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.
CHINATOWN
N othing moved in the darkness; nothing made a sound. That morning when I woke up, all was still at first. Then I sensed my father standing beside me, his hand gently tugging my shoulder.
“Xing. It’s time to go.”
We arrived in Chinatown early on that summer morning. A few stragglers walked the gray streets, sunshine glinting against the dirt gravel. Sullen buildings surrounded us like ashen tombstones. In Grand Street Park, a battalion of grandmothers, swathed in their traditional Chinese garb, moved in slow motion, arms extended, the gentle span of their bent arms swirling to cut through the fusty air. In a few hours their gentle lullaby of motion would be replaced by the rapid rancor of street basketball; but for now a
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.
CHINATOWN
N othing moved in the darkness; nothing made a sound. That morning when I woke up, all was still at first. Then I sensed my father standing beside me, his hand gently tugging my shoulder.
“Xing. It’s time to go.”
We arrived in Chinatown early on that summer morning. A few stragglers walked the gray streets, sunshine glinting against the dirt gravel. Sullen buildings surrounded us like ashen tombstones. In Grand Street Park, a battalion of grandmothers, swathed in their traditional Chinese garb, moved in slow motion, arms extended, the gentle span of their bent arms swirling to cut through the fusty air. In a few hours their gentle lullaby of motion would be replaced by the rapid rancor of street basketball; but for now a
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