Black Feathers (32 page)

More than that: she could control them. If she focused, she could change the dream itself.

If she focused, she could even—

Turning on the couch, she lowered her feet to the floor. Faintly cold, another perfect detail.

Out two three four.

She stood up. She was standing. She was doing it!

She thought of the expression Dr. Livingston would have on her face when she told her.

She shuffled between the couch and the coffee table and allowed herself to smile. Doctor Livingston had been right: once you took control of the dream, it was easy. She could stand up, she could move, and she didn’t even really need to think about it.

In two three four.

She padded across the living room and ran her fingers along the top edge of the television, faintly rough to the touch.

Hold two three four.

She had been so busy with her own breathing she hadn’t noticed the sound of the steady, deep breaths coming from the bedroom.

She followed the sound, stopping at the door.

The covers were up to Ali’s neck, her head turned into the room, away from Cassie. One leg wasn’t under the covers; long and bent, it curled away from the doorway, glowing pale in the faint light.

Out two three four.

She didn’t need to think about moving. It just happened. But not in the helpless way of her old dreams. This time, she knew that she was moving, deliberately, mindfully.

In two three four.

As gently as she could, she lifted Ali’s covers just enough to slide under, lowered them to cover both of them again.

Ali stirred, groaned, but she didn’t wake.

Hold two three four.

Cassie spread her math books out on the table: algebra text farthest away from her, binder right in front of her. She wrote the new date at the top of the first clean page.

She sighed and leaned forward over the table.

Laura didn’t say anything, just shifted a little on the vinyl bench.

Her pencil hovered above the first blank blue line of her notebook.

“So which one of you had the coffee?”

Alicia Felder was standing at the edge of the table, a steaming mug in each hand.

Laura raised her right hand off the table slightly. “Here,” she said.

“Of course,” Alicia said, as she slid the mug of coffee along the table to Laura. “So that means—”

Cassie could see it happening before it happened: Alicia’s hand extending toward her, over the books on the table; the drooping angle of the mug, the sudden stutter in the motion of her arm, the sloshing of the hot chocolate, the long spill of the steaming liquid, the way it splashed down on the textbook, the binder, the spray of heat over her hand and arm where she had been waiting to write—

She flinched back against the seat, and Alicia lost her grip on the mug entirely, the cup splashing down on the Algebra 11 text, spraying hot chocolate over the table, soaking the pages of the textbook and her notebook.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—

Then just as quickly, Alicia was stepping back from the table.

“Shit!”

For some reason, the word stung more than the hot chocolate soaking into her T-shirt, dripping off her arms and face.

“God, I am so sick of you kids coming in here like you own the place. Throwing stuff around. Making a mess.”

Cassie glanced across the table at Laura, looking for support, waiting for her to put the waitress in her place.

“What the hell, Cassie?” she asked, her eyes flashing at her. “Why are you—”

“Get out,” Alicia said. “God, that’s it. Just get out. And don’t bother coming back.”

The world spun and swam around her. “But … what …?”

“Just get out. You’re done here.” Alicia spun on her heel,
stalking back to the kitchen.

Cassie looked at Laura, who was shaking her head.

She reached for a napkin, wiping her face. The hot chocolate hid the silent tears.

“Jesus, Cassie,” Laura said, standing up. “Why do you have to be such a freak?”

She stomped off. Somewhere in the distance, Cassie could hear the bell over the front door.

She wiped her hands, mopped as much of the hot chocolate as she could off the textbook and the pages of her notebook. It was no good, though: the paper was soaked, inflated, already sticky. There was nothing she could do.

“You need to go,” Alicia said.

Cassie woke up without moving, fully asleep to fully awake in an instant.

She knew exactly where she was—knew it was Ali’s wall and dresser in the soft, dawn-blue light, knew it was Ali’s arm curled around her, at once light, almost weightless, and reassuringly heavy over her, curled over her side, her hand resting against Cassie’s stomach.

Ali’s breath, warm and damp, at the back of her neck, the warm press of her body along her back.

It all felt so real.

Free will is a myth.

It’s another of those lies designed to impose order, to hedge against chaos.

Yes, we are free to make choices, but none of them matter. Only the Darkness matters.

The Light fades from everyone. Everyone.

The aged live with the faintest of sparks within them, their lives swallowed, daily inch by daily inch, by the Darkness until finally they wheeze to black.

The sick fight, they flare, they burn brightest in those last moments before the Darkness takes them.

And all around me, I see people rushing and fighting, getting and spending, laying waste their powers, eking out what passes for an existence as the Light within them is ground away.

Your choices do not matter.

Free will is the most insidious of lies.

The Darkness takes us all. It is up to you, though, to determine how.

Do you feed, or do you eat?

Do you die slowly, as a sheep, or do you make your life extraordinary?

The Darkness takes us all.

“Dorothy?”

She jumped at the sound of the voice, almost bumping into …

Was that Brother Paul?

She took a step back.

He wasn’t the same man she had known at the camp. Brother Paul was taller now somehow, a tracery of stubble around his cheeks. He looked stronger, bigger than he had before. “I thought it was you.”

His eyes were blue, and shone in the grey light.

She nodded slowly. “It is.”

Seeing him, the sudden memories of Skylark almost broke her heart. It was a feeling she was getting used to, that she would never get used to.

He nodded deeply. “I was calling,” he said, taking a large step toward her. “Across the square. I guess you didn’t hear.”

“No,” she said. Looking around, she realized that she had absolutely no idea where she was. She had been drifting, deep inside her head, with no idea where her feet were taking her. “I didn’t hear.”

But there was something familiar about the place. It took her a moment: the buildings on all sides, the park, the fountain …

It all seemed so familiar.

Like something out of a dream.

Then she knew. City Hall. The square. The fountain. If she turned, she’d be facing the breezeway, the pillars, the camp.

What used to be.

She forced herself not to look.

Something in her expression must have given her away. Brother Paul nodded again. “That’s right. Where it all started, right there.” He pointed, and Cassie couldn’t help but turn.

“I thought I should see the old place again,” he said. “I can’t say I was expecting to see you here, though.”

“I didn’t—” She took another step back.

“Are you all right?” he asked, taking another step toward her. “I know how devastated you must be, but … it’s not safe out here.”

Cassie took another step back.

“You know that better than anyone.”

Another step toward her.

“You’re welcome back at the camp, Dorothy. I know that everyone—”

“I—”

Neither of them saw the hand coming from behind him, slamming firmly down on his shoulder with enough force to buckle his knees. Brother Paul staggered under its force, twisted to get away.

“Is there a problem here?” Constable Harrison asked from behind Brother Paul, his hand still firm on his shoulder. He wasn’t in his uniform, but his voice carried its own authority.

“Not until now, Officer,” Brother Paul said, twisting again, trying to get away from Harrison’s hand.

“Why don’t I believe you, Paul?” The words coiled and
seethed. “Is there a problem, Cassie?” Looking her directly in the eye.

“I don’t—”

Harrison nodded slowly. “I think it’s time for you to take a walk, Paul,” he said, releasing his grip on the man’s shoulder. Paul stumbled, stepped away.

“Officer Harrison—” he started, rubbing his shoulder.

“You need to leave this young lady alone.”

“Oh, it’s not her with the problem,” Brother Paul said, straightening back up to his full height. “Just another bit of police brutality.”

“There are no reporters here, Paul. And you know the rules. If you hang around here, I can bust you for loitering.” He took a step toward him. “You want to go back to jail, Paul?”

Brother Paul shook his head. “No. Sir.” He said it slowly, drawing out the words. Harrison nodded, his face stony. “That’s right, Paul. You just head on out, and there’s not going to be any problem.”

Brother Paul’s mouth formed a tight, sharp smile. “All right, Officer,” he said. He looked at Cassie, met her eye. “I’m sorry for bothering you, Cassie.”

He smiled, and lingered over her name.

Her real name.

As Paul moved toward the breezeway, Harrison started in the opposite direction, toward the street at the far side of the square. “Are you all right?” he asked, forcing her to walk with him in order to answer.

“Yes,” she said. “I think so.”

“He didn’t …?” Harrison said, glancing over his shoulder at Brother Paul.

She forced herself not to look back, shook her head.

Harrison took a long look at her. “Something’s happened,” he said. “Clean clothes, clean hands, clean hair. You look better.”

“You don’t,” she said, quickly bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Sorry,” she added.

She wasn’t wrong, though. Harrison’s face was even greyer, thinner than it had been the day before, his eyes burrowed deep in black sockets. He looked like he was sick.

But he smiled at least. “That’s all right,” he said. “I know I’m not at my best. I haven’t been sleeping.”

She knew better than to ask why not, but he responded as if she had spoken: “Work,” he said. “Just work.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“You’ve got someplace to stay? Someplace warm? Someplace safe?”

The words echoed in her head: “warm,” “safe.”

“It’s supposed to get really cold out tonight,” he continued.

“I’ve got a place,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure?”

The urgency in his tone almost stopped her cold. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

The way he shook his head as he said, “Nothing,” made it sound like a lie.

There was something going on that he couldn’t talk about. Something that he wanted to say, but couldn’t.

“Okay,” she said, her disbelief plain.

“I just want you to be safe,” he said, his voice softer now. And even less reassuring. “Don’t take any chances, all right? It’s—”

“I know,” she said. “It’s not safe out here.”

“Don’t be glib,” he snapped. “I’m serious.”

“Okay,” she said, lowering her gaze to the ground, still suspicious, but unwilling to risk saying anything else.

“I’m sorry,” he said, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. “I’m just worried.”

“I’ll be all right. I’ve got a place to go.”

“Good,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Listen, can I drop you off? My car is—”

“I’m okay walking,” she said, too quickly.

“Okay,” he said, his voice clipped. He looked at his watch, then at the sky. “You should get going then. It’ll be getting dark soon.”

She shook her head and turned away. She had taken a couple of steps when she stopped and turned back around. “You should get some sleep,” she called to him. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”

It was what her mother used to tell her.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he said.

They both turned away.

On her walk back to Ali’s apartment, Cassie stopped at the mall on Government Street. She dodged through the crowds into the department store, bracing herself against the heat, the Christmas carols, the lights, as she worked her way into the housewares department. No one gave her a second glance as she looked at the display cabinets. No security guard appeared at her shoulder. It was like she was a different person.

She bought a paring knife from the kitchenwares section. The cashier wrapped the blade in layers of brown paper, and Cassie slipped it into the pocket of her coat.

“Hey, Larry—you got a minute?”

The detective—Lawrence Donofrio—looked up from the table in the second conference room to where Harrison was leaning against the doorway. He waved him in. “Sure. I’m just—” He glanced at the table, a mess of papers and files, a storm searching for order. “You getting off shift?”

“Nah,” Harrison said. “I was out Christmas shopping, thought I’d drop in before it got too late. You the last one here?”

Donofrio nodded. “Fucking Christmas,” he muttered.

“Is that Wolcott?” Harrison gestured at the mess. “How’s it looking?”

Donofrio shrugged. “It’s a mess. But it’s coming together.” He leaned back in his chair, his shirt stretching over his belly.

“Slam dunk, though, right? Given the evidence?”

Donofrio rubbed his eyes. “You mean the tongues?”

Harrison flinched, mostly from the detective’s matter-of-fact tone. “Yeah. That seems fairly conclusive.”

“We’re taking a cursory look at the wife too, while the ME does his thing. She had access to the freezer, so it could be her …”

“It’s not her, though.”

“You lookin’ to make detective, Harrison?”

Harrison let himself smile. “Maybe,” he said, playing along. “Down the road, though.”

Donofrio nodded. “I thought so. You’ve got the look.”

“There’s a look?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen it dozens of times. Big case comes up, and all of a sudden it’s a circus. Half the guys are just curious,
want to be in the loop, get the scoop, you know? Most of the others”—he shrugged—“they’re looking to be seen interested. They’re the ones who volunteer for task forces and shit like that. Working the system, bucking for promotion.”

Harrison knew the type. Hell, Farrow was the type.

“Yeah. A few, though, you can see it in their eyes. They want to understand. They look at this”—he gestured at the table—“and they figure that if they can just sort it out, it’ll all make sense.”

He ran his tongue between his top front teeth and his lip, making a quiet smacking sound. “Those guys make good detectives.” He nodded. “That’s the look you’ve got right now.”

Harrison hesitated. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Donofrio leaned forward. “Well, that’s the thing. I used to have that look. And I did exactly that: made detective, figured I’d be able to make it all make sense. And you know what?”

Harrison shook his head. “What?”

“It never fucking does.” He leaned back in the chair again. “Guy kills these girls, cuts out their tongues and keeps them in the fucking freezer, right next to a fucking Sunday-dinner chicken? How does that make sense? Yeah, we can make a case, but that shit’s never gonna make sense. Fact is, I’m not sure I even want to understand it anymore. I don’t think I want to know. I don’t think we’re wired to handle that kind of darkness.”

He rubbed his eyes.

“And this fucker just sits down there, not saying anything.”

“He’s still here?”

“Yeah.” Donofrio reached toward the monitor in the corner of the table. “He’s got his hearing first thing in the morning.” He pressed the power button and the screen flashed to life, showing the inside of one of the holding cells in the basement.
Cliff Wolcott was sitting on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest, his socked feet resting on the bare mattress. “He just sits there, staring off into space. I had to turn it off—he was creeping me out.”

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.”