He picked up the ivy and twirled it in his fingers. But keeping his mind from wandering was nearly impossible and he found himself imagining the troll-like reporter from the Enquirer. How he’d love to see the wanker’s face when the announcement was made to the world. Jules rolled the idea over in his mind. Why couldn’t George have discovered a way to communicate with plants? Wasn’t that the basis of his own work, everything he hoped to prove? Yet, here he was, sounding like all the other doubters and critics.
Of course it was possible. By God, it was his duty to prove it, for the sake of the planet. Because, all things considered, none of the accolades even compared to the scientific contribution his work would have on the future of earth.
Imagine what they could tell us.
It was almost as if the decision created a chemical shift in his body. He was giddy with excitement and a kind of youthful wonder he hadn’t felt in decades. It was exhilarating, and he rubbed his palms together, eager to continue.
Isabelle came into the lab, her nervous fingers wringing a handkerchief.
“Isabelle, I’m glad you’re here,” Jules said, oblivious to her despair. “I’ve come up with some new ideas about these plants based—”
“Sean hasn’t returned,” she interrupted. “He’s been gone for hours. Maybe lost in the woods.”
Jules stared, as though she were speaking in a foreign tongue. Then he said dismissively, “I’m sure he’s all right. A boy his age certainly wouldn’t miss lunch. Now I’d like you to have a look at these electrical signals.”
“Jules, I’m not interested in plants right now. My son is missing and he could be lost.”
“He’s probably at the beach.”
“Well, you should help me look. After all, it was your idea to let him go.”
His shoulders sagged and he dropped the ivy on the table. “Fine. I’ll help you search.”
CHAPTER 17
LUKE BROKE THROUGH A TANGLE of brush that hindered his path through the woods. Hot tears streaked his face, his nose was runny, and he could still hear Monica laughing. It plagued him with the kind of angst and humiliation that only a strenuous workout could quell, and he climbed a steep incline, quick as a squirrel. He made it to the top, slid down on his bottom, and kept on running.
Then he stopped suddenly. His head hurt and floaters clouded his vision. When the woods began to sway, Luke staggered sideways and dropped to his knees. He grabbed his gut, as nausea struck like a cannonball. Luke vomited into the mud. He hacked out burning saliva and the pungent smell made him heave again.
What the hell is happening? He rolled onto his back, wiping his mouth and hoping it would pass. Slivers of sunlight peeked through the branches overhead and his ears buzzed with chatter, incoherent whispers that came from the foliage.
“Who’s there?” he muttered, slowly turning his head.
He was alone.
Friggin’ Monica.
She had stressed him out until he hurled. The bitch teased him, seduced him, and made him feel like a fool. But he knew from the body chills and muscle aches, this wasn’t just stress. It was some kind of infection, viral or bacterial, possibly a strain of some island flu.
Good. Maybe I’ll die.
Luke lay in the dark shadow of towering pines, listening to silence. When he sat up, it felt like a skillet hit his head, so he sank back down and rested a few more agonizing minutes.
You’re fine, bro. Just keep it together.
He took deep breaths and rested. With his face so close to the ground he came nose to nose with a pinecone. The woody scales were covered in black specks. Not far away there were sprouts of grass, also speckled black, as well as the bark of trees. Luke sat up slowly without any discomfort, and noticed all the fallen leaves and creeping vines were infested too. Curious, he crawled along the ground, following the growth. Must be a fungus, he thought, but didn’t contemplate the idea any further than that.
Slowly he rose to his feet, trying not to sway.
There was a pond in a clearing about twenty yards from where he stood. Tall reeds poked through the surface, dried and bent. The water shimmered with blue and white reflections of the sky. He walked to the edge and saw his face among the floating twigs. The surface was a sheet of glass and he spit the bad taste from his mouth, watched the water ripple. Then he bent down and splashed his face. The water was ice cold and he remembered the name on the map, Ice Pond.
He was startled by a thumping sound. Across the water, a woman was stooped on her knees. Why hadn’t he noticed her before? She seemed to be digging in the dirt.
With some trepidation, he walked in her direction, his leg muscles tightening with growing alarm. When he was halfway around the pond, his shoulders dropped in relief.
It was Ginny. She was mumbling to herself and raking the earth with filthy hands. It was an amusing sight and he smirked, forgetting all about Monica.
“Miss Shufflebottom?” he said, and had to bite his tongue not to laugh at the sound of her name. She was digging a hole in front of a smooth boulder, engraved with a cross as though it were some kind of headstone.
“It’s here,” she muttered, digging deeper. “I know it. Right here in this grave.” She was panting and excited. Dirt was flying everywhere.
Luke stopped a few yards away, wary of getting close. “Do you need some help?”
The old woman jerked her head around and shouted, “What in bloody hell is wrong with you, boy?”
An ax stuck out of Ginny’s forehead. Blood ran down her pasty-white face, between her eyes that were drawn down in anger, and around her gaping mouth. A lavender dress clung to her body, soaked red on one side.
Luke fell back, staring in horror and tripping on his feet. He scurried across the ground like a frightened crab and backed right into the shallow pond. Splashing and rolling, he struggled to get up and sprang for the woods, through a tangle of branches, and kept on going. It was a small miracle that he found the path to the house, and sped over the flat terrain with Ginny’s voice still ringing in his head.
What in bloody hell is wrong with you, boy?
Her bloody face stuck in his mind. The hatchet lodged in her temple, brain matter protruding over one eye.
God, how can she be alive? How is she speaking?
Luke felt his stomach start to heave again. He focused on his breathing, the sound of his wet sneakers slamming the ground. The woods ended and the house came into view. The fields of rye seemed to stretch on forever and he thought he would never reach the front door. His calves burned and his lungs made quick rasping sounds.
As he reached the patio, the kitchen door flew open.
“Luke!” Monica ran to him, teary-eyed.
He stopped and fell over himself, hands braced on his knees and panting in short, broken gasps.
“I’m sorry, Luke.”
He grabbed her around the waist, clutching her body.
She hugged him back. It seemed like he might never let go, but she gently pulled away.
He averted his eyes, wiping away tears.
“I shouldn’t have…” She paused, trying to find the right words. “Don’t hate me, okay?”
For the first time, she noticed the hectic flush in his cheeks. He was trembling with fright.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
“I think,” he motioned to the woods, “Ginny’s out there. She had an accident.”
Monica’s brow pinched. “I just saw her in the kitchen. She’s fine.”
“You sure?”
She nodded and his eyes closed in relief.
“Oh shit, Luke. I didn’t mean to say those things.” She kissed his lips. “I was scared, you know?” She could feel his body shaking. “I’ll never hurt you like that.”
They walked together toward the kitchen.
Luke glanced back at the woods.
* * *
The lines in the dirt made by Sean’s walking stick were easy to follow. As they headed down the trail, Isabelle asked Jule
s what he had discovered about the plants, but he shrugged and told her it was nothing. The jubilance that gripped him so copiously moments ago had passed.
“You’re right. I can see the fungus on everything,” she said, scrutinizing the trees.
Jules didn’t answer. He was deep in thought.
Ten minutes into their walk, the lines in the soil disappeared and they found Sean’s stick discarded on the ground. Farther into the woods, a half-eaten biscuit lay in a bed of moss.
“Sean must have dropped it,” Isabelle said, trying not to show how worried she’d become. “Should we continue to the beach, or cut through here?”
“Looks like he’s gone off the trail. It’s best to follow his tracks,” Jules replied and stepped into the brush. He examined the biscuit and pointed out traces of footprints that led deeper into the woods. As they headed west, Jules proved to be quite a sleuth, following churned-up leaf beds, tread marks on fallen trees, rocks pressed into the earth, freshly snapped twigs, and broken pine needles. He explained to Isabelle how grass bruises and moss bends underfoot.
Several minutes later, there was no sign of Sean at all, but they decided to press on a bit longer. The brush was thick and rough going, especially for Jules, who had trouble ducking under low branches. His size made him seem clumsier than he was and sweat speckled his brow. The sun was high in the sky, making the woods warm and damp. Jules unzipped his jacket and narrowed his eyes at the pine trees. He saw something large, gleaming white between the branches, like the canvas of a sailboat, although the sea had to be a hundred yards off.
“Over here.” He motioned to Isabelle and she followed him around the tall evergreens, weaving among heavy limbs toward flashes of white. Jules pulled back the last drooping branches and the two stood perfectly still, gaping at an enormous clearing.
It was circular in shape, as though the trees had been chopped down on purpose for some kind of ritual. The sky above was a hole where sunlight spilled over what seemed to be a campsite. In the center was a room-size tent of heavy white canvas streaked with dirt. Off to the side were rusted folding tables and a dozen wooden pallets starting to decay.
But Jules could only stare at the ground. It was covered with the same black growth that infected all the plants on the island. It stretched in a circle a hundred feet wide as though someone had laid down velvet carpeting. It draped over tree stumps, rocks, and logs, showing only the curves and lines of invisible objects beneath.
“Goodness,” Isabelle gasped. “It’s everywhere.”
Jules knelt on one knee and held his palms over the ground. His voice was a wisp. “You can almost feel its energy.”
Isabelle looked dubious. “It’s thriving here for a reason.” She peered up at the sky. “Maybe it’s all this sunlight.”
“Fungi hate sunlight,” he replied, pulling a tissue and tweezers from his jacket.
Isabelle looked down at her feet and noticed that the growth spread into the woods. It ran up tree trunks and over vegetation.
Jules put a sample in his pocket and walked softly across the mossy ground toward the tent. Isabelle followed, stepping warily on the fungus as if it might bite her.
The tent was held up by rusty poles. Inside were mud-caked sleeping bags, eroded field equipment, and the fungus that saturated the ground. But what caught Jules’s eye was a huge pile of scrap metal.
Isabelle stepped behind him. “What is that?”
They moved inside and Jules picked through the debris. He recognized dissected parts of computers, genetic testing equipment, a Faraday cage, a plant press. There were hundreds of wires, screws, and loose circuits.
Off to the side was some kind of homemade contraption, a wooden board about a meter long. The board was covered in wires connected to various electrical circuits, filters, amplifiers, modulators, and an oscillator, all powered by four gel-cell batteries taped together.
Right away Jules recognized it from a drawing in the green notebook, a crude replica of a synthesizer. “I believe this is the device George was working on to communicate with plants. I saw a diagram in his journal.”
“Nonsense,” Isabelle said. “It looks like something a fifth-grader would make for a science fair.”
“Yes, it’s very disappointing.” And Jules looked disappointed, even annoyed. “I’m surprised he didn’t power it with a potato.”
Isabelle impatiently watched him scrutinizing the wiring, trying to figure it out. “Are you coming?” she asked. “We came out here to look for my son.”
He didn’t really want to leave and blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine, if we must.” He got to his feet and left the campsite with a grim expression.
Jules took the lead, heading south. The terrain was rocky with vast outcroppings, steep inclines, and tall, spindly trees that grew close together. It was getting hot and Jules took off his jacket, wiped it over his brow. They were both feeling tired and edgy, and Isabelle worried they were going the wrong way.
“We’re definitely going south, toward the beach,” Jules assured her. “Can’t you hear the ocean?”
“It’s an island. There’s ocean everywhere.”
“I can tell from the sun’s position. I’d think you’d be able to figure out something as simple as north and south, Isabelle.”
She pursed her lips to keep from saying something rude. Then she stopped and tilted her head to one side. “Do you hear that?”
“What?”
Isabelle blinked. “It sounds like a child.”
Around the next bend of rock and bushes, they found Sean sitting on the ground with his knees pulled to his chest, hands fisted under his chin. There were bloodstains down the back of his neck to his white shirt. Isabelle rushed to inspect his head. She blotted a wound with a handkerchief from her pocket.
“The cut isn’t too bad, but that’s quite a bump. We’ll have to watch—” Her thoughts evaporated as she realized Sean was humming. Her heart raced, listening to him drone. It was just a few notes he kept repeating, but it was humming nonetheless.
“Jules, do you hear him?” She was smiling, thinking it sounded like a nursery rhyme but none she could remember.
“Splendid,” he said. “Can he walk?”
Isabelle couldn’t hear anything but the humming.
Jules stepped between some bushes. “Why, there’s the path to the house. I can see the red tags.”
Isabelle asked Sean, “What are you singing, love?”
He fell quiet, and turned to his mother with narrowed eyes. Without warning, he pushed her to the ground with both hands. Then he hissed and punched her in the arm.
Jules rushed forward with his palms blocking Sean, and stood between them. He took Isabelle’s hand and helped her up. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I … think so.” She looked at Sean, bewildered.
Sean got to his feet and walked toward the path, leaving her feeling as though she’d been stabbed in the heart.
CHAPTER 18
MONICA POURED LUKE a cold glass of water and put his wet sneakers on top of the wood-burning stove. He was drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, unable to take his eyes off Ginny.
“What the devil are you staring at?”
“You’ve been here all morning? You’re sure?”
“Yes, for the third time.”
“You never went outside?”
Ginny clicked her tongue derisively. “Well, let’s see, I was in the library for an hour and thirteen minutes. Then I went to my room to read sixty-one pages of a book, stopping twice for the toilet to pee.” She pointed a finger. “I believe the real question is, why aren’t you looking for the Crimson Star, checking your appointed rooms like we agreed? Here’s your copy of the map.” She slapped it on the table.
“I’m not feeling well,” Luke said. He took a gulp of water and raked his fingers through his hair. “I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting down,” Monica said.
“Not here.” He slammed the glass down and
left the kitchen.
Monica followed him, as Ginny shouted, “Don’t forget your map.”
Luke collapsed in the library, holding his head in his hands. His damp jeans were uncomfortable and he shifted in the seat. When Monica sat in the chair beside him, Luke sighed deeply.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “It’s like, you’re acting weird. Trying to make me feel guilty or something, when I told you I was sorry.”
“It’s not about you.”
“Then what?”
He took a breath and blurted out, “Well, for one thing, I saw Ginny in the woods a few minutes ago with an ax in her head. I mean an actual lumberjack, steel-blade ax lodged in her brain. There was blood everywhere and she was yelling at me.”
Monica froze for a moment. She licked her bottom lip. “You just thought you saw her. It must have been an animal, like a deer mauled by a bear.”
“I was standing five feet away. It was Ginny.”
“You’re trying to scare me again. Just like when you told me that Hodges’s killer could still be on the island.”
“That’s not true.”
“I think you want me to be scared. What, you like your women all weak and terrified, so you can look like this big macho guy? God, I hate that.”
Luke bolted from the chair. “I’m telling you she had an ax split down the side of her head. I ran out of there like crazy, shaking in my boots.”
She watched him pace. “You did look terrified, I’ll give you that. If you’re telling the truth it can only be one thing.” She walked to him, speaking low. “This island is cursed. Your grandfather went nuts, right? Same thing’s happening to you.”
“It’s not the same thing. I’m perfectly sane and I know what I saw.”
She sniffed him.
“What are you doing?”
“Were you drinking?”
“No, I’m not drunk.”
Ginny breezed into the library, fanning the map in the air. “Nine days. We only have nine days until that boat comes. I will not stay alone on this dreary island and I refuse to leave this place without my legal property.”
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