by Gwenda Bond
“Sara, could I talk to you alone for a minute?” I ask. Sidekick chooses that precise moment to come bounding in from the kitchen, crashing into me with oblivious happiness.
“You’d better sit down first,” Sara says.
The warning in her flat tone is subtle enough to be undetectable to anyone who hasn’t been around her before. I think of Grant waiting outside in the car, but I have no choice. I can’t bring him into this. I sink onto the chair, ruffling Sidekick’s fur in reassurance that I didn’t abandon him.
“This is Agent Malone and Agent Walker from the FBI,” says Chief Rawling. “They’re the new heads of this case until it’s resolved. We’re cooperating fully. This is Miranda Blackwood, the murder victim’s daughter.”
The woman smiles at me coolly. “I’m Agent Malone,” she says. A tiny piece of lint clings to the lapel of her black jacket, and I focus on that.
“Okay,” I say. “Hi.”
I can’t stop worrying about Grant. What if he tries to make it inside on his own? But Chief Rawling and Sara’s tense expressions keep me pinned to the chair.
“I’m sorry about your father,” Agent Malone says. She waits as if planning to take notes on my reaction.
“Thank you?” I offer.
“Do you know anyone who would have wanted to kill your father?” Agent Malone asks. The light streaming through the pale curtains on the window behind her creates a halo that doesn’t match her business suit.
I catch the chief laying his hand over Sara’s. What am I missing here?
“Honestly, no,” I say. “You probably already know he wasn’t the citizen of the year, but no… I can’t imagine why anyone would have killed him. No one in town would have loaned him money, so he didn’t owe any, except to me. He didn’t have a job. His disability check covered his bar tab and most of our bills. He almost never got in fights. He was harmless. I’m sure the chief has already told you all of this.”
A glance at the chief tells me I’ve said way more than I should.
Agent Malone leans back. The other agent — Agent Walker — shifts forward. Bad cop time.
“What are you doing here now?” Agent Walker asks. “At the Rawlings’ house?”
I go still. I don’t what game this is, but honesty suddenly seems like the wrong tactic. “I came to get Sidekick. Sara was nice enough to babysit him while I did some things today. She let me stay here last night.”
“Is that because you’re dating her son?” Agent Walker lets one side of his mouth tick up. “Young love, it can make you do the strangest things.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say with a frown.
The chief opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. “Wise decision,” Agent Walker says to him, “since that fact came from you.”
“This will all be cleared up,” Chief Rawling says. “You’re making the wrong leaps.”
“You see, Miss Blackwood,” Agent Walker says, eyes not leaving the chief, “it’s interesting to us that you and Grant Rawling are so close, since he’s been away for the last few years.”
I stare at him. “What is this?”
“We’ve gotten a warrant to search his belongings, his computer — we have agents up at his school. If you’re colluding on this, we will find the evidence.”
“Colluding on what?” I don’t think this is a game anymore.
“On your father’s murder,” Agent Malone says. “Which you don’t seem too upset about.”
Chief Rawling stands up. “That’s enough,” he says, turning to me. “Miranda, you don’t have to say anything. You can ask for a lawyer. You should know, though, your father’s body… it’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing? Like the people?”
“When Marlon got to the funeral home this morning to meet the federal expert for the autopsy, he was gone.” Chief Rawling shakes his head. “They think Grant had something to do with taking the body.”
My chair clatters as I leap to my feet. Sidekick dances out of my way.
“That’s insane,” I protest. “He wasn’t even here when the murder happened. He’s the one who told the chief to get the autopsy done. Last night. Chief, tell them.”
Chief Rawling frowns at me. Oh, right, I was eavesdropping. That hardly matters now.
“He already has,” Agent Walker says, “but Grant Rawling was in the body storage room. We found his prints on a handkerchief discarded in the biohazard receptacle. He almost got away with taking your father’s body, Miss Blackwood.”
My head is shaking and so are my hands. No. “No, that’s not what you think.”
“Where is the boy now?” Agent Malone says, standing up, which prompts her partner to do the same. “We know you left together this morning.”
She walks around the living room table and puts a hand on my arm. I want to shrink from her touch. How can I stop this purposeless witch-hunt? Witch-hunt, haha, very funny. Maybe the spirits will warn Grant to bolt. Maybe…
Agent Malone’s tone softens to silk. “Miranda, I understand your dad may have deserved whatever he got. If you’re just honest with us, we can make this a lot easier on everyone. We know you couldn’t have gotten rid of one hundred and fourteen people. We’re mainly interested in crossing your father’s murder off the list of leads.”
And the Emmy for most transparent attempt at manipulation goes to…
“Do you think I’m that stupid? Don’t you guys watch TV anymore? I’m not falling for —”
The sound of the front door opening interrupts my vow to get an attorney. Not that I can afford one or know of one who would represent me for free. A heavy thump and breaking glass come next — the family portrait on the wall next to the door, I’m guessing — and then the noise of a body sliding to the floor.
I’m not the first one out of the room. I’m the last.
When I turn the corner, I see that they have Grant. Sara bends beside him, fingers lifting his eyelids to check his pupils, shattered glass surrounding them on the floor. Agent Malone lets handcuffs dangle from long fingers and glances over her shoulder at me with something that looks an awful lot like pity.
They have Grant.
I have to find a way to fix this situation, to help him, and I can’t do that in FBI custody. I’ve got to get out of here.
Chapter 18
GRANT
Coming coming —
No, they are here —
They have always been here —
Under the bed —
Stealing us —
The spirits swarm around me — so many, so loud. I’m swimming in them, drowning in them.
It’s never been this bad, not even the one time I summoned them on purpose as a test and then spent days in bed when they surrounded me.
I barely know where I am. Back then, interacting with the real world was a challenge. I was able to do it, though. I slowly explained to Mom that the spirits had descended with such fury and fierce babble, and I couldn’t make them leave. I had to wait a day for the clamor to fade, for some to leave. But… I knew who I was.
I still know who I am.
I cling to that. Clear thought is impossible when the world of shadows is as present as the real world. I fight for some snatches of clarity, attempt to see beyond the clamor, but it’s exhausting. It’s not at my command. Nothing is at my command.
The shapes and shadows of the spirits, the hiss and howl of their voices, is all that I can swear exists. Dark fingers reaching for me, bringing darker words…
We want to live —
Liar liars —
The red streaks will be blood, will run like —
Coming back for you —
Water running over us all —
Death is here —
You won’t know them —
You’ll be too late —
She’s the cause of it
—
The ship —
They’ll use her —
Listen to me, my boy, listen —
Bluebell, blue sea, blue waves, I’m going mad —
You saw the snake —
We’re all mad —
Coming, coming, they’re coming —
“Grant?”
The voice is my mom’s, I think, and I’m shaking. Or is someone shaking me? I can’t manage to answer. I wonder where Miranda is… I don’t think she’s with me anymore.
I dimly remember my weight against her, a ghost of a memory. I tried to reach her when I fell. I asked her to bring me here. Home.
I must be home.
You have to listen —
No, listen —
We’re here for a reason —
Don’t fight —
I’m not. I don’t have the strength to. Someone lifts me to my feet, something cool slides against on my wrists.
I laugh, but I don’t know why or at what.
Listen —
I am. What else can I do?
Chapter 19
MIRANDA
Grant’s parents and the agents are distracted. Sara is warning Agent Malone away from her son while Agent Walker argues with Chief Rawling. Grant’s cheek presses into his mother’s hand, his eyelids fluttering like he’s having a bad dream. The agents won’t understand what’s wrong with him. They’ll want to ask me more questions. And I have too many questions of my own that still need answers.
Where can Dad’s body be? Who would take it? Why can Grant suddenly hear the spirits again?
Hard as it is to run out on Grant, it’s the smartest thing to do. I know it’s what he’d tell me to do.
Sidekick pads toward the cluster of people, no doubt to gift Grant with a reviving face lick. The snap of my fingers is so quiet I almost expect Sidekick to miss it. But he comes to my side, the best boy in the world, and lets me lead him through the kitchen by his collar. I hold my breath as I press the screen door open just enough for my dog to slip through, then me.
Thank you. I silently direct gratitude to Grant for being the kind of rule-breaker who tightens and oils hinges, who wouldn’t risk being in a house with random squeaks. He probably checked every door and every step of our route out the night before, just in case.
The backyard has sandy dirt and clumps of brown-fingered grass mixed with its short ragged blades. The grass is damp from the efforts of a green garden hose nearby, and brightly colored flowerpots are arrayed alongside the house. Sara must have watered not long before.
Heading around the side of the house to Pineapple, I realize there’s no way to take my car and make a getaway. Pineapple doesn’t start quietly at the best of times, and given my legendarily terrible luck, the car will sputter and be stubborn. Instead I simply ease the passenger door open, crouching, holding Sidekick’s collar so he won’t jump in for a ride.
The keys to Grant’s mom’s sedan aren’t in the passenger side floorboard, where I thought he’d left them after we switched cars at my house. Crap.
Someone at the back door calls my name. “Miranda!”
The chief, I decide.
His call is followed by the non-dulcet tones of Agent Walker: “Miss Blackwood, you’re making this worse for everyone!”
Okay, I’ll deal with not having the keys later. I’ll get the strange gun from the trunk of Grant’s mom’s car where he stashed it… somehow. At least I know where it is. That’s something.
I release Sidekick’s collar and bolt toward the woods just past the Rawlings’ driveway, making it to the tree line just as the front door opens. The tree I selected isn’t overly wide, so I stand sideways to maximize its cover. Then I remember Sidekick. He shifts on uncertain feet beside me, unconcealed. I crouch and then lower myself onto my belly, pulling him down with me. His tail wags, and I reach back to stop it.
Proof that he’s the best dog in the world? He doesn’t even whine.
Sara and Agent Malone step out on the front porch. Chief Rawling and Agent Walker join them, body language revealing how much the two men are hating each other. Grant is still inside, probably still suffering too.
I wait without much patience during their examination of my car and what appears to be a clipped conversation. I can guess that Grant is their greater priority, and they’ll worry about picking me up later. They need to get back to the station, see if they can get him lucid enough for an interview, check in on the status of the missing people and my father’s body.
These aren’t agents from the Fringe Division, not secret carriers of X-Files or paranormal investigators. They are not looking for supernatural causes. Aliens haven’t abducted the people of Roanoke, perpetrators have. Or maybe this is a cult thing or a tourism stunt gone wrong. Something understandable. That is the kind of explanation they want.
Oh, and the police chief’s son murdered his girlfriend’s father, which might be connected.
I should know better than to expect outsiders to decode the island’s mysteries. They’re just here to get in our way.
“Secret alchemists,” I whisper after the agents go back inside the house, presumably to collect Grant. “There’s your lead.”
I get to my feet and set out at a fast clip. My house is a couple of miles’ walk, if I cut through the woods and along less-visible roadways than the main drag. As I go, I say a silent prayer to beat any searchers there. I pray for the spirits to talk to me and tell me how to jimmy open a locked trunk.
I pray that Grant will be okay.
Once the prayers are over, I get this uncanny queasy feeling that speeds me up. I tear through the woods like a chupacabra is chasing me.
I know the dead don’t walk… I know it the same way I know witches and alchemists don’t exist. So I feel silly for worrying that Dad is traipsing around, zombielike, on the island… that he’ll come after me… that even now he’s in the forest with me, watching as I run.
I don’t feel silly enough to stop running, though.
Getting home takes longer than I expect. Once Sidekick and I reach our neighborhood, we have to navigate through an obstacle course of backyards. We make our way around zigzagging borders filled with broken down lawnmowers and refrigerators, toys, and chained dogs with anger management issues. They hate Sidekick on sight, of course. Finally, the back edge of our unfenced, not recently mown yard appears, then the back door of our house.
My house now, I correct myself. I close my eyes against a sudden image of Dad sitting at our sticky kitchen table. His pale, birthmark-free face grins at me over a cup of stale coffee, his eyes and mouth as black as open graves.
No.
There isn’t time to be weak. If those federal agents catch up to me, they’ll be more convinced than ever Grant and I were in league to do something to Dad, more inclined than they were before to lock me up. No one would save me either.
I insert my key into the flimsy back door lock, then the sturdier dead bolt above it. I force my feet over the threshold.
Your father is dead, I tell myself, not sitting at the kitchen table.
“Right,” I say, walking into the kitchen — no zombie father, thank you — and stick a quarter-full sack of dog kibble in my messenger bag. “Sorry,” I answer Sidekick’s mournful silent plea. “No time for chow.” Sara would have fed him a few hours ago, anyway.
I head to my room for the smaller toolbox I keep stashed at home. I’ve locked myself out of Pineapple a couple of times before. The same principles I used to break in then should work on the trunk lock of Sara’s sedan.
I find my room lightly picked over by Grant and Sara. My Vampire Diaries boxed sets sit on top of my pillow — Elena’s reclining body upside-down and come hither.
It puts a smile on my face, even now.
Grant is a funny boy.
I retrieve the small toolbox and carry it outside. Up
the street, Mrs. Powell is on her front porch with her nose in a paperback, her hair forming an astronaut-suit bubble around her head. Her long-range vision is shot, so I know she won’t see me. She can barely see the book, as evidenced by the way she cups it an inch from her face.
Popping my toolbox open at the back of Sara’s car, I rummage through it and select a specialty screwdriver. I take a length of steel wire and put it into an opening below the head. The tool is perfect for dislodging stray sequins or costume beading in cracks on set — and for this kind of job, which is why I keep one at home.
I slide the metal into the trunk’s lock and work it around, searching for the release. No immediate luck, so I shift my leg to change the angle of approach.
There’s nothing for me to trip over, but I do anyway. I have to abandon the tool to keep from falling. I stand and pull on it. When it doesn’t come free, I wriggle it harder.
The wire is lodged in the lock. And the release doesn’t give a millimeter.
“Frak,” I say, in case Mom’s listening. Sure, Grant said she isn’t, but that was before his spirits came back.
I kick the ground, then a tire on my way around the side of the car. There’s nothing that could cause me to trip. Except…
I touch my face, just below my temple. Of course. The snake.
“Frak.”
I think of Dad and how he was always… unsteady. Not always, though. He wasn’t always that way. At first, he stumbled into things more. I can see his hand gripping the frame around the photo of Mom in the living room to keep it from falling after he touched the glass too hard. Then, the drinking became a problem, bringing more stumbling with it, making him fight his own limbs.
I can see how his behavior changed over the years, and in an instant, I understand the reason why. The snake is mind-controlling me somehow. Not all the time, but like a radio frequency that tunes in and out. When I was so pissy to Grant on the drive to Roswell’s… and when I just tripped…
I eye the sedan and purposefully think like myself. Not like Grant, not like whatever rogue impulse randomly invaded my body earlier. Not like whatever caused me to trip over nothing. Like myself.
