Strange Alchemy

by Gwenda Bond

  There has to be another way into the trunk, an emergency method to open it. Or a way aimed at convenience.

  Mrs. Powell isn’t deaf, but I take the chance. Selecting a hammer from the toolbox, I go around to the other side of the car — checking the street one last time for anyone else — and smash in the smaller of the rear windows.

  Mrs. Powell lifts her head, but she can’t see anything this far away. She goes back to reading.

  I reach inside to pull up the lock, then open the door and feel around the top of the back seat until I locate the plastic release lever. I yank down on it. The back seat falls into my hand, flattening to provide trunk access.

  The box that holds what is apparently Dr. John Dee’s greatest invention sits inside, waiting like it was in Dad’s closet all those years.

  “Frak,” I say, pleased. And also absolutely terrified.

  Chapter 20

  GRANT

  The snake inside —

  The things they’ll do —

  Can’t be stopped any longer —

  I’m not at home anymore. That’s one of the few things I know.

  I’m not sure where I am. I try to keep my eyes closed to shut out the shadows, but the spirits’ voices chatter incessantly anyway.

  Strangers took me away from Mom’s cool hand on my forehead, from her voice attempting to get through to me. There were unfamiliar voices, breaking glass. I didn’t manage to say a single word to Mom before they brought me here. Wherever here is.

  The past and present are a syrup I swim through, heavy against my limbs. They weigh me down. Down. Down.

  He’s had so much time —

  All the time he needs —

  They’re coming, you’ll know —

  My cheek rests on cool wood grain. The desire to see my surroundings develops slowly. The will to open my eyes builds. Finally, I manage it.

  The black bars of a cell greet me, visible through a kaleidoscope of shadow gray forms, lips moving where I can make out shapes. On the other side of them stands Dr. Whitson. He’s shaking his head. Then the bars are opening, and Dad is behind the doctor, and there are strangers in suits and…

  Stolen life —

  COMING, COMING, COMING —

  My eyes close again as hands force my mouth open and deposit a few pills inside. The gel casings gum on my tongue, and I sputter as water pours down my throat. But I manage to swallow, even though I know better than to think the drugs will do a thing to dam up the flood.

  The voices roar.

  No delays —

  What’s past the end —

  Is there anything, can we wake —

  COMING —

  The racket wakes me from the fitful, sweaty sleep I didn’t realize the pills had thrown me into. I hear the dead’s every twisted syllable. I rock against the hard wood bench until I achieve the momentum to sit up, then press my head back against cool cinderblock. All the physical sensations are muted, as if they’re happening to someone else — someone far, far away, on a movie screen, or in the past. Someone barely real.

  Not me.

  The voices of the dead overlap in chaotic fragments, but then they sync, melding into a single word, as loud and clear as shattering glass. The chorus repeats again and again and again:

  COMING, COMING, COMING, COMING, COMING, COMING, COMING, COMING, COMING —

  I fall onto my knees on concrete, squeezing my eyes shut, holding onto an image of Miranda in my mind.

  Miranda on the beach, thinking she pushed me down…

  Thinking that I don’t understand…

  Then…

  Silence. There is a single moment of perfect silence.

  I’m alone again.

  Until I’m not.

  Chapter 21

  MIRANDA

  I’m not sure what to do after I retrieve the box, but staying at home seems like a spectacularly bad idea. It can only be a matter of time before the FBI or cops show up here. I can’t go back to Grant’s house — Sara being there doesn’t change the chief’s obligation to cooperate with the FBI.

  Morrison Grove will still be deserted, what with Polly and others missing and everyone else having blown town. So, my friend’s apartment it is.

  I set out on foot again, since it’s the only choice available. Pineapple is still at Grant’s house, and the keys to Sara’s car are still MIA. After I spot a couple of tank-style SUVs — clearly belonging to the feds — in the distance, I steer Sidekick off the roadside. We’ll hike through less visible terrain.

  My messenger bag is heavy with the gun box and dog food inside, and I’m at war with my legs. They protest every plodding, uneven step. Poor Sidekick trudges alongside me, no longer bothering to gallop ahead like he did on our earlier trek.

  Adrenaline vs. Exhaustion: Which will be the ultimate victor?

  “This is the only time you will ever hear me say it’s a good thing we live on an island this small, dog,” I mutter. If Roanoke was any bigger, not having a car would have sunk me.

  I focus on putting one sneakered foot in front of the other, but what I know — and the larger shadows of what I still don’t — threatens to drag me down. None of it seems random. John Dee’s hieroglyph — on the gun, on the phantom ship’s sails, in Roswell’s book — is too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.

  Deep in thought, I don’t notice the enormous shadow that descends over me. Not until I stumble over a rock cloaked in the sudden darkness it casts. Sidekick growls at whatever is behind us.

  I don’t want to turn and see what it is. But I do anyway.

  The ship sails across the land as if nothing inhabits it. The sails stretch a hundred feet in the air, the elaborate gray symbols pulling taut in gusts of phantom wind, the gleaming hull below polished black. People stand on the deck. I can’t make them out in detail, not through the shadow. They are a line of still silhouettes, a wall of stone statues staring out over the island.

  Logically I know shadows don’t fall forward at this time of day, with this position of the sun, and that they never fall this far in front of an object. But that hardly matters. The ship’s appearance nearly breaks the rational part of my mind anyway.

  Morrison Grove isn’t far now. The tree line and roofs of the first buildings are visible ahead. I pick up my pace, but Sidekick barks his head off behind me. He isn’t following.

  “Sidekick!”

  I can’t leave him, even if it means the shadow eats me whole. I double back and pull at his collar.

  The ship glides slowly, steadily forward. Real or not, I don’t want to be overtaken by it. We need to get out of its path.

  Every dog within earshot strikes up a chorus of barks to match Sidekick’s. His body thrashes against the pressure of my hand.

  Just like the night Dad died.

  I have never leashed Sidekick before, but there’s nothing else to do. I drop my messenger bag and remove the strap. He growls as I click one end onto his collar. I pick up the other end and heft the bag with my free arm. Then I put all my weight into heaving him forward. I won’t leave him.

  “Come on!” I plead.

  He fights me, desperate to face the threat, but I refuse to give in. I move forward as quickly as possible with the bag clutched awkwardly against me. I drag Sidekick along. I don’t stop to look back until we are at Polly’s door.

  The ship is only a dozen feet away. It’s going to sail right over us.

  I give one last jerk to get Sidekick inside, then slam the door and sling the bag aside. The box inside it clunks against the floor, the kibble rattles.

  I wait for the impact of the black ship against the house. I suddenly wonder if this is what happened to Dad. I wait to feel all my bones break as the phantom ship crushes me whole.

  The impact never comes.

  When I open the door, the shadow has vanished. Th
e ship too.

  Oh, it’s still out there, sailing through the air. I feel certain of that. The line of dark shadows stands on its deck, watching and waiting for an arrival point. Something is coming.

  I need to get back to Grant, to get through to him that we don’t have much time left — that with the big black ship sailing toward me, maybe I don’t have much time.

  But the thought of going back out defeats me, finally.

  Adrenaline never had a chance. Exhaustion wins.

  *

  I thrash in my sleep. Sidekick’s periodic low whining makes for a restless night. Despite that, I’m tired enough to get some shut-eye, but not soundly. Instead I watch my dreams, nightmares really, play like movies I haven’t bought tickets for.

  At first, the images are of the sinister black ship, sailing ever forward. But this dream takes place in a beachside clearing that I recognize as the settlement the theater set mimics. There is no ship, but there are people.

  The dream settlers stand in rows facing the sound, packed sand beneath their feet. They wear clothes resembling costumes from the show — with one change. Long gray cloaks hang from their shoulders like so many pairs of broken wings. A storm has soaked the beach, and thick thunderheads above threaten its return.

  The settlers chant words I can’t make out. As they raise their arms, their cloaks float in the air, broken wings straining to fly, and always, always, the settlers pass between them some object hidden from me by their bodies.

  I wake as the last of them is about to turn, the secret about to be revealed.

  Polly sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me.

  Her expression is oddly serious, but other than that she appears normal. Prematurely gray hair, T-shirt with paint spatters, familiar brown eyes. A copy of a John White nature sketch hangs on the wall behind her like a floral crown.

  Am I still asleep? Why hasn’t she said anything? I reach out and touch Polly’s arm.

  No. She’s really here.

  I scramble from beneath the covers. “You’re back,” I say. “How? Thank God. I’m sorry, I know it’s weird that I’m here, I didn’t know…”

  “Your face is a welcome sight,” Polly says.

  “When… where… what happened to you?” I force out.

  Sidekick edges closer to lay his head flat on top of my feet. He isn’t growling or whining, but his furry eyebrows twitch up and down.

  Polly gives me a strange look. “I’m not sure I can explain that to you.”

  “You’re okay, though?” I can’t believe she’s here.

  Polly inclines her chin. “Why are you in this house?”

  I search for a place to start. My father’s death, a cute boy swooping in from the past, Roswell’s revelation about my ancestor…

  “I’m sorry about taking your bed. It’s a long story. We didn’t know if you’d be back or when —”

  “We?”

  Grant. I hope he isn’t still being eaten alive by wild spirits. But somehow I don’t think that would matter to Polly. Polly, whose expression has yet to change. She’s as solemn as young Virginia Dare telling the audience the settlers will never return.

  It’s weird. She’s being weird.

  “Is it just you who’s back?” I ask.

  “No,” Polly says, and her features shift into a frown. “I believe everyone managed to return.”

  “Return from where?” I ask. Even if it’s negative, Polly showing any emotion is a small comfort. What has she been through?

  Polly stands, ignoring my question. “The others have breakfast.”

  I glimpse my reflection in a small round mirror on the wall. The snake crawls up my cheek, and I fight the urge to touch it. At least Polly doesn’t seem to have noticed its presence. I check the position of my bag against the wall, not fully understanding why the idea of leaving it makes me uncomfortable. Other than the fact it holds the possibly sacred, possibly evil, almost certainly magical gun.

  “Come on,” Polly says from the doorway. “Breakfast.”

  I go with her; it’s that or make a scene. Sidekick moseys along behind me. In the main room, I find two more familiar faces at the small table in the kitchen — I feel guilty that I never really worried that much about Polly’s missing roommates. Kirsten and Gretchen are the type who stay out late and pick up tourist boys on vacation. I don’t know them that well. But still.

  “Hi,” I say uncertainly.

  Polly grabs a seat at the table and smiles toward the other girls in a way that doesn’t reach her eyes. I take the chair next to Polly, but I don’t want to be obvious about observing her. So I watch the others instead. They have the same serious expression as Polly — more disconcerting on them than on her. My memories of them not at work involve giggling and downing fire-red shots at after-parties.

  Something’s not right.

  Kirsten grips a doughnut in one hand. She takes an enormous bite of it, chewing with an energy that says she’s either starving or the world’s biggest doughnut fan.

  Gretchen says, “Good morning… Miranda…”

  The way she trails off leaves me waiting for more, but Gretchen says nothing else.

  Polly fills the silence. “Have some doughnuts.” She taps the box. “Kirsten would talk of nothing else.”

  Having finished her previous, Kirsten selects an enormous cruller shaped like a curled hand from the box and bites into it. She uses her other hand to shove the box toward me.

  “Um, okay,” I say.

  I choose the smallest doughnut in the box, though I’m more of a chocolate than a glazed girl. The box, soggy with icing, proclaims its origin at the Stop and Gas less than a mile away. “When did you guys get these?”

  “I walked for them.” Kirsten speaks around a mouthful of cheap pastry. “The man at the gas station showed me a picture of us.” Her eyes flick to Gretchen, who tilts her head in curiosity.

  “You didn’t say before,” Gretchen says.

  “No, you didn’t,” says Polly.

  Kirsten chews and says, “They were not good pictures.” She pauses. “Photocopies. He knew we were missing. The picture said so.”

  I manage to swallow the one bite I’ve taken. “Everyone knew you were missing. There were a lot of you.”

  “We know,” Polly says.

  “He gave me the doughnuts,” Kirsten says.

  Maybe they were taken by a cult after all, I think. Is this what people who’ve been brainwashed act like? Not like themselves, but not entirely different.

  “That was nice,” I say carefully. “So, what happened to you guys?”

  Kirsten hasn’t lowered the doughnut, and the three of them gaze openly at one another, having a private conference without speaking. “We can’t tell you,” she says.

  “Yet,” Polly adds. “We are not ready to tell you yet.” She attempts to soften the words which a smile, which makes me even more uneasy. I need to talk to Grant.

  Unfortunately, he’s probably still in police custody.

  “Have you checked in with the police?” I ask. “They’ve been looking for you guys. You should probably go over there.”

  “I called,” Polly says, “and after breakfast, we will go to the courthouse. That is where they want us to go.”

  Relief nearly sends me falling off my chair. I’ll take my chances at being caught if it means getting out of this house, away from these stiff, doughnut-scarfing girls who don’t seem remotely the same as before they disappeared.

  “Great,” I say. “I can drive you in your car if you want” — Polly frowns at me, so I come up with a reason — “you know, if you don’t feel up to operating heavy machinery.”

  “Heavy machinery,” Polly echoes. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  Chapter 22

  GRANT

  Morning comes and I lie on the benc
h, listening to the first clues that something big has taken place overnight. The staccato din of ringing phones, shouted queries, and fast footsteps reach my cell.

  Shadows flicker at the edges of my vision, and low voices buzz around me, but it’s nothing like the screaming horde that smashed into me yesterday and took over my consciousness. This is what I’m used to — or used to be used to. It’s the rain without the storm, the never-alone sensation I associate with the island. Only now it’s dialed up a notch because the spirits’ voices have a disturbed edge, sharper than usual.

  The voices are upset.

  They’re not the only ones.

  I must have freaked everyone out in the most major of ways — including Miranda. Trapped Miranda, who truly can’t leave.

  I stand up and confirm that I’m still in my jeans and T-shirt instead of a terrible prison jumpsuit. At least they left me in my own clothes. That’s something. Now I just have to get out of here. Somehow.

  I grip the cell bars in either hand and press my forehead onto the metal. Shouldn’t I have a tin cup I can drag back and forth over the bars until someone comes to shout at me? The one time I broke out of jail, I still had the police force’s amused graces on my side and talked my way out. Now that everyone knows my reputation, that won’t work.

  Not to mention… why am I even in here? All I remember are my parents and Whitson and… frowning strangers in dark suits, barking questions I wasn’t able to respond to. Who are they?

  Just then Mom rounds the corner and pads down the hallway, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand. The dark smudges around her eyes nearly match the depressing gray cement wall behind her and the ghostly shadows of the spirits I see her through. She almost drops the steaming cup when she catches sight of me, clearly surprised to see me upright.

  “Mom,” I say, “good morning.”

  She straightens. “Is it?”

  I try to ignore the buzz and hum raining through my head. “Better than yesterday.”

  “Anything would be better than yesterday.” She can’t have slept more than a few hours, if that. She takes a sip from the coffee.