Black Feathers (36 page)

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Boris,” Harrison said. “There’s gonna be some paperwork.” He stepped toward the desk.

“Paperwork?”

He broke off when Harrison reached around to the small of his back and laid his side arm on the desk between them.

Both of them took a step back from the gun.

“It’s loaded,” Harrison clarified. “So you know.”

Boris’s face had gone white as he looked between the gun and Harrison, and back to the gun. “You were strapped? Harrison, what the fuck?”

Harrison didn’t answer. His hand was shaking as he laid his badge down on the desk next to his gun.

Boris shook his head. “Take it back,” he said, meeting Harrison’s eyes. “There’s no need to make a career decision out of this. Nothing happened. You don’t need to—”

Harrison shook his head. “I’m sorry about the shit that’s gonna rain down, Boris. But I need you to call this in. I’m gonna go upstairs and make some calls.”

He was starting to turn when Boris spoke. “Nothing happened in there. This can be just between us. It doesn’t have to—”

“Yes, it does,” Harrison said, turning back. “I brought a concealed weapon into a holding cell.” He cocked his head toward the monitor, which showed Wolcott sitting back down on his cot. “I had every intention of putting a bullet into him. Do you really think I should be wearing a badge right now, let alone carrying a gun?”

He didn’t wait for Boris to answer. Harrison turned and walked toward the stairs.

Cassie and Ali stumbled along the walk in front of the house, clinging together, holding each other up for the quick jaunt between the front door that led from Colette’s suite to the side door into the basement. Neither of them noticed the cold at first.

At the end of the walk, Ali stopped and turned toward the street, shouting, “Merry Christmas!” at Hong and May pulling away in their car, at Erin and George walking away down the sidewalk, his arm around her shoulders.

They were almost the last to leave: Murray was still upstairs at Collette’s, but it didn’t look like he was going anywhere.

Cassie smiled and blushed at the thought.

Her breath hung silver in the moonlight.

It was only then that she realized she was holding Ali’s hand.

As if she could read her mind, Ali tugged on Cassie’s hand. “Come on,” she cried, turning and dragging Cassie. “Let’s get inside before we freeze to death.”

Their heels clattered along the driveway, echoing in the cold stillness.

Ali flung the door open and practically pushed Cassie inside, slamming the door behind them. The air was a cushion of heat
they seemed to fall into the moment the door was closed.

“Oh my God,” Ali said, shaking herself, running her hands up and down along her bare arms.

Her skin was shimmering with goosebumps. Even in the half-light, Cassie could see every fine hair, every raised bump.

A dream.

No.

She shook her head, trying to push out the thought. Not a dream. This was real. This was real.

“Are you all right?”

Ali was looking at her, her head partially cocked, her eyes concerned and curious.

“Yeah,” Cassie said, nodding for emphasis. “Better than.”

“Are you sure? You looked—”

Without letting herself think, Cassie kissed her. Her lips lingered on Ali’s, feeling the cool of her mouth, the warmth of her breath.

Not a dream,
Cassie told herself, forcing the thought away. Not a dream. Not a dream.

“That—” Ali said, as Cassie withdrew. “Um. Okay.”

Cassie looked away.

“I …” Ali struggled to find words. “I’m not really sure—I don’t know what to do right now.”

“Do you want to dance?” She could feel the heat of a blush on her face, but she wasn’t sure what it was from: The wine? The warmth? Ali?

Ali smiled and touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip. “There isn’t any music,” she said, taking a step toward Cassie.

“No?” Cassie said, heat lightning crackling in the air between them. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Ali said, opening her arms.

At least it’s not too cold,
Cassie thought, kicking at a skid of snow at the edge of the sidewalk, the last dregs from the storm a few days before.

She stopped, watched the chunk of brown-tinged snow slither away along the pavement.

When had it snowed?

It was spring, wasn’t it?

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She looked around: the familiar buildings against the backdrop of mountains, the corner. She could have drawn the scene from memory, right down to the heavy grey clouds, almost black, looming over everything.

But something didn’t feel right. It was clearly winter—she wasn’t imagining the wind cutting through her—so why couldn’t she remember the snowstorm?

She knew it had happened. She could see the proof. So why couldn’t she remember?

Why had she thought it was spring?

Something tickled her nose, and she half-turned. It was starting to snow, tiny flakes dancing and spinning in the air.

Definitely not spring.

Bundling her jacket tightly around herself and hoisting her backpack more securely onto her shoulder, she walked toward downtown.

The wind screamed down the sidewalk, a howling gale that twisted the bare trees, that sliced into her flesh.

She stopped in front of the window of the Lakeview. She thought maybe she would go in, sit at the counter and order a
hot chocolate, but then Alicia Felder came into view, her hair pulled back, her order pad in her hand.

She stopped at the front window, flipped the pad open and took the pen out from behind her ear. She was smiling, laughing, leaning forward to talk to whoever was sitting at the table. She was like a completely different person, and Cassie was surprised to feel a strange warmth in her chest as she looked at her.

When Ali looked up from her pad, though, she curled her lip into a silent snarl and shook her head slightly at the window before turning away.

Cassie was shaking as she walked away.

She walked past the pool hall, with the legendary arcade in the back, edging past the crowd of boys out front, pushing and shoving one another in a cloud of cigarette smoke and cologne, past the girls with their hairspray and perfume, who seemed to cling to the wall, who watched her warily as she passed.

When she got too cold, she ducked into Schmidt’s, just across from the bank.

She spent a long time walking up and down the aisles, not really looking at anything, but letting everything wash over her, like the shimmering heat from the boxy unit near the back of the store.

It was so warm inside, she had to undo her jacket.

Schmidt’s wasn’t very big, but it had a little bit of everything: clothes and curtains, books and tools, a magazine rack and a small bin of CDs and cassettes, hardware and toothpaste. It was like a relic from another age.

The cash desk was a raised platform in the middle of the store, offering Mr. Schmidt clear sightlines over most of the cluttered space.

She knew better than to linger near the magazine rack. Mr. Schmidt watched the area like a hawk. Cassie kept her head down, tried to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible, and kept to what she thought might be safer areas of the store.

She was flipping lazily through a clearance rack in womenswear when she felt the prickle of someone watching her.

Mr. Schmidt was staring right at her from the cash desk.

She took a sharp breath, her heart jumping. She tried smiling at him, but his grim, suspicious focus didn’t falter.

She looked back at the rack, pretended to be engrossed in the clothes, scrunched her brow like she was concentrating.

When she looked up, he was still staring.

She drifted over to the kitchen section, keenly aware of his gaze tracking her.

She tried to concentrate on a display of pots and pans, tried to make it look like she was actually interested in—

“What are you doing here?” The voice at her elbow made her jump.

Mr. Schmidt was standing right there, staring at her, daring her to speak.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he snapped, the words coming out in a sharp, accented bark.

“I’m—”

He waited, his face twisted, about to speak, just waiting for her to say something that would allow his words to come.

“I’m looking for something for my mother,” she said, tripping over the words in her hurry to get them out. “For Christmas.”

She wasn’t sure where the lie had come from—the Christmas tree in the front window maybe or the carols playing
faintly—but the old man’s face brightened, and he took a step back. “Oh, of course,” he said. “Such a sweet thought.”

Cassie felt a flare of anger at the man’s sudden change. One minute he was looking at her like she was a criminal, like she was lower than dirt, and the next he was being as sweet as could be, all because she had told him that she wanted to buy something.

It made her feel like she was going to throw up.

“Did you have anything in mind?” he asked wetly, spraying a little with each word.

“A knife,” Cassie said. “For cooking.”

As soon as she spoke the words she knew that they were right: she needed to buy a knife.

The old man smiled, revealing yellow, cigarette-stained teeth.

“Such a good daughter,” he said. “Let me show you.”

He opened a small display to show her a variety of knives, all the time keeping an eye on the front door in case anyone else came in.

“Do you see something you like?” He looked at her expectantly.

“I think so,” she said. “How much is that one?” As she pointed at the knife—just a little larger than a paring knife—she glanced surreptitiously at her watch. She smiled. Time enough to get back to the school for the bus.

When he told her the price, she nodded. “That sounds great.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Excellent. I wrap it for you, yes?”

He was already several steps toward the checkout before she was able to say, “No.”

He stopped and turned back to her. “No?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll wrap it when I get home.”

He turned away, leaving Cassie to wonder how this had all happened. Why was she buying a knife? Why had she told him not to wrap it?

She didn’t have an answer, but when he handed her the bag, the blade of the knife wrapped in brown paper, Cassie almost jumped back, like the bag had given her a shock. Holding the knife, it felt like she had always held it, like her hand was expecting it somehow.

When she slipped it into the pocket of her jacket, it felt like it belonged there.

Stepping out of the store was like stepping into another world: entirely white, snow against a black sky, the wind whipping around her. “Jesus,” she muttered, bracing herself to step out of the doorway. The snow was almost up to her knees.

How was that possible? She hadn’t been in Schmidt’s that long, and it had barely been snowing out when she went in. This was like it was in the mornings, when it had snowed through most of the night. This was—

In the distance, she heard an electronic buzzer.

The school bell.

“Shit,” she muttered. She had to get back, and with the snow like this …

Her foot cracked through the icy crust and plunged into the snow. Her ankle burned with the cold as the snow went up her pant leg, over her sock. “Shit,” she cried out again, but she took another freezing step. And another. No time to hesitate, no time to delay, or she would be walking all the way home in this.

Every footstep seemed to echo.

There was no one else around as she trudged through the snow. The sidewalk was completely empty, the snow unbroken
except for her steps. The street was empty, no cars, and no tracks or ruts in the white. It was just her, the sound of the wind and the roughness of her breath as she hurried back to the school.

A crow alighted on the stop sign at the corner, its talons scritching against the metal.

As she passed, the crow followed her with its eyes.

It’s like a dream,
she thought.
It’s like
—

Rounding the corner closest to the school was like waking up. Without warning, the sun was bright, reflecting off the dark, high clouds. There wasn’t a trace of snow on the ground, and the warm air was full of the sound of laughing and shouting. A member of the basketball team shouldered past her with barely a glance, wearing shorts and a hoodie with the school logo.