Crossing (5 page)

OCTOBER 24

O
ver the last few weeks, the community of Ashland, New York, has been recovering from the harrowing murder of 16-year-old Justin Dorsey. And now another child has disappeared under equally disturbing circumstances. The latest disappearance of Winston Barnes, 15 years old, has confirmed what many have suspected and feared. A serial child killer is on the loose. “We have a serial kidnapper roaming our streets,” said Ashland Police Chief Adam Geller yesterday at a terse press conference. “Watch your children, be on your guard, be vigilant.”

Citizens of Ashland are trying their hardest in this difficult time. Hundreds volunteered to comb the wooded area behind Barnes’s residence, but most were openly skeptical of finding anything helpful. “There’s snow lying everywhere. If he went into the woods, we’d have seen the tracks already. Smooth as a baby’s cheek,” said Marsha Quinn, a neighbor.

“Nobody’s coming out anymore,” said Nathaniel Jones, a deli storeowner on Main Street.

“Kids are going straight back home after school; parents are shuttling them to and fro. Everybody’s staying home, watching the kids, watching TV.”

The principal of Slackenkill High School, Mr. Jonathan Marsworth, has come under considerable pressure to close the school down for a few days. He has so far refused to relent. A schoolteacher speaking on condition of anonymity said that most parents actually preferred having their children come to school, believing that being among friends would help to restore a sense of normalcy. All after-school activities have been canceled, excepting rehearsals for the school musical. Mr. Marsworth has continued to emphasize the communal importance of that show.

F
ear descended on Ashland like black snow. An undertow of leftover angst from Justin Dorsey’s disappearance reared itself. Gossip in the supermarkets and hair salons tightened, voices hushed with strain. Reporters from nearby counties arrived and started to probe around. A heightened police presence patrolled the streets, and Slackenkill High School hired three more security officers to walk the grounds. The county sheriff gave a talk on safety at a school assembly.

Naomi, bubbly and aghast at the same time, was all over the story. Every day, she spun out new theories on what had happened, mostly based on what she’d been reading online. “I’m telling you,” she said, “the killer’s gotta be someone we all know. A teacher. Another student.”

I looked incredulously at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. And maybe you haven’t noticed, but people are dying. Students you know. Maybe you shouldn’t be so cavalier about this whole thing.”

“It could be true.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

We were walking home after school, a now common day when neither of us had any after-school commitments. The snow on the ground was fluffy, breaking away like sand when we kicked at it. Traffic was light on the cleared roads. Still, I was glad that I’d left my bike at home today, for this time with Naomi.

“But it is so baffling,” she continued. “Just
puff
, disappeared.”

“I thought the police found some unusual tire markings near where Winston lived,” I said. “Somebody came and picked him up. Or kidnapped him. Or lopped off his head and carried him in, piece by piece, if you want. But it’s probably that simple: he was whisked away, willingly or not, by a car. That’s where the police should be focusing their attention. On those tire marks, on a car.”

“Oh, that is so five minutes ago, Xing. Of course they’ve already done that. And the fact that they haven’t fed the media a description of a car just goes to show that there’s nothing there. It’s been too quiet. No word on anything. I think they’re totally perplexed over the whole thing. Personally,” she said breezily, “I think they need to be focusing on the students. It’s one of us. There’re enough oddballs and nut jobs walking around school.”

“You should speak,” I said.

“Oh, shut up,” she replied tersely. “You’re my number one suspect, truth be told. Or should be. Quiet, withdrawn, inscrutable. In fact, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d really think you were a ticking time bomb, like that Seung-Hui Cho psycho. You know, the Virginia Tech guy.”

Her words stung. Quickly, I said, “Yeah, right, you have no—”

“Why are you like that, Xing?” she asked, suddenly serious. There was a long, torturous pause. I could feel her eyes turning to me. “Why can’t you just be normal with everyone the way you are with me? Why do you clam up at school so much?”

“That’s not true; I get along fine with everyone.”

“You so do not. Honestly, sometimes even I look at you and think you’re a freakball. And the thing that gets me is you’re not. But you skulk around school barely saying anything; some people don’t even think you speak English. They think you got off the boat yesterday. You don’t know how many times I’ve heard people making fun of you behind your back, saying you’re stockpiling guns at home. You should hear the stuff that’s said.”

“Haha dee ha ha, you’re a bucket of laughs today. What gives you the right to take the social high ground on me? It’s not like you’re swarmed by friends at school, is it? Who made you Miss Congeniality?”

“Yeah, right,” she spat out, and her words hung between us.

For a few minutes we did not speak. The sun fell behind the woods, and the air noticeably chilled. Faint etches of color still painted the sky, but they were fading. Our steps, once hurried in anger, gradually slowed.

Naomi took an apple out of her backpack. “Didn’t have time to get to this over lunch.” She took a few more bites, then handed me the furrowed remainder. Little spittles of saliva dotted the edge of her bite marks. I devoured the apple, savoring every bite, and threw the rutted core into the woods on our right.

“Litterbug,” she said softly. She didn’t say more, but it was enough. She glanced at me briefly; her brown eyes were startling against the snowy background.

“You should zip up your jacket,” I said. “Getting cold.”

“Can’t,” she said. “It’s jammed.”

“Here. Let me.” And she did, to my surprise. I whipped off my gloves and placed my hands on her jacket. She looked down at my hands, chapped coarse at the knuckles. The zipper was ensconced with snow, and I had to brush at it, softly. I pulled hard, and the zipper came free.

“You need hand cream,” she said softly.

I nodded in agreement; we started to walk again, this time slower.

“You need a new jacket,” I said. She smiled sadly. We both knew that there would be no hand cream for me, and no new jacket for her. Neither of us had the money.

When Naomi first appeared at my elementary school years ago, it was already halfway through the academic year. A total FOB, not a lick of English, her hair still done up in Chinese ponytails, for crying out loud. She had worn a pink winter jacket, a bright puffy jacket in which she took obvious delight. She loved the shine of it, the little bunny embroidered across the pocket. At first recess, a circle of students had surrounded her. She didn’t understand a word they said, but they were smiling and laughing. She smiled back, as warmly as she could, glad to be accepted. But then she saw that the smiles were nothing more than jeers, and the laughter was nothing but the sound of derision. They weren’t asking her to play—they were yelling “
Playboy
” at her, pointing, then jabbing their fingers into the rabbit emblem on her jacket.

Then they began to pelt her with snowballs. Her jacket deflected most of the powdery snowballs. It did nothing, however, for the rock thrown viciously at her head. It cut her open, an ugly gash just under her left eye.

A teacher had come to her rescue and taken her inside to the medical room. The nurse tried to reassure her, but Naomi did not understand a word. That was when they called me in. As soon as I stepped into the room, recognition came into her eyes even though we’d never met before. After they pushed me towards her, she whispered to me in Cantonese, gladness welling in her eyes. The things I still remember: her hair dotted with the glistening beads of melted snow, a single tear escaping her eyes, quickly wiped away with the back of her hand. They could not stanch the blood; it kept seeping through the bandages. Naomi lay on her back, eyes clenched shut against the pain. And before I knew it, the nurse grabbed Naomi’s hand and placed it in mine. Naomi held my hand tightly. Her skin was silky smooth, and for some reason that surprised me. I tried to squirm my hand away, but she only tightened her grip. She never let go.

After I dropped Naomi off at the bus stop, I headed home. As if on cue, the weather instantly turned sour. Gusts of wind tore down the street, sharp as scalpels. I pulled my winter hat down and shriveled into the recesses of my jacket. Frail branches trembled in the wind like the last spasms of death. Dusk faded with cold resignation into night, and the spreading darkness enveloped me with disquieting speed.

Quickening my pace, I passed a murky enclave of trees. It was widely rumored that Jan Blair—the freakish new girl—had moved somewhere inside there with her father, a feral, bearded man who took long hunting trips. I hurried over a short bridge, the water under it already frozen.

The wind whistled again, sharpening against itself. I had a decision to make. I could continue on this road, a circuitous but relatively easy way home. Or I could cut across the woods on my right, cutting short my walk by ten minutes. Right then, a gust of wind howled and sliced through my face. To the woods I went.

But not a minute later, I realized I’d made a mistake. Night was at least an hour more advanced in the dense woods. Before too long, I was forced to walk with outstretched arms, mummy-like in the solidifying darkness.

There are realizations which arrive as suddenly as a submarine breaking surface. Then there are those that arrive much slower, as with the rising of the morning sun. And that’s how I realized I was being followed: gradually, by osmosis, if you will. There was no sudden snapping of a twig or the crunch of snow. Just a dawning sense until, somehow, I knew.

Somebody’s eyes were focused on me, watching my every move. I stopped and listened.

In the abyss of blackness that cloaked the trees, someone was there. Standing just outside the periphery. Watching me.

And so, I thought to myself, this was where Trey Logan would exact his revenge. He’d taken his time, but Naomi was right. He hadn’t forgotten. I’d seen him around school sporadically over the last few weeks, the black eye slowly turning to green, then gray until it finally faded away altogether. I should have known he’d wait until the bruising went away. All the better for him to gloat with pink skin while I went around in contrasting black and blue. I should have known.

“Why don’t you come out where I can see you, Logan?” I said it in a whisper. In such stillness, he could have heard a butterfly sighing.

Silence.

“I know you’re back there. Come out where I can see you.”

Again, no response.

I squinted deeper into the darkness. Did I see a shifting in the darkness, a twirling in the current of shadows? He stayed in there, biding his time.

A mammoth fear—something even Logan was incapable of causing—tumbled into my consciousness. Logan was not this sophisticated in his approach. He was all broad strokes, no subtlety or nuance. He knew nothing of the art of ambush.

There was something else in the woods with me.

Darkness breathed with me, heavier.

I turned and ran.

And as I did, I heard the unabashed sounds of branches snapping, the rustling of clothes behind me. Of somebody giving chase.

I forgot time; I forgot exhaustion. A kaleidoscope of spinning darkness whirled around and past me. Singeing hot air rushed up my windpipes, and stinging cold air gushed down in swift tandem.

He was fast, stubborn, never veering far from me, always directly in line behind me. Try as I might, I could not lose him, not even in the black obscurity. I ran as if by instinct through puddles of darkness. My skin prickled with the anticipation of being touched by cold, chicken-skin hands, thin fingers eager to grasp my exposed neck. Only once did I glance backwards and saw a hazy shadow like an inkblot moving towards me. I made out a dash of red, a red jacket.

And then I was through. Openness burst before me: the rush of airy gray, the wide gossamer sky above, the nakedness of the barren road. I tumbled down a short bank to the road, my legs trying to catch up under me.

Something tripped me—a sudden dip in the bank, perhaps—and flattened me on the ground. My breath
humphed
out. I lay shattered in the snow like a rock embedded in the cracked web of a windscreen, waiting for him.

Was this how Justin Dorsey felt in his last moments? Was this how Winston Barnes felt in the disquieting moments when death became inevitable? For me, there were no flashbacks of my life set in slow motion to the cadence of soft music. Only the throbbing expectation of horrific pain, and a small, sick curiosity as to how it would be done. With a switchblade, an axe, a gun? Would he do me in right there or secrete me to somewhere private? I felt a curiosity about the killer, too. A hulking lunatic, blood smeared on face? Or a quiet Lilliputian face, shy and pleasant, even?

But he never came. My breath steadied until it was quiet again. Haltingly I stood up, trying to ground my unsteady legs beneath me. The road stretched out before me, isolated, not a dot of light to be found. And the woods, though looming in darkness, were oddly benign, as if they could not be blamed for any danger contained within.

I walked up the slight bank, backtracking. I found my own tracks in the snow, messy gashes, panic written all over them.

I did not find his prints on the bank. He had stayed in the forest and refused to emerge. I stared into the woods, sensing eyes observing me. Backpedaling, I began to move away quickly, carefully to the road. My eyes never left the woods.

Nothing moved in that darkness; nothing made a sound.