FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE Page 2

  “All right, that’s enough ruminating for the both of us.” She grabs Burl by the arm. Breaks him from his dark thoughts. “Get going.” She gives him a shove. Away from the truck. Towards the others.

  Along the narrow roadside: More trucks. Cars. Seven or eight vehicles altogether. All empty. Their passengers stand together at the edge of the woods. Seventeen men and women of the Watch. Nearly everyone not already on duty. Retired or otherwise. All there to help find Roscoe. Flashlights by their sides. Awaiting Sylvie’s command.

  She scans their dark faces. Hard to distinguish without the moon’s help. Finds her father among them: Martin Lesguettes. Former Captain of the Watch. Sylvie’s predecessor.

  Who’d he hijacked for the ride this time? They should’ve known better than to bring the frail old man. With his gimpy leg, he’d be sure to slow the whole procession.

  Still, she can’t help but gain strength from his stoic presence.

  Catching her eye, he nods. Thin-lipped. Expression grim. Waiting on her like everyone else. Deferring to the Captain. Expecting some sort of pep-talk. In for a disappointment. That’s not how Sylvie works.

  “Spread out. Keep your eyes peeled. Both Roscoe and the sonuvabitch that took him are injured. So we’re looking for blood drops.” She pauses. “And for God’s sake... Watch out for holes.”

  Marsden raises his hand. “Uh... Holes?”

  “Yeah...” Sylvie’s cheeks flush. Hot with embarrassment. “There was a--”

  “Ain’t hard of hearing, are you, Marsden?” Burl forces his way through the men. Marsden lowers his hand. Too late. “Nobody tell you what went on this morning?”

  “Only just arrived, Burl. Haven’t but just now heard about Roscoe getting snatched.” The smaller man backs away. “And nobody mentioned any... Holes.”

  Burl won’t let him create a buffer. Pushes in close. “First off, it was more’n just some hole. It was a pit. Ten feet deep. As big around. Bastards had one all dug out and waiting. Baited it like a trap with the costume down in it, so’s Sylvie would think she had the thing cornered.”

  “Anyway...” Sylvie isn’t interested in explaining further. “Just watch your step in there. Head out!”

  “You heard her!” Burl starts forward. Taking point. The other searchers follow. With even strides. Arm’s length from their neighbors. Sweeping flashlights back and forth over the forest floor.

  Sylvie’s father hangs back with her: Bringing up the rear. Staying out of the way. He’s got that much sense, at least. Won’t jeopardize the search for the sake of his own pride.

  As the searchers proceed, he hobbles towards her. Limp more pronounced over uncertain ground cover. In a quiet rasp, he asks: “Don’tcha s’pose we should maybe be waitin’ fer sun-up, Sylvia Jane? Not long off now.”

  Sylvie’s teeth clench. Last thing she needs is second-guessing. “You really think Roscoe can afford to wait?”

  “What I think? S’already too late to be doing that poor b’y any good.”

  The very idea stops her. The possibility she’s least willing to entertain: That she’s lost Roscoe completely. One of her oldest friends. Taken, while under her command. No. She forces it from her mind.

  “If that’s so, why wait for sunrise, Dad? Why bother searching at all?”

  “Might find somethin’ that’ll help us get after them what done it. Lead us to ‘em ‘fore they strike agin.” The old man’s raspy whisper increases in volume. “Just not in time to help yer man. Roscoe’s most likely long-gone.”

  Heads turn. Glance over shoulders.

  “Trampin’ around in the dark o’night like this? Yer as like as not to destroy anythin’ could’ve been of use.” Martin’s voice loud enough to address everyone now. “Assumin’ none o’ ya falls in a hole in the meantime.”

  Sylvie fumes. “Keep your voice down and your opinions to yourself.”

  The old man quiets. Entirely silent a full minute, until: “How long’d ya spend in that pit, Sylvie? How long ‘fore Burl came along an’ pulled ya out?”

  “That’s not--”

  “An’ after that. How long’d it take to get alla us assembled out here?”

  “All the more reason not to waste any more time. He’s out there, somewhere. Bleeding. Who knows what else?”

  “I knows what else. They knows.” He points to the line of searchers. “Ya gotta face yer facts, girl: It’s too late. The trail’s gone right cold - if ever there was one at all. And where’er they’re takin’ him, it’s God’s truth he’s there by now.”

  “And what if they weren’t taking him anywhere at all? You think of that? What if they dumped him out here, and he’s just waiting for us? Getting more and more dead, because nobody’s coming to save him.”

  “Sylvie, my love... If they didn’t wanna take the lad, tell me this: Whyfore did they take him?”

  “What’s the difference?!” Burl drops out of the line. Pissed. “Who cares why they took him, Martin? They took him! What we gotta worry about is how we’re getting him back!”

  With Burl breaking the seal, the other searchers stop pretending not to listen. Turn. Shouting their conflicting opinions over one another.

  “Martin’s right! We shouldn’t be out here in the dark!”

  “Can’t rightly wait for day! Every second gone’s one more Roscoe’s lost.”

  “We’re like to walk all o’er the crime scene like this, an’ none be the wiser of it.”

  Sylvie can’t believe it. Somehow her father has singlehandedly set her team at one another’s throats. “HEY!”

  Everyone quiets.

  “Priority is: We find the trail. Follow it. Then: We get our guy and save the goddamn day. I don’t have time for anything else. Neither does Roscoe.”

  Burl chimes in. “You know he knows we’re coming. He’s counting on us.”

  “That’s right!” Sylvie presses her advantage: “He’s out there. We’re going to find him. And to hell with any evidence we may destroy. We’ve got all we need. The costume that bastard left behind was absolutely covered in DNA.”

  Her father’s face crinkles into a sad smile. “Sylvie...” Unspoken: You silly little girl. “Ya really think they’d leave that thing behind if they thought there was anything like a chance ya could use it to find ‘em out?” He shakes his head. “No, girl. Sure as sinnin’ they dropped it there to stop ya up. Wanted ya down in that pit next to it. And then, you can just bet--” Martin stops abruptly. Goes white.

  “Dad? Are you all--”

  “Shut it!” He points a finger at her. It does the trick. Everyone goes silent. Waits to see what the old man does next.

  He tilts his head. Listens. “Jayzus Aitch...” Throwing himself forward with his good leg, he limps at top-speed through the forest. Back in the direction they’d come.

  Groaning, Sylvie gives chase.

  After an indecisive moment, the others follow.

  “Dad?!” She catches up with him quickly. Grabs him by the elbow as he reaches the road. Looks up the hill. Towards the truck.

  “They wanted ya in the hole with it, Sylvie. Expected ya’d be stuck down there. Didn’t count on Burl comin’ to yer rescue.”

  “So?”

  “So, shut yer gob and listen, whydon’tcha?”

  She does.

  In the quiet of the night, a sound creeps back along the road. A repeating tone, coming from the truck on the hill: Tenk... Tenk... Tenk...

  Suddenly Sylvie understands. Whirls towards her team as they saunter out of the woods. “GET DOWN!”

  The force of the explosion erases the truck from existence.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Netty didn’t want to see him. Doesn’t want to. Has to force herself to look. Through the clear plastic window. Into the hyperbaric chamber.

  Inside: The man is twisted. Melted into an inflexible solid. Cracks in his charred black shell show wet red beneath. Living tissue struggling beneath dead.

  She saw this happen. Unable to stop it. Watched him g
o up in flames. A man she’s known all her life. Reduced to this. Deep, penetrating burns. Infiltrating his muscles. Major organs on the brink of shutdown. Somehow holding on. Alive. But at what cost?

  His face is the worst. His expression disconcerting. Reflecting his state when the flames cooked it permanently into place. Netty has to remind herself: He isn’t conscious. Isn’t looking at her. Isn’t smiling. His missing lips and eyelids just make it seem that way. His eyeballs - which by all rights should have melted in the extreme heat - are mysteriously untouched. Aimed out through the window. Accusing her.

  Approaching footsteps mean Netty can look away. Finally. She’d promised herself she would face him until the woman returned. She owed him that, if nothing more. Her mission: Accomplished.

  Peggy Tanner had stepped out for a smoke. To steady herself, she said. She returns very steady indeed. The near-hysteria gripping her as she rushed out of the hospital room now gone. Replaced by a pharmaceutical serenity. Netty notes no accompanying cloud of tobacco stink. Clearly, the woman owes her newfound peace to another method. Some illicit substance hidden deep within the oversized purse slung over her shoulder.

  And who could blame her?

  Netty steps aside. Allows the squat older woman a clear path to the window. A mere glance was too much for her before. She couldn’t bear the sight of him. Now, she peers in easily. Her eyes heavy-lidded. Slow-blinks as she makes sense of the abstracted shapes. “And you’re sure that’s him?”

  Netty nods. “It’s him.”

  “Doesn’t look like him.”

  “It is. That’s your son, Mrs. Tanner. It’s Denis.” Netty watches the woman’s non-reaction. “He’s the only one with a bullet wound. The only protester who survived setting themselves on fire.”

  Mrs. Tanner tucks limp grey hair behind her ear. Expressionless. “I don’t blame you, Sheriff. Had to be done.” She steps back. Tired. Looking for a chair. Netty drags one forward. Barely has it in place when the woman lands. Pulling her purse onto her lap. Holding it close for security.

  “You know he’s the good one? My stable son.” She shakes her head. “After all the heartache Marshall’s caused us, wouldn’t you think Denis could...”

  Denis had mentioned his brother before setting himself on fire. Said Marshall was the reason why. Netty couldn’t quite make the connection. What did a petty criminal and drug addict have to do with his brother protesting the construction of a bridge? “How is Marshall?”

  “You tell me, Sheriff. You probably had more dealings with him than I have, the last few years.”

  “Not lately, Mrs. Tanner. It’s been months since we last brought Marshall in.” Netty crouches down next to the woman’s chair. “I was hoping I could take that as a good sign.”

  “It wasn’t.” Mrs. Tanner looks her in the eye. Gauging her sincerity. Sighs. “He was bad off. Worse than ever. But he was getting help. Denis put him in a clinic. Someplace we could never afford, but he made a special deal so they’d take Marshall.”

  Netty thinks a moment. Makes uncertain connections. “Leading the protest. Setting himself on fire. That was part of the deal?”

  Mrs. Tanner shrugs. “Wouldn’t be surprised. That’s how much Denis loves his brother. He’d do this for him. Burn himself up.” She reaches out. Sets her palm on the canvas exterior of the hyperbaric chamber. “He’s a good big brother. He’d do anything for Marshall.”

  “I’d like to talk to him, if I could. To Marshall.” Netty places a hand on Mrs. Tanner’s arm. Trying to form a connection. Instead the woman clutches her purse more tightly. Concerned Netty might suddenly snatch and up-end it. Netty removes her hand. “I was hoping maybe he could help me make some sense out of all that’s happened.”

  The woman snorts. “I guess it has been a while. Marshall can’t help anyone make sense of anything. He brings only confusion... Chaos...” Her glassy eyes look into the past. Marshall’s misdeeds replaying. Overexposed, on a stuttering loop.

  “Where’s he staying, Mrs. Tanner?”

  “I don’t know.” She blinks. Tearing up. Her self-medication wearing off. Or not up to her current demands. Emotion flooding back in. “Denis wouldn’t tell me. Because I’m...” She swallows. “They say I’m an enabler. That I made it all possible. If not for me, Marshall would never have... And Denis, he wouldn’t’ve needed to... To... To...” She shudders. Closes her eyes.

  Netty knows: That’s all she’ll be getting out of Peggy Tanner.

  ~

  Always know how proud I am that you’re my son. Send.

  Despite the early hour, Netty’s not worried about waking him. Max almost never leaves his phone on. It could be days before he gets the message. Weeks. It doesn’t matter. Whenever he stumbles across it, she knows it will be no less true.

  She drops her phone into its holster. Starts down the hall. Next stop: Intensive Care. Check in on Ren. See how his burns are doing.

  Before leaving Denis behind entirely, she glances into his room one last time.

  His mother is standing now. Behind the hyperbaric chamber. Over its clear plastic window, but not looking in. Lips pressed tightly together. One hand rifling through the contents of her oversized purse, while her eyes gaze across the room at nothing in particular.

  Something in her expression gives Netty pause. A detachment. A distance far greater than she had gotten from whatever sedatives she’d been on before. She doesn’t react at all when she finds what she’s been looking for. Just drops her purse to the floor. Now clutching a small metal nail-file.

  Before Netty can take action, Mrs. Tanner quickly unzips the canvas top. A blast of pressurized oxygen blows her fine gray hair back as she raises her fist. Nail-file held tight. Brings it down. Darting in and out of the hyperbaric chamber. A crackly crunch accompanying each strike. A fine red spray accenting each withdrawal.

  By the time Netty reaches her, it’s far too late.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A text comes in. The threadbare utility carpeting under Max’s butt absorbs most of the chime. The vibration still manages to wake him.

  He re-enters a world he doesn’t recognize. Nearly pitch-black. Rainforest humid. Oppressive. In the heat, his still-healing injuries pulse. Echoing his heartbeat. Marking every place the shrapnel had pierced him.

  Max struggles to sit up. Can’t. He’s pinned. A collection of arms, legs, and heads criss-cross his torso. The girls: Mandi and Allison. Coming in from either side. Resting against his bare chest.

  Seeing them there, his circumstances come into focus.

  The girls. The trailer park. Delia.

  Goo.

  So cold, then so hot. Then? Collapsing on the floor. With all the other users: The addicts who spend every night painting chemical squares on themselves. Burning their own flesh for fun. Not like him. He only tried it just the once. To see what it was like. To escape from his life for that one night.

  He shifts his weight. Stretches out his bad leg. Groans. Both in pain and at his own stupidity. What had he been thinking? How many doors had he opened that should’ve remained closed? Locked? Bricked up?

  Starting to panic. Needing to escape. Before the girls wake and their limbs - heavy enough only lain across him - actively latch on. Trap him in their embrace.

  Protecting her head, he rolls Allison to one side. She frowns, but goes easily enough. Allowing him to tug his t-shirt and jacket from beneath her in the process.

  Mandi’s tougher: Her arms encircling him. Hands locked together beneath his spine. Contorting himself, he unknits her fingers. Wriggles out of her grasp. Cringing as a few of the gauze patches dotting his body catch. Tear off.

  Thankfully, neither girl wakes. No one does. The trailer is full: Users. All knocked out by the same black goo. Snoring. Dead to the world. Twice as many as when he arrived the night before. Little wonder the place smells like a locker room.

  Careful steps. Among the bodies. Aimed at the exit. Moving from one tiny tiptoe patch of floor to the next.

 
Opening the door admits light from the nearest lamp-post. Illuminates an orange slice of the trailer. Max’s eyes go to an unconscious guest’s open hand. The nailpolish bottle of goo on the floor next to it. Dropped as muscles involuntarily relaxed.

  Without thinking, Max grabs the bottle. His arm a flash. Barely registering what his own hand is doing. Shocked when he realizes.

  The goo twinkles. Black with an oil-slick swirl of shimmering color.

  He doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want the consequences of taking it. Didn’t even make the decision to pick it up. Also? He doesn’t seem to be putting it down. He orders it to move, but his arm remains stationary. His fist stays clenched.

  Is this how quickly the need takes hold? Already? One dose and the goo is controlling him. How much harder will this be after two?

  With that thought comes movement. His arm agrees to extend. His hand consents to open. He drops the bottle near-enough to whence it came. Scoots out the door before he can reach for it again.

  ~

  The trailer door closes. Someone has exited.

  Ever on-duty, Sue comes barreling out of his doghouse. Teeth bared. Ready to attack whomever dares attempt to cross his territory unbidden.

  It’s the boy. Hamburger-boy. He’s a good one.

  Sue calms. Cocks his head to one side. Watches. In case the boy drops something interesting. Hamburger, say.

  Sue salivates in spite of himself.

  He looks to the door. Because they entered together, he expects the Teasing Girls to follow. They don’t. Sue approves. Hamburger-boy is better off without them.

  The sun isn’t up yet. Why’s Hamburger-boy out so early? More importantly: Might he possibly have more hamburger he’s willing to share?

  ~

  Out of the trailer. Max limps away. Clothes wadded under one arm. Feeling anxious. Like it’s maybe about time to take the edge off... He checks his pockets as he goes. Finds his lighter, but nothing to use it on.