FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Page 12

  Dawn feels her heart inflate. She’s her Grams’s granddaughter. Just like her. This is what she wanted. Why she’s there. To make connections.

  Grampy nods to himself. “Not a doubt in my mind, she’d’ve wanted to share all this with ya.”

  “Well, I think it’s amazing, Grampy. Thanks for showing me.”

  “Showing you, Hell. I’m giving it to ya. The whole goddamned attic.”

  “What?” Dawn double-takes. “But I can’t--”

  “Ya can and ya will!” He slaps his hand down on the chest. Dawn jumps at the loud clap. “I’m just like anybody else, Dawn. Holdin’ onto things, on account of it’s all I got left of ‘er. Whole blessed place has just sat here since she passed. I haven’t even been up here but once without ‘er. Time I let it go. Past time. And who better to let it go to?”

  Dawn looks around the attic. Really taking it in now. The sheer volume. “It’s sweet of you, Grampy. And really generous, but... We’re only going to be here a short while. Dad’s been... Extremely clear about that. Even if I had a place to keep everything, how would I ever transport it?”

  “Ya’d be a right stund arse to try that, girly. But clean out yer ears: It ain’t the contents I’m givin’ ya. It’s the attic. The whole space and all what’s kept here. Keep it. Toss it. Paint it blue. Makes no nevermind to me. It’s all yers now. Ya want to get right smart about where yer from? About Islanders? This is it. It’s all here. Who we are. What we’re about. Ya just have to dig in.”

  Dawn thinks about it. It is why she came, after all. What’s she’s wanted for years. To know her family. Understand where they come from. How could she possibly turn up her nose at it?

  She can’t.

  “All right... I’ll take it.”

  ~

  Martin watches his granddaughter. Scooting around the attic. Grabbing anything that catches her interest: Photographs. Court transcripts. Programs from high school plays. Holding things up for Martin to assess.

  A summons. “Estelle Dubois, Plaintiff against... Yvonne Dubois, Defendant?”

  “Nah. No relation there. Thank Christ.”

  Knowing her time is limited, she’s separating out anything that belongs directly to a family member. Though in a community as small as the island’s, the distinction can be a fine one.

  She’s quickly amassed a pile. Stacked against the attic’s north wall. Set aside for more careful perusal and digital documentation on her next visit.

  “Oooh...” Dawn approaches a reel-to-reel. A box of reels on the floor. One on the machine. Tape already threaded. The cord runs to an outlet. Still powered, apparently. Waiting all this time.

  “Grampy?”

  “Dunno on that one, love.” Something about the machine doesn’t sit right. Though he can’t remember why that would be. “Guess... Ya’d better just give ‘er a listen. See what comes of it.”

  Dawn blows dust away with three little puffs. Presses play. The motors whirr. Reels turn. A tinny voice murmurs from somewhere far away. A pair of bulky padded headphones hang beside the machine. Connected via a coiled cord. She lifts them to her ears. Listens for a moment. Frowns.

  “Sounds like a book-on-tape or something. Did they have those then?” She pulls the headphone jack. Audio crackles through the speaker. A man’s voice:

  “--lost their coloration, she said. Got so pale as could see the blood running blue through their veins. With eyes saucer-wide. Hardly ever blinkin’.” The voice frightened, even in recounting the tale.

  Martin rises. Gooseflesh crawling over his arms. His neck. He knows the tone. Intimately. It holds him in place before he fully grasps the purpose of the recording.

  “An’ all in a sweat, whether or not there was heat to cause it. When they’d buy from her, their paper bills came away damp. From their pockets or their clammy hands, she never knew, but it got so she didn’t want to touch their money, let ‘lone take it home with her.”

  Now, Martin recognizes the voice. What they’re hearing. He throws himself forward. Limp-lurching across the attic. Towards Dawn. The reel-to-reel.

  Dawn spins towards him. “What’s wrong?!”

  “Worst of all, she said, was their garglethroat manner of speech. Like they was talkin’ through a mouthful of water they’d forgot they ought to swallow. Hearin’ that sent me thinkin’”

  CLACK. The reels stop spinning. Martin’s finger on the button.

  Dawn grabs his arm. “You’re okay, right? Grampy?” Tearing up. Brain leaping to the conclusion instantly: Another relative, meeting their end the very day they meet.

  “Calm yerself, girl. Not gonna be doin’ any dyin’ any time soon...” He leans against the wall. Catches his breath. “I’m just... Seems I’m all-in, Dawn. May’ve... Over-done things. This day... All of its duties. Guess it took more out of me than expected. Sometimes forget I’m an old man, now.”

  Dawn searches his face. “But, you’re all right? Just tired?”

  “Don’t take much these days.” He takes her by the elbow. Leads her towards the staircase. Away from the machine. “Don’t mind, do ya? Comin’ back another day?”

  “Oh... Yeah, of course I will. But...” She’s concerned, but not entirely sidetracked. “The recording. Did you recognize--”

  “Ah-yuh. I did at that. And it’s not one for yer ears to worry over. It’s... Business related.” He waves it off. Opens the door for her.

  “Ah! Right...” She smiles. Winks. “Circle business, huh?”

  Martin is flushed. Overheated from crossing the attic. Nonetheless, hearing the words from Dawn’s lips chills his blood. Circle business. He squints. His grip on her arm tightens. “And what do ya know of Circle business?”

  Dawn’s smirk vanishes. “I’m sorry... I just-- I’m not supposed to talk about it, right?”

  “Not hardly, no. Fact is, yer not rightly supposed to know about it.” He closes the attic door. No longer rushing her out. Trapping her.

  “Oh, uh...”

  “Yer Da tell you ‘bout the Circle, did he?” He knows it’s the only possibility. Hopes there might be some other explanation.

  Dawn goes white. “G-Grampy, I didn’t...”

  He’s scared her. Not his intention. He tries his best to reverse it. “It’s okay, Dawn.” He puts on a warm smile. Opens the staircase door again. “Not yer fault, child. Natural you’d be curious and none would hold it agin’ ya. Not yer Grampy and that’s fer certain true.” He ushers her through the door.

  She starts down the stairs. “I really didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

  “Trouble? Don’t worry a speck ‘bout it, love.” He follows as best his limp will allow. “Just promise ya’ll come back agin’ soon. There’s a boatload to go through up there, and helpin’ on yer Family Tree would please me no end.”

  “I promise.” She smiles. It stabs at his heart.

  If she knew what he now had to do, she might never smile at him again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The nun is the first thing she sees.

  Mother Agatha. In a chair next to her hospital bed.

  Which doesn’t make... Any kind of sense at all.

  Wanda looks around. The space is enclosed on three sides by a drawn curtain. Noisy beyond it. She’s not hooked up to anything. No tubes. No wires. She’s not even in the bed, really. Just laid out on top of the sheets. Still in her clothes.

  Last she remembers... Feeling her hand open and close? She looks down... Nope. Still stumpy.

  “You look confused.”

  “I am confused.”

  “You’re in the Post-Operative Care Unit.”

  “I am? Did they operate?”

  Mother Agatha shrugs. “I was just walking by.”

  “So, of course... You sat down to watch me sleep. In no way is that weird or creepy.” Wanda sits up. Still a bit woozy. From... She’s not sure what.

  “Thought you might like the company, Wanda. You don’t tend to get many visitors.”

  “Nobody knew I
was here, Ags.” The dressing on her stump is fresh. Clean and tight. That’s why she came in: The infection. It’s all coming back. Mostly.

  “Maybe not today. But what about after your accident? Three days, and you only had one visitor, just before you left. And that was... Business-related, I suspect.” The nun smiles. “One visitor... Other than myself, of course.”

  “And here I thought I’d had your name taken off the guest list.” Wanda swings her legs over the side of the bed. Not ready to try standing. Working her way up to it. “I can see I’m going to have to have a little chat with the bouncers.”

  “It’s telling, isn’t it? You can really see how people feel about you in a time of need. Who’s really willing to be there for you, as opposed to all those hypocrites who only say they care.”

  “You’re wrong there, Ags: Nobody says it, either.”

  “I say it, Wanda. And I mean it, too.”

  “Uh-huh.” Wanda slides off the bed. Onto her feet. So far, so good.

  “I was there. At your bedside. As soon as I heard about the accident. Nobody else could be bothered. Not your father. Not your sister. Not the Sheriff... That surprised me, I have to say. I expected better from Antoinette.”

  “She’ll be horrified to hear she disappointed you.” Wanda takes a few steps. Balance is fine. Wooziness seems to have faded away. Seems she’s good-to-go.

  “You saved your prodigal brother’s life. That’s how this all happened, isn’t it? But did he--”

  “Enough!” Wanda whirls on the older woman. “Nobody asked you to come. Nobody wanted you to. It’s none of your business who does or doesn’t visit me. Nothing’s changed, Ags. I still don’t want anything to do with you, your convent, or any of your little peons. You need to let me go. Find some other innocent young girl to brainwash.”

  Wanda shrieks open the privacy curtain. Before she can make her escape, Mother Agatha stands. Grabs her by her injured forearm. “You shouldn’t think you can just...” She stops. Looks at the dressing covering her stump. It’s freaking her out.

  Wanda tries to pull away. The nun’s grip is too strong. The older woman ignores her. Turns her arm. Examines it closely. Wanda watches with mounting horror as the nun lifts the stump towards her nose and takes a long, deep sniff. “Wanda...” She squints. Seeming to recognize some scent. “What have you--”

  Wanda slams her handless wrist into Mother Agatha’s face. Released instantly. She leaps away from the nun’s grasping fingers. Past the curtain. Rushing out of the unit.

  Out of the hospital.

  Without ever once giving a single thought to being officially discharged.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  There it is. Off starboard. Hurtling towards them. A red dot on a sonar screen. No one sure what it translates into. Just that it’s coming.

  Roscoe stands ready. Braced against the gunwale. Speargun aimed into the white blooms of light forming a halo in the water around the boat.

  The dot halfway now. Covering the distance with shocking speed.

  “THERE!” Roscoe sees. Shouts. Shoots. All at once.

  A black bullet shape. Blurred. Without detail. A tail that splits clearly into two. Like legs.

  His bolt misses by inches. Already loading another as the thing goes under the boat. Roscoe crosses to port. In time to see the silhouette pass out of the light. Not quick enough to fire on it.

  On sonar: The dot that was approaching zips away.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Sylvie’s not having it. “Burl!”

  “Grab onto something!” Burl punches them forward. Skidding across the water. Rounding the buoy. Taking off after the dot. Despite its head start, gaining quickly.

  “Get us next to the bastard.”

  Sylvie leaves him. Stands with Roscoe. Both aim spearguns into the ocean. Waiting. Bouncing on rubbery knees as the boat crashes across the waves.

  The moment they see it - lit by the brilliant running lights - Roscoe fires. His bolt clips a pectoral fin. No effect on the thing’s momentum.

  In and out of the light. Moving quickly. Hard to be sure. Looks: Nine feet long. Almost shark-shaped. Longer pectoral fins - nearly arm-length. Those strange twin tails.

  Sylvie takes her time. Aims carefully. But an inopportune swell as she shoots sends her spear far from its mark.

  She reloads. Looks around to get her bearings. Already, the island is becoming small behind them. The chase leading out to sea. Towards the--

  “Burl! The ring! Wreck Reef!” On the GPS monitor: A yellow band encircles the island, following its contours like a matted frame. They’re headed straight for it. Nearly there.

  “I see it.” Rather than turn back, he pushes the throttle forward. Speeding ahead. Pushing past the red dot entirely.

  Roscoe joins them at the monitors. “For godsake, don’t push it! Much closer, you’re gonna get us fried!”

  “Don’t worry.” Sylvie puts a hand on Burl’s shoulder. “Burl’s got this.”

  “Easy for you to say. It won’t be you paddling us back when we’re dead in the water.”

  “Batten down!” Burl cranks the wheel. Yanks back the throttle. The boat slides sideways in the water. Cutting just short of crossing into the yellow band.

  He slams a fist down on his dash. A button marked: WALLS.

  Instantly, heavy bars release from port and starboard. Drop into the water. Unfolding on spiked scissor-hinges. A pair of sudden iron gates extending 15 feet below.

  The thing slams into one. Hard. The boat tips to the side on impact. Carried even closer to the edge of the Ring. This close, the Night-vision monitors fuzz in and out. The image is broken. Unclear. But there’s definitely something there. Caught inside the starboard drop-wall. Thrashing on the spikes. Creating a fog of bubbles and black blood. Further obscuring the view.

  Beneath their feet, the boat settles. The shaking death throes slow... Stop.

  Burl looks over his shoulder at Roscoe and Sylvie. Smiles.

  Roscoe sums things up:

  “Ho. Lee. Shit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The bolt cutters open wide. Bite into the padlock. Press. Press. Press. Slice through. The halves fall to the cement. The chain unlocked. Broken.

  No cheers from gathered onlookers. Little support for the Sheriff. She doesn’t need any. Moves along to the next protester. Freeing them from their self-imposed shackling.

  None leave. Barely acknowledge her as she passes. They’re certainly not following her orders: Not standing up. Not gathering their crap. Not getting the hell off the bridge. One thing at a time. First, cut them loose. Next, send them packing. Not sure how, but she’ll figure it out when the time comes.

  As the sun sets into the mainland - somewhere beyond the wet horizon - darkness falls. The construction site is now bathed in flickering candlelight. A single white flame in front of each cross-legged protester. Candles. More carried by supporters in the crowd. Lending an air of unearned solemnity to the occasion. Transforming the protest into a sacred duty, rather than pointless and temporary obstructionism. Netty curses Millie for not calling her in sooner. If only this could’ve been dealt with in the daylight. While it was still just a circus sideshow. Before it became church.

  Another padlock drops. Netty moves on to the ringleader/high-priest: Denis Tanner. She’s known him all her life. They went to school together. Always been a bit of a dick. Unlike the others, he makes eye contact. Makes up for their avoidance with an aggressive laser focus. She has to force herself to maintain an unaffected nonchalance. Can’t risk showing weakness.

  “That court order give you the right to cut through fingers, Sheriff?” Denis has knit his hands together around the padlock. “To rend flesh and bone? The way this bridge will affect the island? Tearing apart the lives of those who’ve depended on it for generations? If not, I’m sure you could get your mother to add a clause easily enough.” Fine. He wants to be a dick. He can stay chained up. Once everyone else is unlocked, it will amount to the sa
me thing.

  “Don’t go away or anything, Denis.” She moves on. Leaves him to be dealt with last. As much as Netty hopes that the process of evicting these guys will go smoothly... Secretly?

  She’s praying he resists.

  ~

  “Yes. I’ve completed my examination of the injunction...” Mrs. Rutherford removes her entirely ornamental eyeglasses for effect. Shakes the sheaf of papers. Addresses anyone willing to pay attention. “...And while I have discovered what I believe to be... Many mistakes and discrepancies, I’m sorry to inform you all that there are none I can find which I feel might render the document invalid.”

  Groans. Boos. Mutterings.

  As much disdain as Ren has for the old woman, he has to admit: She knows how to work her constituents. Whether she personally believes the things that come out of her mouth, he may never know. But she certainly has no trouble saying whatever she needs to to keep them wrapped around her fingers.

  “Now, now. I know it’s dispiriting.” She moves through the crowd. Touching people’s arms. Their shoulders.

  To Ren, it seems she’s attempting to make physical contact with each person at least once. Good salesmanship. Or maybe she’s picking their pockets.

  “It’s hard to keep up a strong front, when the law itself appears to behave unjustly. When the scales seem weighted against the common man, only profiting those at the top. But truly: We must accept the pronouncements of this document, or we risk breaking the law.”

  Angry murmurs suggest few in attendance would have an issue with taking criminal action

  Ren glances back at Netty. Nearly finished cutting loose the dissidents. The only law around, since Deputy Schilling has apparently deserted his post. If they decide to resist, she’ll have a hard time enforcing the court order on her own. If the throng joins in... She’s doomed.