Blackbird by Anna Carey Read Free Book Online

there are no ambulances. The alley isn’t sectioned off with police tape. Nearly two hours have passed and her body is gone. A truck drives up the freeway ramp, accelerates, and joins the traffic above.
    As you near the long stretch of road you keep looking behind you, but no one’s there. When you get to the alley there’s no blood. You circle the pavement, going to the spot where you threw the gun, but it’s not there. The stretch of open dirt below the freeway isscattered with broken bottles. You look for a trail, some indent or mark where the gun could have skidded across, but there’s nothing. Leaning closer, you see faint lines in the dirt, like it’s been raked even.
    You pace the length of the alley. Beside the Dumpster, right where the woman was shot, the pavement is almost dry. Caught near the curb is a thin pink puddle, the stain so faint you can barely see it at first. In those two hours you were gone someone collected the body, cleaned the scene, and left. They even washed away her blood.
    Staring at the parking garage above, you can almost see the silver car there. You picture the way the man stood just behind the shadows, under the awning, where he wasn’t as easy to see. The shot was quiet. If you had been in a passing car you might not have noticed it at all.
    You spin back toward the pavement, wanting some acknowledgment that it was real. Your nose is still throbbing. Your shoulder is sore from where it collided with her stomach. You pinch your shirt between your fingers, studying the brown specks against the white fabric, the spray on your right side, exactly below where she was hit.
    It was real, you think. It happened.
    But when you turn around, the narrow alley is deserted. Not a single car is in the parking garage. There is only that shallow wash of blood and the rush of the freeway above.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................

CHAPTER TEN
    THE FOREST IS quiet. The boy walks in front of you, his bent knife blade parting the vines. As he moves through the trees you stare at the tattoo covering his shoulder blades, the skull that stares back with its hollow, cavernous eyes. On either side of it are wings. The feathers are so perfectly rendered they look real. You keep focused on that, watching the muscles move beneath his skin, trying to quiet your breaths.
    The sweat catches in your hair. It drips in thin streams along the sides of your face. You grab vines as you move through, stepping over rocks and fallen tree limbs. The branch in your hand is heavy, five inches thick, the top of it sharpened to a point.
    Somewhere to the right of you, a twig breaks. The boy turns and you watch his profile—the ridge of his nose, his thick black lashes and the black hair that falls over his eyes. He’s seen something, but before you can turn to look he is yelling.
    “Move! Go!”
    You don’t see what’s coming, but you hear the rush of leaves parting, tree branches breaking, the breath of some living thing moving through the woods. The boy bolts out in front of you but thick mud sucks at the bottom of your broken boots, pulling you down. The beast is coming toward you, faster through the trees, and you are locked there, unable to move. As it approaches, you try to free your legs one last time. Vines snake around them, twisting, tightening around your ankles. You turn and see a glimpse of some massive animal, its fur dark and matted, a bleeding wound in its neck. The boy disappears beyond the trees. You are running, trying to move faster, when the thing reaches you, its jaws clamping down on the back of your neck.

    12:22 A.M. You haven’t gotten more than an hour of sleep and your heart is still drumming from the dream. You check the locks on the motel-room door. You check the windows, making sure they’re still closed, the latches turned shut. You’re on the fifth floor but it doesn’t make you feel any better.