But when a shot rang out from inside, Catcher pulled away and ran to the door, his explosive barking filling the night. The pounding of footsteps, the screen door slammed open. I was already running toward the barn, fast as I could. A hole opened in the world that minute, a dark doorway though which I passed into a place where nothing would ever be what it was before.
There was a screaming child in my head, one in terror, afraid for herself and shattered by what she’d seen in the window. But there was also someone else, someone I’ve since come to know as “the watcher.” The one who calmly observes the chaos around her, the one who can see exactly how far is the barn, can hear how close is the stranger behind her, the one who knows that there is no running for help now, only getting to the gun locker and arming herself before the man behind her catches her.
Catcher’s barks were vicious and undercut by a feral growling behind me until there was a hard thud and primal yelp of pain, then silence. Then heavy footfalls again. I stopped at the barn door—don’t look, don’t look, don’t look—and had to use all my strength to open it. Then I pulled it closed hard and latched it, just as someone thumped against it.
“Open the door,” said the voice on the other side. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I ran to the locker and to my great dismay found both the doors standing open. The shotgun was gone; yes, it was the one I’d seen in the stranger’s hand. The revolver. The semiautomatic. The rifle. All gone. The only thing left was a serrated hunting knife. The black oxide grip was molded to my father’s hand, a gift from Uncle Paul on my father’s fortieth birthday. I took and shoved it into the inside pocket of my jacket. It was too big.
“There are no guns in there.”
He was at the window, his voice muffled through the glass. I dove to the side so that he couldn’t see me. Every nerve ending in my body sizzled with terror.
“You’re trapped in there now,” he said. It was a young voice. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay there.”
“Who’s out there?” Another voice, older, harder.
“No one,” said the boy. He was just a boy. “There’s no one there, just the dog.”
“Bullshit,” said the other. “It’s the kid, right?”
“No,” he said. “Just the dog. He ran off into the woods. I kicked him hard; he won’t come back.”
The window shattered then, an exploding shower of slicing rain around me as I bowed my head into my arms. An impossibly hard grip on my hair yanked me from above, shards of glass digging into the back of my neck, my face. The razor edges sliced through my jacket as he dragged me with superhuman strength over that sill. I’m sure I was screaming, but I don’t remember really. I clawed at his arms, but he didn’t release me until I was lying on the ground at his feet. I turned on my side away from the mask that was his face and the terrified eyes of the boy, only to see Catcher lying before the trees where we’d just emerged. And the stars. And the clear, clear night white with moonlight.
He pulled me to my feet.
“She’s cut,” said the boy. “She’s bleeding.”
“Shut up,” said the older man. And he started dragging me toward the house. That’s when I heard my mother screaming my name; it hurt worse than the glass embedded in my skin, the pitch of her terror connecting to every nerve ending in my body.
? ? ?
I DIDN’T WANT TO THINK about it anymore. I slammed my fist down on the desk, startling the cats, who shot away silent, dark shadows. I went out of the apartment and took the stairway up to the roof—using my center and my breath, the pumping of my arms to carry me up.
I was breathing hard but not breathless as I emerged onto the roof deck, downtown Manhattan splayed around me. I wanted to let out a scream into the sky; one scream among millions in this city. Instead, I swallowed the energy. Never grunt, blow breath, make a noise of effort—it’s a shameful waste of power. Keep it all inside, a red-hot ball of flame in your center, your chi, your life force. Let it burn hot, let it fill you. The Red Hunter.
I climbed up to the ledge and stood looking at the vertiginous drop below me. Then I sat, cross-legged, on the thin edge—the concrete cutting at my ankles, digging into my bottom. There was nothing beneath me to keep me from falling all the way to the street below, a fall that would likely break every bone in my body, leaving me to bleed out on the sidewalk.
With my breath, I moved into the discomfort and then through it. With my breath, the sound beneath all other sounds, the cool at my nostrils, the rise and fall of my chest, my belly. The Red Hunter bowed and retreated. Pain, anger, fear, sadness, they receded clinging only for a few moments. They have no home in the present moment. Here there is only room for the breath. I am breathing in. I am breathing out. I took the seat of the watcher, the one who is quiet in the chaos.
eleven
Careless gold curls and wire-rimmed specs sat on the long bridge of his nose, in relief against sienna skin and blue eyes. Grace and Sophia were always going on and on about how hot Troy was, but Raven didn’t see it. Not that she didn’t see it. It’s just that it didn’t matter. Troy was Troy.
That’s what had first drawn Raven to him, she thought, even though they were just little kids, even though he was crying a little because he missed his mom. He always seemed to know who he was. He was small, but no one picked on him. He was kooky, but everyone thought he was funny. Once he punched a bigger, older kid named Max right in the face because—why?—Raven couldn’t even remember. Troy had been suspended. And when he came back he was a hero, and no one ever messed with him again.
“Do you want to marry me?” he asked her in kindergarten.
“Okay,” she said, even though she was pretty sure you couldn’t get married in kindergarten, and her father had told her to stay far away from boys as a general rule.
Troy took her hand then, and they’d been holding hands ever since. They were married in a totally nonsexual, pure-love kind of way, the way you can only love your childhood friends. Troy was Troy.
He lounged on the couch in her father’s living room. The doorman, Carey, had known Raven all her life. He probably knew she shouldn’t be there when Dad was away, but he was too cool to ask her any questions when she walked in earlier. He gave her a kind of look, though, a knowing sideways glance. He sent Troy up an hour later without even calling to say he was coming. Would he call her dad? Mom? Raven didn’t think so.
“I guess what I’m thinking,” said Troy, simultaneously tapping on his phone. “Is that this is a bad idea. I mean—I’m in. I’m with you. You know that. I just think you might be making a mistake.”
His red sneakers dangled over the arm of the couch. Was he that tall?
“How can it be a mistake to try to find out who you are?” Raven asked.
He regarded her with that cool gaze he’d perfected. She sat on the chair opposite him, her legs over the arm of the chair and a half.