The third floor waiting area is a niche to the side of the elevator bay. Four molded-plastic chairs and a mostly sold-out pop machine whose faded graphic hasn’t been changed in four years. Ren and Netty sit quietly on the outermost chairs. Neither entirely certain why they’re waiting.
“Barely recognized her.” Ren shakes his head. “Didn’t really. Thought I was seeing my dead aunt, Belle. She looks exactly like a photo my dad used to have up of her.”
Netty nods. “I know the one. You’re totally right. Dead-ringers.”
“When I left, she was... Just a scrawny little kid. I guess that’s what I expected. As if she’d stay eternally eight.”
“Not physically, at any rate.” Netty feels his eyes. Tries to unsay it. Can’t. “You haven’t been in contact at all since then?”
Ren shrugs helplessly. As though it was all beyond his control. “Few years back, Dawn made us Facebook accounts. She and her mother and me. Back when she still wanted to include us in everything. Her mom thought it was kind of fun, but I only ever used it to ‘like’ things Dawn posted. Even then, only because she’d get hurt and sulky if I didn’t.
“At some point, Wanda tried to ‘friend’ me, but I...” Ren searches for an explanation he doesn’t have. “I couldn’t. So I deleted the account.”
“And you haven’t... Called? Emailed?”
Ren looks at the floor. Smiles unhappily. “Nope. Nothing. Cut myself off from the island completely.” He looks at her. “Wasn’t just you. Hope you didn’t think that. It was everyone. It had to be.”
Netty presses fingernails into palms. This is it: The conversation she’s wanted since the day Ren left. She knows better than to interrupt when a suspect decides to talk. Even so, it’s all she can do to keep from breaking in with twenty-five years worth of well-rehearsed questions and recriminations.
“The place you grow up has a gravity you can never entirely escape. The island’s like this... Black whirlpool. Always churning away in the background. Ready to suck you back in. Any connection I kept was one more anchor tied to my waist. Like it or not, I had to cut them all. You know?”
Netty does not. But she nods anyway. Yes, of course, Ren. I couldn’t agree more.
Ren’s phone rings. A black-and-white selfie of fourteen-year-old Dawn smiles up from the screen. “I’m so sorry, Dawnie, I tried calling, but--”
Ren listens. His jaw tightens. His teeth clench.
He’s on his feet and halfway down the hall before Netty even registers he’s in motion. “Where is she? I’m coming now.”
Netty leaps up. Chases him to the stairwell door. Nearly rams into him when he stops abruptly.
“Lesguettes Lighthouse? Why was she--?” He pinches the bridge of his nose before continuing on. Into the staircase. Down the steps. “Nevermind. Nevermind. It’s fine. Just stay with her. We’ll be right there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Aaron’s nearly there when he realizes: He should already be seeing the light of the lighthouse.
A chill crawls through him. He looks above the shoreline. Searches for the familiar silhouette. Usually inescapable. Finds: Its outline. A starless void. Black against the night sky.
The lighthouse is dark.
Without any storm this time to explain away the blackout.
He texts: Almost there. Looks like the power’s out. You call it in?
Max replies: Wanted 2 talk 2 u 1st.
Aaron can hear Grampy’s voice in his head: “See nothing, do nothing. See something... Pick up the god-be-damned phone.”
A crackling draws his attention. Ahead - hidden past a bend in the road - something is flashing. An intermittent light. Bouncing off the trees.
Aaron continues around the curve. It leads him to a downed power line. Jumping. Snapping against the pavement. Throwing showers of sparks. They skitter away. Dull to nothing.
A solution to the question of why the power is out. He should be relieved. But something tells him this is not a natural occurrence. That the line was brought down purposely. Every instinct tells Aaron to run in the other direction while he still can. Put as much distance as possible between himself and the lightless lighthouse.
Instead, he pushes forward. Pulls out his phone. Calls it in.
~
The patrol boat slides around the island’s northernmost peninsula. As far from the land at this point as it ever gets due to an extended shallows and series of sandbars. As it heads back into the bay, the boat slows. Deeper here, but the underwater terrain is rocky. Full of potential obstacles.
Burl is at the wheel. Rarely glancing out at the real world. His puffy, blackened eyes shifting lazily between two screens: GPS and Sonar. Dispensing to him all the information he needs to navigate. More than the naked eye could ever provide. Above or below the water.
Roscoe mans the spotlight. Runs the beam along the waterline. Tracing the outline of the island over and over again. He’s never been sure what he’s meant to be looking for. After seventeen years, he’s no longer really looking at all. Eyes mostly unfocused. Mind elsewhere.
Neither pays much attention as they make their rounds. Following the same route as every other night. Going through well-practiced motions on autopilot.
Roscoe’s phone rings. He glances at it. Blinks in disbelief. “Ho Lee Shitstains.”
“Whud?” Burl leans over to see the screen: Aaron Coates-Lesguettes. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Oo gadda be kiddig be.”
Three patrol boats circle the island at any one time. Usually maintaining an equal distance between them. Distress calls route to whichever one happens to be closest. Aaron has chosen an unfortunate time to call.
“Mostly-Aaron...” Roscoe answers on speaker. “How’s she cuttin’ there, b’y?”
“Uh... Patrol Two? This is Tower Five. We have a full power outage, here.”
“Again? Jesus Murphy! What’ve we told you kids about running the vaccuum the same time as the dryer?”
Burl snickers loudly. Winces: Too much strain on his damaged nose.
“Repeat: We have a full outage. The lantern’s out too this time. Looks like we may’ve spent the solar back-up yesterday.”
“Yeah, Yeah. We heard ya.”
“So, can I get an ETA, then?”
“Well, I tell ya, Mostly-Aaron. I think about the last thing ya want is for ol’ Burl to come by tonight. Not sure the binicky mood he’s in would prove to be all that helpful to ya.”
“Ah’d dgust lige do gib hib de sabe dybe of helb he gabe be.”
“Are you hearing me, Roscoe?” Aaron’s voice is broken. Desperate. “The lantern’s out. If the lanterns’ out, the--”
“We may work a boat, but that don’t mean we was born on a raft, b’y. We know what it means.”
“Is Sylvie with you, Patrol Two?”
“Oh, blease! Helb be, bubby!” Burl snickers.
“Sadly, yer dear mummy’s ridin’ long with Patrol Three tonight. Though it’s my right strong suspicion she’d be like to side with us on this ‘un.”
“You’re leaving us exposed. Putting the whole island at risk.”
“Looks like we’ll just have to take our chances on that, lad. Patrol Two, signing off. Best of fuck to ya.”
~
Approaching the powerless lighthouse, the only sound in the air is that of the waves lapping at the rocks below. Aaron doesn’t need to enter the genny shed to know the generator is not running. At this distance, he’d hear it. In the pounding rain he may have needed to investigate more closely, but on a clear night it’s plain enough.
He heads past the shed without stopping. As was made painfully obvious the night before, he has no training or knowledge in how to fix the generator anyway, so what could possibly be the point? But a slight squeak of hinges gives him pause. Draws his eye to the shed door. It hangs ajar. The light breeze enough to shift it in place.
He pauses. Wracks his brain. Had the others found a replacement padlock the night before? Had it been locked
when he arrived that afternoon? He hadn’t noticed it hanging open. Wouldn’t he have?
Backup was not on its way. Burl and Roscoe were out there on the water somewhere laughing at him. Feeling this was somehow a just payback. He and Max were on their own.
Grampy’s voice rises up once more: “Not but two-steps to it: Call in if ya see something. Scratch yer ass if ya don’t. That there’s the job in full.”
He pulls out his phone. Dials. If Burl and Roscoe weren’t coming to deal with it, they’d left him no choice but to go over their heads.
“What?” Aaron’s mother is not happy to hear from him.
“Power’s out at Tower Five.”
“So I heard.”
“From Patrol Two?” At least they’d done that much. “So is somebody coming?”
There’s a pause on the line. “Hold tight. We’ll be there when we can.”
“You’re not worried?”
“No.”
“What about the Ring? Wreck Reef? The lantern’s out too. So we must’ve run down the solar back-up. No solar, no barrier.”
“I said no.”
“But for this to happen two nights in a row? Isn’t that a bit suspicious?”
“Two nights is consistent. It’s what you’d expect from a mechanical issue. Easier to deal with come sun-up.”
“You’re not coming until--” Then, it hits him: The truth about his mother. “You don’t believe, do you?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“No, you put on a good show, but if you really thought there was a threat waiting out there with our defenses compromised, you’d already be on your way.”
“You think I don’t-- I’ve made the Watch my whole life!”
“And now you’re risking mine! Tower Five’s barrier is down. We are at risk of attack. Where are you?”
When his mother speaks again, her voice is tightly reined. “Aaron. I get that you want to be historian. Grampy wants that for you, too, so it’s probably going to happen. You really don’t need to prove how useless you are on Watch, in order to get out of it. I’m there already. Believe me.”
In spite of everything, his mother’s words hit Aaron hard. He reels slightly before responding, “I do, Mom. I believe you.”
Tap. He hangs up.
Aaron heads towards the front entrance. He’s done his part. Called it in. Twice. What more can he do? As he walks, his toe knocks something. It spins away. Clangs metallic against a rock.
He turns on his phone’s flash-light. Shines it around. Stops on: His mother’s wrench. Now he remembers. She’d used it to hold the genny shed door closed. Said she wanted it back when they got a new padlock. Too heavy to fall out on its own. Someone had to have removed it.
He looks back towards the shed.
The hinges squeak as the door moves in the breeze.
~
As much as Max wants to, he doesn’t shout down.
Aaron is clearly walking back to the genny shed, when what he should be doing is heading for the front door. Max wants to warn him away. Tell him to get his ass inside. Leave that shit to the professionals. But he checks himself. Bites his own tongue.
Aaron would definitely hear him - the balcony’s only about three stories up - but so would anyone else who might be in the vicinity. What use is a warning if it also alerts your enemies?
So all he can do is watch as Aaron enters the shed. And wait for him to emerge.
But Aaron doesn’t emerge.
Max paces. Waiting to see the top of his friend’s head appear. Afraid to look away in case he misses the moment. But there is no such moment. No sign of Aaron. No movement at all.
Max starts counting Mississippies. Gives Aaron two minutes. At one hundred twenty, Max will go down. Find out what the hell the kid’s doing in that shed. Make sure he’s okay. Two minutes is more than enough time for Aaron to look around and come back out. He’s been in there longer than that already.
At one-twenty, he resets Mississippies. Gives Aaron to one-eighty.
At two hundred, he stops counting.
Starts praying.
~
“Aaron!”
Max whisper-shouts from the lighthouse doorway. Still shooting for inconspicuous. Missing the mark in the night’s deep silence.
Listening, he steps out. One hand on the doorframe. Tethering himself. When there’s no response, he pulls the door shut behind him. Locks it. Follows his flashlight beam around the edge of the building to the genny shed. The thin light reveals nothing.
“Aaron!” The hungry night eats his voice. Starving for more.
This is stupid. He’s letting paranoia and superstition get the better of him. Two hours earlier, he’d’ve thought the whole idea was complete bullshit. What had changed? A blurry blink-and-miss image on a low-resolution security monitor? Something he probably imagined, anyway.
Max squares his shoulders. Straightens his spine. Lets his flashlight clear a path through the blackness. Marches forward on the shed.
Halfway there, the door flings open from inside. Something huge bursts through. Something Max is unable to make sense of. Black. Scaly. Wet. All he’s able to process before it knocks him to the ground. Bounds up onto the rocks. Dives toward the water below.
Max hears the splash as he rolls. Scrambles to his feet. Runs to the edge.
The starlight shows him the ocean without detail. Barely illuminates the ripples radiating from where the thing plunged in. The only sign of its existence. Fading. Gone.
“What. The fuck?”
A heat from his arm. Stickiness.
Max pulls at his sleeve. Finds a long tear. Through the fabric. Through his flesh. The thing had sliced him open. Sucking breath through his teeth he grabs at the wound. Holds some of it closed. A longer wound than it is deep. Fortunately for him.
A gurgling draws his attention back to the shed. His bones turn to rubber. He knows what it is. He doesn’t want to, but he knows what came out. He knows who went in. He knows.
“Please, no. Please, no. Please, no.”
Fumbling, he grabs his flashlight from the ground. Runs for the doorway. Aims the beam inside ahead of him. Where it finds most of Aaron.
He’s stretched out on his back across the generator. Blood bubbling from his mouth. From the gaping hole in his belly. Onto everything. In his hands he holds loops of his own intestines. Failing to keep them from dropping to the dirty floor. Where one of his legs has been discarded.
Max can’t proceed. Can’t retreat. All reason and autonomy desert him. Any understanding he ever thought he had about anything at all is just plain gone. The one thing he wants most in the world at that moment is to turn the flashlight away. He can’t even manage that.
Aaron makes a noise like a hiccup. His remaining eye rolls in its socket. Seems to focus on Max. He gasps. Sucks in one last breath, “Sssssssss...” Exhaling, it sounds as though he says, “...Ssstarsss.”
Beneath Aaron’s body, the generator lights up. A collection of indicators and gauges winking awake as the machinery begins to grind back to life.
The only warning it gives, before it explodes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sliding into the off-season, only a few guests remain at the Talbot Inn.
All but three rooms are vacant. Two house long-term tenants. The third, a professor on sabbatical down to her final few days on the island. Of the cabins dotted around the property, only two are occupied. Currently, one of these is lit. Parked beside it is the dirty green Jeep. Dirtier now, if that’s even possible.
From inside the cabin, industrial music thumps its chest. A dull, pulsing throb not at all annoying to anyone further than two miles away.
Mr. Hunter steps out onto the porch. Lets the screen door snap shut behind him with a shattering slam. He surveys the grounds. Bites the end off a cigar. Spits it into the bushes. Holding flame to the foul thing, he puffs it to life.
As he exhales a cloud of smoke he seems to deflate slightly. Slumps. Tired.
The door shrieks open behind him. The little woman comes out. Lets it slam.
She stands next to him. Looks up at the stars a moment. Then, smacks his arm twice with the back of her hand. When he looks down at her, she holds out her palm.
He rolls his eyes. Takes a final draw on the cigar. Hands it over.
She takes it. Puffs away.
Nearby, gravel crunches under tires. Someone coming up the lane.
Without conferring, the Hunters each step to one side. Out of the doorway. Away from the light which had held them in silhouette. They disappear against the cabin wall. Becoming shadows among shadows.
Headlights approach. Pull up behind the SUV at the next-closest cabin. A police car. The Sheriff’s car.
The man rubs his bald head.
The woman exhales a smoky mushroom.
They watch.
~
Netty emerges from the driver’s seat. Opens the back door. Helps Dawn out. Cold. Still Wet. Wrapped in a rough grey-flannel blanket. Her father follows. Exiting through the same door.
“But I’m still not clear on this, Dawn. The people who helped you... They--”
“They saw I was okay. They left. Must not have realized you were planning to present them with a... A Good Citizenship Award or something.”
“And you’re sure you’re--”
“Seriously, Dad. I was just dizzy. I fell in the sand. I’m fine now.”
“I still think we should--”
“Gah! It was nothing! Only a... Ferry flashback or something. Calm yourself. Like, way, way down.” Still a bit shaky, she turns to Netty. “Thanks for the ride, Sheriff Hubert.”
“It’s Netty. Please.”
“Netty.” Dawn nods. “Thanks.”
She starts away. Ren reaches out. Snags the blanket still around her shoulders. Gives a double-tug. Dawn stops. Looks back. “Property of the Mossley Island Police Department.”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK ONE Page 14
