls were almost past when Bob said, “Did you know her? That Sarah?”

  “Not really,” Skylark said, stopping. “She’d been here for a few days, but I never really—”

  “She was nuts,” Bob said, shaking his head. His body seemed barely under his control, his shoulders giving an occasional jerk, his hands twitching.

  “That’s not—” Skylark started.

  “I’m not being rude,” Bob said, oddly defensive. “She was nuts.”

  “She had some problems.”

  “She was freaked out. She started talking to me about those murders? You know, the ones in the paper?”

  Cassie half-stepped forward.

  “She was freakin’, man. Like she was worried that the guy was after her, you know? I told her, the guy in the paper, he seemed to like them a lot younger.” Frank and Joe laughed, but Bob stared hard at them and they stopped. “And then the next morning, not even twelve hours later.” He gestured at the fountain. “It makes you think.”

  Cassie shivered. “But she wasn’t … She killed herself.”

  “That’s what the police told us.”

  “She—”

  “Have you ever heard of anyone cutting their own throat?” He looked at Cassie like she was stupid. “They found the knife in her hand—big fucking deal. One minute she’s freaked out that someone’s after her, next morning she’s dead? That doesn’t make you think?”

  It was exactly what Cassie had been thinking: the police were wrong.

  But Bob didn’t know about how the knife had felt in her hand, about how it had slid so easily into Sarah’s throat.

  “Did you tell the police?” Cassie asked, trying to hide her shivering. “That she thought someone was after her?”

  Bob snorted. “Are you kidding? I’m not telling the fucking cops nothin’. Fucking Brother Paul calls the five-o and I’m gone, baby, gone.”

  “Maybe if they—”

  “Maybe if they what?” he snapped. “Fucking cops aren’t gonna do anything. You think they care? They got this killer in town and it’s all doo-dee-doo, ‘another dead hooker, makes my job easier.’ You think they give a fuck about us? They took pictures, they took the body, ‘she must’ve killed herself.’ Case fucking closed.”

  Cassie took a sharp step back, stunned by the sudden return of his anger.

  “It’s just us out here and whoever’s killing those girls. Whoever killed Sarah. Nobody’s gonna do nothin’ to protect us; we have to do it for ourselves. Protect this community.”

  For a moment, he sounded like Brother Paul.

  “What do you mean?” Skylark asked.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “There are gonna be some changes made.”

  His smile was wide and cold.

  The square was covered in snow, inches deep, the air heavy and silent. The only sound was the Styrofoam crunch of the snow under her feet.

  The world was bright, almost blindingly white.

  Sarah was sitting at the edge of the fountain. She smiled when she saw Cassie.

  “I knew it was you.”

  This time, Cassie wasn’t surprised. She watched her hand as it brought the knife up, watched the red line across Sarah’s throat pulse and widen and burst open like an overripe fruit, blood spilling black down the front of her coat.

  Sarah laughed as she fell backward into the fountain, the knife in her hand now.

  And then she was standing again. “I knew it was you.” The words bubbled the blood at her throat into a pink froth.

  Falling.

  Laughing.

  Standing.

  Sarah leaned in close. “What are you going to do now, Cassie?” The words smelled metallic, of rotting meat.

  “What are you going to do about her?”

  Sarah laughed as she fell backward into the fountain, and Cassie turned slowly.

  Skylark was standing behind her.

  “You’re a mess,” she said tenderly, leaning forward to kiss Cassie gently.

  When she drew back, there was blood on her mouth. Her tongue was pale pink as she licked her lips, staining her white teeth red.

  “I knew it was you,” she whispered.

  And the knife was in Cassie’s hand again somehow, and Sarah laughed as she fell backward into the fountain, and the red line across Skylark’s throat burst open like an overripe fruit, and blood sprayed across Cassie’s face hot and sweet and she opened her mouth and—

  —as she threw her head back, she saw the man standing in the shadows of the parkade, almost completely hidden by the swirling snow, his black coat, his red eyes—

  “Daddy?”

  —The blood was hot and sweet and Skylark laughed as she fell backward into the snow, a halo of blood spraying around her, arms spread like she was making an angel—

  Laughing like a little girl.

  “Cassie?”

  When Cassie opened her eyes, Skylark’s face slipping into focus, she jerked away.

  “It’s all right,” Skylark said, but Cassie was already moving.

  She fumbled to her knees, grabbed her backpack and started cramming stuff in: her journal, Mr. Monkey, everything she had unpacked the night before.

  “Cassie, what’s wrong?”

  Twisting to sit, she pulled her shoes on, looping the laces into loose knots, not taking the time to tie them tightly.

  There wasn’t any time: every minute she was there was another minute Skylark was in danger. Her heart pounded, the blood in her temples pulsing and throbbing painfully.

  How could she have been so stupid? So selfish? She had run away to keep the people she loved safe; she had to. She couldn’t put the people she cared for in danger, so she had run.

  And now she was doing it again.

  I knew it was you.

  The dream words echoed in her head as she struggled to her feet, adjusting her jacket and scarf.

  Not just the words: the laughter too.

  Sarah laughing as she fell backward into the fountain. Skylark’s blood on her face. The taste of it.

  “What are you doing?” Skylark was grabbing her arm, trying to turn her, as she whispered, “Cassie, what are you doing?”

  “I’ve gotta go,” she muttered, buckling her backpack.

  “Cassie, calm down. It was just a dream. You had a bad dream.”

  “It’s not safe.” She picked up her backpack. “I’m not safe.”

  “Cassie.” Skylark tightened her grip on Cassie’s arm. “Calm down.” Tried to turn her around. “Calm down and talk to me.”

  Cassie jerked her arm away. “I’ve gotta go.”

  She knew better than to turn around. Knew better than to look at Skylark’s face.

  Instead, she rushed into the darkness.

  She wasn’t hiding, she was running—there was a difference.

  She hadn’t known where to go after leaving the camp. She needed to be away from Skylark, so she couldn’t go to the courthouse, and nowhere else downtown felt safe. She stayed on Pandora, walking out of downtown farther than she had ever gone. It was still dark, the lights of the occasional cars flashing across her, the dull rasp of their tires echoing in the silence as she stumbled along the sidewalk.

  The dream clung to her. She could still hear the sound of Sarah laughing and falling. She could still smell the bloody accusation.

  It was so real.

  When she found a McDonald’s, she locked herself in the bathroom. She ran the water as hot as it would go, scrubbed at her hands until they shone raw and red, scrubbed them more. She could still feel the blood on them, sticky and cold, but no matter how hard she scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off.

  Catching sight of herself in the mirror over the sink, she jumped back: her face was caked with blood, her mouth a dark, black slash in the rusty gore.

  Plunging her hands into the steaming water, she scrubbed at her face: the water ran red, but the blood didn’t fade. She scrubbed
harder, pumped palmfuls of the frothy soap from the dispenser, scrubbed still harder.

  Nothing worked.

  She scrubbed as hard as she could, sobbing in frustration. She looked like a deranged clown, sickly and smiling, and no scrubbing would—

  There was a knocking at the door, a rattling of the doorknob. Cassie jumped.

  She glanced at the door to be sure it was locked.

  When she looked back at the mirror, the blood was gone.

  She looked terrifying, terrified: her hair was dirty and frizzy, spraying crazily out from under her toque, her eyes wide and frantic and red with tears, but the blood was gone.

  Looking down, she saw that her hands were clean too. Not a drop of blood on the counter. Not a trace of pink in the sink.

  “Oh God.”

  She slumped against the counter.

  The knocking at the door repeated.

  “I’ll be right out,” she said, quietly, closing her eyes.

  She stumbled out of the ladies’ room, head low, careful not to make eye contact with the woman who was waiting.

  Buying a hot chocolate with a handful of change, she curled herself into a table in the corner. A wall at her back, the window to the children’s play area on one side … She took a long time just trying to breathe before she opened her journal.

  It’s happening again. I thought I had it all figured out. I thought it was over. But it’s not—

  She stopped, set her pen down on the open notebook page and rooted in her pockets, dropping their contents on the table. Picking through the soggy tissues, crumpled receipts and hair elastics, she piled her money aside, counted it.

  I have seventeen dollars left. I don’t think that’s enough to get me anywhere. Maybe over to Vancouver if I hitchhike. But I can’t stay here. I can’t. I won’t.

  She leaned back in the chair. The rounded metal bars dug into her back even through all her layers of clothes.

  She looked down at her hands. They were pink and puffy, raw from the scrubbing. No blood.

  I dreamed I killed Skylark last night. It was so realistic, but when I woke up, she was still alive. Not like last time.

  She underlined the word “not” three times.

  Seventeen dollars. If I keep everything I make in the next couple of days, maybe I’ll have enough to get the bus to Vancouver.

  She sighed heavily and wiped her nose with one of the napkins she had taken from the dispenser.

  I thought I could run away from it.

  “You late for school, little girl?”

  Bob slumped down in the chair across from her; Frank and Joe sat at the next table over.

  Cassie closed her journal as quickly as she could.

  “What are you writing?” he asked, leaning over the table. His pupils were tiny black dots, barely bigger than the tip of her pen.

  “Nothing,” she said quietly, pulling the book closer to herself with both hands, keeping them protectively over it.

  “You got a diary?” His voice was a slow drawl.

  She tightened her grip on the book.

  Frank and Joe laughed like it was the most hilarious thing they had ever heard.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, after a long silence. “You don’t want to talk to us?”

  “There’s not much to talk about,” she said, trying to follow Skylark’s advice.

  “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  Cassie bit back her protest. “I wanted a hot chocolate,” she said, pointing at the cup.

  Bob reached across the table and picked up the cup. His hands were shaking and clumsy as he pulled off the plastic lid and raised the cup to his lips. He chugged back several swallows.

  The cup rattled when he dropped it back on the table.

  “Thanks,” he said. “That was just what I needed.”

  Cassie bit the inside of her lip. If she didn’t say anything, didn’t protest, he’d leave.

  She almost exhaled when he stumbled to his feet a few moments later. She wondered what he was on, the way he teetered and seemed to waver—

  Then he reached out and grabbed the stack of money that she had left resting on the table.

  “Hey,” she said, standing up as he spun away, laughing. Coins sprayed onto the floor.

  Frank and Joe laughed after him, and they were gone, out the door, before Cassie could say anything else.

  She stood there, just watching, as the door swung shut behind them. Then she knelt on the ground and picked up as many of the coins as she could find.

  This time, she opened the door only a crack, holding it tightly against the tug of the wind as she slipped through to the Please Wait to Be Seated sign.

  Ali was at the back of the restaurant, at the counter. When she noticed Cassie, she smiled and gestured for her to wait.

  Cassie focused on her breathing.

  Taking care with the little details, focusing on her breath: that attention was all that was keeping her going.

  She had almost collapsed on the floor of the McDonald’s that morning. All she had wanted to do was to curl up in a tiny ball on the floor of the restaurant and cry, just cry until everything else stopped. Cry until someone came and took her away again.

  That was the thought that had cut through the boiling flood of grief: not the possibility that they would come and take her away again, but that part of her wanted it so badly.

  She did. She wanted to be rescued. She wanted to be taken in somewhere, wanted the cool comfort of the needle under her skin, the sweet weight of the pills on her tongue like candy, the dark, timeless, dreamless sleep.

  Part of her wanted that so much.

  But she would never let them take her again. She would never be that helpless again.

  And it hadn’t really made any difference, had it? Daddy was still dead. Sarah was still dead.

  Skylark …

  Skylark was still alive. Cassie had to hold it together long enough to make sure she stayed safe. She had to hold it together long enough to get far, far away.

  So she had very carefully picked up every coin, digging against the slick floor with her bitten-down nails for every sliver of silver, then she had sat back down at the table, painstakingly counting out everything she had left.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  The small pile of change amounted to $9.71 every time.

  She spent a long while just staring at the little pile, counting her way through each breath like they had taught her at the hospital: in two three four, hold two three four, out two three four.

  When the manager came to tell her that she had to leave, she didn’t say anything. She cleaned up the garbage from her pockets and picked up the empty hot chocolate cup, depositing everything in the garbage can by the front door as she left.

  She had spent the rest of the morning on a corner close to the Inner Harbour downtown, far from the courthouse steps where Skylark might find her.

  By lunchtime there was a loose scattering of coins that she planned on counting at the restaurant.

  Ali waved her over, and Cassie threaded her way through the restaurant. It was busier today, most of the tables full, chairs projecting into the already narrow walkway down the middle.

  Ali directed her to the table for two closest to the bar and takeout counter. Cassie set her backpack onto one chair, then sat down in the other, tucked nicely into the corner, with a view of the entire restaurant.

  The couple at the table next to her stared at her, their faces wrinkling in distaste before they looked away, shaking their heads as they resumed their conversation.

  Cassie focused on her breathing.

  “I saw you in the paper this morning,” Ali said as she set a hot chocolate on the table. “Here.” She reached over the counter and put a tattered front section of the Sentinel in front of Cassie. “Right here.” She pointed.

  The man at the next table glanced between Ali and the newspaper, craning his neck slightly to try to see what the waitress was pointing at.

 
The photograph on the bottom half of the page had been taken from the corner of the breezeway, close to where the ambulance had been parked. Cassie could see the fountain through the pillars, the small crowd of police officers and technicians and paramedics, all looking toward the fountain itself, a stretcher waiting behind them.

  Ali was pointing at the corner of the photo, though, to where, slightly out of focus, a police officer was talking to someone who had her back to the camera.

  “That’s you, right?” Ali said. “I thought I recognized the backpack.”

  The man’s glance flickered between the newspaper and the bag on the opposite chair.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Cassie said slowly, still looking at the paper. The article was called “Death at Squatter Camp.”

  “I thought so.”

  Ali stood there for a long moment, then said, “I’ll get you some food,” into the silence.

  Cassie only fully realized that Ali had said anything once she was already gone.

  As she looked from the door back down to the newspaper, Cassie caught the eye of the woman at the next table. She was staring at her, her lip curled. As she turned back to face the man, she made some comment that Cassie couldn’t quite hear.

  Cassie unfolded the newspaper, carefully lining it up in front of her.

  There was a headline all the way across the top of the page: “Black Day.” Below it, in smaller print, was the sentence “Fifth murder and death at squatter camp stretches police resources.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Cassie hadn’t heard Ali come back, and she started at the sound of her voice. “Yeah, of course.”

  She leaned against the table. “No, seriously. You don’t seem like yourself today.”

  The man glanced up at her, then looked back down at the table when Ali caught his eye. The moment she turned her attention back to Cassie, the man and woman began whispering to each other again.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Ali asked, turning partway to the next table.

  The man shifted. “No, no. We’re fine.”

  “Your food should be right out,” she said, smiling broadly in a way that Cassie knew wasn’t real. “I’ll go check on it now.”

  There were a couple of people at the counter paying their bills, and Cassie watched as Ali dodged around them on her way to the kitchen before looking back down at the newspaper.