Black Feathers (5 page)

“Hold on,” Skylark said, stopping in the middle of the square. “Let’s sit.” Skylark gestured at the concrete wall that ran the circumference of the fountain.

“Sure.”

Cassie sat down uneasily next to her on the ledge.

“So,” Skylark said. “That was Brother Paul. Do you see what I mean about him?”

The excitement on her face made her look like a kid.

“I guess,” Cassie said.

Skylark pushed her gently on the shoulder. “‘Dorothy’ seemed to roll off your tongue. Did you think about it, or did it just come to you?”

“It just—” Cassie was distracted by Skylark pulling a joint out of her jacket pocket, dampening it with her lips. “It just came to me. It felt right.”

Skylark lit the joint with her disposable lighter, checked the glow of the cherry, then took a deep toke. “Yeah, that makes sense,” she said tightly, holding the smoke and extending the joint to Cassie.

Cassie pinched the joint between her thumb and forefinger, careful not to burn her fingers. “It was
The Wizard of Oz,
” she said, holding a deep toke. The smoke burned and surged in her throat, but she fought the desire to cough it out. “You know, Judy Garland?” She looked at Skylark as she passed the joint back.

Skylark nodded. “Totally,” she said. “I get that. That’s perfect.” She slapped her palm on her knee. “Strange girl in a strange land, that’s perfect. That’s awesome.”

Cassie shook her head and took the joint back. “No,” she said. “It wasn’t that. I mean, that’s cool. I’m totally going to say that.” They both laughed. “No, it was … My dad and I used to watch that movie all the time.”

But that had been before.

There must have been something in her voice; Skylark draped her arm around Cassie’s back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did your dad—”

She hesitated. “My father’s dead,” she said, looking out toward the square.

She didn’t say anything else.

And Skylark didn’t ask.

It was cold enough that Holly’s breath was a grey cloud and goosebumps rose unchecked on her bare legs. She would have been wearing stockings, but her last pair had gotten ripped an hour before.

He had apologized profusely.

He had also asked if he could keep the ripped hose.

She had charged him an extra twenty dollars.

Standing on the edge of the sidewalk, she lit another cigarette, revelling in the moment of warmth from her Bic lighter.

She stood with her legs slightly apart, one foot planted on the yellow
No Parking
line along the curb, slightly turned out.

Inviting.

That was the trick: to appear inviting.

So many of the other girls looked so angry, so hard, staring into the cars as they crawled past like they were daring the drivers to stop, like they were looking for a fight.

No one wanted that. If the drivers had wanted a fight, they would have stayed at home.

Oh well. The other girls could spend the whole night on the sidewalk if that’s what they wanted. Holly would at least have a warm car or two. Maybe a cheap motel room, if she got really lucky.

She smiled when she saw the minivan coming back toward her; it had already passed her twice.

Third time lucky,
she thought as it stopped in front of her.

There was a warm rush of air as the passenger window came down and she leaned closer, taking a careful look at the driver.

“Hey,” he said.

He was a little awkward, a little uncertain. A young guy,
not well-dressed, but not a slob. Respectable. Respectful. Plus, minivan. Probably a family man.

“You must be cold.”

The sort of thing you might say if you’d never done this before.

“A bit, yeah,” she said, leaning on the open window, watching his eyes as they darted to her neckline. She smiled, at him and to herself.

“You … you could get in,” he said slowly, as if trying to talk himself into it.

“Yeah?” she asked, letting her smile widen. “What did you have in mind?”

“Are—are you …?”

“I’m not a cop,” she said. “Are you?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No. God, no. I was just …”

“Here,” she said, pulling down her top, flashing him her tits. “No cop’s gonna do that.”

His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. “No,” he said. “No, I guess not.” He cleared his throat, shifted in the driver’s seat. “Are you—You look pretty young.”

Sold,
she thought.

“You wanna see my ID?” Sassy, but not too sassy.

“No, no. That’s okay.”

“So.” She leaned forward again. “Should I get in?”

He smiled, then looked away and shifted awkwardly. “Um … I was just—What do you …”

“Are you asking how much?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Why don’t I get in and we can talk?” she said, curling her fingers around the door handle.

He took a moment to say, “Sure. Why don’t you get in?”

Her skirt rode up as she sat down in the passenger seat. She let it.

Closing the door softly, she pulled the seat belt around her shoulder and clicked it shut. “Better safe than sorry,” she said, reaching out and putting her hand on his thigh.

The van pulled away from the curb.

Cassandra’s eyes opened into a blinding silver light.

There was nothing … She was so cold … She could feel it eating into her bones, sapping her strength. She couldn’t move—

She couldn’t move.

She struggled against the invisible bonds, against the nails driven through her elbows and knees, staking her to the bed

—concrete—

as the light from the door fell across her. She tried to blink it away

—there is no door there is no bed—

She waited for the sound of footfalls, but none came. There was only the sound of breathing in the dark

—there’s nothing there—

a wet, slavering sound.

Then footfalls. She could picture the running feet, the jump

—it’s all in your head—

and the sudden crushing weight on her chest, the pointed knobs of knees crushing her ribs.

A wet, warm, panting breath fell against her face.

“Cassandra.”

The wet voice. The smell of garbage and death.

—he’s not there he’s not there—

She was looking at herself from outside. She could see herself in her bed, the covers messed, the light from the hallway spilling across her.

—I’m not there—

He was crouching on top of her, reaching for her throat. His fingers clenched. They were bony, hard, wiry, clutching at her neck, crushing the wind out of her.

Choking.

—he’s not there he can’t be—

She tried to move, tried to fight.

All she had to do was arch her back, throw him off.

But her body wouldn’t respond.

She was helpless.

—not that never again—

She looked up, trying to meet his eyes as he pressed down on her throat. She looked up, pleading. She looked up, for mercy.

—never never any mercy—

Tears rolled hot down her cheeks, his breath coming fast now, wet.

“Cassandra.”

Sparks flared in her eyes, bright white bursts that surged with the beating of her heart.

—not again it can’t be I—

“Cassie?”

Her eyes flashed open and she gasped, cold air filling her lungs with an icy, sharp burn.

She didn’t know where she was, staring upward into a blinding orange light. Someone was shaking her shoulder, whispering her name.

“Cassie, are you okay?”

It took a moment for everything to come into focus: the light above her, the brick wall behind her, Skylark’s face inches from her own, eyes wide, mouth creased with concern.

“Cassie?” Her voice was anxious, tight.

“I’m okay,” Cassie gasped, and her body shuddered, all of her muscles releasing at once.

“You were—” Skylark seemed to struggle to find the right words. “You sounded like someone was killing you.”

Cassie could still feel the knees pressing into her chest, the fingers around her neck. A sob built in her throat and she couldn’t hold it in. Her back heaved as she cried.

“It’s okay,” Skylark whispered. “It’s all right. It was just a dream.”

“No,” Cassie gasped. But she had no words to explain.

It hadn’t been a dream, not at all.

“Shh,” Skylark said. “It’s all right. Here—” She moved in closer. “Turn over.” Cassie looked at her. “Turn over,” she repeated.

Hesitating for a moment, Cassie rolled onto her other side, facing away from Skylark.

With a rustling of her sleeping bag, Skylark pulled herself closer, wrapping one arm over Cassie, snuggling in close. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It was just a bad dream.”

Trying to be subtle, Cassie fumbled under her blanket, looking for Mr. Monkey. She had managed to get him out of her backpack without Skylark noticing. When she found him, she held him close.

She could feel the other girl breathing behind her.

“It was just a bad dream,” Skylark repeated, in the soft voice one might use to comfort a child.

“It wasn’t,” Cassie said, too quietly for even Skylark to hear.

“It was my dad.”

And in her last breath before she fell back to sleep, Cassie caught the faintest smell of paint thinner, and smoke.

He pulled the van slowly into the garage, stopping in front of the shelves along the back wall, cutting the engine before he pressed the button to close the garage door.

He sat for a moment in the quiet, both hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the shelves. They were packed, but orderly: A couple of packages of toilet paper, one open. A flat of bottled water, and another of Coke. Soup. Crackers. Cereal. The consolidation of weekly trips to the warehouse store.

Taking the key from the ignition, he stepped out of the van and closed the door behind himself.

Two steps took him to the washer and dryer. He twisted the dial to Cold Wash and Cold Rinse and added detergent as water started to gush into the tub. In the cold of the garage he shucked off his clothes—pants, shirt, all the way down to his underwear—straightening them before folding them into the icy water. He had worn black, but he wasn’t worried about staining—the washer would take the blood right out.

Glancing down, he decided to add to the load the sneakers he had kicked off. Better safe than sorry.

After slamming the lid shut, he went back to the van, opening up the back with the fob on the key chain.

He had wrapped the knife in a plastic grocery-store bag; the weight of it in one hand was reassuring as he lowered the back door shut.

He tucked the package in his other hand into the chest
freezer, lifting up several packages of meat wrapped in brown paper and a couple of frozen chickens to add it to the small pile of newspaper-wrapped packages in the far bottom corner of the icy chest. Before closing the lid, he placed everything as it had been.

He was almost at the door into the house when he remembered.

He set the wrapped knife on the shelf by the door and went back down the stairs, popping the sliders on the van.

It took him a minute to put the car seats back in the van, securing them so they’d be ready for the morning.

Then he put the knife into the dishwasher, crammed the bloody plastic bag deep into the garbage can, under the plastic wrap from the hamburger they’d had for dinner, and went upstairs.