Black Feathers (41 page)

But most promising was the area around the door itself. The lock was a deadbolt, but the window to the left …

Cassie took one last look back into the classroom as she reached the doorway. Skylark was gone, and the room was empty.

It was eerie: too calm, too quiet. Some places were made for people, and when they were empty, they seemed wrong somehow.

Taking a deep breath, she turned back to the door.

And stopped.

The doorway looked the same as it always did, the door the same brown metal with the small window near the top that she saw every day. But outside, where there should have been a corridor lined with lockers, there was a dark stairway, going down.

She recognized it immediately: the rough, raw wood stairs, the unfinished wall along one side, the shaky railing along the other. She had seen it almost every day of her life.

It was the stairs from the house, down to the basement. Down to the storage room. Down to the furnace room, with the woodpiles, and the stove.

Down.

At the base of the stairs, there was a click, and the single bare light bulb burst into sudden, blinding life.

Cassie gasped and took a step back.

There was someone down there, waiting for her.

Someone, or something.

She took a deep breath. Of course there was.

There was always going to be someone waiting at the bottom of those stairs; it was always going to come down to this.

Clutching Mr. Monkey close with her right arm, she stepped carefully down on the first stair, resting her hand lightly on the railing.

Down to the second stair: the air was colder, and her breath hung in front of her mouth like a still, grey cloud.

Third stair.

With a creak, the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut.
He slipped the corner of a black credit card into the narrow seam between the window and the frame, wiggling it and shifting it slightly so the entire edge of the card slid through.

As the card began to slide down toward the latch, he straightened, a prickling along the back of his neck, a crackling in his ears.

Had it been the wind? The sound of the falling snow?

Something …

Reaching under his coat with his right hand, he curled his fingers around the hilt of the hunting knife on his belt.

There was something behind him.

He started to turn as the hand fell onto his shoulder.

“Don’t. Move.”

The voice was rough, a breathy snarl through clenched teeth, but he recognized it immediately.

His fingers tightened around the knife.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

As he turned, he slipped the knife out from under his coat, tucked it behind his back, holding it loosely in his right hand, just out of sight.

The police officer from the morning that woman had died at the camp looked like he was on his last legs. Dressed in a heavy winter coat, a black toque tight over his ears, he looked pale and drawn, his eyes twitching and frantic.

“Step away from the door.” His voice shook as he spoke.

The cop was standing less than three feet from him, close enough to cut off any avenue of escape with a single step.

He looked at him carefully. There was something wrong with this picture, something out of place. Something missing.

“I’ve got you for breaking and entering. Don’t make it worse. Step away from the door.”

It was the voice that gave him away, the stressed firmness of it, the sound of authority coming apart, much though he tried to conceal it.

“Constable Harrison,” he said, drawing his lips back in a smile. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your family?”

“Step away from the door.”

“And if you’re going to be out on a night like this—”

“I’m not going to tell you—”

“Shouldn’t you be armed?”

Taking a single step forward, he planted his right foot firmly on the snowy ground and used the momentum to drive the knife deep into the constable’s midsection, bringing his left hand up in the same motion to cover the man’s mouth.

He could feel the scream against his gloved palm, could see the cop’s eyes widen as he struggled against the pain, against falling backward into the snow.

Pulling the knife from the constable’s body, he took hold of the shoulders of the man’s jacket and dragged him behind the corner of the house. He didn’t do anything else to conceal the body. No one would find it tonight, and by morning he would be gone.

He wiped the blade against the cop’s legs, held it up to the silvery light.

It was time.

It took only a few, silent moments with the edge of the credit card, a small, almost inaudible click, and the window swung open.

Pushing it slightly, carefully, listening for creaks, he reached through and turned the deadbolt.

Cassie silently counted each of the stairs as she descended into the basement: nine, ten.

Her hand was loose on the rickety railing; she knew better than to trust it with any of her weight.

Eleven.

The stairs themselves were brightly lit, but outside of that pool of light, the basement was pitch-dark. Cassie tried not to think of what might be lurking in that darkness, afraid that anything she imagined in this place might come to life.

The phrase “It’s all in your head” had never been so terrifying.

Twelve.

Not far to go now.

Thirteen.

It had been so cold at the top of the stairs, and now it was sweltering. Sweat dripped down her back and pooled at the base of her spine. Her shirt was soaked.

Fourteen.

One more step.

As her feet touched the concrete floor of the basement, there was an echoing click, and the light flashed out.

Cassie stumbled in the sudden dark, crashing into the wall with her shoulder. Her breath was ripped from her and it took her a moment to be able to breathe again.

Her heart racing, she leaned against the wall, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark, counting her breaths.

In the distance, she could hear the roaring crackle of the fire.

And footsteps.

She froze in place and held her breath.

Nothing.

No sound save the distant flames.

But there had been something. She was sure of it.

“Hello?” she called out, willing her voice not to shake. “Who’s there?”

There was a slight shuffle, an almost silent rasp that might have been a footfall, or it might have been her imagination.

It’s all in your head.

“Hello?” She tried again, louder this time. “Is someone—”

Her skin prickled and she shivered. Someone was there. She couldn’t see them, but they were close enough for her to sense.

Close enough to touch.

She turned and took a single, careful step toward the furnace room.

“Hello?” She called out. “Hello?”

She heard the sound of a breath a fraction of a second before two hands wrapped around her throat in the dark. Mr. Monkey fell to the floor as the fingers tightened.

“You selfish bitch,” a whisper hissed, close to her ear.

She brought her hands up, tried to pull the fingers away, but they were too tight, and they tightened even more as she struggled.

“How could you do this?”

Bright flashes of light exploded in her eyes and a low buzzing started in her ears.

“Heather,” she gasped, struggling with her sister’s fingers at her throat. “Please—”

“You ruined everything.”

The buzzing grew louder and Cassie dug her fingernails into her sister’s hands, trying to wrench them away. There was a sharp cry, a flinch, but her fingers didn’t release.

“Heather.”

“This is what you—”

With the last of her strength, Cassie kicked out as hard as she could and reached toward the sound of the voice. She caught her sister in the leg with the kick, and as she stumbled forward, Cassie dug her fingernails into Heather’s face, clawing and scratching.

Heather screamed, and her grip released. Cassie fell to the floor, pulling herself away as she gasped for breath.

“You fucking bitch,” Heather shrieked. “Why can’t you just die?”

“Heather, I’m—” She cut herself off and scrambled away from where she had been attacked. In the dark, Heather would only be able to find her if she said anything, made any noise. Otherwise, her sister was just as blind as she was.

She hoped.

“Heather I, Heather I, Heather I.” Heather put on a whiny baby voice, parroting her own words back to her. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You don’t care about anybody else. It’s all Cassie’s world to you, isn’t it?”

Shuffling, almost silent footsteps in the dark. Faltering. Searching.

Cassie crouched down, trying to make herself small, trying to calm her breathing, trying to be silent.

“I can hear you,” Heather said. “You can’t hide forever.”

More shuffling, then a crash as something fell over. Cassie jumped, forced herself not to scream. Heather was searching for her, working her way through the dark.

“And when I find you, I’m going to—”

“Girls!” The basement light flashed on overhead, and Cassie slammed her eyes shut and ducked her head at the sudden brightness. “What’s going on in here?”

With the door closed, he stood stock-still in the kitchen, not breathing, not making a sound. Listening.

After a long moment, the usual night noises of the house faded away, and there were only the two girls, breathing. Deep, regular, soft breaths. Sleeping breaths. Unbroken. Undisturbed.

He smiled. No need to rush. No need to squander such an opportunity with undue haste. On this night, the lightest of nights, there was a feast waiting to be savoured, long undisturbed hours of pleasure ahead.

The smile widened.

There was time, and space, to do it right this time. To prepare.

Shoes went beside the door, jacket hung on a hook, pockets emptied onto the counter: a package of cigarettes, a lighter, a handful of change, a receipt from a coffee shop, a battered black journal, duct-taped along the spine.

The knife was already warm in his hand.

He smiled. All was ready.

After a long moment, Cassie risked opening her eyes.

Heather was standing a few feet away, eyes clenched tightly shut, blood dripping onto her pyjamas from the scratches on her cheeks.

Cassie shivered: she had backed herself into a corner. It would have been only seconds before her sister found her.

“Are you two fighting again?”

Their father was standing in the doorway of the furnace room, dressed in his usual at-home clothes: a pair of jeans and a checkered flannel shirt.

Again? But they never fought. She and Heather had always been so close. It wasn’t until—

Cassie had to shake her head to remind herself that she was dreaming. It all seemed so real: the world, the people, the memories. It was hard to keep it all straight.

“She started it,” Heather cried, taking a few steps toward him, gesturing at her face. “Look at what she did to me!”

“Let me take a look at you,” their father said, and Heather stepped in front of him, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. “Yeah, that looks pretty bad.”

Cassie rose slowly to her feet. Mr. Monkey was on the floor a few feet away, and she picked him up and held him close.