He didn’t seem like much, just a normal guy, sitting on a bed.
Harrison leaned toward the monitor. “So, you’ve talked to him?”
“A few times. It’s funny—” His eyes made it clear that it wasn’t funny at all. “Talking to him, he’s the nicest guy. Comes across a little bit shy. Kinda nerdy, I guess. But nice.” He shrugged. “But that’s what they always say, right? The neighbours? ‘He seemed like such a nice young man.’ ‘Who would have thought he’d do such awful things? Six tongues in his freezer? He didn’t seem—’”
“Wait,” Harrison said sharply, turning to face the detective. “Six tongues?”
Donofrio nodded slowly. “Yeah. Six. Welcome to the shit.” He shook his head. “That’s why I’m here so late.”
“But there were seven …” A wave of nausea rolled up from Harrison’s belly.
“Were seven victims,” Donofrio said, emphasizing the past tense. “Not anymore. I’m just waiting on the ME’s report on”—he sifted through the files, picking one up to read the name on the tab—“Laura Ensley.” He dropped the file back onto the table. “The last one.”
Harrison’s legs wobbled.
“She still has her tongue.”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Donofrio lifted his hand. “Don’t jump to any conclusions. The ME’s report should tell us more about the knife, the strokes. Similarities, differences.”
“But what do you think?”
He knew what he was asking, so he wasn’t surprised when Donofrio replied, “Between you and me?”
“Of course.”
“I think there’s going to be a press conference tomorrow morning about Mr. Clifford Wolcott here being charged with the murder of six prostitutes, while police still look for the killer of—” He reached for the file again.
“Laura Ensley,” Harrison said quietly.
“Yeah.” He stretched the word out like a sigh.
“So …” Harrison started to pace along the end of the table. “There’s a copycat out there.”
“That’s not a word you’ll hear come out of this building,” Donofrio said, straightening in his chair.
“But someone’s still out there.”
“That’s the working theory right now. We’ve been keeping it under wraps, hoping he’d screw up, thinking he was safe with this fucker behind bars.” He pointed at the monitor; Cliff Wolcott hadn’t moved. “But with the hearing—” He shrugged helplessly. “We put it off as long as we could.”
“So you knew—”
“We suspected. When we found the girl’s body. There were too many differences.”
“The body wasn’t found near water,” Harrison said, thinking it through out loud.
“She wasn’t a prostitute.”
Harrison nodded, thinking of Cassandra Weathers. He needed to find her. He needed to warn her.
“And there was the crime itself.” The words were flat, almost clinical.
“There were differences?”
Donofrio picked up the file, handed it to Harrison. “He didn’t cut out her tongue,” he said.
Harrison took the file, was opening it when Donofrio spoke again.
“This fucker cut out her heart.”
“There you are.” Ali’s voice came from somewhere inside the apartment as Cassie pushed the door open.
“Here I am,” she said awkwardly, not sure how to respond.
“I was starting to worry,” Ali said, unfolding herself from the corner of the couch and setting a magazine on the coffee table.
Cassie bent over to unlace her shoes enough to wiggle them off. “Why?” she asked as she slipped the shoes next to Ali’s.
Ali shrugged as she came into the kitchen area. “Just because,” she said, taking a sip from the glass of wine she held. “I worry about you. That’s all.”
“I’m all right,” she said as she took off her coat.
“I know,” Ali said, and she smiled. “And you will be too.”
“How do you know?” Cassie asked, not even sure where the question came from.
“I just have this feeling,” she said. “I think you’re probably strong enough to make it through anything the world can throw at you.”
What world? Cassie wanted to ask, but she bit back the words, smiling instead.
“So how was your afternoon?”
It seemed like such a natural question, like it was just a normal day, like they were just normal people.
“Okay, I guess.” She didn’t mention meeting Brother Paul in the square or her conversation with the cop. She didn’t tell her about buying the knife at the department store or stopping near the camp on her way back to the apartment, standing in the shadows outside the fence, watching, just watching.
A grey silence rose between them. “What about yours?” she asked a moment later, attempting to drive it away.
This was what normal people did, right? They asked each other about their days?
“It was all right,” Ali said, her voice brightening a little. “It was pretty dead at the restaurant, but Hong and I spent the day working on food for tonight anyway, so that was all right.”
“Right. Tonight.” She glanced around the room. “When—”
Ali looked at the clock. “People’ll start arriving in a half hour or so. Most of them are coming from work, so they’ll trickle in. It doesn’t usually get rolling till about seven or so.”
“Half an hour?” Cassie looked in vain around the apartment for signs of preparation, for any indication that people would be coming to the door so soon. “Shouldn’t we—”
“Oh, no,” Ali said, shaking her head. “It’s not here.” Cassie’s brow pinched. “It’s upstairs, at Collette’s. Her place is bigger, so we all get together up there. Plus,” she added, as if it were the most important part, “she’s got a great stereo.”
Cassie nodded slowly, absorbing the information. “So, do we need to—” She cocked her head upward, at the apartment above them. “Should we go up there and help her get ready or anything?”
“That’s sweet,” Ali said, and Cassie flinched at the words before she realized that Ali wasn’t making fun of her. “No, Collette’s got all that taken care of. We just need to show up. Oh, and bring the wine.” Ali started toward the door like she had just remembered something. “Which I will end up forgetting.”
With the side of her foot, she pushed a cardboard box out from under the coat hooks. Bottles tinged and shifted inside as the box rasped heavily along the floor. “My friend Erin and I made this at one of those you-brew places this summer,” she explained as she slid the box over so it was partially blocking the door. “There,” she said. “Now we won’t forget it.” She smiled in satisfaction. “Now it’s just a matter of us getting ready.”
Cassie looked at Ali, and her chest tightened.
“What’s wrong?” Ali asked.
Cassie shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Just nervous.”
Ali reached toward her, and Cassie forgot how to breathe as Ali brushed her hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her right ear. “It’s all right,” she said. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just some friends.”
Cassie wanted to lean in to Ali’s hand, to nestle her cheek against Ali’s palm, to close her eyes. “I know,” she said instead.
“You’ll fit right in.”
She wanted to believe her.
“Come on,” Ali said, taking her hand and leading her toward the bedroom. “Let’s find you something to wear.”
Cassie couldn’t help but smile at Ali’s excitement. “You really like this,” she said.
“I do,” Ali said, turning to her. “I always loved this time of year when I was a kid. There was something so magical about it. I remember this one time, we actually had a white Christmas. We woke up and the whole world was changed.” She sighed deeply, remembering. “It was so magical. It only happened the once.”
That stopped Cassie. “Really? Y
ou only ever had one white Christmas when you were a kid?”
Ali nodded and shrugged. “Victoria doesn’t really do the white-Christmas thing.” She hesitated, then, “Things were different for you? Where you grew up?”
Cassie smiled. There was something very sweet about the way Ali was asking about her without actually asking. It was the clumsiness that made her smile, that allowed her to answer.
“Pressfield,” she said, looking into Ali’s closet so she wouldn’t have to risk meeting her eyes. “I grew up in Pressfield, in the Interior. And yeah, we had a lot of white Christmases when I was growing up. Most of them, I think.” She touched the edges of the hanging dresses. “Along with white Valentine’s Days. White Easters, some years. It pretty much snowed November through March, every year.”
“What do you think of this one?” Ali asked, pulling out a blue dress, holding it in front of herself.
Cassie looked, nodded.
“It’s a bit short on me, so it should be good …” Ali turned the dress, held it up in front of Cassie. “Pressfield,” she said, almost to herself, as she evaluated the dress, angling her head slightly. “How did you end up in Victoria?” she asked with a deliberate casualness, not meeting Cassie’s eyes.
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Ali said, and when their eyes met, there was a crackle like electricity between them. “I mean, I’d like for you to. I know you might …” She shook her head. “Whenever you want to,” she said. “Tell me, I mean. I’ll listen.”
Cassie took a shallow breath, then another.
“I like it,” she said, taking a half-step forward so the dress draped over her. “Do you think it’ll look all right?”
Ali looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “I think it’ll be fantastic,” she said.
The locker room was quiet, deserted—he had known it would be. It was close to the middle of the shift, right around dinnertime: Harrison had the whole place to himself.
He needed it, the privacy, the quiet. The last thing he wanted right now was small talk—he’d probably punch the first person to bring up the hockey game.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and braced himself against the counter. He forced himself not to look into the mirror, fighting a lifetime of automatic action: he knew what he would see there, and he didn’t want to look at himself. Couldn’t bear the thought of it.
He didn’t feel sick. He had just about thrown up in the conference room, but he didn’t feel sick anymore. His heart wasn’t racing, his guts weren’t heaving.
He just felt cold. Clear.
Calm.
He knew what he had to do.
He turned off the faucet and dried his face with paper towel from the dispenser. He trailed his fingers along the wall as he walked into the locker room itself, then sat on the bench in front of his locker.
He took his notebook out of his pocket, flipped it open, balanced it on his knee and began to write.
It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to say.
When he was done, he tore the sheet out of his notebook and folded it in half.
He wrote her name on the front of the fold, then slipped the note through the vent slot of Farrow’s locker door.
For a moment, he remembered high school: slipping notes into Cindy Galloway’s locker, the way the cut grass smelled on the ball diamond, laughing on the bus with the rest of the team.
Ancient history.
Slipping his service revolver into the back of his waistband, he straightened his jacket, stood tall.
Cassie floated through the evening in a blur. The wine warmed her, a warmth deeper than she had felt in months, and softened the edges of the rooms, the lights on the Charlie Brown Christmas tree blurring and swimming soothingly. Voices bubbled around her, and she smiled and laughed and talked.
Hong had introduced her proudly to his wife as they were setting out the food for the feast.
“This is May,” he had said, draping his arm around her shoulders.
May had smiled shyly, and Cassie had been the first to extend her hand.
“It’s the sweetest story,” Ali said a few minutes later.
Every seat in the living room was taken, so they were sitting on the floor under the window.
“They met in a camp in Vietnam. They were both kids. Well, teenagers, I guess.” Ali’s voice was slow and deep, a little slurred and uncertain. “Anyway, they fell in love, but they got separated and sent to different parts of Canada. They thought they’d never see each other again, but one day, about ten years ago, Hong was at work and she walked in. He knew it was her right away. It turns out she’d been looking for him.” She sighed happily, a warm, faraway look on her face.
“And?” Cassie felt the expectation of the rest of the story pushing her forward with an almost physical force.
“And nothing,” Ali said, looking toward the kitchen door. Through the crowd, Cassie could see Hong and May at the table, serving up plates of food. “Happily ever after,” she said.
Part of Cassie wanted to tell her that there was no such thing, but the other part of her, the part that was warm and safe and happy, wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Everybody’s got a past, Cassie,” she said. “Everyone’s got a history.” She smiled as she said it, a warm, happy, safe smile. The lights of the tree flashed against her cheek.
For the first time, it felt a bit like Christmas. Looking up at the world from the floor, Cassie remembered being a little girl, sitting at the kids’ table when all of her relatives got together, being sure to eat everything on her plate on Christmas Eve so she wouldn’t upset Santa at the last minute. The blinking lights on the tree, the carols on the stereo, the loud, confusing hum of voices in conversations that she couldn’t follow: she winced against the pang that arced through her chest.
“What’s wrong?” Ali asked in a whisper.
Cassie just shook her head.
Ali put her hand on Cassie’s leg, squeezing it gently. “It’s all right,” she said.
It was almost overwhelming, but she could tell, looking at Ali’s face, that she knew exactly what was going on in her head. She hadn’t said anything, but Ali understood.
She laid her hand on Ali’s and squeezed.
Harrison began to feel his exhaustion near the bottom of the stairs to the basement. He had to cling to the railing as his ragged breath echoed off the concrete stairwell, sweat stinging in his eyes. The faces of the murdered girls swam in his mind.
His jacket was only making it worse. He wished he could have left it in his locker, but that wasn’t really an option.
He knocked on the heavy door at the base of the stairs, peering through the wire-reinforced window, waiting to be recognized.
There was a faint buzz and the clicking of the lock. Harrison turned the handle and opened the door to the holding cells.
Boris, working the desk, looked up from a magazine at Harrison, his back to the bank of video monitors, one for each cell.
“You draw the short straw?” Harrison asked as lightly as he could. He knew Boris well enough to joke with him.
Boris looked him up and down, taking in his boots, his winter jacket. “Hey, at least I get to be inside tonight, if you want to talk about drawing the short straw.”
Harrison grinned and leaned on the ledge at the top of the desk. “True that,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Busy in here?” Harrison cocked his head toward the second heavy door, the end of the hallway to the holding cells.
Boris turned slightly to check the monitors. Harrison’s eyes followed, focusing on Cliff Wolcott, still sitting on his bed.
“Nah, it’s pretty quiet. Couple of drunks. Crackhead seeing visions. Usual stuff.”
“Folks taking time off for the holidays, you figure?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice? Not likely, though. We’ll get a pretty heavy run of domestics and public disturbances, starting tomorrow afternoon.”
<
br /> “Right around the time folks get home to spend the holidays with their families, right?” Harrison knew the answer: he had worked enough Christmases to know what it was like.
“Fa la la la la,” Boris said drily. “So, you down here ‘cause you don’t have anything better to do or what?”
“Actually, I was just up talking to Donofrio—”
Boris rolled his eyes at the name.
“And he suggested I might want to have a word with his Mr. Wolcott.”
Boris turned back to the monitors. “This guy?” he asked, tapping the screen on Cliff Wolcott’s head. “Fucking freak.”
“That’s what I hear.”
Boris took a closer look at Harrison, studying him. “Are you on the task force?” Harrison shook his head. “Nobody’s supposed to see him except task force members and his counsel. Looks to me like they’re trying to keep something quiet.” He looked guilelessly at Harrison, as if hoping he might have information to share.
“Donofrio didn’t say anything about that,” Harrison said, watching every word. “He just suggested I come down and talk to him.” He started to turn away. “But if you’ve been told that it’s task force only—”
“Jesus,” Boris muttered, and Harrison stopped, stifling the smile he felt coming on before turning back around.
“What the fuck do I care who sees him, right?”
Harrison hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Boris shrugged. “It’s nothing to me,” he said, dropping a clipboard on the desk. “You sign in, it’s your problem. You and—” He raised his eyes toward the third floor, where Donofrio was probably still sitting in the conference room. “Here,” he said, tapping the clipboard. “It’s all on you.”
Harrison took his pen out of his pocket and filled out the line on the sign-in sheet. He checked the clock on the wall behind him for the time.
Black Feathers Page 23
