Strange Alchemy

by Gwenda Bond

  “It appears…” He pauses, takes a look at me and, when I nod, goes on. “It appears that all the visually observable bones in your father’s body were broken at the time of death. But that he had no outward signs of struggle or harm. No bruising or cuts. And his blood alcohol level was nearly point one-eight.”

  I dismiss the BAC off the bat. “That’s a baseline.” What I don’t understand are the broken bones. How is that possible?

  “The bones must be why Dad said they couldn’t determine cause of death,” Grant says.

  I focus my attention back on the body bag and concentrate on breathing.

  “Do you want me to look for you?” Grant asks softly. “I can describe him.”

  I have to see for myself. “No.”

  Grant holds out a small pot of something. “You should at least put some of this under your nose.”

  I ignore him. Instead I reach forward and fumble with the zipper until it begins to slide open. I stop when the metal teeth get hung up at the waist and pull back the sides to reveal my father’s head. I forget to try to breathe. The air leaves my body.

  Dad looks better dead than he did alive. The broken bones mentioned in the report aren’t visible, not even in his face, which is odd given the description. His eyes are closed — a mercy I thank the funeral director for — so all I have to do is lean over and check.

  I put my hand up to my mouth, even though I see exactly what I expected to. The skin of my father’s upper cheek gleams at me, clear as polished glass, as smooth as stone, as bleached as bone.

  The snake that’s now on my face? Yeah, it’s definitely Dad’s.

  I don’t know what to do except run. And so that’s what I do.

  My feet thump against the floor as I go, back through the door and into the hall, my body hitting the walls as I keep moving, blood roaring in my ears, getting out of there, getting away from the smell and the body and the house where death lives.

  I burst through the door, and the warm night air hits my skin like an electric shock.

  You have nowhere to run, I think, and it stops me in my tracks. I have nowhere to go.

  Chapter 12

  GRANT

  I want to go after Miranda, but first I have to put back the file and seal up the body bag. Marlon James might not be here, but he isn’t a sloppy man. He’ll notice if things are disturbed, and given how freaked everyone is about the disappearances, even the most harmless change risks being misinterpreted.

  I reach over Mr. Blackwood’s chest to close the bag, holding my breath against what’s surely a god-awful smell. The zipper fights me the same way it did Miranda, and I have to release my breath while I work on it.

  I wait for the stench to invade… but there isn’t any. Only the sickly smell of formaldehyde’s chemical perfume. That’s strange. This close, I notice something else strange — Mr. Blackwood’s body, pale and perfect, despite all those supposed-to-be broken bones and the lack of embalming fluid to keep the skin from bloating and puffing and discoloring.

  I take a handkerchief from my pocket — one of my dad’s, a handy tool for breaking and entering — and press my hand across the dead man’s cheek.

  I have never touched a dead body before — have only ever been in the room with three, two of them relatives. I would rather do just about anything else.

  The cheekbone is not broken. I check the right collarbone next.

  It’s perfectly straight and intact. Huh.

  I consider doing a more thorough exam, but I’ve lingered down here too long already, and the thought of it makes me shiver and lose my nerve. I take the zipper and begin to reseal the body bag. I pause when I get to the neck, thinking about the reek of beer on him that night he came to our house years ago. That wasn’t unusual according to the conversation I overheard between Mom and Dad.

  “You should have been better for her,” I tell Mr. Blackwood’s body and then finish the job.

  I toss the white cloth into a step trash can with a biohazard symbol on top and turn out the lights. I hope Miranda hasn’t gone far.

  Luck is with me. She sits next to the back door, staring out at the parking lot. She’s not crying. That’s good, at least. I scoot down the wall to join her, and without thinking, place my hand on top of hers, where it rests on her thigh. She doesn’t move, so neither do I.

  “Miranda, I’m sorry.”

  “What do you have to be sorry about?” Before I can answer, she says, “Nothing. You’ve been nothing but nice to me. I mean, except for that one time. And that was a long time ago. It’s not your fault I’m cursed.”

  I hear the echoing words from the cemetery: Cursebearer, curse-born child. “You’re not cursed,” I say to block them out.

  Miranda lifts her free hand and brushes her hair back to reveal the angry snake crawling up her cheek. “Then what’s this? What else makes a birthmark jump from one body to another?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. What makes spirits to talk to me? “But we’ll figure it out. I’m sorry about… bringing you here. I didn’t even think about your mom. Her funeral was here, wasn’t it?”

  “That was a long time ago too.” Her words slip out. “That’s not even the worst part.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  She turns to face me. She’s so close I can see the green of her eyes, even in the dark. “I was supposed to take care of him,” she says.

  “You keep saying that, but it’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. My mom wanted me to — it was like I could practically feel her over my shoulder in there, disapproving. I was the one left to look out for him. And I… I didn’t do a good enough job. Maybe I deserve this… being alone.”

  “He was supposed to take care of you. And” — I beat her protest — “your mother wasn’t in there.”

  Her eyelashes cast shadows on her pale cheeks. “How do you know?”

  I close my eyes for a moment, finding it hard to believe I’m about to openly talk about this with someone besides my mom. I know I told Miranda way back when, inadvertently, but that’s different. The spirits are my weakness.

  And so, apparently, is Miranda Blackwood.

  “I would have known,” I say. “There aren’t any spirits on Roanoke Island right now as far as I can tell. Or they’re hidden somehow. Usually, it’s impossible for me to not hear spirits here. Usually, they’re everywhere, saying everything. All the time. And now… nothing.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell her about the voice I did hear, the one at the cemetery. I’m not putting that on her right now. That’s mine to deal with.

  I watch Miranda’s reaction, wondering if she’s going to think I’m crazy.

  She gives me a suspicious look and asks the last thing I expect: “How did you know about the funeral home stuff? About Marlon’s TV? If spirits didn’t tell you?”

  “You think that was…” I squint at her. “Not a bad guess. But no, the spirits aren’t helpful when it comes to aiding and abetting crime as far as I can tell. Don’t you remember the Bela prank?”

  She shakes her head, looking curious instead of so lost. I release her hand and put mine over my heart as if she mortally wounded me. “You weren’t a fan? Not even a little bit?”

  “Of what?” A slight smile edges her lips up on one side.

  “My criminal masterpieces — the things that got me sent away? During my brief Bauhaus-wannabe goth phase at thirteen, I broke in here and lettered the sign with the viewing times for Bela Lugosi.”

  “You are the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

  I make a little bow. “Finally, you’re beginning to appreciate my genius.”

  She laughs, but it doesn’t take long for the weight to visibly sink down on her again. Her shoulders actually fall with it. I’m done with letting her do that to herself.

  “No,” I say.


  “What?”

  I pick up a stray piece of gravel off the sidewalk and toss it toward the parking lot. “This isn’t you. This defeatist oh, I’m so cursed, woe is me stuff.”

  “How would you know?” she asks, mouth hanging open.

  I don’t care if I’ve gone too far. I’m right. “I just know. The girl I met in eighth grade was stronger than this. She wouldn’t let some birthmark break her.”

  “I’m not broken…” But she lets it trail off. She gets up, and I worry she’ll run away again.

  “You’re right,” she says, her hands balling into fists. “I’m being one of those silly girls in distress. Frak.”

  I get up, loving her Battlestar Galactica cursing. I looked up the reference while I was waiting to wake her. “So what are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I’m going to find out what happened to my dad. And get this stupid snake off my face. It’s ruining my looks,” she says with acid-tinged humor.

  I simply look at her. “No, it’s not.”

  “What?” The rage in her breaks and turns into a grin. The transformation is as unexpected for her as it is for me. I can tell by the wondering tone of the question.

  “It’s not.” I almost take the last step toward her, even though I know this would be an insane time to kiss someone. We barely know each other. I’m supposed to be helping her.

  But I want to.

  At least until the sound of a siren in the distance interrupts. Time to go.

  “We’d better get out of here,” I say.

  “Does that mean you’ll help me?” she asks.

  “I already am.”

  *

  Back in my yard, I hold Miranda’s hand as she stays close to my side.

  The shadows thrown by the trees in the security light — thankfully not motion-activated, or I’d have to climb it and take care of that — poke around us like the long fingers of invisible people. The house remains dark and quiet, and I relax a little.

  I was concerned about leaving Miranda’s dog behind. Even an obedient dog, happy to be somewhere soft and warm, is capable of whining and waking parents.

  We climb the steps up onto the porch, and I stop in front of the door to look at her one last time before getting some sleep. It feels earned, a reward for a successful outing.

  Miranda whispers, “Did we really make it?”

  The question strikes me as belonging to someone who has never tried to get away with much. I’m still thinking about kissing her, but I’m wondering if that’s something she wants me to do now or ever… I don’t want to be another problem for her. She’s had enough for a lifetime.

  “We did.” I smile. “I never get caught.”

  She rolls her eyes, as she should. “You mean you always get caught.”

  “I was trying to back then.”

  She rolls them again.

  I decide to press my luck. “Good night,” I say, leaning forward…

  The porch light flares to life and sends us both stumbling back like vampires at daybreak.

  “Oh God,” Miranda says, miserable.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take the blame,” I assure her.

  “But I like your mom and now —”

  “I’ll handle it.” I put a hand on her arm and open the screen door. “It’s not my mom. She doesn’t do dramatic.”

  Her expression makes it clear she’s not convinced which parent it is makes a difference, but when I hold the door open she walks through it. I want to tell her it’ll work out, that things have been worse, but I can’t.

  Dad looms in the front hallway next to the light switch. The night-black circles that ring his eyes give even me a second’s pause.

  Miranda’s head tilts down in the universal posture of shame, her feet rooted to the floral carpet. Given what she told me earlier about having to look out for her dad, combined with that question outside, I’d bet anything she’s never been in serious trouble. Being engaged in a serious life isn’t the same thing.

  “Miranda, I need to speak with my son,” Dad says finally. Better than what he’d say if it was just me.

  “It’s my fault. I asked —” Miranda starts to say.

  “It’s okay,” I interrupt. “You don’t have to take the blame. It was my idea. Go get some sleep.”

  With a guilty glance at Dad, Miranda flies up the steps. I hear twin clicks as the guestroom door opens and then closes.

  “Where were you?” Dad asks.

  I shrug. “Out.”

  “Do we have to do this, son?” His tone is close to exasperation, the dark circles like a lost fight.

  I walk closer. We’re the same height. That’s new. I can’t let him see vulnerability. That’s not how we communicate. So I ask, “Do you have to be such a drama king? You couldn’t have waited five minutes?”

  Without a word, Dad goes to the darkened living room, where he sits on the couch. I follow and note the bottle of whiskey and short — empty — glass on the table. Dad’s been drinking. That is also new.

  I ease into a chair opposite him, trying my best for a relaxed air. The only light is filtered through the curtains and comes from the security pole outside. I imagine this as a dingy prison, with Dad playing interrogator. It’s a scene both of us know well.

  “Have the feds showed yet?” I ask.

  Dad’s head comes up. “A few hours ago. To assist, not to take over — yet.”

  I know he must loathe the thought of the FBI taking over an investigation that directly impacts people under his jurisdiction. I can’t blame him. He cares about the job. I can’t say that, either, though.

  “It is a missing person’s case,” I say.

  “Is it? I don’t know, Grant.” Dad sighs. “Listen, I know I haven’t ever wanted to talk about this before, but…”

  “I know about the birds and the bees, Dad. Also, about sex.” I just want him to drop it, let me go to bed. “I’ve been at boarding school in Kentucky, not a monastery.”

  “I don’t care about that — not right now.” Dad pauses. “Except that you not hurt that girl any more than she’s already been hurt.”

  He waits for my response, and I nod. “I don’t plan to.”

  “That’s fine, but plans can go sideways. We need to talk about you — your gifts. I know my mother had them too. I tried like hell to pretend she didn’t, but it wasn’t hard to miss the stream of women who showed up at our back door so she could talk to their dead. I didn’t want that for you.”

  “But you want it now?” Anger rises. He never wanted to talk about this when the spirits were everywhere, assaulting my every sense.

  “I want to find these people and get them home. This whole town… an emptiness like the one that’s here, it will kill us all. It’ll kill this island.”

  Normally I’d tell him to shove it. I don’t have any love for the town. Or any hate for it, really — except when it comes to the way too many people here have treated Miranda, and she’s in this up to her temple. “There’s nothing right now, but I’ll work on it tomorrow. I’m going to be helping Miranda” — I hold up my hand to cover Dad’s protest — “find some answers. Those answers are the same ones you need. I think.”

  “So you have some idea of what’s going on here?”

  “No clue. But I’m going to find out. If I don’t, Miranda’s the next to go. Or something bad will happen to her. I don’t know what, exactly, but something.”

  Dad leans forward and pours a drink, then downs it in one shot. He has on his cop face, thoughtful. “Her old man didn’t vanish, he died. He was killed. A mystery in itself, since he was a sad drunk. Not hurting anybody but himself. Harmless. But he didn’t vanish.”

  Not harmless to Miranda. “I told you I don’t know how, but I think it’s connected. Get the autopsy done on him as fast as you can.”

  Dad sh
akes his head. “The university can’t do it until Monday.”

  “Use the feds, then. They might as well be useful since they’re here. Convince them somehow. You need to know what killed him.”

  I wait to see if Dad will listen to me for once. Trust me. Finally, slowly, he nods.

  “There’s one more thing. Mom… your gram… when she died, she left a letter for you. I was supposed to give it to you. But I kept it.”

  Dad holds something out to me. It’s a cream envelope, Gram’s stationary with her initials on the front. The envelope is wrinkled, like it’s been worried over.

  I don’t want to take it. It’s been so quiet. I need to keep my head clear.

  Dad holds it closer to me. “Your mom doesn’t know about this, but I guess now I’ll have to tell her. I didn’t want this for you, but I don’t think I have a choice anymore.”

  I don’t have a choice either. I take the letter, halfway expecting a lightning strike. But the earth doesn’t move, the voices don’t clamor in my ears. There are no sudden shadows. My name is written across the back in Gram’s small, neat handwriting. I put the envelope in my pocket.

  Dad knows better than to expect me to read it in front of him. He probably doesn’t even want me to.

  “You’ll let me know anything important?” he asks.

  “Of course.” If I have to.

  “Go get some sleep.”

  I almost leap to my feet. Dad has never talked to me like this, almost like we’re equals. Like he doesn’t blame me for hearing the spirits of Roanoke Island.

  “Don’t think I’m not going to tell your mother what you were doing out there,” he says. “Don’t hurt that girl. I mean it. She’s been through enough.”

  Which, of course, ruins it.

  Chapter 13

  MIRANDA

  I bolt back up to the guest room and press the door quietly closed before Grant busts me on his way upstairs. I already knew he thought my family was connected to the disappearances, but hearing him tell his dad is different.

  He really does want to help me. And he thinks I’m the next to go. But go where? Where are the vanished people?