Strange Alchemy

by Gwenda Bond

  “Why?” I plant myself in the doorway.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “That can’t be true — we don’t even know each other.” I watch his reaction.

  “It won’t take long,” he says. “But I’m not going to leave until you talk to me.”

  I almost say no. I don’t like being pushed. But he looks so serious that I believe him. I gesture with my gun hand, and swing the metal in a semi-welcoming fashion. “I guess so, then. I definitely don’t want you hanging around.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  So much for my ability to land an insult. I shut the door behind Grant, watching as Sidekick noses his fingers. Some guard dog. He slumps onto the floor, tail thumping.

  “Is your dad —” Grant starts.

  “No, he’s not here. Which is good for you. He doesn’t care too much for you.”

  At least, not if he remembers who you are.

  “Understood,” Grant says, and then, “Listen.”

  Which I do, but he doesn’t say anything else. I move the heavy gun again to indicate the couch. We sit down on opposite ends of it. Unlike at the door, I am careful to create as much distance between us as possible.

  Nervously, I fiddle with the gun that lies flat on my lap. Never in a million years would I have expected Grant Rawling to be on our couch. I’ve never been alone with a boy before — period. What is he doing here? Why would he need to talk to me?

  “So,” I say, “just get back?”

  Grant nods. “Yeah. A couple of hours ago.”

  I pause, waiting for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I say, “So…”

  He shifts to face me, erasing a fraction of the distance. “Yes?”

  I may as well ask. “What’s this about? Why are you here?”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I know it’s weird to drop in here out of nowhere and… surprise you. I’m sorry about that. But I had to see you.”

  I still can’t make any sense of what he’s saying. I let the gun slide onto the couch between us.

  “Please put that thing on the table or something,” Grant says.

  “What did you call it again?” I ask, keeping it in my hand.

  “A matchlock — where did you get it?”

  “I —” I stop. “No, I don’t think so. Not until we talk about why you just had to see me, after all this time.”

  Grant doesn’t rush to say anything.

  Wait. I have a sudden suspicion.

  “Have you heard about the missing people?”

  Even as I say it, I realize why he’s come. Injury, insult, the whole enchilada. He thinks it’s my fault. The realization hurts like a sting. I was too distracted by the surprise of him showing up to see the obvious. “You think I have something to do with this, don’t you? Because I’m a Blackwood. Because of… everything. Are you going to call me a snake again? We can probably get it on CNN this time.”

  Grant doesn’t say anything, only looks at me. It isn’t that different than the look he gave me all those years ago, the one I’ve never been able to forget. I want to be wrong about why he’s here.

  Let me be wrong, I plead.

  “You’re sort of right,” he says. “I am worried that you might be involved. Is your dad one of the missing?”

  I’m not wrong. Anger spikes. Today has been too much already, and now this. I pick the supposedly useless gun up and point it at him. “Get out.”

  He holds out his hands. “Wait. Let me explain.”

  My phone rings, its high-pitched spaceship sound like a slap. Startled, I squeeze the gun’s trigger without meaning to.

  Grant cringes even though there’s no noise. At least not at first. The whoosh comes a heartbeat later as a curtain of black powder sprays from the end of the barrel. It coats him as completely as a shower. A faint burning scent fills the air.

  I struggle to breathe. “Are you okay?”

  Grant uses a finger to sample the powdery film coating his skin, sniffs, and tastes it. “Just coated in… sulfur and, maybe, charcoal?”

  “I didn’t mean to…” Shoot you. I can’t say the words.

  “I know,” he says, like what happened is nothing. “No big deal. I’m fine.”

  The wail of my phone — still ringing — makes it through my shock. “I should get that.” I take my phone from my pocket. Manteo Police. My stomach clenches. “Hello?”

  “Miranda? This is Chief Rawling,” he says.

  “Uh, hi,” I say. I just shot your son with an antique gun. Probably best not to open with that. Instead I go with, “What’s up?”

  “We, ah, found your father. Can you come over to the courthouse?”

  “Be right there,” I say, clicking the phone off.

  I want to feel relief. Dad was probably passed out somewhere. They found him. Mystery solved. So why do I still feel so uneasy?

  When I look up, Grant is attempting to get the worst of the dust off his eyelashes. Having sprayed him with the powder should feel satisfying. He deserves the payback. Especially since he came here to accuse me of — well, I still don’t know what, precisely.

  “Who was that?” Grant asks. His curiosity seems to transcend the thick powder clinging to his skin.

  I consider lying but go with the truth. “Your dad.”

  Grant jolts to his feet. Black dust flies in the air around him. “What? Why?”

  “He needs me to come to the courthouse. They found mine.”

  “Found your what?”

  “Dad,” I say. “They found my dad.”

  Reality crashes down around me, settling into place like the walls of our ramshackle house. Ramshackle, but inescapable.

  I place the gun on the table, being more careful. I frown. “I thought you said this thing couldn’t fire without being lit by a match.”

  Grant looks like he’s wearing Halloween makeup gone wrong. Sidekick tests his fingers with a lick, then shudders.

  “It couldn’t,” he says. “Or it shouldn’t. But this is gunpowder. I can smell the sulfur. So it has a trigger mechanism, even though it shouldn’t. Where did you find it?”

  The box I unearthed from the closet is a few feet away, and I’m taken aback by how much I want to show it to him and see what theory he has on it. But I have no reason to trust him, not after eighth grade, not after he rushed here to say I’m involved with the disappearances. An answer will only provide more ammunition — so to speak.

  “You better get cleaned up. I have to go get Dad at the courthouse.”

  Chapter 6

  GRANT

  I finish washing off my face in the Blackwoods’ small, tidy bathroom with its floor of curling linoleum. The worst of the powdery mess that came from the gun Miranda accidentally shot me with is gone. But the scent of fire and charcoal is still in my nose, tinged with the egg-like smell of sulfur.

  I stare into the mirror and shake my head.

  Great job, Grant. You couldn’t have screwed that up any worse.

  Somehow I managed to offend the girl I came here to help. She won’t listen to me now. And I don’t even know what to say. All I have is a feeling. For once, I almost wish for the spirits and their voices. They talked to me about Miranda once; maybe they would again.

  I shake my head. No, I don’t mean that. That’s the last thing I need.

  “You done?” Miranda calls from right outside the door. “I need to get going.”

  I emerge and study her for a moment. Up close, I’m able to see the changes the years have made in her. She’s taller, and her curly hair is wilder. I can tell that she’s still the same girl, with too much weight on her shoulders, still trapped by the island and what her family name means here. I can relate.

  “Will you let me drive you to the courthouse?” I ask.

  She frowns in a what’s wrong with you? way. �
�I have a car.”

  “Oh, okay.” I don’t want to leave her, not yet. But I don’t guess I have a choice. “Miranda, I want you to know… I didn’t come here to embarrass you again. To hurt you. I came to help. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and I almost think I’m making progress. Then she says, “I don’t need your help.”

  Which, fair enough. I don’t seem to be very good at offering it anyway.

  Miranda motions to the door, her car keys in her hand with the teeth sticking out of her fist. I have no choice but to follow her. I hope she’s not planning to punch me.

  Once we’re outside, she goes over to an old yellow car of indiscriminate make parked at the curb across the street. The passenger side is facing me. She doesn’t so much as glance in my direction as she walks around the car and gets in.

  I climb into Mom’s sedan, turn the key in the ignition, and then wait. I have to decide where I’m going next. Home? The courthouse? I could follow her there and see Dad to begin my atonement for abandoning Mom. But that begs the question — why is Dad having her come to the courthouse instead of the jail, anyway?

  There’s a rap on the window, and I’m startled to see it’s Miranda. I roll down the window. “What is it?”

  Her cheeks are scarlet. Whatever she’s about to ask, she’d rather do anything else. “My car won’t start. I could probably get it to, but it’ll take too long. Can you give me a ride?”

  “Of course,” I say, and even I hear that it’s too eager.

  She gets in on the passenger side, and silence descends. I know better than to try talking right now, not if she doesn’t want to.

  I drive us out of her neighborhood and into town. I need to find a way to make things right. I’m even more worried about Miranda after the appearance of the weird old gun. But not being able to explain why I’m worried — even to myself — is a handicap.

  But I’m certain that Miranda Blackwood isn’t safe.

  Also… where are the spirits? I’m not willing to risk trying to call them. Not yet. I summoned the voices intentionally just once, and the response left me muttering in bed for two days, struggling to mute the overwhelming chaos chorus.

  Still, the silence is perplexing. I can’t help wondering if I left for nearly four years for no reason. The presence of the spirits seemed undeniably real. That they started the day Gram died and then stopped when I left seemed to confirm they were — that they are — tied to the island. Maybe not, though. Maybe I have some brain disorder, and the timing was a coincidence.

  The courthouse comes into view, a grand white building with two-story columns and a wide front landing. The square has a green, and a fountain and gazebo. There isn’t a parking spot anywhere in sight. There may not be that many permanent residents in town, but every single one has apparently converged on downtown. Cars cram all the spots that the media’s satellite trucks don’t occupy. Every major network is represented, along with the local cable station’s van.

  “Stop,” Miranda says when we’re almost in front of the courthouse. Her tone is a command.

  I put on the brakes, thinking there’s a serious reason.

  “I can get out here,” she says. “Thanks.”

  The passenger door opens, and she’s gone.

  She’s not getting rid of me that easily.

  I start searching the side streets for a gap, and finally find a spot in front of the Pioneer Theatre. The box office is dark, even though the movie theater prides itself on always being open. It’s a disconcerting sight.

  I need to get back to Miranda. She won’t have a way to take her dad home, not without her car. So I’m staying, even though she didn’t ask me to.

  I keep my head down as I wade through the lunatic fringe clogging the courthouse square. I hope no one recognizes me. The reputation I earned in order to leave makes me memorable.

  Thankfully I manage to pass uninterrupted through the crowd and come to a stop near the bottom of the broad set of steps that lead to the courthouse entrance. I hesitate, not eager to face Dad.

  But then I see someone I recognize, someone I wouldn’t mind talking to, at the top of the steps. Dr. Whitson is doing an interview with the blond reporter I saw Miranda talking to on TV this morning. The doc has a professorial air, though he’s an MD, not an academic. And he doesn’t seem to have changed a tweed fiber since I left. Despite the hot weather, he’s sporting the same fussy suit as always and even has a familiar leather binder clasped under his arm.

  For as long as I’ve known him, Dr. Whitson has been obsessed with the story of the lost colonists. He’s a well-known local who’s written, oh, about a jillion articles examining different theories about what happened to the colonists — up to and including alien abduction — for magazines with names like Unexplained Phenomena and Hidden America.

  But in addition to his extracurricular obsession, the good doctor is also a shrink. I saw him for a while on my parents’ orders. He spent most of our time together talking history and ephemera while I poked through his fascinating personal library. He thought I seemed rational enough, and blamed my acting out on boredom. Then again, I never told him about seeing and hearing the dead. Mom didn’t make me, and I didn’t want to end up in an institution. Our unconventional doctor-patient relationship ended when I left the island.

  I bound up the steps and stop where I can listen. The interview appears to be wrapping up.

  “So, where do you believe the missing citizens of Roanoke Island are, Dr. Whitson?” the reporter asks.

  Dr. Whitson doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t think this can be that easily explained. All I know is that it happened once before.”

  “You believe the original disappearance is linked to this one?” The reporter feeds him the line.

  “At this point, I think we’d be wise to remember our history. And hope we’re not destined to repeat it.”

  “Thank you. Chilling words from our local history expert,” the reporter says. “We’ll be right back. In the meantime, share your thoughts using #FindTheMissing.”

  Dr. Whitson unclips his mic and hands it back to her camera guy. Then he spots me. “Grant?” he asks.

  I smile. “Doc.”

  “Now I know I’m officially going mad,” he says. “What are you doing back?”

  I ignore his question and gesture back down the stairs at the mob scene. “What do you think about all this, really?”

  “What I said on camera.” Whitson leans in, growing serious. “This isn’t going to be resolved easily. Something big is going to come of this.”

  That’s the opposite of what I want to hear. A lot of people on the island dismiss the doc and his theories — just another local character with crazy ideas — but given the depth of his knowledge, that’s not so easy to do. Whitson knows a lot of things regular history buffs ignore.

  “I have to go,” I say. “There’s a girl I have to…” I swallow, unsure how to finish. “Is it okay if I drop by later? Talk over some explanations that aren’t easy?”

  Dr. Whitson nods. “You’re always welcome. And good luck.”

  “Good luck with…?”

  “Your girl.” With that, he waves and starts down the stairs. Almost immediately he’s swarmed by locals eager for his theories. Now that we have our own mass disappearance, apparently everyone wants his opinion.

  I watch him be swallowed by the sea of townspeople and then walk the rest of the way to the door. Inside, I nod to the beefy cop on security, one of Dad’s deputies. He busted me once for some elaborate graffiti and recognizes me instantly.

  “Your dad’s been wondering when you’d turn up. And your mom’s pissed.”

  Perfect. I try to decide how best to handle Dad. I’m out of practice at being in trouble.

  Despite the sweep of the building’s exterior, the interior is no grand vista. The lo
bby’s scuffed marble floor is filled with a crowd of people who aren’t usually here. A few tables have been set up, outfitted with phones for a call bank — Dad stands next to one of the tables. He has an office on the first floor here, up one of the hallways branching off the lobby. He prefers not to work in the jail when he can avoid it.

  I spot Miranda hovering off to one side of the lobby and hang back for a second, watching her watch my dad. She must be waiting for him to notice her, and all the buzzing activity means that hasn’t happened yet.

  I’m still unclear why Dad summoned Miranda here. It bothers me. There’s no reason for him to call her personally with the mayhem going on.

  Leaving the phone bank, Dad stops to chat with a state trooper and a pasty-looking guy in a black suit. He looks even more tired than in the glimpse I got of him on TV in the airport. Dark circles hang under his eyes like he’s gone weeks, rather than twenty-four hours, without sleep. Dad responds to something the guy in the suit says, and I recognize his body language as dismissive. His mouth falls open mid-dismissive response, though, as he stares at Miranda.

  Make that past Miranda. At me.

  I wave.

  Miranda turns her head and frowns when she spots me. “Grant? Thanks for the ride. But you didn’t have to come in.”

  “I wanted to. And you’ll need a ride back too, right?” I shrug in Dad’s direction. I can tell from the scowl he shoots across the lobby that he hasn’t even noticed Miranda yet. I talk fast as he crosses the space toward us. “I’m sorry about before. I don’t think any of this is your fault. I’m just worried for you. I did a crap job of explaining before, but you can trust me. I promise.”

  “I should…” Miranda hesitates, tilting her head to give me a closer inspection.

  “Grant,” Dad says, reaching us.

  Miranda steps between my dad and me. “Hey, Chief Rawling. You called me?”

  I don’t know why she decided to delay my moment of reckoning, but I’m grateful anyway.

  Dad looks from Miranda to me and back again, finally seeing her. “Yes, I did. You’d better step into my office.” He motions for her to follow him before he speaks to me. “You wait here.” Then he adds, “Until I come back.”