Black Feathers (45 page)

Ali responded with a stern set of her jaw, a lingering stare at the door, then a glare at Cassie, but Cassie wasn’t going to be swayed. She wasn’t going to run.

“Those people, they’re all looking so desperately for something to believe in. If you give them food, and give them a sense
of belonging, they’ll follow you anywhere.” He shrugged, and Ali glanced again at the door. “Look at history. Look at Hitler. Look at Jesus. It’s all the same.”

“Sure, you have to deal with all the riff-raff, all the shit, but it’s worth it when someone like your friend Skylark comes along. And you know what?” He looked seriously at Cassie, as if the question was more than rhetorical. “There’s always someone like Skylark.” His eyes shone as he thought about her. “So young. So … idealistic. So broken.” He looked almost wistful. “Girls like her,” he said, his voice sounding far away. “They taste so sweet.”

Cassie shuddered, and Brother Paul noticed. “But you,” he said. “You’re something special. I’ve never seen a girl like you. So fiery, so full of love, so shattered.” She could feel his hunger. “I’ve watched you for a long time.”

“So you just … you find a place where someone is killing people, you create these communities, you attract people, then you—” She struggled to keep the conversation going, even though the words tasted like copper in her mouth.

“I go home,” he said, with a note of pride.

“Home?”

“Toronto,” he said. “I’ve got a nice place in Rosedale. Well, it was my parents’ place, but I like it.”

“So …” Cassie struggled with what he was saying. “You’re rich?”

His smile was smug. “I’m not like you,” he said.

“So you create these places, you find these girls and then you just …”

“Disappear,” he said, waving his knife hand like a bird in flight.

Then it clicked. “Edmonton,” she said. “That’s what Sarah meant.”

He looked like he was going to laugh. “Oh, she told you, did she? I thought I got to her before she had a chance to say anything.”

She could still hear the fear in the woman’s voice. “You killed her?”

“Well,” he said. “I helped.” He tilted his head, tugged on Ali’s hair. “The wonderful thing about paranoid schizophrenics is that they’re so suggestible if they’re off their meds. In fairness, though, she did a far better job of it than I would have.”

The full significance of what he was saying was only beginning to resolve itself in Cassie’s mind. How many girls had there been? How many murders? How many cities?

“I honestly didn’t expect her to recognize me,” he said. “She was pretty nutted out. Hmm.” It was a puzzled sound. “I guess it’s nice that people can still surprise you.”

He tightened his grip in Ali’s hair, pulled her taller, taut. “Enough talking,” he said. “I want to be on the first flight home, and I don’t want to rush anything.”

He smiled lasciviously at Cassie as he lifted the knife away from Ali’s neck and slipped it, blade up, into the neckline of the T-shirt she had put on to sleep in.

“First your girlfriend,” he said. “Then you.” He slid the knife downward, the fabric parting with a barely audible hiss against the blade. “Saving the best for last.”

Every muscle in Cassie’s body tensed, coiled.

As the knife slipped through the fabric, Ali’s T-shirt fell open, and Brother Paul glanced down.

Just as Cassie had known he would.

She sprang from the bed, planted one foot on the floor, and bounded for the door.

Brother Paul was fast, but not faster than she had imagined.
Throwing Ali out of the way, he reached her before she got to the door, grabbed her hair and pulled her off her feet, back into the room.

She tumbled to the floor beside the bed, the wind pushed out of her, her head screaming where he had yanked her hair. Her shoulder flashed with pain where it had taken the weight of her falling body.

But she was right where she wanted to be.

“You little bitch,” Brother Paul screamed, kicking her so hard in the side she almost threw up. “You little whore.”

As he started to drag her across the room by her hair, she forced herself to roll toward him, her hand coming up from under the edge of the bed, the knife flashing in the light as she drove it into his calf.

The point of the blade caught on his jeans, then sliced through, plunging deep into the tight ball of muscle and tendon.

Brother Paul screamed, started to turn, and Cassie forced the knife back and forth in the back of his leg, the blade tearing more than cutting. Blood soaked her hand, the handle of the knife suddenly slick, hard to hold, but Cassie tightened her grip, kept sawing at Brother Paul’s calf until, with one final pop and a long scream, he dropped.

He fell partially atop her, crushing her arm, forcing her to lose her grip on the knife. But he lost his as well, and it clattered to the floor.

Not far enough away, though. Cassie watched helplessly as he scrambled for the knife. She struggled against his weight, but she was pinned, powerless, as his fingers curled around the handle of the blade.

There was a scream, and Ali was towering over them, eyes flaming, her body painted with the blood from her neck. Her
foot came down on his arm, pinned it to the floor, his hand springing open and releasing the knife.

Then she stomped, heel first, on his wrist, once, twice, three times, until she crushed it with one final footfall, a splintering, crunching sound coming almost at the same moment as Brother Paul’s high-pitched scream.

Ali didn’t stop.

Dropping to her knees, she grabbed his hair with both hands—directly over each ear—and smashed his head into the floor.

“You son of a bitch,” she cried, smashing his head again, the crunching smack punctuated with a desperate sob.

“Ali.” Cassie struggled, pulled herself free of the weight of his body. “Ali.”

She didn’t seem to hear. She smashed his head into the floor again.

“Ali.” She crawled around Brother Paul’s body. “Ali,” she cried, touching her shoulder, closing her arms around her. “Come on. Stop.” The floor was streaked with blood under the man’s head, his hair wet and matted.

She smashed his head again.

“Come on.” Cassie lifted her away, and Brother Paul’s head dropped with a damp thud. “He can’t hurt you. It’s all right. It’s all over.”

Ali was a dead weight in her arms and Cassie couldn’t hold her. They slumped together, sliding down the wall, coming to rest a short distance away from the heap of his body.

Cassie cradled Ali in her arms, stroking her shoulders, brushing back her hair.

“Shh,” she said. “Shh. It’s all right.”

Ali was looking directly at Brother Paul. “Is he—”

Cassie studied him for a moment. “No, look. His chest.” It was slight, but Brother Paul’s chest rose and fell as he breathed.

“We should call the police,” Ali said, her voice suddenly clear of any panic, any desperation. “And an ambulance.”

But neither of them moved.

“Thank you,” Ali said, and Cassie kissed her gently on the forehead. “I meant it, though.” Her voice had softened, taken on a slow, dreamlike quality. “When I told you to run.”

“I know,” Cassie said, pulling her even closer. “But I’m not running anymore.”

A cold wind seemed to blow through the bedroom, bringing the faint sound of sirens.

The darkest of winter was the time of greatest light, when families gathered and friends embraced and enemies laid down their differences.

It was in the light that the Darkness found its home.

It moved unseen through the shopping malls and crowded sidewalks, in the Christmas carols and the coloured lights, between the candles and the shop windows.

It jumped from person to person, host to host. It knew that in the brightest of lights were the darkest of shadows.

The car screeched out of the parkade, deliberately cutting off the approaching driver.

The driver of the cut-off car shouted once, then let the anger settle in, speeding up to keep right on the bumper of the bastard who had cut him off, ignoring the yellow light of the intersection.

The mother pulled her child back from the edge of the road, screaming about being more careful as she lifted the child and threw her into the stroller.

The old man shouted at the young mother as she juggled her bags, as the toddler cried in the stroller.

The boys outside the shopping mall laughed at the shouting old man.

The security guard stepped out the front door, toward the boys.

The Darkness takes us all.

Every time the door swung open, every time someone came into the restaurant, Cassie would glance up, turning slightly, her body tensing, her heart racing.

Then Ali would squeeze her hand under the table, and she would remember to breathe again.

“Anytime now,” Constable Farrow said, across the table. “Anytime.”

The sidewalks outside the window were clotted with people, bright colours against the grey Boxing Day sky, everyone loaded down with packages, still smiling in the post-Christmas glow.

The restaurant was packed too, every table full, except the one next to the three women. Hong had let Ali put a
Reserved
sign on it, trying to look gruff, but failing utterly.

He had spent most of the past fifteen minutes at the bar watching them, pretending to be busy. Every time someone took even a sip out of their drink, he was there to refill, shushing Ali when she started to stand up, offering to help with the full house.

“We’ve got it under control,” he said. “You’ve been through enough already.”

“We should call the police,” Cassie had said, still holding Ali as close as she could, both of them staring at Brother Paul’s fallen body, both of them watching the slow, uncertain rise and fall of his chest.

“The kitchen,” Ali had said. “The phone is in the kitchen.”

They had held on to each other for support as they stumbled out of the bedroom, Ali’s hand pressed against the cut on her throat, tiptoeing through the darkness, the strange cold until they reached the light switch on the wall outside the door. It took Ali two tries to flick the switch.

When the lights came on, Cassie had crumpled to the ground, her breath stuck deep inside her chest, building inside her like a muted roar of anguish and pain.

Constable Harrison was lying on the kitchen floor, still and silent. A pool of blood was dark, almost black on the tiles next to his left side, and as Cassie watched, the surface of the blood seemed to shimmer, creeping farther and farther away from him. Behind him, the door was wide open, snow swirling in the light from the kitchen.

He was holding the telephone in his right hand. A scratchy, distorted voice echoed in the silence. “Hold on, Constable. Hold on. Cars are en route.”

Seconds later, red lights sprayed across the falling snow, and police officers were spilling through the door, guns drawn, voices shouting, “Get down, get down.”

The fourth officer through the door, smaller than the others, dropped to her knees beside Harrison’s body, her gun falling to the floor as she grabbed him by the shoulders of his heavy coat.

“Harrison!” Farrow had shouted. “Harrison!”

As if the sound of her voice could bring him back.

“He always was a prima donna,” Farrow muttered, taking a sip of her coffee.

Hong refilled the cup the moment she set it down.

Cassie remembered a blinking Christmas tree in the corner of the emergency room. There was no one else there.

The nurses had let them stay together. Cassie had held Ali’s hand as the doctor examined the cut on her throat.

“This should heal up just fine,” he had said, as he applied butterfly closures to the wound. “It could have been a whole lot worse.”

Cassie and Ali had just looked at each other.

“Now let’s take a look at you,” the doctor had said, turning to Cassie.

Cassie shook her head. “I’m all right,” she said.

“How about you let me be the judge of that, okay?” The doctor’s smile had been warm, friendly.

When they finally emerged from the warren of examining rooms behind the Restricted Access door, Farrow was in the waiting area, talking to the cop who had ridden in with them.

Farrow broke off in mid-sentence and crossed the floor to them in three steps. The front of her coat was wet; it took Cassie a moment to realize that it was Harrison’s blood.

“Are you all right?” Farrow asked.

Ali had nodded, but Cassie asked, “Where’s Constable Harrison? Where’s Chris?”

Farrow flinched. “He’s in surgery,” she said, her voice shaking. She sniffed, and Cassie could see the wet of tears in the corners of her eyes. “The doctors don’t know. They rushed him right in.”

“Come here,” Cassie said, touching her arm, guiding her toward the chairs in the waiting area. “Let’s sit down.”

“Actually …” The cop who had accompanied them in the ambulance had appeared on Farrow’s other side. “We need to get you to the station. We need to get statements, and—”

“No,” Cassie said, sitting down next to her. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“I’ve got orders.”

“I don’t care,” Cassie said flatly. And then, turning to Farrow, “Cream and sugar, right?”

Farrow hesitated, then nodded.

Cassie looked pointedly at the cop. “Would you mind?”

The cop stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Sure,” he said. “I need to call in anyway. Do you want anything while I’m at the machine?” He glanced between Cassie and Ali, who had sat down next to her.

“I’m all right,” she had said.

The world outside the restaurant windows was slate grey, high clouds bright and cold. A crow alighted on the concrete rim of the planter across the sidewalk.

“Here he is,” Cassie said, catching a glimpse of someone coming down the sidewalk.

Ali jumped up to hold the door open for him.

“I could get used to this,” Harrison said, smiling at Ali, walking slowly toward the table.

Farrow had already pulled his chair out for him. “Don’t,” she warned.

Harrison was drawn and pale, and he looked weak, but the grey circles were gone from around his eyes, and there was a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“We were just talking about you,” Farrow said.

“Conquering hero?”

“Prima donna.”

He smiled. “That works too.”

Cassie had no idea what to say, what words might even come close to doing justice to what she was feeling. As she looked at him, tears welled up in her eyes.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked, as Ali sat back down and took her hand again.

She nodded. “Better than,” she said.

“That’s good.”

“What about you? You’re …?”

“Apparently I’m a miracle,” he said, shooting a glance at Farrow.

“You’re just a crappy dresser.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” the surgeon had reported, hours later. The sun had come up on Christmas morning, and they could see the world whitening outside the emergency room windows.

Cassie wondered if doctors in emergency were required to say that.

“Your partner’s going to be fine,” the doctor had continued, and Cassie thought she saw Farrow shudder. “It appears that the blade got diverted by the layers of clothing he was wearing. An inch to the left …” He shook his head. “As it is, it’s largely a flesh wound. We’ve cleaned it and double-checked it and stitched it up.”

Cassie’s ears had roared with relief.

“I resent that remark,” Harrison said, as Hong slipped a cup of coffee in front of him.

“You were saved by a hoodie,” Farrow said.

Watching the two of them talk, Cassie squeezed Ali’s hand.

After the surgeon had left, the three of them had sat in the waiting area for a long time, not saying anything. The television high in the corner of the room provided a constant running hum of news, mostly footage of Christmas celebrations from around the world.

The cop who had accompanied them in the ambulance, who had been sitting silently across from them, cleared his throat pointedly.

“Jane,” Cassie said quietly.

Farrow turned sharply at the sound of her first name.

“I think we have to go.” She cocked her head in the direction of the waiting officer.

Farrow nodded slowly, like she should be saying something.

“Can you do me a favour?” Cassie asked, and her voice shook a little.

“Is it going to get me suspended?” Farrow smiled as she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Cassie said. “I was just … Can you call my mom, please?”

Ali’s hand had been warm on her shoulder.

“So, are you gonna tell me what’s in there?” Harrison asked, pointing at the file folders on the table in front of Farrow.

She raised an eyebrow. “You know our policy about not commenting on ongoing investigations. Last I heard, you were suspended.”

Harrison nodded slowly. “There is that,” he said.

Farrow looked at him for a long moment, then broke off, shaking her head.

She opened up the top file.

“Well, first,” she started, glancing at Cassie, then looking away. “I already told Cassie. Her father was arrested last night, crossing into the US.”

“Here?”

Farrow shook her head. “In the Okanagan. As far as we can tell, he never came to the island.”

Harrison nodded. “Well, that’s something.” Cassie looked down at the table and didn’t see Harrison turn to her. “Was there a warrant?” he asked.

“There was an alert,” Farrow said slowly, carefully. “Investigators, after the fire …”

“They found pictures,” Cassie said, without looking up. “In the basement. Pictures of me. And other girls.” She squeezed Ali’s hand, struggled to steady her breath. She didn’t know how to react, what to feel.

It was over. The basement was gone.

In the silence, she realized that something had happened. Looking up, she met Harrison’s eye.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

She shook her head to cut him off. “You tried,” she said. “That was more than almost anyone else ever did.”

He looked distraught, and like he wanted to speak, but no words came.

Farrow cleared her throat, moved the file to the bottom of the small pile.

“Paul James Corbett,” she said. “A.k.a. Paul Corbett. A.k.a. Brother Paul. A.k.a. Brother James.”

At the police station, they had separated Cassie and Ali, taking them into different interview rooms.

Cassie spent about forty-five minutes in the first interview, answering every question the heavy-set detective with the Italian name asked as best she could: where had she met Brother Paul, could she detail any encounters she had had with Brother Paul, what was the nature of her relationship with Brother Paul, what was the nature of her relationship with Sarah from Edmonton, what was the nature of her relationship with Laura Ensley …

“I’m just about done,” he said, and the apology in his tone seemed genuine. “I just want to ask you about one more thing.”

Reaching into a bag that had been out of sight under the edge of the table, he set a black book in front of Cassie.

“Do you recognize this?”

She had hesitated, then nodded. With the duct tape along the spine, it was unmistakable. “It was Brother Paul’s.”

“You saw him with it?”

She nodded. “Yes. He always had it with him.”

The detective picked the book off the table and opened it to the first page. “Did you ever have any idea what was in it?”

Cassie had shaken her head, and the detective had begun to read in a flat monotone. “There are only two elements, eternally opposed, irreconcilable, irreducible. Light. And the Darkness. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and the Darkness was upon the face of the deep.” He closed the book. “It goes on and on like that.”

Across the sidewalk, another crow alighted on the edge of the planter.

“Well, we interviewed Cassie and Ali early on Christmas morning, and again later in the day.” Farrow looked across the table at them, then returned to the folder. “And based on their statements we started making some calls. It turns out that Mr. Corbett had something of a secret life.”

Harrison looked at Cassie, his gaze lingering as Farrow continued.

“He appears to have been living on quite a sizable inheritance following the death of his parents in a car accident about twelve years ago.” She looked at Harrison. “And yes, we’re looking pretty closely at that.”

“I would assume.”

“We’ve started to put together his travel records from the last decade or so. It appears that he would take lengthy trips every fall. Montreal. Halifax. St. John’s. Edmonton.” Cassie flinched. “These trips seem to coincide with the disappearances of young women in each of those cities.”

She sighed heavily and closed the folder. “It appears that Mr. Corbett would travel to cities where young women were being reported missing. And he would add to that number. One or two victims at a time. Usually runaways. And he was always well gone and away before the bodies were found or
any discrepancies between the killings were noticed.” Farrow looked meaningfully at Harrison.

“He called them ‘game preserves,’” Cassie said quietly. “The places that he made. The communities. They were his own private hunting reserves.”