FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  “Of course, of course.” He resumes his descent. Gesturing an after-you with one hand. “I’m more than happy to call up and let your host know you’ve arrived, if you’ll just accompany me to the front desk and--”

  “That’s all right. They know I’m here.”

  “Do they?” The concierge is gravely concerned. “I’m afraid there must have been a severe lapse in communication, as I don’t recall being informed I should be expecting any visitors.”

  “I was only just now invited.” She waves her phone at him. “And I said I’d be right there, so...” Dawn holds tight to the railing. Unwilling to cede even a step. “Actually, they might be starting to worry.”

  “Well, we can’t have that.” The idea of a guest in distress gets Graham moving again. “Please allow me to escort you to their doorstep, where I’ll be happy to offer my profuse apologies for any delay I’ve so callously caused.” He backs up a step. Offers a forearm for support. Dawn takes it. “To whose room am I conducting you?”

  Dawn opens her mouth. Shuts it. Almost telling him she’s there to see the Waxes. Bikini and Moustache. Temporary labels for the elderly twosome in lieu of knowing their actual names. “You know what? I don’t want to get you in trouble. If I’m late, it’s only my own fault. Not yours.” She tries to let go of his arm, but he clamps his free hand over hers. Disguising the gesture as a conciliatory pat.

  “Miss Lesguettes,” He once again starts down the steps. Now, taking Dawn with him. “I fully understand the urge to investigate one’s surroundings. Once the initial novelty of new environs wears off, holidays can become a boring chore. Even so, I’m afraid I can’t allow anyone to go snooping around the Inn out of boredom. The right to privacy is a covenant with our lodgers which we take very seriously.”

  “But I wasn’t--”

  “So, while the vast majority of the estate is considered common area with privileged access granted equally to all guests of the Talbot, the upper floors of the Inn itself are reserved only for those actually residing at the main building.” Back in the lobby now. Bottom of the staircase. Dawn sees her opportunity to speak to the Waxes slip away as Graham natters on. “If you’d like, I’d be thrilled to point you to Mossley Island attractions which might serve to stem any vacation ennui you may be experiencing. The North Shore Marvel Park can be quite diverting, for instance. We have a great many informative brochures which--”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” It takes every ounce of bluster and confidence Dawn can muster. “Do you presume all your guests to be dishonest? Or only those you’ve decided are beneath you?”

  Horrified, Graham releases her arm. Steps back. “Miss Lesguettes! I would never--”

  “But you have!” Dawn’s rolling now. “You just did. And it’s deeply offensive. If I’ve been asked to pay a call on a fellow guest I shouldn’t be required to run it past the concierge first. But maybe I missed that part of visitor orientation... Are there many other activities that require your express written permission?”

  “No, no. I was simply attempting to ensure our guests--”

  “I am a guest!” Dawn hammers in the final nail. “And I ought to be treated like one.”

  Cowed, Graham nods continuously. “Of course, of course. I would never intentionally--”

  A bell rings out. The front desk. Both Dawn and Graham look over. A clear view. No one in sight. Lobby deserted. Without a word, Graham steps down. Crosses to the desk. Finds a tented note standing conspicuously in the middle of the counter. Heavy card-stock. The color of cream. He carries it back to Dawn.

  She finds her name. Scrawled across the face in shaky cursive. She opens it. Reads the message inside:

  Sorry to have missed you.

  This should help:

  Pearce

  August 15th, 1965

  Good luck.

  ~

  Dawn doesn’t look back at the Inn as she returns to her cabin. Doesn’t glance over as she gets into the car. Doesn’t peek in the rearview as she drives off. Without needing to see it, she knows full-well the dark window on the third floor is now empty.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “There it was, my friends. And I tell you true: I couldn’t believe my eyes. After a full decade of searching and digging and searching again, we’d found it. Forty-five feet down the third shaft of our final expedition. Precisely where our decoded map said it should be. The culmination of all our hard work and sacrifice... The Treasure of Mossley Island was finally in our grasp.”

  Built to resemble a cartoon version of a seventeenth century tavern - complete with drunken papier-mâché pirates and their wenches leaning out the windows of the second floor - the outlandish facade stands out against a row of otherwise unassuming storefronts. Sandwiched between a used book store and a shop selling overpriced sweaters hand-knit exclusively from the wool of island sheep.

  Welcome to the Mossley Island Museum of Mystery (and Glow-in-the-Dark Mini-putt).

  On the sidewalk outside: A small crowd. Tourists, mostly. Listening as Théo Desroches tells his tale. Voice booming. Arms gesticulating. Putting everything into the performance. His livelihood dependent on coaxing passers-by inside the gaudy attraction. Tickets reasonably priced. Family discounts available.

  “Forsaking the shovel, I dropped to my knees and dragged away the last of the dirt with my own bare hands. Weeping, I’m not embarrassed to tell you. Tears of joy! And they fell on the wooden slats of the ancient crate I had uncovered. A crate, hand-built - if the legends are to be believed - by the dread pirate: The Bloody Pike.”

  A cackling laugh shrieks forth from badly aging speakers. Above: A hydraulic hiss. A cheaply-dressed mannequin swings out from a window. Hook hand raised. The few onlookers that jump are ashamed of themselves after.

  “As evil as they come! The same crate had been buried there by his dastardly henchman three hundred years earlier. Untouched in all that time by human hands, until I laid my own upon it.”

  Above, the pirate shakily withdraws. Resetting itself for the next crowd.

  “I shouted up to my partner, ‘Guillaume! I’ve found it! Lower the hook!’ And I could hear the pulley rattling as he sent it down. Little did I know: What I heard was the sound of loose bolts on the crane arm, which I myself had not properly tightened. I was soon to pay the ultimate price for my own laziness.”

  He reaches up. Mimes taking hold of a rope. Pulling it down to the sidewalk. “I grabbed the hook. Used its point to dig out the dirt from the crack between two boards on the crate. Just enough to give it something to hold onto. But as I did, I heard a click. And I knew: It was the sound of my own doom. Because that was the sound of the Bloody Pike, reaching out from the past to punish me for daring to disturb his treasure. In my excitement, I’d accidentally tripped his final and most deadly booby trap.

  “Suddenly, the shaft began to flood with ocean water. Just as the devious pirate had intended! Channeled there through a series of ingenious underground tunnels. Only meant to open if someone was foolish enough to disturb his treasure. And I was that fool! The sides of the shaft turned to mud. Collapsing in toward me. I grabbed onto the rope, and shouted: ‘Guillaume! Pull me up! The Bloody Pike intends to drown me!’ And suddenly, the crate dropped out from beneath me, falling further into the shaft. To this day, no one has found how deep into the earth it fell. But it has never been recovered, and there are those who say it dropped all the way to Hell where it landed in the waiting arms of the Bloody Pike himself!

  “Meanwhile, Guillaume was working hard to pull me out, but the crane arm was bending under my weight, and the loose bolts I hadn’t tightened were unscrewing, and suddenly the whole works snapped off and shoomph! The jagged metal sliced right through me...”

  He leans over. Grabs hold of his pant cuff. Pulls it up to his knee. Revealing a wooden prosthetic where his leg should be. Three hollow knocks confirm it. The crowd gasps in horror. Happy to play their assigned role in the performance.

  “And the Blo
ody Pike drew blood a final time. Taking his terrible tribute as payment for my own hubris.”

  He bows his head sadly. Allows his tale to sink in. Then smiles. Laughs. “But I was lucky! I survived. And because I did, I’m now able to give all you fine people the amazing opportunity to be a part of living history and learn more about our enigmatic Island’s many secrets, inside... The Mossley Island Museum of Mystery!”

  He throws wide the front door. Toes a little kickstand in place to hold it there. Ready for a stampede that doesn’t come.

  “Inside, you’ll find the very crane we employed in our attempts to uncover the Treasure of Mossley Island, and see for yourself the jagged edge that rent my flesh in twain! You’ll see for yourself our treasure maps and try to decipher the devious pirate code using ancient piratic symbols and rune-stones.”

  Happily entertained - satisfied by the story - the crowd disperses. Théo addresses himself to their departing backs. Working hard for his money.

  “If, uh... Buried treasure’s not your thing, that’s all right. Our exhibits commemorate many of Mossley Island’s most enduring mysteries: The Ghosts of McLennon Lighthouse! The Wreck of the Fenian Lady. Come in and see our scale models of Wreck Reef and the unearthly abandoned town of Adderpool. And, as an added bonus for the kiddies - at no additional charge - finish off with a round of glow-in-the-dark mini-golf in our fully refurbished blacklight basement!”

  Even that is not enough to stop the exodus.

  “Don’t miss this once-in-a-lifetime attraction! If you do, you can’t really say you’ve visited Mossley Island!”

  His potential paying audience having dwindled to one, Théo’s enthusiasm finally flags. Energy spent as he crosses to her. “Ordinarily, I’d be happy to offer free admission to law enforcement, but... We’re headed into off-season, and it’s been a pretty lean year, so...”

  Netty holds up her hand. “That’s okay. One adult, please. But, I’d like to ask some questions too, if you don’t mind?”

  ~

  The beaded curtain tinkles. Parts. Théo emerges from the back room. Steaming coffee mug in each hand. He sets one down next to the cash register for Netty. Gulps from the other. Looking over the map she’s unfolded for his learned opinion. Frowning at four circles drawn in red marker.

  “Makes no sense to me. If it’s the same treasure they’re after - Pike’s treasure - then they’re working from information we didn’t have back in the day. I mean, you can see for yourself.” He points to the lobby wall: Giant relief map of the island poking out. Eighteen flags marking different expeditions to find the treasure. Color-coded by who was involved. Clustered in four groupings. All close to the shore.

  Alongside the sculpted map, the walls of the museum lobby are covered in historical factoids and trivia about the island. A simple waist-high turnstile in one corner guards the entrance to the actual exhibits. In the other corner, the exit is a revolving door. From somewhere inside, a strobe light is continually popping.

  “Obviously, the news about the holes perked up my ears. But the more I heard, the less right it sounded. Now, seeing this?” He pats Netty’s map. “Maybe this one, here. Pretty close to the Dubeau Shaft, I guess. Closer than the others. But that’s it.”

  Netty warms her hands on the coffee mug. Waits for the black nectar to cool. “What about the depth? The holes all stopped at eight feet. Any significance to that?”

  Théo shrugs. “Depends on what they’re working from. With a map or instructions, you do what you’re told. Maybe they decoded something, said the treasure was down eight feet. But for every three men who decipher a message, you’ll get five different results, so...”

  “But nothing about these holes suggests treasure hunting?” She tries the coffee. Likes it. Tries some more.

  He shakes his head. “Best I can tell you? Maybe go back to each spot. Look around. See if there’s some identifying feature. Something that might’ve been left as a marker. Rocks in the shape of an X. A type of tree growing there that shouldn’t be. Outside of that, seems just as likely to be kids playing a prank. That’s what most folks seem to think.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Netty sets down her mug on the glass counter. A display case holding MIMM branded t-shirts and baseball caps. Decals stuck inside of the glass proclaim the various treasure hunting associations to which Desroches belongs. “Is it a close-knit community, treasure hunting? You guys all know one another?”

  Théo nods. “I’m a little out of the loop now that I’m semi-retired, but sure. We co-operate. Share information.”

  “You ever hear of anybody - and I apologize ahead of time here for these names, but--”

  Théo’s face goes white. “The Hunters? Cache and Treasure Hunter?”

  “You know them?”

  “Not personally, but... Holy shit. If they’re on Mossley, then... That’s all the confirmation you need.” He pulls Netty’s map closer. Stares at it. Fading out. Talking more to himself than her. “If they’re here? Pike’s treasure is as good as found. Goddamnit.”

  “Anything you can tell me about them?”

  “Huh?” He looks up. Surprised she’s still there. “Oh, uh... I can tell you this: They’re not joiners. Stick to themselves. Beyond that, I don’t know anything the internet doesn’t.” He steps out from behind the register. Hands Netty her map. “Look, Deputy? It’s feeling like another dead day in a string of ‘em. Too nice out for anybody to waste time on the museum. Think I’m gonna close up, early, if you don’t mind.” He flips a row of switches on the wall. Shutting things down.

  Netty doesn’t fight it. Lets him usher her out. “Thanks for your time and coffee, Mr. Desroches. If you happen to think of anything that might be helpful...” She hands him a card. It still says Sheriff. “Just give me a call.”

  “Will do.” He closes the door. Locks it. Flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  ~

  In the back room, Théo picks up his phone. Makes a call.

  “Marie? I need you to put Guillaume on. Right now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  He’s close to her now. He must be.

  Despite her head-start. She was slowed by her injuries. Drugged with unknown substances. Waylaid by dead ends and booby-traps he hasn’t needed to deal with. More than enough to allow him to catch up.

  Sure he’ll run into her any second, Mr. Hunter rushes to close the gap. Head down. Following the blood spats.

  For a brief stretch, the drops had diminished. Few and far between. Though happy to believe the bleeding had stopped, he’d worried he would lose track of her entirely. Since then, their numbers have surged. Their size has expanded. Easier to follow, but better there were none at all than to know her injuries have somehow been worsening.

  Now, changing again: No longer drips. Instead, a streak. The blood not simply falling. Smearing as she moves. Something dragging through it. Distracted by the thought, Mr. Hunter almost doesn’t notice when the tunnel widens. Expanding abruptly into an open space.

  By far, the largest chamber yet. Stadium-size. Hollow. Cavernous.

  Awestruck, he takes it in. No longer needing his flashlight. A blue bioluminescence shining down from the rock walls. Forming constellations on the craggy ceiling overhead. And covering it all: A sculpted mural of prehistoric fish. Close relations of the two in the room where he’d first been separated from his wife - but overrunning the place. Every surface teeming with schools of the toothy monsters.

  Looking down, Mr. Hunter registers two things...

  Firstly: Not far from where he stands, the floor simply ends. Breaking off into a vast chasm. Falling away into unplumbable darkness.

  Secondly: Crawling across that very floor - her elbows and knees leaving smears of blood in her wake - is his wife. Nearing the edge, without any sign of stopping.

  ~

  It calls. Demands. Not in words. In desires.

  Come...

  It wants. So she moves to answer those wants.

  She felt it in the maze
. As the poison kicked in. The pull. Taking over. Deciding on her behalf. Moving her to move herself.

  Almost a voice. If thick can be a voice. If pressure can.

  Come...

  Compelling her. Insisting her forward by imposing on her the desire to be where it wants her. No happiness will be hers until the impulse is appeased. No contentment until she answers.

  Come...

  So it called and so she came. Even as exhaustion and narcotic toxins slowed her progress. Even as dulled wits and senses walked her into a trap. Even after the trap’s stakes pierced her flesh. Even now, no longer able to walk, she comes. Crawling across the rocky floor. When she cannot crawl she will drag herself. Because her only satisfaction lies in satisfying its desires. Whatever the cost.

  Come...

  Almost there, now. The edge within her grasp. Once past it, gravity will take over. Taking her where she needs to be. Where it needs her to be.

  Giving it what it wants is what she wants.

  Nothing can be permitted to get in the way.

  ~

  Mr. Hunter runs to his wife. Grabs her around the waist. Pulls her back from the chasm’s maw. She spins in his grasp. Lashes out.

  Crack! She slams the broken stake across his skull. He loses hold of her. Stumbles back. Fortunate she used it as a club. Holding the pointy end. A surprise stabbing would have ended him.

  Head ringing. An almost-certain concussion. He shakes it off. Sees her scrambling. Toward the void. Leaps onto her back. His full bulk pinning her down. Spreading her limbs. Fingernails scratching against the rock. Breaking. Unable to get purchase.