She almost smiles at the thought of it. “Being up when everything was totally still and dark - awake when Mom was asleep - and creeping around like that, trying not to make any noise? Holy shit, I was so excited. Almost pissed myself, I swear to god.
“You showed me how to sneak up to the crow’s nest. Taught me we needed to wait for shift change and go up the staircase along the edges so it wouldn’t creak. We snuck into that little cubby everyone had forgotten and huddled in there with those little Hawaiian Punch packets you’d stolen, licking the crystals off wet fingers and listening to Dad order everyone around.”
Ren chuckles. Remembering the two of them in pajamas, running through the place on secret missions when they should’ve been asleep. Fingers stained tutti-frutti red. He’d forgotten that part.
“Don’t even know how often it happened.” Sylvie shakes her head. “Couldn’t’ve been more than a handful of times that one summer, but it looms large, y’know? It occupies a much larger place in my childhood memories than it has any business taking.” Sylvie stands. Steps around her chair. Looking off into blackness.
“But especially this one time... Listening in when Dad called for an All-Call. I couldn’t really understand what they were talking about. I just knew everyone sounded scared about something. Everyone but Dad, of course. He just took over. So stubborn and strong. And he kicked their asses into doing their jobs.”
“Sounds like Dad, all right.”
“In the end, everyone listened and everything calmed down. And even though I didn’t really get what had happened, I knew he’d single-handedly fixed something and brought us all back from the brink. And that’s when you turned to me and said that one day, you were going to be Captain of the Watch. Just like Daddy. And I said, ‘Me, too!’ And you looked at me and you smiled and said, ‘Okay. Then we’ll both be captain together.’”
Sylvie turns to her brother. Braces herself on the back of the chair. “You didn’t say, ‘Shut up, squirt.’ Didn’t tell me I couldn’t because you already were. You didn’t say that it was stupid because I was a girl. You said we’d be co-captains. And we’d be the ones to call the All-Calls, and boss everyone around together and they’d have to listen to us because we were Lesguettes and it was our lighthouse.” She squints at him. “Do you even remember any of that?”
“I remember, Sylvie.”
“Hm.” Not sure she believes him. Or maybe that makes it worse.
Ren rolls his head. His neck crackles. “You know why we stopped?”
She doesn’t know. Shrugs like it doesn’t matter. Clearly interested.
“Dad knew we were there.”
Sylvie recoils in shock. “Shut. Up!”
Ren smiles at the reaction. “Hand to God: He knew. Probably all along, I don’t know. But definitely at the end.”
“Why-- How do you know?” She drops into the chair again. Leans forward.
“Last time we were up there - as we were slipping out - I glanced back, and saw him looking over. Watching us go. And when he saw I’d caught him catching us... The old bastard winked at me.” Ren shakes his head. “I didn’t know what it was supposed to mean, that wink. I hustled you back downstairs. You were always half-asleep by that point. Out before I even dumped you back in your bed, but me? I couldn’t sleep at all. Just waiting for the roof to cave in. Ready for Dad to come give me shit for it, but he never did. Never. Didn’t mention it then, or ever. Not a word.”
Sylvie’s mind is blown. “I had... No idea.”
“But think about it. You’ve been on watch in the crow’s nest. Be honest. Could two kids have snuck through there without you noticing?
Sylvie does think about it. Smiles. “That. Dog! He was happy we were there. Wanted us to know. Wanted us to be a part of it.”
“Priming us for the job. Right from the jump.”
“Yeah... And it worked. Halfway.” Her smile falters. “Without him even needing to break the Circle.”
Ren deflates as Sylvie rises. Drags her chair to one side. Out of the way. “Sylvie?” His voice a croak. She turns on him. Suspicious. “I was so sorry to hear about Aaron.”
His sister’s hard facade crumbles slightly. Just around the edges. Something pressing against her insides as she looks at her big brother. She forces it back down. “Yeah, okay.”
Turning away, she reaches out. Takes hold of the darkness itself. Splits it apart. Black curtains. The world dimly lit on the other side. The next room, where everyone is waiting for Ren.
Where he will face their judgement.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Just the one green Jeep, looks like. First ferry of the day.” Agent Mona Ladd returns from the filing cabinets. Drops a thick folder into Netty’s lap. Circles behind her desk. Plops down in her chair. “Don’t remember dealing with them. Probably they went through Kerry’s booth.”
The main office of the Mossley Island Department of Tourism and Immigration isn’t small. Far larger than the little glass cabinet where Agent Ladd spends most of her days, yet it never fails to spark her claustrophobia. With so few windows and no airy view of the bridge-in-progress starting to reach out across the channel, she tries to spend as little time there as possible.
Uncomfortable, she rises soon after sitting. Goes to one of two windows. Pulls up the blinds as Netty goes over the file.
“The Hunters.” Netty reads aloud. “Treasure and Cache? Those are their names?”
“Sweet, huh? Legally changed when they got married. Dr. Cache Hunter and his lovely wife, Treasure.” She thinks about it. “Or Dr. Treasure Hunter, and her striking husband, Cache, if you prefer.”
“Takes all kinds.” Netty shakes her head as though she’d prefer it didn’t. “Professors at Harrowsmith University. Currently on sabbatical.”
“Must have some pretty impressive accomplishments to wangle that, right? I mean: They’re pretty young for full professorships, aren’t they?”
“Not only that, it says here they’re co-chairs of the Archaeology Department.”
“There you go.” Agent Ladd claps her hands. “That brings it all together.”
Netty looks up at her. Not getting it.
“Archaeologists? Digging holes? It’s what they do, isn’t it?”
“Not compulsively, I don’t think. They’re not groundhogs. I’m pretty sure they can go without excavating for long periods at a time.” She shuffles through the file. Passing forms and blood tests. Finding glowing references. From the dean of their university. Museum curators. The last from the Egyptian Secretary General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities. She closes the folder. Sets it on the agent’s desk.
“Thanks for this, Mona.”
“Pfft. Of course. Now I only owe you twenty-four favors.” She picks up the folder. Ready to return it to the cabinet from whence it came. “So what’s your next move, Sheriff?”
“It’s Deputy now, Agent Ladd.”
“Shit! Sorry... I swear, I’ll never get used to that.”
“Tell me about it.” Netty knocks on Agent Ladd’s desk. Stands. “Next move? Stakeout the Talbot Inn, I suppose. Wait for a green Jeep to show up. Ask some questions. This was helpful, but... I still don’t really know anything. No proof they’re the ones digging the holes. No idea why these guys are even on Mossley in the first place.”
Agent Ladd scoffs. “Come on, Netty! It’s a pretty safe guess why they’re here. They’ve all but spelled it out for you.”
Netty gives her blankest look. Utterly clueless.
“Put it together, chick! Obviously, the Hunters are after our treasure!”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The handle in the third hole does the trick. Gets Mr. Hunter inside.
One of the three extendible titanium rods he carries keeps the doors from closing behind him. Ensures he will have a way out when he returns with his wife.
Curving stone walls tell him immediately: The maze is circular. As suggested by the inscription. If the rest of its message is to be trusted, the goal i
s to reach the center. Knowing this doesn’t help, as it’s his wife he’s after now, not any reward that may be offered by the labyrinth.
He defaults left. Follows his flashlight down the corridor. Pencilling in a graph-paper square in his notebook for every five paces. Six squares shaded when the corridor turns. Two more before he encounters his first rounded chamber. The room booby-trapped. The trap already tripped. A row of spiked logs dropped from panels overhead. No victim squashed beneath them, but almost certainly his wife’s doing. Purposely sprung so as to be disarmed for her own return or the benefit of the next passerby.
Smiling in admiration, Mr. Hunter crouches in the middle of the room. Captures a 3D scan of the space before moving on.
Beyond the logs: The exit. Immediately forking in three directions. Shining his light over the walls, he finds a grease-pencil ‘x’ on the path headed to the left. A slash on the path that continues straight. Relief washes over him. Verification: Mrs. Hunter has been here. He is on her trail. Hours behind, but walking in her footsteps, nonetheless.
Reinvigorated, he picks up the pace. Follows her markings through the maze. A left. A right. Another right. But as he proceeds, the slash-marks become bigger. Looser. Formerly straight lines curve and quake. Losing all relation to his wife’s tight penmanship. Confirming his worst suspicion: The needles that struck her wrist must have been poisoned. Dipped in a slow-acting toxin. Only taking effect once she was well inside the maze. Dulling her mind. Her reflexes. Making her that much more susceptible to any tricks that lay ahead. Leading eventually to her demise, as predicted.
Dread creeps up on Mr. Hunter. Climbs onto his shoulder. Weighs him down. Still looking for his wife. All at once, less certain he will find her. Now expecting to find her body, instead. Worst-case scenario? Her corpse.
The next fork he comes to may or may not be marked. A dark smudge next to the leftmost passage. Where her slash should be. No other indication of the direction she may have chosen. Lacking options, he follows the maybe-mark. Ends up in another chamber. Narrow. With long stakes jutting from either wall. Leaving a thin path of safety along the very center of the room. Another booby-trap. Sprung.
No victim in sight, thankfully. But his flashlight reveals: The last few stakes managed to strike home. One broken off entirely. Gone. Two more left bloody. To a depth of two inches. No longer dripping, but still tacky. Wherever she is, his wife is injured. Injured and poisoned.
Mr. Hunter fights off the rage. Stifles a roar. Holds himself together. For her. Neither of them will make it out alive if he gives in to hysteria. Exhaling his troubles, he calms. Remembering worse scrapes they’ve survived. His wife: The toughest person he’s ever known. Practically unkillable. Sure, she’s hurt. But he’ll find her. He’ll get her out. And get her help. She’ll be fine. Then? They’ll be back.
Dutifully, he crouches. Captures a 3D scan of the dastardly room before continuing on. Near the floor he realizes, he no longer needs grease-pencil marks to track his wife.
He now has drops of her blood to follow.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Wanda’s jacket is where she left it. Hanging over the back of a chair. In the kitchen of Dr. Ramsey’s rustic country farmhouse. After washing up at the kitchen sink, she snags it. Takes it upstairs. Into Ramsey’s bedroom. Where she hopes to find suitable clothes to steal. Replacements for the bloody hospital gown which barely covered her nethers before it was nearly shredded, by pretend attacks and all-too real explosions.
In her mind: Simp’s upper half explodes again. And again. Passing the bed, she stops abruptly. Braces herself on the footboard. Breathes. Flushes it out. Barely knew her. Better her than me. Not my fault. Calming, she moves on. Strips.
She dumps the bloody green tatters to one side. Digs through the doctor’s drawers. Finds little that wouldn’t qualify as Sunday-best where she comes from. What the hell did he where while working on the Mustang? A tux?
Better-than-nothing, she selects a blue dress shirt. Easier to pull on one-handed than a t-shirt had been. Nearly impossible to button. Even worse trying to negotiate with sharp talons.
In her mind: The talons slide easily into Dr. Ramsey. Come out with a fine spray of blood. Wanda grabs onto the dresser. Holds herself up. Breathes. An act of self-defense. Bastard deserved worse. Won’t be hurting anyone else now.
She leans over the bed. Reaches claws into her jacket. Plucks out her cellphone. Her first impulse, as always? Call Netty.
Netty: Whose teenage son Wanda had exposed to her drug habit - not to mention exposing herself. Netty: With whom she’s officially fucked up every chance of a relationship. Netty: Who explicitly told her not to call.
For once, Wanda listens to that reproachful inner voice of wisdom. Moves on through her address book. Hoping to find someone willing to help. Her options? Slim: Once-were-friends she’s either offended or ripped off. Former associates who may have it in for her. And family...
All of which boils down to a single choice.
~
BEEP.
“Dad... Wanda, here... I know. Probably the last person you were hoping to hear from. And after how I left things, I don’t really blame you, but I... I’ve come across some new information. Things you should know. Like, for the Circle. But if you want to hear it, I need you to... To... Aw, shit.
“Look: I’m not gonna lie. I’m in a bad spot. And I’ve got... Literally no one else to turn to at this point. There’s nobody left. I’ve finally done it. I’ve pushed absolutely every-fucking-body away. But you always said not to come back until I was ready to be completely honest, and... Well... That’s where I’m at. I’m there now. I’m ready. I’m not sure you’re ready to hear all the shit I’ve got to tell you, but I’m damn-sure ready to say it, and I know you need to hear it, so...
“Here goes...”
~
After hanging up, Wanda tries again with the buttons. Manages three of the five. Good enough. She tries on Dr. Ramsey’s pants, but none will stay up without a belt. She looks for one, but apparently the doctor had everything tailored. No need for assistance. In the hamper, she finds used pajama bottoms with an elastic waistband. Loose. But workable. Once she slices three inches from each cuff, to keep from tripping herself.
It ain’t high fashion. But it’ll keep her from getting arrested.
She’s in the midst of dealing with the footwear situation - considering duct-taping tissue boxes to her feet - when gravel grumbles outside: A vehicle. Pulling up the drive.
Staying low, she peeks out the window. A wave of elation washes over her. The best-case scenario - for which she wouldn’t have even dared to hope - has come true: The sheriff’s car has arrived. Sheriff Antoinette Hubert. Her former lover. Someone she could no longer call on for help. A different story if she just shows up. Alerted by the fire, no doubt. Only a matter of time before someone reported the blaze. If anyone can be counted on - to listen to her side - to take her seriously - to cut her a fair break? It’s Netty.
Energized, Wanda thunders down the stairs. More than ready to turn herself in to this particular authority. She trots through the kitchen. Throws open the door. Runs smack into the sheriff.
The new sheriff. Sheriff Doug Schilling.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It’s not even the same world.
The moment Trevor sets foot on the black oak floor, he understands why the Old Men would want the West Corridor all to themselves. It’s as luxurious and extravagant as the rest of the Home is practical and utilitarian. More in keeping with an elite gentlemen’s club than a nursing home for the aged and infirm. Oil paintings and tapestries hang from walls painted deep rusts and ochres. Glowing sconces provide warm ambient light. In contrast, the harsh fluorescents they’ve left behind seem like ocular torture devices.
Nothing wrong with the rest of the Home. Not a bad place to live out one’s last days. Well-appointed. With a kind-hearted and capable staff. Placement is much sought-after by Islanders wanting their aging loved ones
looked after. But this is something else. Taking it all in, Trevor can’t help but feel his mother’s been cheated. It’s the disparity that’s galling.
Ahead, Gardner strolls slowly across an ornately patterned oriental rug. Closing his eyes. Breathing deeply. Once, this was all his. But no longer.
“Maybe we should hurry this along?” Without meaning to, Trevor adopts a whisper. The sort of hushed-tone appropriate to an art gallery. Somehow it just feels right.
“Don’t ye worry yerself, b’y. ‘Round ‘bout this time a day, the Old Men got better to do’n hang about. There’s duties need tendin’ to.”
They pass an old-fashioned elevator with a gleaming brass-plated accordion gate. Trevor wouldn’t be surprised to find an operator on a stool inside, waiting for riders to tell him which floor they’d like.
“This what you wanted me to see? How the Old Men live?”
Gardner thinks it over. “Good ye have an idea, but no. This is nare but the outermost shell. I brung ye to expose the seamy underbelly.”
Trevor checks his watch. “I’m just worried that cook will--”
“Ah... We’ll start in...” Gardner pushes on an unmarked door. Too heavy for him to deal with on his own. Trevor sighs. Helps. Pushes it open. “As I was sayin’: We’ll start in here.”
~
It’s tropical. Rainforest humid.
Sweat beads on Trevor’s forehead the instant he enters.
For his part, Gardner goes immediately to the lockers lining the first wall. Opens and closes each. Looking for something. Coming up empty. Cursing under his breath when he gets to the end of upper row.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR Page 15
