FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Sister Hailey nods. Lower lip trembling as the others emerge. Highly controlled. None in distress. None gasping for air. Seeing their unhappy teammate, they gather around. Reassuring her with calls not to worry and predictions of “Next time, Hailey!” and “Nearly there.”

  One of the older women raises a hand. Addresses the coach: “I know it’s my turn, but... I wouldn’t mind if Sister Hailey led the leap.” She looks around at the others. “She’s definitely up to it.”

  The coach scans her team. “Fine by me, if it’s good with you guys.”

  The women turn to Sister Hailey. Her face a mixture of terror and excitement. After a moment, she nods. The others cheer!

  “Great. Places at the picture window, then. Hailey’s taking lead. Double-time, ladies!”

  The nuns drop their staves. Tear off wrist and ankle weights. Clamor out of the pool. Pad across the slick rock of the cavern floor. Into an adjoining cave.

  Paula’s eyes twinkle. “This part’s gonna blow your mind, kid. It’s amazing.”

  Following her into the next cavern, Dawn’s jaw drops. The women have assembled into three rows. Facing away from a gaping hole in the cave wall. Behind them, through the hole? A bright blue, nearly cloudless sky is visible. Despite traveling down four flights of rough-hewn stairs to get to the grotto where their training occurs. Underground. In the rock beneath the convent. Dawn tries to make sense of it: The sky. Right there.

  Seeing her confusion, Paula leans over. “The convent sits on a cliff, right?” She nods. Enticing Dawn to agree. “This cave looks out of that cliff.” She mimes something like a waterfall. Out and down. “Get it?”

  Dawn gets it.

  “Sister Hailey?” The coach bellows. “They’re all yours.”

  Without delay, Hailey shouts: “Ladies!”

  The women snap to attention.

  “Ford!” They all step forward. Away from the azure sky.

  “Ford!” They all step forward again.

  “Brace!” One more step. Almost a lunge this time.

  “Go, A!” The row of women closest to the hole in the wall turn as one. Run. Up to the edge of the window. Then, dive out into the open air.

  Dawn gasps. Reaches out. As though to somehow stop them.

  “Go, B!” The second row follows A out the window.

  “Go, C!” The third row - including Sister Hailey - turn. Run. Dive through the gap.

  Laughing, Paula chases them. For one terrifying moment Dawn is sure she’s going to throw herself out as well, but she stops at the very edge. Hooting. Waving.

  Very slowly... Very carefully... Dawn joins her. Looks out. Down into the cove far below. No women visible at first. Then, twelve heads break the surface. Farther away from the cliff than seems possible. Hailey’s shouted orders can be heard at this distance. Not made out. But moments later the heads submerge. None reappear for more than four minutes and thirty seconds.

  ~

  Dawn’s headache borders on unbearable.

  She hadn’t felt it before entering the chapel. But there’s something about the choir. The sound they’re producing as they practice. Not music, exactly. More of a drone. It penetrates her body. Vibrates her brain. The longer she remains, the worse it gets.

  She turns to Paula. Next to her in the pew. Intending to ask if they can leave. Finding her rapt. Unable to take her eyes off the singers. Rather than pull her away, Dawn decides she can endure it. For now.

  Eight women in the choir. Dawn can’t tell who is contributing what. All mouths held wide open. All doing something weird with their throats. She imagines the most stout of the singers must be producing the impossibly low tones. The tall, thin one in the center is responsible for those high notes on the very edge of the range of human hearing. But Dawn’s only guessing: The ululating tone blends their voices into one.

  The acoustics of the dark chapel multiply the sound the old-fashioned way. The vaulted ceiling capturing the tones. Reflecting them back trebled. The space resonates deeply with the music being made. If Dawn were to place a palm against a rafter overhead, she’s certain she’d feel it vibrating. Or maybe that’s just her own quivering self.

  The music is water. Flowing and formless. Strong, yet unstructured. Never truly still, even when its surface appears calm. Dawn listens for patterns. Finds none. Can’t imagine the sound being anything but improvised. Surely no notation could capture the nuances needed to reproduce this performance. Nevertheless, their conductor keeps a beat for them. Describing an el in the air which appears to be entirely disconnected from the rhythmless noise being made. Finally, she grabs the air to end the song. The women’s mouths remain open a few seconds after the tone stops. Further underlining the disconnect between the singers and their sound. As though they’ve been lip-syncing themselves. And failing.

  With the end of the song, so goes Dawn’s pain. The silence and stillness a great relief. Paula leans in, “Have you ever heard anything like it?”

  Dawn thinks before answering: “I have not.” She rises - hoping to exit - just as the next song begins. It hits her hard: A wave of sorrow. Within the opening bars, tears come. Stream over her cheeks. Down her neck. Knees buckling she sinks back to the pew. Towed under by the music. Sounding like nothing so much as whale song. More lonely. More mournful, if that’s possible. A song about loss. Separation. Sending a call into the deep with no hope of reply.

  Despondent, she looks to Paula. Finds the woman staring back at her. Concerned. Not affected by the music in the same way. Not remotely. She produces a handkerchief for Dawn. Pulls it back when Dawn reaches to take it. Instead, she does the job herself. Pressing the clean white fabric - not to Dawn’s cheeks - but to her neck. First one side, then the other.

  The handkerchief comes away red. Not picking up tears that have run over her face and down her throat. Instead, seeping into the fabric: Dawn’s blood.

  ~

  The corridor is silent. A comfort after the chapel to say the least. While climbing the stairs, Paula had warned: No talking outside the nun’s private rooms, so as not to disturb their solitude. A directive Paula takes seriously. For which Dawn is very grateful. The quiet gives her the chance to center herself. Clear her mind.

  She lowers the handkerchief. Checks it. Folded to hide the darkest patches. The clean spot she’s been holding against her throat no longer coming away red. Blood no longer flowing.

  Good. Thank goodness. Good.

  Among scary situations, spontaneously bleeding from unpredictable places is right up there. Especially when her phone is getting no bars, making it impossible to check the internet for an explanation. Though, now that it’s ended, Dawn may be just as happy to remain ignorant.

  Paula holds her hand. Leads her along a hallway. Closed doors on either side: The nun’s cells. Packed in tight. A corridor of utility closets. Paula’s not allowed to bring outsiders to her room. But as Dawn needs a shirt to replace the one she’s bled all over, this is a directive she’s opting to take less seriously. Besides, there’s something there she wants Dawn to see. Claims she needs to see, if she’s to truly understand why Paula decided to join the order. So as a last stop before catching up with her father, Dawn is headed to Sister Paula’s private cell, where she is absolutely not allowed.

  Paula stops at a door. Undistinguishable from any other. Presumably hers, though it could just as easily have been randomly selected. Her eyes flash with excitement. Whatever is on the other side, it will be hard-pressed to live up to the importance she is placing on it. Dawn readies an over-the-top reaction, to avoid disappointing the woman after all she’s gone through.

  Paula opens the door. The light from the hallway briefly illuminates a slice: Her simple bed. The wall. Pastel drawings that have already begun to cover it. Paula’s work. Dawn knows her primitive style from years of looking over the woman’s shoulder as she scribbles, but only has time to register little men and women and fish and flames before Mother Agatha steps out from behind the door. Blocking her view.
Barring entry.

  Chagrined, Paula backs into the hallway. Dodging to one side as Mother Agatha emerges, stern look on her face. Deeply disappointed with her acolyte. Paula looks away. Profoundly ashamed.

  Dawn cranes her neck. Tries to see into the room. Cut off as the elder nun pulls the door closed. Reaches out. Clutches Paula’s shoulder. Then, pulls her close. Embracing her. Meaning clear: Paula’s sins are absolved. She returns the hug. Grateful.

  Dawn envies the relationship. The connection there.

  Stretching out one long limb - without releasing Paula - Mother Agatha raps on the door across the hall. After a moment, a middle-aged nun steps out. Without a glance at the others or a word of explanation, she takes Dawn by the elbow. Leads her quietly away.

  Dawn glances back three times before reaching the stairwell. A fourth before descending. The scene remains unchanged: An old nun holding a young nun outside a nondescript door. Then, she’s on the steps. Being led out of St. Neot’s. Feeling a strange sense of loss. Not understanding why.

  ~

  Nearly inaudible, Paula whispers: “Was that what you wanted, Mother?”

  The older nun smiles. Breathes back: “Even better than I could have dreamt. You did exactly right, my child.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “What did they do?” Graham leans forward on the reception desk. Nostrils flaring. Eyes wide.

  “I didn’t say they’d done anything.” Netty steps back. Surprised by his excitement. Taking it as affirmation. “I’d just like to ask them some questions. Can you tell me what room they’re in?”

  Graham slumps. “I didn’t say they were staying here.” He picks up his rag. Spray bottle. Resumes wiping down surfaces. Giving the sitting room its daily whether-it-needs-it-or-not once over. “Out of respect for the privacy of our guests, I can neither confirm nor deny their presence and must inform you it’s against Talbot Inn policy to comment on or answer any questions regarding anyone who may or may not be using our facilities and/or their activities while enjoying their stay on our premises.”

  He spritzes a high-gloss wicker love-seat. Netty watches as he rubs it down. “I have to tell you, Graham: You’re the first concierge I’ve spoken to today, who hasn’t been willing to answer my questions.”

  “Hm. I only wish I could tell you I find that surprising. Our competition tends to have rather... Lax ethical standards. Nevertheless - however much I’d prefer to be helpful and provide my full cooperation to law enforcement - my lips must regrettably remain sealed on the matter.” Without looking up, he moves on to a matching wicker chair. “Unless, of course, the people you are investigating pose some sort of immediate danger to our lodgers. In which case, I’d be remiss in not providing you with the help you seek.” He glances over. “Do they... Pose an imminent threat of some kind?”

  Netty squints at the man. “As I said: I’m really just hoping to ask some questions. I can’t really comment on an open investigation.”

  “Of course, of course. Company policies. It appears we’re both hamstrung by our professional principles, Deputy Hubert.” He returns to his cleaning regimen. Kneels down. Wipes the surface of a wicker ottoman. “Sadly, even if I strongly disliked a pair of guests, I wouldn’t be in a position to respond to your inquiries. Even if they’d been extremely inconsiderate - both in the treatment of myself and of their fellow residents - I would be forced to keep my own counsel, rather than reveal any information about behavior I’d observed during their stay with us... If they stayed with us at all.”

  “Uh-huh...” Netty’s not sure what to make of this. No time to play games with a bored concierge. Instead, she heads for the exit. “I can certainly appreciate that. Thanks for your time.”

  “Certainly, Officer. Allow me to see you to the door.” He sets down rag and bottle. Unnecessarily accompanies her fifteen feet across the lobby to the Inn’s entrance. “Sorry I couldn’t be of greater assistance. But at the Talbot, our guests are our paramount consideration. Their privacy of the utmost concern. Perhaps only surpassed by our concern for their safety and well-being. Were I to be convinced that one unsavory duo were potentially exposing the rest of our residents to risk, that would certainly compel my cooperation. Regardless of moral obligations. Short of that, naturally, my hands are tied.”

  “Yeah... You mentioned that, Graham.” Netty pauses in the doorway. “You know, I have friends staying with you: The Lesguettes.”

  “I’ve noticed you dropping them off at their cabin. A charming pair.”

  “So I’m sure you understand... If I was investigating someone I felt might bring them to harm - rather than someone who may have accidentally caused injury to others - I’d consider relaxing my own principles. To keep my friends safe and sound. So if you feel you are housing a dangerous element, I would hope you would share that with me.”

  “Oh, of course. Safety first, certainly.” Graham smiles broadly. “I believe we’re on the same page, Deputy. And may I suggest you consider asking your friends about their time with us? Perhaps they’ve seen people matching the description you gave me? Maybe they even arrived on the same day, from away. Driving an obnoxious green Jeep.”

  Netty grabs for her little notebook. “Perhaps I will.”

  “And possibly, you might ask if the Lesguettes have had any run-ins with their closest neighbors, who insist on playing thunderous industrial music all hours of the night, and whose reckless driving nearly put Dawn in the hospital... They may be able to point you in the right direction, if you ask.”

  “Right...” Netty finishes scribbling. “You know, Graham... It would’ve been so much easier to just answer my questions in the first place.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t possibly do that.” Graham’s offended by the very suggestion. “It’s against Talbot Inn policy to comment on or answer any questions regarding anyone who may or may not be using our facilities and/or their activities while enjoying their stay on our premises.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  She’s gone. Of course. He can’t blame her.

  Wet. Dripping pink. Mr. Hunter climbs into the chamber. Removes his diving mask. His miniature oxygen tank. Jams both into his waterproof backpack. Shines a flashlight around.

  The room is the first his wife would have reached when the pair were cut off from one another the night before. The only escape route open to her after tripping a booby-trap and causing the previous room to fill with water.

  Never one to wait for rescue, Mrs. Hunter would not have remained there. Only long enough to catch her breath after emerging from the icy water. As briefly as possible before charging forward. Meaning: She likely has a long lead on him.

  Nevertheless, he’s determined to do it right this time. No blundering ahead. No getting himself killed before he can find her. That means properly documenting his progress. Even if it slows his advance.

  He guesstimates the center of the chamber. Sits. Holds a small contraption over his head: A 3D scanning camera. It projects a grid onto all surfaces around him. Then, snaps a series of photos with a rotating lens. Mapping them onto the resulting mesh. Checking the screen, he finds a fully rotatable model of the space. Imperfect. But it beats taking measurements of every room he comes across.

  Not counting the watery entrance, the mostly featureless space has only one possible exit: An archway. Blocked by a pair of sliding stone doors. On the next wall: Three holes. Each six inches across. Two feet apart. Recessed a foot into each is a bar. A handle, presumably. Pulled or rotated to open the door. Carved into the wall above the holes: An inscription. Another four lines of now-familiar runic characters. A message Mrs. Hunter would have been unable to decipher on her own.

  Mr. Hunter pulls the iron decoder dial from his backpack. Scribbles in his notebook. Cross-referencing with an ancient tome.

  THE THIRD WILL OPEN UP THE MAZE

  THE OTHERS LEAD TO YOUR DEMISE

  CIRCLING IN A SOMNOLENT HAZE

  UNTIL THE CENTRAL SACRIFICE

  The hol
es were key to opening the doors. The message explained how: The third opens the maze. The others...

  Without the translation, Mrs. Hunter had no choice: To move forward, she had to experiment. Following their standard protocol, she would have started from the leftmost option. Indeed, he finds a black grease pencil ‘x’ drawn next to the first hole. She’d made one slash before she tried the hole. The second, after. Indicating it wasn’t the correct choice.

  But - poem notwithstanding - it hadn’t led to her demise. Because next to hole number two? Another ‘x’. Another wrong selection.

  Next to the third hole: A single slash. A third choice. The one which finally opened the door. Allowed his wife to pass through. Before closing behind her.

  So, how had the little woman been punished for her mistakes? She’d already faced drowning in a watery grave. The builders of these tunnels had not shown themselves to be especially forgiving. Yet - threatened with her demise - after two incorrect choices, she was still able to try a third time.

  Mr. Hunter shines his light into the holes. The inner circumference of the third is smooth. Unmarked. In each of the others: A groove. Aiming a small lens on a flexible shaft inside, he finds: Needles. Long, thin barbs. Ready to plunge forward from all angles. Piercing the wrist of anyone choosing incorrectly. Triggered when the wrong handles were turned.

  Red-tipped. All of them. Painted with his wife’s blood.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The crackling of the fire is pleasant. Calming.

  The shrieking is not.

  Wanda groans. Opens her eyes. Finds herself partially buried. Aching all over. She turns. Pushes out from beneath a mound of grey wooden planks. Debris from the explosion. Thrown to a safe distance.