FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  “In ports-of-call all along the eastern coast of North America, the Bloody Pike was said to have hidden small caches of treasure. But simple holes and caverns were all-too-easily uncovered. Inevitably stumbled upon by unwitting passersby. Such minimal defenses would never be sufficient to secure his riches. The lion’s share, he saved to be buried in one place. Where he could install fortifications. And excavate an underground fortress of fiendishly clever traps and failsafes in order to protect his hoard of silver and gold.”

  The island is shown from above.

  “Mossley Island would be that place. And from that day to this - though many have tried - his treasure trove has yet to be found.”

  The screen goes black.

  “But that’s not to say that Captain Picado intended all his fabulous wealth to be lost forever should he fail to come back for it...”

  An oil painting fills the screen: The Bloody Pike, himself. Bedecked in all his corsair’s splendor. An actor’s voice takes over from the narrator. Doing a woefully inept Robert Newton impersonation: “Finally, I depart Mossley, having entrusted my riches to the island and the caprices of time and fate. Should fortune not favor my eventual return, it is my greatest hope that this treasure one day be uncovered by the steadfast inhabitants of this desolate and secluded rock. That they should benefit from the discovery all the days of their lives, in exchange for keeping it so well.”

  On pages of aged parchment, the letter being read has been inked in extravagant script. Covered in elaborate ornamental flourishes.

  “For I cannot help but feel indebted to the populace of Mossley Island. In their way, they are every bit as beholden to the sea as I, and it is beneath their home where I have chartered my vaults. For that alone, I owe a debt of gratitude. Should my bounty be unearthed by any but a native islander, however... May they be hereby damned to an eternity of misery and misfortune. Visited by hardship and malady most rank and foul. Plagued by the harridans of retribution until my plunder is justly returned to the intended recipients.”

  At the bottom of the letter - below the captain’s ornate signature - a series of pictograms. The narrator takes over once more: “Beneath his final missive, the Bloody Pike drew what would become the first in a series of clues intended to one day lead locals to his secret treasure hoard. Clues which have attracted the attention of mystery enthusiasts worldwide. Spurring on an international scavenger hunt, following one clue to the next in hopes of solving the dread pirate’s greatest enigma.”

  Hairy-knuckled hands fold the letter. Red sealing wax is dripped over its torn edge. A ring presses into the cooling glob. Leaving behind a clear impression: A skull with a spike through it. The letters A and P on either side. The signet of the Bloody Pike.

  ~

  “HEY!” Their host’s voice crackles through the speakers. Overpowering the aging filmstrip’s murky audio. “You guys aren’t... Are you asleep?!”

  They are indeed. Or were, at any rate. Slowly, but surely, the Hunters had slumped over. Leaned into one another. Lulled by boredom and flickering light. Drifting away on a cloud of exhaustion and utter indifference.

  Now, they sit upright. Rubbing their eyes. The big man yawns openly. The little woman grimaces. No less grumpy following her truncated catnap. Not after being so rudely roused from the much-needed slumber.

  The film stops. The projector’s light goes out.

  “You can’t... Can’t be...” The voice stammers. “This movie you’ve been sleeping through? It’s the whole point. The reason we brought you here in the first place.”

  Another voice is audible in the background. Further away from the microphone. “How much did they see? Should I be re-threading this? Are we starting it over?”

  Mrs. Hunter groans. Rises. Heads back to the turnstile. She slides her keycard through its slot. Over and over. Until its buzzing rejection becomes a constant, unbroken drone.

  “All right, all right!” The speakers squeal. “I give up. Stop, stop, stop!”

  Mrs. Hunter stops. Smiles sweetly. Card at the ready. Willing to start again without notice. Her husband joins her there. Covering another jaw-breaking yawn.

  “Long story, short? You’re from away. Meaning: Not born on the island. So... If you go hunting for Pike’s treasure, and you somehow manage to find it? You’re cursed. Get it? Real cursed. The film had lots of examples. Based on true stories. Treasure hunters coming from away to join the search. Meeting terrible ends. Because of Pike’s curse. And I know you two know what I’m talking about, too.”

  The very tired Hunters wait for more. Mr. Hunter rubs his bald head. Mrs. Hunter uses the keycard to scratch the stubble rising in one armpit.

  “Okay, then. That’s everything.” The voice is frustrated. Disappointed. “All we hoped you’d get from that film, there: From away and you look for the treasure? Cursed. Islander? Not cursed. The end.”

  Clank! The turnstile unlocks.

  Mrs. Hunter runs her card through the reader.

  Beep! The light turns green.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The residents of the Dunroamin Trailer Park mind their own damn business. Keep their heads down. Their ears plugged. They are not remotely interested in anything outside of their own private affairs.

  No one counts the traffic in or out of Delia Carter’s double-wide. No one sees the faces of her clients. When residents answer that they didn’t see nuthin’, they aren’t lying. They didn’t. They wouldn’t. It’s not healthy. Not smart. Those who had witnessed unsavory goings-on in the past can attest to that. Or they could, at least... Had they ever been located.

  So it is, that when the sheriff’s squad car rolls onto the property, it does so unseen. All eyes turned very purposefully elsewhere. The crunch of gravel beneath its tires goes unheard. Lost beneath coincidentally raised television volumes. No one will ever be able to say with any confidence when or if it was ever there. Only that they must not have been paying attention when it parked next to Delia’s trailer. That they were too distracted to notice Sheriff Doug Schilling climbing out. Entirely preoccupied with their own troubles as he approached her door. And absolutely engrossed in any-other-thing when he stepped inside.

  ~

  For a few minutes, the trailer park is still. Silent.

  No one comes or goes. There’s no movement at all, beyond the dust devils chasing one another along the heavily rutted gravel road.

  When the door to Delia’s trailer swings open once more, it slips out of the sheriff’s shaky grip. Clatters against the tin siding. Shockingly loud.

  Schilling stumbles down the steps. Face ashen. He grabs clumsily for the door. Needs to shut it twice before the clasp catches. Even then, he holds it closed. Until he’s certain it won’t pop open again. Keeping what’s inside, inside. All the while, he scans the nearby windows for peeping possible witnesses. Finding only drapery and blinds staring back at him.

  Rather than remain exposed, he rushes to his cruiser. Starts it up before he’s fully inside. Transmission grinding as he throws it in gear. Tires spinning. Spitting dirt and pea stones behind him. Digging new ruts in the hardpack before catching. Launching forward. Roaring away.

  Without being seen. Without being heard. No witnesses whatsoever to attest to his brief visit.

  ~

  The residents of the Dunroamin Trailer Park mind their own damn business. Nevertheless, every blessed one of them knows: Something seriously wrong has gone on in Delia Carter’s double-wide.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Mrs. Rutherford has waited long enough.

  She enters the code. Opens the refrigerated wall-safe. Removes all four canisters of ichthyoplasm. Lines them up atop the bar. The entirety of her reserves. Carefully collected a little at a time from her monthly allotment. Whatever she could spare. In case of emergency. A contingency plan she’d begun long ago. Following Ginger’s death at the hands of the Young Man.

  For a period following that first gilly’s assassination, the remaining sea monste
rs in captivity had gone dry. In mourning, apparently, though they gave no other sign they registered her absence at all.

  Realizing the ick supply was perhaps not the endless bounty they had all initially imagined, Mrs. Rutherford began squirreling away the last few drops from each ration. Forcing herself to consider the cache off-limits. Not for consumption. Something far more easily said than done, given how desperately she hungered for the stuff. She’d succumbed to temptation a few times in those early years. Losing months of accumulation to a few sad binges. But eventually, her willpower had taken hold. As the drips and drabs began to add up. Ultimately becoming the backup supply standing before her.

  The question she now faced? How much was she willing to share with the others? Or, rather: How little could she get away with sharing? The situation was dire. Not simply a dry season. Worse even than a drought. There was every possibility these canisters contained the last ichthyoplasm she would ever see. She’d keep one at the very least. Owed herself that much, without a doubt. By the same token, at least one full canister was needed as a donation to the cause. Out of solidarity. To show them all their leader’s willingness to sacrifice. Leaving two unassigned. Floating in limbo.

  Having made a partial decision, Mrs. Rutherford grabs the first canister. Hers. Totes it into the bathroom. Besides the usual accoutrements - decked out with appropriately ostentatious gold plated fixtures - it is outfitted with a narrow cedar cabinet: The only private sauna in the West Corridor. In deference to her position. Allowing her to administer her own ichthyoplasm in solitude.

  She opens a small panel on its side. Loads the canister into its slot. It hisses as it locks into place. The display lights up. A few clicks and it is set to deliver a liberal dose. The most she’s permitted herself at any one time since rationing became necessary. Hoping it will be enough to return her to full capacity. Stilling the shakes. Restoring her memory. Giving the old woman her best shot at coping with the crisis.

  She starts to unbutton. Already anticipating the burn. Naturally, this is when the phone rings.

  Mrs. Rutherford crosses to her desk. Glances at the display. Presses a button on her speakerphone. “How much were you able to retrieve, Douglas?”

  “How muh-- Fucking zhero! That’sh how much. None!”

  Her jaw clenches. She breathes deeply through her nose. “You disappoint me, Sheriff.”

  “Did you know? Before you shent me, did you know what I’d find there?”

  A twitch. One eyebrow raises. In spite of herself, Mrs. Rutherford is intrigued. “Why? What did you find?”

  “A bloodbath! A genuine, full-shcale mashacre! Delia: Dead. Junkiesh: Dead! And not jusht dead, either. Torn into little chunksh dead. Shpread all over the plache dead. That trailer... It was like walking into a blender.”

  A massacre at Delia’s. What did it mean? Alone? Maybe nothing. But in concert with the dumping of the Home’s reserves... The deaths of the last two gillies... Mrs. Rutherford struggles to push the pieces together. Her ick-deprived brain refusing to behave. Unwilling to perform tricks without the promise of a reward.

  “And you were unable to find any of our product on hand?”

  “I--” The line goes silent.

  “Douglas?”

  “I was unable to find the carpet, Mishush Robertshon. You think I’m using the word bloodbath figuratively, but I am not. The trailer wash painted in blood. Sho, no. I didn’t find your precioush product. There wash only sho much anyone could do there without becoming the prime blood-shoaked shushpect.”

  Mrs. Rutherford sighs. Delia was easily their most prolific distributor. The best chance for scoring a large return. If she’d been hit by a competitor, they’d almost certainly have taken whatever supply she’d socked away. If it was all part of a concerted attack on the Old Men, any ick would have been destroyed like that in their own dispensary. Either way, sending Schilling back in to search for it would be both useless and counterproductive.

  “All right. We’ll put it behind us. There’s something else we need you to do.”

  “Mishush Ruther--”

  “I’d say I’m being rather magnanimous regarding your failure, wouldn’t you? I’d have expected you’d be happy to have the opportunity to atone.”

  Schilling is quiet. Then: “What ish it you need?”

  “We’ve assigned a task of exceeding importance to the Watch. Unfortunately, it is at this vital moment that they have chosen to be... Uncooperative. So we need you to remind them that there are repercussions to defying a direct order from the Old Men.”

  “Who ish it that needsh reminding?”

  “You’ll find Sylvie Lesguettes at her father’s bedside on the fourth floor of Midgate General. Convince her of the foolhardiness of her error. Convince her, definitively.”

  “With pleashure.” Schilling hangs up. Mrs. Rutherford cuts off the dial tone.

  She hasn’t much time. The others would already be gathering in the conference hall. Waiting for her. She heads back to the bathroom. Starts the sauna’s cycle. Priming the booth ahead of her entry. She inhales deeply. The familiar scent of steaming ick giving her tingles.

  But once again, she’s interrupted: A knock at the door.

  Groaning, she shuts down the sauna. Unwilling to risk wasting another drop of her limited reserves. She re-buttons her shirt. Stomps through her home. Throws open the front door. “This had better be of crucial import, Ms. Spinx.”

  “We’ve lost contact with Sheffield and Chilton.”

  Mrs. Rutherford blinks. “They haven’t arrived with the girl? I’d assumed--” She stops. Scans Ms. Spinx’s face. “What else?”

  “According to our tracker, they’re stopped at the side of Route Fourteen. The car hasn’t moved since--”

  “How is it we’re only just realizing this now?”

  “Mr. Grist was keeping track. But when last I saw him, he was... Hurting.” She pauses. Pointedly. “I haven’t checked his room yet, but there’s no answer next door at his office. I thought I should update you before...”

  Mrs. Rutherford pinches the bridge of her nose. Debates her options. Seeing her rejuvenating sauna time slipping lower on the priority list.

  A text arrives on Ms. Spinx’s phone. She checks it. Makes Mrs. Rutherford’s decision easy: “As requested, everyone on the property is in the Oceanus. Awaiting your arrival.”

  Resigned, Mrs. Rutherford heads back inside. “Wait here.”

  One canister. That’s all they’re getting. She grabs the nearest from the bar. Carries it back to the door. For now? It’s all she’s willing to give up. She can always decide to offer more later... If it suits her.

  Ms. Spinx goggles when she sees it. “Is that--”

  “It’s full.”

  “Nobody else has brought anywhere near--”

  “I’d have been surprised if they had.” She smiles as she steps out. Locking the door behind her. “Let’s go.”

  ~

  Trevor doesn’t wait long after the lock turns. Footsteps still audible in the corridor outside when he crawls out from beneath the desk.

  “Gardner?” He turns in a circle. Looking for any other hiding places. Somewhere the creaky senior citizen could’ve quickly ducked while Trevor dove for cover beneath the desk. Finding nothing obvious. “Gardner!”

  There’s no time for hide-and-seek. Mrs. Rutherford has dispatched Schilling. Sent him after Sylvie. To convince her definitively. Trevor needs to get a warning to his wife before it’s too late.

  He pulls out his phone. The screen: Spiderwebbed. Non-responsive. “Shit!”

  On the desktop: The speakerphone. He dials Sylvie’s number. She doesn’t pick up. Naturally. No way she’d answer a call that appeared to be from Mrs. Rutherford. Not after the conversation he’d overheard.

  Leaving him with one option: He needs to get to the hospital. Before Schilling does. Even so, he can’t just abandon the Young Man.

  “Goddamnit, Gardner! Where are you?!” Finding no potential refuge wh
ere an old man with a bum leg could easily secrete himself, Trevor peeks through a doorway. Into the bathroom. Here, a single possible place of concealment presents itself: The sauna.

  Trevor opens the door. Finds Gardner. Moaning. His bald head boiled bright pink during his brief exposure to the toxic steam. Not charred, as they’d seen happen to Ms. Spinx. Instead, suffering the equivalent of a severe sunburn. Received in the few moments Mrs. Rutherford had the sauna running. “I had... No idea. It felt so...” He trails off.

  Trevor leans in. Helps the older man to his feet. Gardner hisses through his teeth as he’s embraced. Sensitive everywhere. Raw. He’s heavy. And not helping. It takes all of Trevor’s strength to lead him out of the bathroom. Finally depositing him in an overstuffed leather chair.

  “Uhhhhh. I get it now...” Despite the burns, Gardner’s smile is euphoric. “Why they’d keep doin’ it. It’s like it’s... I feel like a...”

  “Gardner. Look at me. We need to go.”

  “We...” The smile fades. “But what about--”

  “Mrs. Rutherford opened the safe. We can destroy what’s left and get out of here.” He grabs a canister from the bar. Looks it over. It’s different than those they’d emptied in the dispensary. No obvious way to open it. “Shit. I don’t see how you... Goddamnit!”

  The remaining goo receptacle is identical. Offering no solution. “We’ll have to take them with us.”

  Trevor rushes back to the bathroom. Grabs a terrycloth towel from the rack. Turns to go, before noticing the sauna’s open control panel. Third canister still locked in place. “Right...” He shuts the cabinet door. Taps the panel semi-randomly, until he can decipher how to turn the thing on. Sets the dose: To run until the goo has been spent.