FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  “All right, then. Batten down. We’re crossing over.”

  When he sees Cass has secured herself, Owen pushes the throttle down. The engine screams. The boat lurches. Quickly picks up speed. Charging directly toward Wreck Reef.

  ~

  Mr. Hunter holds a cheap transistor radio at arm’s length. Turns it on.

  It doesn’t explode. After a garbled moment of fuzz, a disinterested meteorologist drones through his five-day forecast.

  It’s fine. Mr. Hunter is clear. Safely past Wreck Reef. Outside the danger zone. Relieved, he shuts off the weatherman’s empty threats and hollow promises. Grabs the black box. About to hang its wire over the side when he realizes its services are no longer needed.

  The water around the kayak is tinted: Pink. Nothing like the retina-burning color he left in the pool on the island. But clear enough. Leaning over as far as he can without tipping, he looks into the deep. Below, the color is even more vivid. Pointing the way. Just what he was looking for.

  He breaks up the collapsible oars. Packs everything loose into a watertight backpack. Removes a small scuba tank and mask. Tests the airflow before pulling them on.

  If Mr. Hunter sees the patrol boat in the distance, he pays it no mind. Instead, he prepares for the next stage in his plan.

  ~

  Coasting. Engines shut down. Patrol One relies on momentum to carry it past the range of the pulse generators. Out to open water, where it can once again safely rely on internal combustion and electronic readouts.

  “Aw, shit.” It’s Owen’s turn to look through the binoculars. “He’s a diver.”

  The bald man in the kayak has pulled on scuba gear. As Owen watches, he lifts himself out of the cockpit. Swings legs over the side. Sinks into the water next to his boat without submerging entirely. Hanging on the edge. Working at something.

  “That’s all right.” Cass’s mood as shifted. Adventure-seekers looking to swim among sunken shipwrecks, she can deal with. “When he comes back up, we’ll be waiting. Simple.”

  “Uh-huh.” Owen glances back at her. “How we doing?”

  She checks the hourglass. Grains of sand still shifting. “Two-thirds of the way. Maybe three-quarters.” She holds out her hand. Demanding her turn behind the binoculars. Owen hands them over. Takes his standard place behind the wheel.

  Now visible without them, Cass peers through the lenses for a clearer view. Finds the man just as a puff of mist bursts from his kayak. All at once, the thing deflates. Air forced out through some sort of expulsive decompression.

  “Um...”

  With practiced movements, the bald man quickly folds and rolls the flattened vinyl. Straps it across himself. Disappears beneath the surface. Without so much as a ripple to indicate where he’d been moments before.

  “Cass? What is it?”

  She lowers the binoculars. Hands them back to Owen. “This just got a lot more complicated.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The lights flash once as the police cruiser leaves the parking lot. Its siren chirps a single sharp note.

  Max waves. Halfhearted. Watches his mom drive off.

  Despite the hour, cars fill the unpaved lot behind Lesguettes Lighthouse. Unchanged since his last visit, its sign still proclaims the place:

  CLOS3D 4 PRIVA7E FUNCT10N

  Through the windows he can see the place is still packed. With so many experienced members of the Watch on hand, they’ll have no use for him whatsoever. He’ll end up standing off to one side. Making no contribution. Not the worst option, but he could do nothing at home just as easily. Thanks a lot, Mom.

  He considers leaving. He’d probably be doing everyone a favor. Staying out of the way, rather than adding one more body to the chaos. He’s all but decided to leave. Turning to go when crunching gravel announces a late arrival: A white utility van. Rolling off the highway without slowing. Possibly even speeding up. Aiming directly at Max, who can only watch. Rooted to the spot. Until it’s almost upon him. At the last possible moment, throwing himself out of the way.

  Brakes shriek. Wheels turn. Bite. Dig ruts. Spit gravel against the row of parked cars. The van skids to a shuddering stop directly over the spot where Max had stood bare seconds earlier. Dust settling over him, Max looks up at the side of the van. Emblazoned with an enormous advertisement:

  Norman Sudder

  THE ELECTRICIAN

  Your CURRENT Choice.

  No voltage too high. No wattage too low.

  Encircled by flaring blue lightning, the billboard is unlikely to persuade safety-conscious consumers.

  As Max gets to his feet, a squat grey-haired man in overalls climbs down from the driver’s seat. Jowly and at least forty pounds overweight, he sniffs the air twice before deciding it isn’t foul enough. Then, lights up the stub of what once was a cigar.

  “Dude! You nearly killed me!” Max is incensed.

  “Yah. Yah. We really gone through something now, hain’t we?” He clenches the cigar in a yellow grin. Brushes dust from Max with a few solid swats. “That’s the sort of experience, that’ll really bring folks together, huh? It’s a special bond we got ourselves after all that’s happened. A right special bond. Now!” He slides open the van’s side door. “Make yourself useful, whydon’tcha? Grab up this crate fer me now, but fer chrissakes be careful with it. It’s the last one we got, and we fer damn sure cain’t spare it.”

  Max balks. “I’m just getting back to work today, after a pretty bad accident where I was basically blown up, so... Probably not the best idea for me to--”

  “Sure! Sure! Didn’t realize the situation there, b’y. Wiser ye leave it fer me, then. By all means: Let the morbidly obese seventy-two year old give it a go. Don’tcha worry yerself none.” He leans into the van. Struggles mightily to shift the crate across the floor. Not even trying to lift it yet. “Only... If ye could do me the solid of stickin’ around? On the ready to call in to 9-1-1 in case there’s any issues with me herniatin’ myself or the like. ‘Preciate yer kindly consideration.”

  “Augh! Fine.” Max throws up his hands. Steps around the portly man. Doing his best not to inhale the burning garbage scent puffing from his cigar. Pulls the crate closer. Lifts it. The thing is heavy. But not quite the herculean effort it had been made out to be. “Where’s it going?”

  Grunting, the man sits on the curb. “Just down to the boathouse, there’s a good lad.”

  “The boathouse! Down all those steps?”

  “None to worry, ol’ cock.... Take yer time. The rest can wait fer ye to get back.” He taps the cigar against the curb. Marking it with ash polka dots. “A very few trips, give-‘r-take and we’ll be all set, we will. Off witcha, now.” Scrounging in the pocket of his overalls, the man pulls out a second, equally short cigar stub. Uses the first to light it.

  Incredulous, Max watches him puff for a moment. Then, hoists the crate. Gets a better grip. Limps off. Aiming past the lighthouse. Toward the edge of the cliff. Where the narrow staircase runs along the cliff wall. All the way down to the boathouse.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The former sheriff enters the police station. No one makes eye contact. Those who can’t avoid it mumble: “G’morning.” Most keep their heads down. Try to appear busy. Too busy, certainly, to engage in uncomfortable small talk with the woman who was their boss the day before.

  There are no condolences from Netty’s coworkers regarding her unjust demotion. No commiseration over the horrible new boss with whom they’ve been saddled. It hurts, but she can hardly blame them. No one wants to be overheard backing the wrong horse. Instead, most cops opt to remain silent, lest anything they say be held against them.

  Halfway to her office, Netty finds her belongings. Dumped on the table next to the photocopy station. He didn’t even have the decency to install her in his own cubicle: Now sitting empty in the center of the bullpen.

  She grabs a garbage bag from the supply shelf. Sifts through her stuff. Bagging anything not strictly necessary for polic
e work. She won’t complain about her location. Won’t mention the empty desk. Won’t give him the satisfaction.

  As Netty packs, the quiet police station is overtaken by thunder: The new sheriff’s boots as he exits his new office. Crosses the floor. Stops behind her. “Do your houshkeeping on your own time, Deputy. There’s poleesh work waiting.”

  She can hear it: His jaw still wired shut. She resists the urge to smile. Turns to face him with a: “Yessir.”

  The injuries Netty inflicted on Sheriff Doug Schilling are fading, but no less satisfying. Mostly bruises now, but his nose will never be the same. Not without surgery. When he speaks, his teeth remain tightly clenched: “Where are you at on the holesh?”

  “Holes?” Netty vaguely remembers ignoring something about holes.

  He turns to her desk. Pushes over a small stack of picture frames, hung on her office wall until that morning. Cracking the glass in at least one. Revealing her in-box. A manilla folder atop the pile. “The cayshe you were ashigned yeshterday. I ashume you’ve shpoken to the victimsh.”

  “The victims... Of the holes?” She smiles at the idea.

  “Doubt the girl who dishlocated her ankle falling into one would find thish funny, Deputy Hubert.” Volume up. For the room to hear. “You’ll undershtand when you do your job and go talk to her. Or ish one demotion not enough for you?”

  Netty holds her ground. Stony. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “You’re goddamn right you will.” He looks over her belongings. The pile he himself created. “And I want your pig-shty dealt with. Before I get in, tomorrow.” He plucks the garbage bag from her hands. Upends the contents onto the floor. “But bring your own trash bagsh. Doeshn’t look good for copsh to be shtealing offishe shuppliesh for pershonal ushe.”

  He stomps away. Flattening the trashbag. Refolding it. Leaving Netty a slightly larger mess to deal with. After the workday, apparently. Instead, she grabs the case folder from amongst the chaos. Gets down to the business of protecting islanders... From holes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Simp is talking to herself.

  Returning the second hospital bed to Wanda’s room. Mattress replaced. Cleansed of Dr. Mendez’s DNA. She whistles in bright tones. Then, replies in a slightly different register. Sounding like a conversation between neighboring birds’ nests.

  “Ah... Palpation reveals nascent metacarpal bone structure, even at this early stage.” Dr. Ramsey examines Wanda’s stump. Like Simp, he speaks aloud to himself whenever something interesting strikes him. Initially, Wanda had assumed he was addressing her. Until it had become clear he wasn’t hearing her replies. Since then, she’d done her best to tune out his voice.

  Instead, she watches Simp: Spreading fresh sheets over the bed. Tucking them in with long, dextrous digits. Whistling through her teeth. Focusing on the woman’s crazy-quilt face, Wanda unconsciously mimics her mouth shapes. Blows a small chirrup.

  Simp perks up. Looks over. Curious. Cocking her head, she tweets a shrill question mark. Wanda tries again. Answers with a sharp trill.

  Delighted, Simp lopes around the end of the hospital bed. Chittering happily. Wanda warbles in return. Two old friends. Gossiping.

  “No. No! NO!” Dr. Ramsey all but stomps his foot. “I won’t have it!”

  The women go silent.

  The doctor straightens himself. “Bad enough having one constantly-twittering songbird around this place. I’ll certainly not abide two.”

  Stricken, Simp turns away. Silent. Moving slowly.

  Surprising herself, Wanda sympathizes with the dangerous creature. Maybe it’s the bond of having a common enemy. She turns to him. Angry. “If it bothers you so much, maybe you should surgically remove her lips next. Or sew up her mouth or something.”

  Ramsey is genuinely hurt. “You think me a cruel man. That the work I’ve undertaken here is solely to satisfy my own selfish curiosity. Driven by madness and caprice.”

  Incredulous, Wanda waves her restrained stump and webbed-claw at the man. “That’s about the size of it, Doc.”

  He takes hold of the stump. Steadies it. Re-wraps her wound. “In a time of war, Wanda... If you know your enemy has you hopelessly outmatched and is fighting to ensure your utter destruction. If it’s in your power to possibly even the odds and give your side a fighting chance. If you could narrow down a method to arm your people and allow them to stand up to the threat menacing them... To what extremes would you not go to ensure victory?”

  “Well, I sure as shit wouldn’t experiment on innocent civilians without their knowledge or permission.”

  “I suppose that’s where we differ... Commitment.” Finished with her bandages, he stands. Drags the stool to the other side of the bed. Looking more closely at her webbed hand. “I prefer to think of the service I perform as a surreptitious draft, in which we take society’s most worthless element - the irredeemable addict - and, through science, re-sculpt them into something of potentially enormous value.”

  “Uh-huh.” Wanda squints at her redeemer. “Your society can go finger-bang itself into oblivion for all the shits I give.”

  Dr. Ramsey frowns. Noticing the sheets where her hand rests. Torn to shreds by her talons. He slips a finger into the mattress. Pulls out chunks of upholstery foam.

  “Nervous habit,” Wanda explains. Embarrassed. “Can’t help it. Like scratching at my stump before. It’s worse because I’m tied down. Too much pent-up energy.”

  The doctor draws back the sheet covering her thigh. Beneath it, scratches criss-cross Wanda’s hip. In a few cases, she’s drawn blood.

  “Hm. Before your next procedure, we’ll want to file those talons down. For your own protection... As well as that of your physician.”

  Wanda’s heart sinks. “Next procedure?”

  “Of course.” Dr. Ramsey pulls her sheets down the rest of the way. Off the bed entirely. Revealing Wanda’s bare legs and feet. “Just think of how well you’ll swim with webbed toes. Assuming your feet re-develop as your hand has, you can soon expect to find yourself equipped with built-in flippers.”

  He tosses the torn sheet to Simp. Finished making the bed, she’s lying low. Imagining herself to be inconspicuous. As though it might be possible to lose track of a creature like her.

  “Come along, Simp.” He opens the split in the wall of plastic sheeting. Exits. Following the doctor, Simp rises to full height. The first Wanda’s seen her neither crouching nor stooped. Nearly nine feet tall on stilt-like limbs. Before exiting, she pauses. Gives Wanda a quiet chirp. Wanda smiles. Winks back.

  As the plastic settles back into place, Wanda looks down at her toes. Wiggles them. “Don’t worry, little piggies. You’re not going to market.”

  She digs fistfuls of foam from the mattress beneath her hand. Sets it carefully aside. She’s carved herself a hole. All the way through to the bed’s metal frame. Where the other end of the thick leather strap is bolted down. The one restraining her wrist.

  With the claw of her index finger, Wanda draws a white line across the strap. Retraces it. Over and over. Each time, cutting a little deeper through the tie binding her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jet black. Eyes bulging. Wide mouth agape. Gills rippling as it stalks slowly through the darkest patch of rippling seaweed. Biding its time.

  Most of the fish are in constant motion. Zipping around the tank. Places to be. But the ones that catch Trevor’s attention are virtually motionless. Doing the bare minimum. Seemingly unaware of the commute going on around them. Failing to perform their only duty. The one for which they receive free room and board: Entertain the elderly.

  Built into the rear wall of the tv lounge - spanning its entire width - the massive aquarium burbles and hums. Competing for the attention of the few residents currently in attendance. Losing out to the wild gesticulations of the talking head pundits floating in the fifty-two inch cable news aquarium hanging from the facing wall.

  “They always make me think of your father.”

&
nbsp; “Really?” Trevor squints into the tank. “Maybe the one with the kind of a nose thing on front.”

  His mom laughs. “No, no. They don’t physically remind me of him. I just think he would have found it so calming.”

  “Dad would? Are you kidding? Wasn’t he too practical to appreciate a thing like this? The Dad I knew would’ve gotten stuck on the wastefulness. Hundreds of gallons of water? The electricity to heat it? How much must all that cost?”

  “He could get caught up in economics, that’s for sure.”

  “If anything, I think it would’ve made him less calm.”

  “You might be surprised. The most contented I ever saw him was when he took you kids camping - after you’d gone to sleep - he’d stare into that campfire for hours. No exaggeration: Hours. Something about this reminds me of that.” She fades out. Watching the fish do their endless laps. Trevor wonders where she’s gone.

  “The water, it ain’t free, y’know!” Trevor slips into his high-pitched Dad imitation. One which may not bear any resemblance to his father’s long-silenced voice, but which he’s done often enough for his mother to recognize. “Every flush sends my hard-earned dollars-n’-cents out to sea ‘longside yer BMs.”

  His mother giggles. Swats his arm. “Don’t make fun. Your father’s thrifty ways kept us going through the lean years.”

  Encouraged by his mother’s increasingly rare laugh, Trevor continues: “Maybe if you boys’d train yerselves to void less, we could afford the two hunnert gallon fish tank I’ve always dreamed of gazin’ into. Course you’ll have to give up yer bedroom to make space for the thing. But if we were to take our baths in it, the both a’ youse could just sleep in the tub.”