“Without a doubt, yours is the strongest faith among our order.”
“It’s not faith. You don’t have to believe, when it’s proven to be true.”
Mother Agatha gives her hand one last squeeze before letting go. Stepping back from the bed. Barking at the others, still lurking nearby. “Get the gurney. Take Sister Grace to the courtyard. Assemble the sisterhood for her restoration. I won’t have her left in this condition as much as one moment longer than necessary.”
“But, Mother...” One nun steps forward. Tentative. “Respectfully... Our sisters have yet to return from the cabin. For such an undertaking as this...”
Mother Agatha understands. Pained by the news. “We haven’t enough ichor.”
The nun shakes her head sadly. “Not for a complete restoration. Not with such severe injuries.”
“I can wait, Mother.” The red-headed nun is steadfast. “I can.”
“You shouldn’t have to, Grace.” Mother Agatha returns to her bedside. “Truly, you’ve earned better.”
“I’ve read the glyphs, Mother. I know as well as you do: The part I’m meant to play? It’s only just begun.” Her smile strains the stitches holding her lip together. “And these small trials are so much easier to withstand with the foreknowledge beyond all doubt of how the tale will end.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Someone’s in the house.
A distant crash drags Netty back to consciousness. Head splitting. A vague after-the-fact awareness that the sound had been preceded by banging. Not quite powerful enough to cut into the strangulation-induced blackout she’d been floating through. The crash has done the trick: She’s awake. Unfortunately, it’s also drawn the ivy’s interest. As Netty’s vision clears, she sees each leafy head turning toward the bathroom door.
From elsewhere in the house: “Netty?”
Not calling for ‘Mom?’ Can’t be Max, then.
Whoever her potential savior might be, she has to warn them. Before they come charging into the bathroom unaware. And end up with a toxic cloud of knockout gas sprayed up their nose.
The ivy’s grip around her neck has loosened. Apparently, it wants her alive. Not intending to kill her. Only to incapacitate. She draws the deepest breath she can manage, then: Screams.
But nothing comes. Thanks to the trauma to her throat, her voice is reduced to a rough-edged whisper. Not much louder coming out than the breath had been going in.
Just down the hall, now: “Netty?!” A woman’s voice. Hearing it, Netty realizes which heroic soul she has accidentally called to her rescue: Not her son, but the other wiseass who secretly programmed her phone into referring to them as Unknown Caller...
Wanda.
“Holy shit! Netty!” Wanda must see Netty’s legs jutting into the hallway. Newly motivated, her footsteps approach at a run. A fool rushing in, if ever there was one.
Still unable to enunciate more than a breeze, Netty resigns herself to the inevitable outcome. She’s at fault. Her phonecall responsible for pulling another victim into this spider’s web. Soon Wanda will receive her own personal faceful of vegetable anesthetic. She’ll fall. The ivy will entwine her. The two of them will be trapped. Side-by-side. Ex-girlfriend peas-in-a-pod. Stuck there until the ivy does with them... Whatever it is the ivy intends to do.
Sure enough, Wanda’s face appears at the crack in the door. And sure enough: She gets up-close and personal with the black vine’s horrible yellow berries. They blast her. Point-blank. She gasps. Staggers. Drops to one knee.
Netty rolls her eyes. Another one bites the dust. Their only hope now? That maybe, when Max gets home and finds the two of them lying there, he’ll exercise a little more caution. But who is she kidding?
Might as well start shifting herself over to make room for the boy.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sue paces. Watching the trailer door. Waiting for the screaming to resume. Or, more optimistically - for the stupid boy to emerge. If he’d only paid attention, the boy would be safe right now. But it’s been a long time since anyone bothered to listen to Sue.
He freezes. Stock still. Hones in on the door handle as it slowly rotates.
Then, the door is open. The stupid boy is out. Panicked. Looking every which way. Finally, down at himself. Lifting each foot for a better view of the soles. Finding both covered in red. Horrified, he shuffles quickly back and forth in the sandy gravel next to the walkway. Kicking up a minor dust storm.
Sue cocks his head. Torn. Happy to see the boy again. Alive. Uncertain what to make of his frantic movements. To make things worse, the boy drops to his knees. Grabs handfuls of dirt. Rubs red palms together until they’re empty. Then, snatches more from the ground. Repeats the process. Grinding the red away. In all the years of junkie traffic, never has Sue witnessed a production like this one.
Finally, the boy sits back on his haunches. Examines his filthy hands. His feet. Each extremity a mottled camouflage of greys and browns. Seemingly satisfied, he rises. Turns a half-circle. Eyes anxious. Scanning neighboring trailers. Finding nothing noteworthy. No eyes staring back. Except Sue’s.
Relaxing slightly, he approaches the friendly face. “You know what went down in there?”
Sue sits. Tail wagging. Glad the stupid boy wasn’t hurt. Intelligence notwithstanding, he’s one of the better ones.
“Pretty nasty business, huh?” The boy crouches. Scratches behind Sue’s ears. “Should’ve listened to you, dude. Had my back all along, didn’t you? I was just so stuck in my brain, I wouldn’t’ve heard anybody.”
Sue pushes into the boy’s dirty fingers. Shifts around, so the scratchings hit his itchy spots. The attention is nice. But all too soon, the boy stands. “Guess that’s it, then. Sure as shit not coming back this way again, so... Best of luck to you, dog.” Two solid pats and a salute. Then, the boy starts away.
Sue follows along by his side. All too aware of the distance to the end of his chain. Knowing well just how far he can go before it will allow him no further. Willing to test that boundary again, in order to escort the stupid boy away from the trailer.
A chirrup stops him next to Sue’s doghouse. He takes out his phone. “Hello?” He listens. “Yeah, that’s me. I mean... That’s what he’s been calling me, anyway. Not sure apprentice is how I’d--” Suddenly, the color drains from his face. “Norman’s still okay, right?”
Sensing a need, Sue nuzzles against the boy’s leg.
“Thank God! Don’t think I could take it if he’d--” Glancing down at the hound dog once again beneath his fingers, the boy scratches his head. “All right, but when he last saw me, he didn’t seem to be too--” His eyes wander. Over the ground. The items in front of the doghouse. He frowns. Nudges Sue’s water dish with the toe of one sneaker. The minimal liquid remaining sloshes in small circles. No risk of spilling. Next to it, the food bowl is down to its last three kibbles.
“No, yeah. Okay. You’ll be my next stop, Mrs. Sudder. Let him know I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hangs up. Looks at Sue. Points to the bowls. “Damn, dude. Is that all you’ve got left?” He looks back at the trailer. Debates a return visit. Fretting.
Sue barks once. A noiseless snapping at the air. The silent reminder: Stupid boys should at least learn from their stupid mistakes.
“No, I know. But I can’t very well leave you to starve, can I? Who knows how long it’ll be before somebody...” The old dog tilts his head. Tail wagging. The boy sighs. Taking one knee. Reaching for Sue’s collar. Turning it. Fiddling with the clasp. “Huh. Don’t think I’d’ve pegged you for a ’Sue’... More of a Bill or a George or something.”
A light ch-click is all it takes. The boy pulls the chain away. Tosses it into the patchy yellow grass.
Freedom is a strange sensation. It’s the first Sue’s been unchained since his fateful trip to have his vocal chords snipped. The woman had let him in the trailer for a short while after that. While he recuperated. Then, it was right back on the chain. His existence constrained to dogh
ouse and a circle of yard ever since.
“Go on then, Sue. The world is yours.” The stupid boy motions him away. Heading off in the other direction. Sue doesn’t bother debating. Trots after him. Glancing back, the boy smiles. “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”
Sue barks. A quiet clack of his teeth.
“All right, but I should warn you: I’m highly irresponsible. Seriously, ask anyone. I’m not so sure I can be trusted to look after a dog.”
It doesn’t matter in the slightest. Because Sue’s not hoping to be looked after. He’s following the stupid boy in order to look after him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Vvvv-Vvvvvv...
Sylvie’s cellphone vibrates. Untended, it rattles across her father’s bedside table. Amplified by the hollow cabinet beneath. Still in motion when she re-enters. Stale cafeteria bran muffin in one hand. Styrofoam cup of over-boiled coffee in the other.
“Shit!” She sets her breakfast down quickly. Catches her phone just before it can leap to its death.
Hovering above the lock-screen: A notification.
BELL TRACKER
CONNECTION TERMINATED.
She swipes over the words.
The map reappears. Dotted line extending from where it was when last she checked. Ren’s progress taking him to the third bell. Past it, toward Wreck Reef. Then, the path reverses without explanation. Finally ending with a little red X where the flashing blip ought to be.
“No.”
Sylvie double-taps the X. A window pops open. Displaying her brother’s vitals.
He no longer has any.
“Oh... No-no-no.”
Another tap brings up a report:
> Sudden depth change detected.
> Leaving authorized range.
> Warning issued.
> No correction detected.
> Minimum depth exceeded.
> Self-destruct initialized.
> Self-destruct successful.
> Connection terminated.
Sylvie covers her mouth. In shock.
Fumbling, she grabs for the hospital phone. Unable to tear her eyes away from the little screen. Dialing a number by feel.
After two rings, the line picks up. “Lesguettes Li--”
“Tower One, it’s Sylvie.”
“He-ey...” A tonal shift as honey is injected into the voice. Converting in one word from matter-of-fact to a sudden forced sympathy. “How’s your dad do--”
“Have you guys been monitoring my brother, Bernie? His walk?”
A beat before she responds: “You, uh... You know we’re not supposed to follow the walk in-progress. We’re only authorized to review those reports afterwards.”
“I need you to log in and verify his current whereabouts for me.”
Silence.
“Now, Bernie.”
“All right.” There’s a long moment. The sound of keys tapping. Then: “Oh, Sylvie... I’m so sorry.” There’s more. But Sylvie doesn’t hear it. She just sets the receiver back in the cradle. Still clutching her cellphone. Staring at the red X that was her brother. Backing up, she drops into the visitor’s chair. Beaten.
Another death on her hands. No enemy action to share the blame. Her responsibility alone. She captured him. Brought him in. Turned him over. Approved of the sentence. And now? Her own brother. Gone.
Their last interaction... It hadn’t been so bad. It had - at least - boded well.
Sylvie hadn’t gone so far as to admit it to herself, but... She’d been looking forward to possibly having a brother again. Even if it was Ren.
Her father had made her promise: When Ren returned, she would allow bygones to go by and be gone. She hadn’t fought it. Promised outright. At least in part to shut her father up, but even so... She had meant it. That may well have been the old man’s final fatherly act for his family’s benefit. But now, it was all for naught. Because Ren was gone.
She blinks down at her father. What would he say now? If it was in his power, what words of wisdom would he spill to salve her pain?
“Dubious sunrise!” Her father lurches forward. Eyes popping open. Suddenly awake.
“Jesus!” Sylvie leaps back from him.
Seeing his daughter, the world becomes slightly less terrifying. He reaches out for her with one arm. The other just lays there. “Equal dames for frog-time on hourly grey biscuits.” He speaks only through the right side of his mouth. The other half of his face hangs slack.
Sylvie is boggled. “Wh-what?”
He frowns. Grasping for her wrist. Pulling Sylvie close. Whispering now. Conspiratorial. “Nod lint in composition? Weren’t ghosts always becoming? Becoming?”
She shakes her head. No earthly idea what he might be trying to communicate to her. “Dad, I don’t-- You’re not making any--”
Frustrated, he pushes her away. Shouting, now. For the benefit of anyone in earshot. Surely someone will hear and understand. “Dubious sunrise! Placate him, though my underarms expect your wholehearted prosciutto!”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Hunters move quickly through the Mossley Island Museum of Mystery. Giving not the slightest shit about any of the displays they pass. Impatient to get to the end. And, hopefully: The point.
Their visit - absolutely complimentary and free of charge - was intended by their hosts to act as preamble. A little background history on the island before they explain themselves. Mistakenly viewing the Hunters as uninformed tourists. Folks from away. Ignorant of island lore. Rather than grasping that the pair are experienced archaeologists and historians whose research and knowledge dwarf anything local hucksters could hope to put across to museum-goers through a 1:120 scale diorama.
Exhibits the Hunters pass without any interest at all include:
WRECKED!
A TIMELINE OF THE SHIPWRECKS
OF WRECK REEF
VANISHED!
THE MYSTERIOUS ABANDONMENT
OF THE VILLAGE OF ADDERPOOL
Mr. Hunter at least reads the titles in passing. His wife ignores them all. Solidly in let’s-get-this-over-with mode. Beelining along the labyrinthine museum’s winding path. Cutting every corner. Aiming for an eventual exit. Impressed by a single element of the place: The sheer amount of stuff they’ve managed to cram in. None of it worth much of anything, but every square inch of the museum’s limited square footage has been filled with odds and ends related to the island’s history and the legends that have grown up around its strange past.
But if the Hunters were dubious before entering, they’re downright irritated now. The mysterious message which had led them there said nothing about an endless forced march through a kitschy tourist trap. The further they travel through the maze of questionable exhibits the more clear it seems that there can be no pot of gold awaiting them at the end of this particular rainbow valuable enough to warrant the time and effort.
Already, they’re both prepared to jump out the first window they come to, rather than continuing to the end, regardless of any offers made by disembodied voices promising to help them evade ancient curses.
Finally, they reach a staircase. Descend from the overstuffed madness of the museum into a relatively empty room. Here, large carpeted cubes have been arranged in loose rows. Facing a blank space. The first uncovered wall they’ve encountered since entering. No informative essays. No maritime paraphernalia. No infographics.
Most importantly, in the far corner: Another turnstile. Almost certainly: The way out.
Anxious to escape, Mrs. Hunter already has her keycard in hand. Slides it through the reader. Gets a buzz in return. A flashing red light. The cage-style exit bars remain locked in place. She glares at Mr. Hunter. As though he alone had placed them there. Taken aback, he can only shrug. Looking around the room as the already-feeble light dims.
With a chattering whine, a projector grinds to life in an adjoining space. Light shines from a plexiglass square near the ceiling. Cuts through the freshly fallen darkness. Lands on the blank wall. Nu
mbers in circles, counting down from five to two. Then, a beep and blackness.
Canned orchestral music warbles through hidden speakers. Swelling as the filmstrip’s opening shot fades into view: The coast of Mossley Island. Rising from the ocean. Stock footage shot through the window of a shaky helicopter. The title dissolves on: “CURSED! The Search for Bloody Pike’s Treasure.” Beneath it, a copyright date beginning with MCM.
Despairing, Mrs. Hunter re-tries the keycard. Multiple times.
Resigned to their fate, her husband takes her by the hand. Leads her to the screen. Plops down on an uncomfortable carpeted cube. Pats the one next to his.
Still pissed, she joins him.
The filmstrip grinds on.
~
“Pirate gold! That was the rumor. Buried centuries ago, on this unassuming island, by the most cutthroat brigand ever to sail the seven seas... The Bloody Pike, they called him. Only... Never to his face. Not if they hoped to keep their heads.”
Engravings show Pike’s ship. The Tesouro Preto. Long, sharpened pikes jutting forth from the main deck. Each with a gory head impaled on its end.
“Over the course of his storied career as Pitiless Scourge of the Atlantic, Captain Ameglio Picado amassed a fortune in stolen booty. Far too much to carry. Especially with the constant threat of mutiny. It need not be mentioned: There was no honor to be found among his fellow pirates. Even those he paid so handsomely to crew for him were all too easily wooed by the promise of more.”
Illustrations of hoards of gold coins and gemstones dissolve to images of desperate sailing men. Soon, these give way to maps of the shoreline and the small communities peppered along the waterfront.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 19
