“I just don’t want either napping.” She heads across the hall. Into the breakroom. Aimed at the coffee machine. Barely needing to raise her voice to continue the conversation. “They’re exhausted. And from what I can tell? Sleep deprivation may be all we’ve got to squeeze them with.”
“Thought you had ‘em dead to rights. Caught digging in a hole just like the ones our victims fell into. Oughtta be enough to book ‘em, I’d think.”
“Yeah, that was my feeling too. But I dunno...” She pours. “They came along awful easy. Like it was a minor irritation, but nothing to really worry about.”
“Hmph. That is suspicious, but--” Chartrain stops. “Hey, we’ve got movement, here.”
“Who?” Netty abandons her coffee. Returns to the monitors.
“Both, looks like.”
The Hunters have each straightened. Pulled yellow pads close. Taken up pens. The little woman finishes first: A single line of block letters. Too small to read on camera. She pushes the pad away. Tosses down the ballpoint. Lays her head atop her forearms.
Mr. Hunter circles what he’s written. Crosses his arms. Looks into the camera.
“You think you could, uh...” Netty waves at the screens. “They shouldn’t think I’m at their beck and call.”
“Right. Right.” He stands. Does as requested. Though his former boss is no longer in any position to give orders. “Wouldn’t want ‘em thinking they’re in charge... However true it might be.”
He exits. Appearing on each monitor a few moments later. Collecting the first page from one yellow pad, then the other. Neither guest sparing him the slightest glance.
Returning, he lays the pages side-by-side in front of Netty. Distinguishable only by Mr. Hunter’s circle. The same ten digits written across each page.
“Lawyer’s number, you think?”
“Seems likely.” Netty drags a telephone closer.
“You know the moment you call, the countdown starts.”
Netty taps the bottom of one screen. Fingernail clicking against the embedded timecode spinning ever-forward. “Already well underway, unfortunately.” Netty dials the number. “But we both know: These two aren’t giving up anything else.”
“Not without rubber hoses anyway.”
“Even then.”
Two rings. A woman answers: “Hello?”
“To whom am I speaking?”
A pause, then: “Customarily, the caller would be first to identify themselves.”
Netty rolls her eyes. “This is Deputy Antoinette Hubert calling from the Mossley Island Police Department. I was given this number by--”
“Ah. The Hunters. I’ll be down shortly, Deputy Hubert.”
“All right...” Something familiar in the woman’s tone. Netty can’t quite place it. “I appreciate that, Ms...”
“Ha! Never have I been a ‘mizz’ and quite some time since I’ve qualified as a ‘miss’ I’m afraid. But I have to say, I’m surprised you don’t recognize my voice, Deputy.”
Netty has heard it recently. Beyond that, memory fails her. “Should I?”
“I suppose not. No reason I should spring immediately to mind. At any rate, I’m fairly certain my ego can survive the slight.”
It clicks for Netty, just before the voice identifies itself. She mouths along, even as the woman speaks her own name: “It’s Mother Agatha.”
Mind racing, Netty is momentarily speechless. How is the old nun connected to the Hunters? Does their hole-digging have something to do with the Broken Girls?
“I’ll be there as soon as I can, Deputy.” A smile, plain in the woman’s timbre. “I’m very much looking forward to speaking to you in person.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Ever cruel, time slows. Showing Wanda her own final moments in brutal clarity:
Suspended over the tank. Bound by electrical tape. Straining against it. Pulling her legs up beneath her. Even as she’s lowered toward the surface. Knowing there’s no escaping the monsters leaping at her from below. Each propelled by long, sinewy tails. Needle-sharp teeth flashing. Fractions of one stretched second from biting down on her.
While above, on the platform - safe from the monsters:
Miss Philips grins. Malignant in her victory.
Gardner frets. Certain he’s next to become fish-food.
And Trevor... How her brother-in-law became part of the situation, Wanda cannot guess. He lies bound on the grated floor. Eyes bulging in shock. Entirely out of his element. Never before involved in anything remotely shady to the best of her knowledge. She almost wishes she could console the poor man somehow. It’ll be tough for him to watch her get eaten alive.
Probably not the crew she’d have chosen to see her off. But marginally better than going out alone.
Below: Jaws distend. Fangs flash. Wanda’s skin tenses in anticipation. The puncture-points predetermined: The first will clamp down on her right hip. The other will tear into her left knee. Both will thrash. Claw. Barrel-roll until they rip chunks of her away. Drop back into the water with their prizes. Gouts of her blood following after.
A foamy spray hits first. Thrown off by their flight. Speckling her skin. Icy cold. Wherever it lands, her flesh freezes. Frostbite burning across Wanda instantly. Sucking her into a timeless void.
~
System-shock. Wanda plunges into frigid blackness. All sense of self subsumed. Becoming fractional. Predicated on the existence of a far larger whole.
A wave of awareness radiates. Echoes return. Confirming the presence of a matrix of selves. None separate. Truly connected. She is a single node in a vast network, but no less significant for it. Depended upon, as much as she is dependent.
As she reaches out, the entirety of selves reach back. Questioning throbs press against her flesh. Who is she? Is she other? Or part of the whole? Their whole?
I’m you!
Her proclamation reverberates. Reflects. Bouncing from one entity to another. Amplified by silent voices, replying: I’m you! I am you! You’re us! We are. We are. We are.
She is recognized. Accepted. Embraced.
Entire.
~
Jaws clamp tight. Close prematurely. Biting into air.
The creatures yank away from Wanda. Leaving her untouched. Unharmed. Instead, they fall back into the tank. Unsated.
Without fully understanding, she knows why: Somehow, they recognized her. Saw her as one of their own. They would no more choose to tear into her than they would one another. She looks up to the platform.
The confusion on Miss Philips’s face is thoroughly satisfying. The old woman utterly galled that her would-be victim remains intact. She addresses Gardner without shifting her eyes from the water. “Have you ever--”
“Never.” He is equally flummoxed. “Gillies don’t turn down meals.”
“I guess I should’ve warned you...” Wanda shouts. “Strictly speaking, I’m not halal.”
Miss Philips ignores her. Steps behind the control panel. Seizes the levers. Lowers Wanda toward the water.
“Oh, come on!” Wanda squirms as she swings. Beneath her, the gillies circle. Agitated. But ultimately: Refusing to take the bait.
“Don’t you see? They don’t want her!” Trevor rolls to one side. “Maybe they’re not hungry.”
Miss Philips shakes her head. “They’re always hungry.”
“Might could have a scent on ‘er...” Gardner limps back from the refrigerators. Hands Miss Philips a fresh package of fish waste. “More o’ this might do to cover it over.”
“Yes!” Miss Philips tears open the plastic. Reaches over the rail. Pours out blood and fish bits. Mostly into the water.
“Make sure ye’re gettin’ it on ‘er.”
“You’ll leave me to it, if you know what’s best for you, Young Man.” She moves to the gap in the railing. Where she’d first swung Wanda’s bound form away from the platform. Holding tight, she leans out. Dumps the stuff. Bullseye: Wanda is splattered with gore. If that doesn’t excite the cr
eatures, she can’t guess what will.
As she shakes out the last drops, however, Gardner leaps forward. Raps the old woman’s white knuckles with the handle of his cane. Shoves himself into her spine with all his might.
Miss Philips screams as she falls through the gap. Flailing madly. Miraculously, she manages to grab hold of Wanda’s hips. Catching herself inches from the surface. Sending them both swinging wildly at the end of the cable.
“Hey!” Wanda bucks. Tries to slip her. “Find your own hook to hang from!”
The spectacle is all too tantalizing.
Without compunction, the first creature springs toward this dangling treat. Tries for the old woman’s torso. Misjudges its timing. Barely catches hold of her right calf. Jaws snapping shut. Crunching through tibia and fibula. It falls back into the tank with only Miss Philips’s foot and shreds of her ankle as its prize.
She howls in pain and terror. Tightens her grip on Wanda. Holding fast as the second monster latches onto her ribcage. Its tails thrashing. Body twisting. Claws raking across her abdomen. Cutting deep. Spilling the old woman’s guts from her belly. Unravelling her.
The wiggling loops of intestine make for an intriguing lure. The first gilly leaps forth again. Biting into the innards. Snipping through them easily.
Gibbering, Miss Philips looks up at Wanda. Needing her sympathy. Some small measure of solace. Finding neither. Only ice coming from the woman she’d so frequently mistreated.
“Give it up, Phil. You’re done for.”
The old woman’s eyes flutter. Her face goes slack. Clutch loosening, she slides off Wanda’s hips. Splashes gracelessly into the tank. An instant frenzy turns the water red. Impenetrable. Thankfully.
Above, Gardner forces himself to watch every moment. The least he can do: Pay witness to her end. Given he caused it.
Trevor’s eyes are shut to the horror. Having observed far too much of the gory spectacle before realizing he could turn away. Now watching it replay inside his lids. Inescapable.
As the water stills, Wanda tilts her head back. Looks up to the platform. To her apparent allies. “Hey, uh... Somebody want to maybe reel me back in?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sixteen years old. His first week on the Watch. The boy sat rigid at the monitors. Unblinking. Determined to make a good showing.
A clank on the stairs behind him. Someone climbing into the crow’s nest. But the boy wouldn’t look. Refusing to allow himself to be sidetracked. Intent on the job at hand. Despite temptation, he didn’t even peek over his shoulder as the woman returned.
Back from her break, Libby took off her jacket. Shook it out. “Okay, kid. You wanna hit the head, stretch your legs or whatever... Now’s the time.”
“I’m good.” Hard at work. Staring at the screens. Nothing was getting past him.
Libby hung her jacket over the back of her chair. Smirking. Twenty years his senior. Ten spent in this very lighthouse. When he’d joined her earlier that week, the boy had become her sixth partner.
Grunting, she dropped into her seat. “So, hey...”
The boy maintained his concentration. Focused on the monitors. “What?”
She rolled her chair closer. Bumped his. “Hey.”
Still, the boy wouldn’t look over. “What is it?” He knew what she wanted. For two days, she’d been singing the praises of backgammon. Trying to convince him to play. She’d had a running tournament with her previous partner. Hoped to continue the tradition. But even if he’d known the rules, he wasn’t there for fun and games. Libby’s former associate may not have cared about protecting the island, but he was there to do a job, and intended to take it seriously.
She leaned in. Mouth inches from his ear. “Hey.”
“What?!” Irritated. Why did she insist on distracting him?
“Kid. I need you to look at me.”
Under duress, he gave her the most fleeting glance he could manage. Time enough to reacquaint himself with only the broadest strokes describing the woman he planned to sit next to every shift for the foreseeable future. Plain. Sturdy. Didn’t bother with makeup, but neither was she dirty or unkempt. Her eyes were clear. Steady. Deeply intelligent. Initially, he’d expected to learn a lot from her. So far, that was turning out to be a flawed inference. “What do you want, Libby?”
“You know... You’re really not leaving me much of a choice.” She sat back. Put her pinky finger in her mouth. Sucked on it.
“Just tell me what you--”
Mid-sentence, Libby jammed her saliva-soaked finger into the boy’s ear.
“Gah!” He leapt to his feet. Scrubbing madly at the side of his head. “Gross!”
“I know!” She laughed. Peeked at her finger briefly before wiping it against her pantleg. “You, my friend, should probably invest in some cotton swabs.”
Finally torn away from the monitors, the boy turned his frustration fully on the woman: “What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you sabotaging me? Aren’t we supposed to be partners?”
“Ah! Partners! That’s the question, isn’t it?” She crossed her arms. “So you tell me: Why do you think they always have two of us installed up here?”
He stared at her in disgust. Wasn’t it obvious? “For a second set of eyes. Just in case one guy misses--”
“EHHH!” She buzzes. “Wrong-o!”
“No, it’s--”
“Why would your dad assign you to me, kid? What would you guess he’d hope would come of such a pairing?”
“Maybe he’s sick of you slacking off? Playing backgammon instead of doing your job?”
This stopped her. Slapped the smile from her face. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. Her words, measured. “Surely you know your father better than that. If he was unhappy with someone’s job performance, there’d be no pussyfooting around. They’d be right and truly shit-canned with little-to-no warning.”
The boy blinked. This did indeed ring more true than his own answer.
“So, possibly?” Libby continued. “Maybe the actual reason might be: He expected you to benefit from my many years of experience.”
The boy rubbed absently at his violated ear. “Yeah, okay.”
“Yeah. It is okay.” She reached for the arm of his chair. Turned it. So they were face-to-face. “Sit.”
The boy sat.
“Here’s why there’s two of us: Think about one guy. In here by himself. Every night, just watching the screens. Almost nothing ever changing. Day-in. Day-out. What happens to that guy after a year of that? Two years? Ten? What would happen to you, you think?”
The boy looked back at the monitors. Unchanged. He’d missed nothing since suffering the wet-willy. “I’d go crazy, probably.”
“Anyone would! Plum-loco! Nobody could possibly stare at that wallpaper for hours on end and have any hope of holding on to their sanity. I’m sorry. Can’t be done.” She swatted the boy’s leg. “And that’s why we’re both of us here: To pass the time. This we do by talking. Playing cards. Games, whatever. We don’t slack off. We don’t sleep. We don’t both leave the nest unmanned by going for a smoke outside at the same time. And as long as we’re here - awake and alert with the monitors in line-of-sight - if anything happens? We’re gonna catch it, I promise you.”
Snaking out a foot, she yanked his chair close. Bent in. Practically nose-to-nose. “But if you keep sitting there, staring at the screens in silence like you’ve done for the last two days? That’s the same as leaving me here all by myself and I’m telling you, man: I’m not going to handle it well... I’ll end up burning the whole goddamn lighthouse to the ground, I swear to Christ Almighty.”
For a long moment, the boy just looked at her. Then, he swiveled his chair away. Back toward the desk. Facing the monitors.
Libby’s mouth hung open. She couldn’t believe it.
Until he reached across to her side. Grabbed the little leather case she’d shown him on day one. Popping the clasps, he opened the backgammon board between them.
&
nbsp; “Okay... So, what’s the object of this game?”
~
The ancient VCR clicks. Whirrs. A thirteen-inch television of similar vintage hums to life. The space lights with static. The silence breaks with a windstorm of white noise.
Ren wakes. Head throbbing. Finds himself splayed out on the cold metal floor of a diving bell.
Resting on the bottom of the ocean.
Standing over him? An empty dive suit. Antique. Leather. Brass. Its enormous spherical head looks down. Staring through dozens of small glass portholes.
“What’re you lookin’ at, bub?” Ren pulls himself onto a built-in bench. Groans. Holds his head in his hands. Waiting for the spinning to stop. The fading after-effects of whatever they used to knock him out.
A pop from the television. Static replaced by black. Jagged bars wandering across the screen as the tracking adjusts itself. After a moment, the view phases to a camcorder recording: The boardroom at the Home. Mrs. Rutherford seated at the head of the big mahogany table.
“You’ve been very naughty, I’m afraid.”
Though he’s seen the video before - a lifetime ago - Ren can’t help but watch. Curious to see how much the host has aged in the thirty years since the film was shot. None of the Old Men were ever anything but... Old. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t been younger. Sixty, say... As opposed to ninety. Ancient enough at the time, to his teenaged self. His perception of age has shifted substantially in the intervening years. So, how much has Mrs. Rutherford changed since the time of filming?
Obligingly, the camera moves in on the woman. Reveals: She hasn’t aged in the slightest. Maybe slightly plumper in the video. Possibly, her eyes had a little more sparkle. Otherwise? Mrs. Rutherford appears entirely unaltered by the passage of time.
Ren is boggled.
“The Bell, of course, is a deepwater prison cell. Unfortunately for you, it contains only a limited supply of air. In fact, the mechanism triggering this video is set to play when breathable air has depleted to dangerous levels. Which is why it may feel a little close in there. Of course, if you remain aboard when the lights go out... You may not be leaving at all.”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 2
