by Rio Youers
“Okay, back in the truck,” Nolan said. “We’ve got a little time to kill. Let’s hit Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We’ll see.”
Nolan laid the jacket on the backseat and kicked the empty box into the scrub at the edge of the lot. He got behind the wheel and they drove—in silence again—to a Dunkin’ Donuts just off Interstate 81. He parked on a deserted side street a block away.
“Still not hungry?”
“You want to get a little closer? They have drive-thru, you know.”
“This is as close as we get. By the end of the day, you’ll be the most famous person in America. I don’t want anybody seeing you in this truck.”
“You’ve thought it all through, huh?”
“You want anything?”
“No.”
“Fine. Keep your head down. If anybody walks past, don’t make eye contact.” Nolan got out of the truck and walked to the restaurant. He returned minutes later carrying a brown bag as heavily stuffed as the jacket on the backseat. He took out a large coffee, a breakfast sandwich, and a jelly donut for himself, and placed a hot chocolate and Boston Kreme on the dashboard in front of Shirley.
“In case you change your mind.”
Shirley didn’t touch her food to begin with, then she took a sip of the hot chocolate, then a bigger sip, and before long she was wiping sticky vanilla filling off her chin and brushing crumbs off her jacket.
“Usually at this time,” Nolan said after he finished his sandwich, “I would offer instruction on what to say in the event you’re compromised. But you’re not going to be compromised. You’re a sixteen-year-old white girl in a shopping mall. No one will look twice at you. That being said, you still have to be smart.”
Shirley licked chocolate icing off her lips.
“Do not approach the mall until close to zero hour.” Nolan pointed at Shirley’s wristwatch. “By zero hour I mean one thirty: time of commencement. That way, there’s less chance of running into someone you know. Also, the Onondaga Mall has only been open a few weeks, so security will still be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You’re a sixteen-year-old white girl, but loitering will make them suspicious.”
Shirley nodded.
“Don’t make eye contact with anyone. Focus on the middle distance, and walk with a sense of purpose.” Nolan took a huge bite out of his donut and jelly squirted onto his shirt. Still chewing, he said, “If you do see someone you know, act naturally and excuse yourself as quickly as possible.”
“Dad,” Shirley said.
Nolan rinsed his mouth with a gulp of coffee. “Dad? What do you—”
“My dad helped build that mall,” Shirley said. Her eyes filmed over. “He’s an architect. Was an architect, I guess.”
“That’s right. And a good man. A damn good man.”
“I’m going to miss him.”
“Let me tell you something,” Nolan said, the last mouthful of donut poised an inch from his lips. “He’s going to walk into the Glam, across the Skyway you open, and he’s going to be incredibly proud of you.”
This wasn’t true at all. Nolan was scheduled to pick Martin up at two o’clock. Martin might think he was returning to Halcyon, but Nolan had something different planned: a bullet to the head and a trip to the bottom of Lake Ontario.
“I hope so,” Shirley said.
Nolan finished his donut and coffee, then tossed the trash out the window, started the truck and drove toward the mall. He found a secluded spot a mile northwest, behind tangles of brushwood and a faded billboard that declared: THE GIFT OF GOD IS ETERNAL LIFE.
“This is the drop zone,” Nolan said. “I have to leave soon. Mother Moon needs me for an urgent task. And I still have to pick up your father.”
“You’re leaving me here?”
“I have to, and I can’t get any closer because of possible video surveillance around the mall.” Nolan noticed the blob of jelly on his shirt. He wiped it off and sucked his finger clean. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this. Let me hear you say it.”
“I’ve got this.”
“Wait here until twelve thirty. I suggest you sit still and don’t expend energy. Then start walking. Follow this road”—Nolan pointed through the brushwood—“until you hit Owen Street. Turn left on Owen and follow it all the way to the mall. It’s about a mile. That’s twenty minutes at a normal pace, but we’ll allow thirty because of the jacket.”
“Okay.”
“Speaking of which, let’s get it on.”
They exited the truck. Nolan took the jacket off the backseat, unzipped it halfway, and helped Shirley pull it on like a sweater. She slumped, arms hanging. “Straighten your shoulders,” Nolan said. “There, that’s better.” The sleeves were a little long but otherwise it was a good fit.
“So heavy,” Shirley moaned.
“It’s no heavier than a backpack.”
She walked a little way and came back, rolling her shoulders to get a feel for the weight. The cold wind ruffled her hair, blonder at the roots. She shrugged and turned her lightless eyes to Nolan.
“I can’t get her out of my head,” she said.
“Mother Moon wants what’s best for you. For all of us.”
“What if she’s wrong?”
“She’s not.”
Shirley turned away, her head low. Nolan shuffled his feet awkwardly. For fear of saying the wrong thing, he said nothing at all. The clouds moved in great pillows overhead and birds called. When Shirley turned back, he saw tears in her eyes.
“I’ll see you in the Glam,” he said.
She nodded vaguely. Nolan started toward his truck, but Shirley spoke his name very softly, very sweetly. He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Will it hurt?” she asked. A tear flashed down her cheek.
“You won’t feel a thing,” Nolan replied, and he believed this as much as everything else. “The moment you pull that zipper down, you’re going to grow wings.”
35
Valerie skipped from her cabin into the clear, cold air, kicking happily at the leaves and watching them flicker. Gilda Wynne greeted her with the broadest smile. “Oh my, Mother Moon, aren’t you a ray of sunshine this morning!” Valerie looked at her and said nothing, only laughed—the shrill, unbalanced laugh of someone at the threshold of either madness or bliss. Gilda’s smile faltered and she scurried away.
Valerie walked on, light of step and of soul. She ducked into the shelter of the trees, took the watch out of her pocket, and looked at it for perhaps the fiftieth time that morning. It was the same watch she’d kept locked in a box for so many years. Nolan had synchronized it with the watch he’d given to Shirley. Time: hours, minutes, and seconds, with meaning at last. At 1:30 the Skyway would explode from what Edith called the place between (and what a beautiful, poetic phrase that was: the place between), and Valerie would walk—no swagger—across it after all these years of searching.
Momma’s coming home, she thought, and heard music in the air, a delicate plucking and plinking, not dissimilar to those bamboo wind chimes she’d heard over and over again. She followed the sound, wending gaily through the trees, and came to Alyssa’s cabin. Alyssa was nowhere in sight. Inside, maybe, or attending to some island chore. Edith sat on the front step with a guitar across her knee.
“I was looking for you,” Valerie said.
Edith put the guitar down. There were dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Where’s my sister?” she asked.
“At the very edge of light,” Valerie replied, and held out her hand. “Come with me.”
* * *
A collision south of Scranton delayed Martin by almost an hour. He was sweating and irritable by the time traffic started moving again. Not only that, but a voice in his head—it sounded distinctly like Laura’s—told him that time was running out. Paranoia, of course, due in part to being stuck in traffic, feeling helpless and far away, but due also to the many things he’d learned these past few da
ys.
He’d fallen asleep the previous night with a box load of questions tumbling through his mind. The most pressing was whether or not to go straight to the police with what he knew. Ultimately, he decided against it. All he had was Calm’s word, her psychic word, and that was hardly going to stand up. More decisively, it was impossible to implicate someone in a crime that, on record, never took place.
Be smart, he thought, and remembered Calm’s advice: Don’t ruffle any feathers. He had a single objective: to get his daughters—and Alyssa, if she’d come—off the island. Once they were together and back on the mainland, he could decide the best course of action.
Martin hit Syracuse at 10:40 and kept going. He couldn’t wait three hours for Nolan—he’d make his own way to Halcyon. That might arouse suspicion, but he had a solid excuse: to get back before the storm blew in, and to save Nolan a trip. Mother Moon might buy it, but if she didn’t … well, no big deal. He was leaving the island anyway.
Most of the journey had been beneath blue skies. Heavier cloud rolled in as he drove north toward Fisherman’s Point. He made it to the small lakeside town in good time, only to find the marina deserted. A few boats bobbed in their slips but that was all. Martin sat in the parking lot and pondered his next move. He could wait and hope someone showed up, he could try the larger marina in Oswego eleven miles east, or he could check Nolan’s boathouse. Nolan might have made the trip already, and could be gassing up the center console or loading supplies.
Worth a shot, Martin thought.
He took Salmon Road out of Fisherman’s Point and followed it six miles to Ridge Lane—the unpaved, unmarked track that led to the dilapidated summerhouse and water beyond. The rental bounced over the bumpy surface at a crawl. Martin tried to take comfort from the fact that he was close now, but paranoia crowded him from all sides.
Don’t sweat it, he thought. People have lived on Halcyon for years, safe and happy. It’s all good, so just chill.
Good advice, but impossible to follow. How could he chill with Laura persistently telling him that time was running out? He kept flashing back to that dream, too. That damn dream with the bullet, which had felt so much like a warning—a premonition.
Martin rounded the last bend and saw Nolan’s truck in the summerhouse’s driveway. He parked alongside and got out of the car. The smell of the lake hit him immediately. He inhaled greedily, listening to the wind through the branches and the distinct ticking of the rental’s engine as it cooled. But not just the rental’s engine. The truck’s, too. Martin laid his hand on the broad white hood and felt the heat.
Nolan had arrived recently, probably within the last five minutes. He might be in the boathouse, after all. Martin followed the cracked path past the summerhouse. He was about to call Nolan’s name when he heard an outboard motor rip into life.
“Shit.”
Martin broke into a jog, feeling that old familiar pain niggling his left knee. He reached the boathouse just as Nolan pulled out of the slip.
“Nolan … Nolan!”
Shouting was pointless; there was no chance he’d be heard over the rumbling engine. Nolan zipped away, dragging a tail of white water.
“What the hell?” Martin said. Did he get the wrong time? No, Nolan definitely said two o’clock, and it was only 11:32 now. Which meant Nolan was either coming back within the next couple of hours, or he wanted to beat the storm. And if that was the case, when would he be back?
Martin’s sense of foreboding deepened. He kicked at a mooring post, then looked up and down the shoreline.
He needed to find a boat.
A light snow started to fall.
* * *
Time of day was not a factor for people living on the island, but Nolan was not afforded that luxury. He too often made trips to the mainland, where minutes and hours ruled and everybody followed. In this regard he was still a prisoner, and he for damn sure was Mother Moon’s prisoner, although he preferred to think of himself as her right-hand man. It wasn’t so different from being in the military, but all he got for that was a head full of fuckery and a medal he ended up selling for food. At least with Mother Moon, the payoff would be more rewarding.
No clocks on Halcyon, of course, but Nolan kept an old wristwatch on the boat. He glanced at it as he approached the dock, where Jake Door sat with his rod in the water. It was 11:58. Mother Moon wanted him for some vital task. Which was fine, as long as it was quick; Nolan had a vital task of his own.
He shut off the center console’s engine and coasted into the dock.
“How-do?” Jake put his rod down and stood to greet him. There were flecks of snow in his mustache.
“Tie me off,” Nolan demanded, whipping the line at him.
“Well, shoot, a ‘please’ wouldn’t hurt, fella.”
“Please.”
Nolan jumped ashore and hastened along the dock. Snow blurred the air around him. It was still light—the heavier stuff wasn’t rolling in until mid-afternoon, maybe early evening—but it was another reason to haul ass. If he were late collecting Martin, there was every chance they’d be stranded on the mainland together, a scenario that would call for some serious improvisation.
There were a few islanders doing chores—raking leaves, chopping firewood, stockpiling—but not many. Most were tucked up in their cabins, fires already blazing. Brooke Stone and Jordan Little were in the meadow, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Brooke waved as he passed but he pretended not to see her. He marched directly to Mother Moon’s cabin and rapped his fist against the door.
“Good, you’re here,” Mother Moon said, stepping onto the porch rather than inviting him inside. He caught a glimpse of the girl, Edith, sitting in an armchair eating one of the candy bars that Nolan had brought from the mainland on a recent trip.
“Snickers,” Mother Moon whispered, following his gaze. “I’m trying to soften her up.”
“Kids love candy,” Nolan said.
“Well, this kid is tough to break,” Mother Moon said, closing the door fully. “But I’ll get her.”
“You always do.”
“She only has to open the window—the portal. Shirley will add the exotic matter.” Mother Moon rubbed her hands together. “My little science experiment.”
Nolan recalled the weight of the jacket, the ball bearings and screws packed into the sleeves and shoulders. “It’s not going to be so little.”
Mother Moon swept down the porch steps. The wind lifted her hair and peppered it with snow. “Where should we put the Skyway? I’m thinking that clearing in the north forest.” She waved her hand in the general direction. “Very pretty there, with the pink lady’s slipper blooming in the summer.”
“Very.”
“It’ll be a place of power, like the Aramu Muru gateway. Or what’s that other place, in Vermont? The Bennington Triangle!”
“I think the clearing is a perfect location for the Skyway,” Nolan said in the calmest possible voice, but wanting desperately to hurry things along. “So … you wanted me to do something?”
Mother Moon nodded. She stepped back onto the porch and stood by the door, hugging herself against the cold. “Yes. Something very important.”
“I’ll do whatever you need,” Nolan said. “You know that. But I don’t have much time. I told the girls’ father I’d collect him at two o’clock. It’ll take a while for the dust to settle, but if I’m not there, and he’s close to a news source when they identify—”
“You’ll be there,” Mother Moon said. “Besides, if he has any sense he’ll meet you at the boathouse. He might even make his own way over to get ahead of the storm.”
“That’s a possibility,” Nolan said, and it was one he’d considered. “I’ll deal with him regardless.”
“Yes, but first…” Mother Moon grabbed a fistful of his jacket and tugged him toward her. She lifted her face to his, almost close enough to kiss. “Not including me or the girl, or yourself, obviously … how many people are on the island?”
Nolan did the math quickly. “Fifteen.”
“And how many bullets do you have?”
He took a step backward but she kept hold of his jacket. “What? I…” He shook his head. “Are you—”
“Do you really want these people striding to and fro across our Skyway, coming and going as they please?”
“Well…”
“They’ve done nothing to earn it. Fucking nothing. Those who have are already there.”
“Right,” Nolan said.
“We’ve kept Halcyon functional by introducing certain rules, and taking certain measures. The same applies here. If we lose control of the Skyway, we lose control of Glam Moon.” She tugged him close once again. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” he whispered. “Of course not.”
“So I ask again: How many bullets do you have?”
“Enough.”
“Good.” She sneered. “Then get to it.”
Nolan nodded but the uncertainty must have shown in his face, because Mother Moon pressed her body against his. He felt her hip bones, the softness of her breasts and belly, and she said in a voice that melted across his brain like butter:
“You can have everything, Nolan.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know what to do.” She ran her tongue across his lips. It was as cold as the snow. “Kill them. Kill them all.”
36
Shirley tried to recall a time in her life that she was happy—a moment of light to relieve the darkness inside her. There were memories, but they were all stained. Even memories of her mom—who was beautiful and kind and oh God Shirley missed her—were recalled through a gray mist. The only clear thing in her mind was Mother Moon’s voice. It told her she was beautiful and strong, that she didn’t need to be afraid.
We’ll hover like hummingbirds, you and I, with our long beaks dipping and a warm rain in our feathers.
The clearing behind the billboard swayed one way then the other. Shirley staggered, dropped to her knees. She thought at first she could keep it down, then she vomited in a sour brown stream. Tears flooded her eyes. She coughed and wiped her mouth.
