FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR Read online

  “All right, all right. Geez.” Sylvie holds up her hands in surrender. “Give me the smallest of breaks here, okay? Tell me: What’s the difference?”

  “Lung cancer’s the difference. How’s that sound?”

  “Like a ball-lickin’ bastard, Norman.” Sylvie’s father sits back on the bench. “Cancer’s the king of all cocksuckers, my hand to God.”

  With everything else weighing on her, Sylvie musters what compassion she can. Sits down next to the Electrician. “I didn’t know. Is there anything we can do?”

  “Not fer me, there hain’t. But fer yerselves, ya’d damn-well better.” He leans in close to Sylvie. The whites of his eyes tinting toward the same sickly yellow as his skin. “I don’t got long, now. And th’ain’t nobody else knows what I knows. So, unless one day you sorry tits want to turn around and find ye got nobody left what’s got the foggiest clue how to change over these pulsers, you need to find me some younger somebody to pass my wisdom along to.”

  “An apprentice.” Sylvie nods. Getting it. “What about him?”

  “Huh?” Against the wall, Max is shocked to find himself pointed at. “No, no, I--”

  “That’s a right fine match-up, Sylvia Jane.” Her father approves. “Not much to gawk to, Norman, but he’ll make into somethin’, sure.”

  “Ayup.” Norman nods. Familiar with Max after foisting chores on him earlier. “He’ll do.”

  “Good. He’s yours.” She waves them off. “And get to it. Can’t afford to take chances on the pulser being any worse off than it seems.”

  “Come ‘long, b’y, and bring yer muskels witcha.” Norman rises. Heads for the exit. “I’m too far gone to haul ‘round more ’n me own arse, so ye’ll be charged wit all the heavy-liftin’ so to speak.”

  “There’s more heavy lifting to be done?” Less than thrilled, Max follows the Electrician out of the lighthouse.

  Once they’re gone, Sylvie’s father rat-a-tat slaps the picnic table. “Now that’s passed us by, we should get our own starns in gear.”

  “Dad! I’m not available. If you’re so fired up to get going, you need to find somebody else to--”

  “Can’t. It’s a Lesguettes-Only sorta undertakin’.”

  “Well, this Lesguettes can’t leave this spot until the Old Men--”

  “Sylvia Jane, I’ve been some patient, but time’s come ya need to listen up!” Not loud, but sharp. Not to be trifled with. “They’re not includin’ ya. Not now. Not two hours from now. Not in two days. Face it. It’s factual. Now me, on th’other hand... I need ya, and right-this-focking-minute. So ya come on along and give yer ol’ Da the helpin’ hand, and when it’s over-’n-done and we come back? I solemn-vow I’ll throw my weight around. See if I can’t get you a seat at the table down there.”

  “Jesus, Dad...” Sylvie squints in disbelief. “If you can do that, do it now. Roscoe’s already two days gone, and if she knows any--”

  He’s steadfast. “T’ain’t on offer, now. Only after.”

  No changing his mind. But he’s right: He’s her only way into the interrogation. So Sylvie rises. Rat-a-tat slaps the picnic table herself.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A folder slaps down on the desk. Ending Deputy Chartrain’s sudoku game.

  “This everything?” The former sheriff looms over him. Expectant. As though still his boss. So hard to think of her as anything else.

  “Um... Sorry to hear about--”

  Deputy Hubert waves him off. “Don’t. Just...” She taps the folder. “Take a look? Make sure everything’s there? Please?”

  He bookmarks the puzzle magazine with his mechanical pencil. Slides it aside. Flips through the folder: Statements. Measurements. Maps. Photos of the victims’ injuries. Of the holes themselves.

  “That’s it.” He slides the folder back to her. “It’s a dog. Unsolvable. Sorry you’re stuck with the thing, but I’m glad to be rid of it.”

  Netty waits for more. Clearly not leaving until she gets it. So Deputy Chartrain runs it down for her: “Don’t see any malice involved. Seems the victims were all accidents. Unconnected. Not engaged in questionable activity. No particular reason they’d be targeted. It’s not as though these holes were clever traps. They’re not really hidden or anything. They just went unnoticed until it was too late. Two out of three were in high traffic areas. Just a matter of time before somebody took a header in. The third was in some bushes. It could’ve gone months without being noticed.”

  “Anything noteworthy about the holes?”

  He shrugs. “Pile of dirt, next to the place the dirt used to be. Eight foot cubes. Straight edges. If there’s such a thing as a professional hole digger, I’d say one was responsible.”

  She thinks it over. “You look into hardware stores? Ask if anyone’s bought or rented digging equipment recently?”

  He pauses. “That’s... Not a bad idea.”

  “I’ve had them from time to time.”

  “Long-shot, though. Who doesn’t have access to a shovel if they need it?”

  “It’s something anyway. A place to start.” Netty straightens the folder. Turns to go.

  “Best kind of investigation. One you can do over the phone. From your desk.”

  “Easy for you to say. You have a desk.”

  “Hubert!” Sheriff Schilling’s voice booms from his office. “Get your shorry ash in here!”

  Her face falls. What fresh hell awaits?

  “On second thought...” Deputy Chartrain stands. Taking Netty by the elbow. He guides her to the rear exit. “It’s nice to get out of the office from time to time. In fact? I’m pretty sure I saw you leave about ten minutes ago.”

  “Thanks Curt. Appreciate it.” Netty gives him a soft punch in the shoulder. Then, scrams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Pink. More vibrant, the lower he goes. Glowing. Phosphorescent.

  Mr. Hunter does his best to stay outside the slowly spreading cloud of color. Following it down to its source: An ancient iron grate built into the rocky seabed. Half-covered in cold-water coral. Green with algae.

  Nearly identical to the one which cut him off from his wife.

  The pigment billowing from the grate confirms it: This is the vent feeding ocean water into the underground chambers. Supplying the booby traps with their power. If Mrs. Hunter has drowned, this vent is the murder weapon.

  It could just as easily have been covered over since being placed here. Blocked by shifting sands. Overgrown with seaweed. Clogged with detritus. Instead, the gaps in the grate are only slightly obstructed. The vent remains in perfect working order.

  But not for long.

  From a compartment in his watertight backpack, Mr. Hunter removes a canister. Shakes it. Sprays the contents slowly over the grate. Filling every gap with an instantly-hardening expanding foam. Continuing - even after the vent is thickly coated - until the canister sputters out completely. Emptied.

  He presses against the surface. The foam has cured into a solid block. Rock hard. Unyielding.

  Already, the pink fades. Dispersing. No longer replenished by the hole in the ocean floor. Disconnected from the island’s underground chambers, and the pigment-filled pool awaiting Mr. Hunter’s return.

  Satisfied, he shuts his eyes. Job well done.

  Then, he takes out a second canister. Goes over the surface and the surrounding area with another coating. Just to be certain.

  Better safe than sorry.

  ~

  “Took the boat with him... That’s a new one on me.” Bernie’s voice is less than helpful. “And there’s no sign of him?”

  “What can I tell you?” Owen throws up his hands. “By the time we powered up and got back online, he was gone.” The patrol boat is up and running. Even so, for all their tech, the bald man is a ghost. Disappeared into the deep without a trace.

  “Chances are, he’s diving the wrecks. In which case, our instruments are useless, and all we can do is wait. But if he co
mes up inside the ring, we’ll have a hard time getting back across to catch up with him.”

  “All right. Hold for now, Patrol One. Tower Three out.”

  Owen sighs. Looks over the monitors again.

  “That’s not the best we can do.” Cass is at stern. Sitting on the transom. Looking into the water. In her hands she absentmindedly stretches at her wetsuit.

  Owen frowns. “I’m not qualified to dive, and you? You’re just not going to.”

  “Granted: I was being weird before. But I can do this now.”

  “Cass. I know you think these monsters we’re up against might actually be monsters, but this guy... He’s human. Which means he could be really dangerous. He looked to be carrying out a plan of some kind. We don’t know what he might do, if someone gets in his way.”

  “That’s why we’re here though, isn’t it?” She’s scared, obviously. Pushing past it. “The whole Roscoe thing had me freaking out. Because it could’ve been one of us. But I’ve got it together now. If he’s up to something, it’s on us to stop him.”

  Owen smiles. Proud of her. “Even so, there’s not much point. In the whole ocean, we have no idea where this guy’s gone.”

  “Actually? I think we might have some idea.” She points into the water. At an eerie tint creeping along their hull.

  Owen makes a face. “It’s pink.”

  “Can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

  Owen shakes his head. Not much chance of that.

  Cass stands. Steps past him with her wetsuit. “Don’t turn around. I’m suiting up.”

  ~

  The inflatable kayak bursts from the water with a hiss of pressurized carbon dioxide. Suddenly fully-formed. Floating flat against the ocean. Dappled blue-black paint-job blending in. Easily camouflaged, even from a relatively short distance.

  On the horizon: The patrol boat. Waiting for their quarry to emerge. Completely unaware when Mr. Hunter surfaces next to his craft.

  He pulls off mask and depleted scuba tank. Drops them into the cockpit along with his backpack. One arm over the kayak, he breathes. Lets himself adjust to the lower pressure once more. Watches the distant patrol boat. Waiting to see if they’ve spotted him.

  They haven’t.

  Holding tight to the kayak, Mr. Hunter dog-paddles away from the boat. Soon, he’ll pull himself aboard. Reassemble his oars. Resume rowing. For now, he stays low. Using the kayak as a flutterboard. Confining himself to paddle-kicks.

  Heading back toward the island.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The scalpel slides along the back of the tentacle. Over the knuckle where it connects to the hand. One of a matching pair. The left: Currently under dissection by the physician responsible for its existence. The right: Packed away. Preserved in the interest of science. For the edification of future biologists.

  Together, the hands are all that remains of Dr. Maureen Mendez. Now that Simp has disposed of the rest. Everything human and unremarkable: Incinerated.

  As he draws back the epidermis, Dr. Ramsey realizes something is bothering him. He steps back from the examination table. Sets his scalpel down on the instrument tray. Attempts to get his bearings. What is it? What’s wrong?

  After a moment, he pinpoints the problem: A low, modulating tone, interrupted every few seconds by a brief silence. Some sort of alarm going off, somewhere in his laboratory. One Dr. Ramsey doesn’t recognize. Troubling, as he designed the place.

  Leaving behind the dissection, he removes his gloves and face mask. Exits through the plastic sheeting in search of the source of the sound.

  ~

  Halfway down the corridor he realizes the sound is imperfect. Organic. Not an alarm at all.

  “Simp?” It’s a variant on her whistle. A much lower tone than he’s heard her produce in the past. A drone broken by silences as she inhales, presumably. “Not certain what you’re attempting to achieve with this performance. But you should know: I’m not a fan.”

  He checks his watch display. Taps and swipes at the tiny screen. Brings up the app connected to Simp’s collar. Turns up the intensity on the proximity trigger. Just in case.

  He then follows the noise to the room housing Wanda Lesguettes. Naturally. He might have guessed she’d be connected to something so irritating.

  Entering, however, he finds a scene he couldn’t have predicted: Simp standing over Wanda. Crying. With each exhalation, the long low tone. Beneath her, Wanda shudders. Terror in her eyes. Hospital gown torn open. Still alive, but covered in blood and viscera from throat to pelvis.

  Dr. Ramsey’s voice cracks: “What have you done? You... Monster!”

  Shocked by his entrance, Simp spins. Faces the doctor. Bloody hands held out in confused supplication. He doesn’t wait for her to get closer. Hits the trigger on his watch. Zaps her collar. She crumples instantly. Drops to the floor. Knocked out.

  Pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, Dr. Ramsey crosses to Wanda’s side. He cannot lose another subject. Not so soon after Mendez. Not when she’d been developing exactly as he’d intended. He looks over her torso, uncertain how to proceed. The full extent of her injury not immediately evident under the gore.

  Wanda’s lungs strain. Her breath is ragged. Her head rolls toward him. Lips quivering. Attempting to form words.

  “Hush, now. Save your strength. You’re in good hands.” Starting at her throat, he probes the loose meat. Assessing her wounds. Knowing the instant he touches the cold blood and guts that they do not belong to Wanda.

  He looks to her face. Just as her lips purse enough for her to whistle a single clear note. Even as her razor-sharp talons slide deep between his ribs. Slicing through him more easily than she had the leather strap that hangs from her wrist. Bathing herself in a much more convincing splash of hot, fresh blood.

  He stumbles back. Grabbing at the wound. Knowing she’s punctured his lung. Desperate to hold himself closed. Trying to seal the sucking gap with his palm.

  Unrestrained, Wanda sits up. Throws her legs over one side of the bed. Wiping herself off with the sheets. Bloody bits and pieces plapping to the floor. Entirely uninjured beneath. Answering the doctor’s questioning look: “Mendez. From the mop bucket. Knew I had to get you close.”

  She hops down, even as Dr. Ramsey sinks to his knees. Struggling to fill his lungs. Feeling the wound suck against his hand. “No good.” He wheezes, wasting too many of his few remaining breaths. “We’re all locked up... No escaping.”

  Wanda tut-tuts: “You wound me, Doc. Not that it would be the first time.” She crosses to him. Watching blood bubble around his fingers. “I’m no genius or anything, but I do pay attention. The doors opened when you got close. Shut once you were through. You didn’t have to do anything. No key. No code. So they work on proximity sensors. Like the one in Simp’s collar. The one that triggers when it gets too close... To your watch.”

  Wanda grabs his wrist. Pulls his hand away from the sucking chest wound. Cutting through the thin watch band with her razor thumbnail.

  The moment she releases him, the lights go out. Dropping the lab into momentary blackness before auxiliaries turn on. A synthesized voice echoes through the laboratory: “Contact lost. Ten seconds remaining until commencement of sequence: Posthumous.”

  Ramsey gasps for air. Clutches at himself. “Foo-- Foolish-- Fool!”

  Wanda ignores him. Looks over the watch. Finds a trio of sharp prongs poking from the back.

  What comes out of Dr. Ramsey sounds almost like a laugh. “The watch... It’s only half the key.” He holds out his wrist. Shows three bright red cuts. Corresponding to the watch’s prongs. “The rest... Is me!”

  Wanda processes this. The watch only works as a key in connection to Ramsey. When contact was lost, something else was triggered. Something confirmed by the synthesized voice: “Sequence Posthumous now underway. Two minutes remaining until full purge.

  Wanda deflates. All her planning for naught. She doesn’t need the mad scientist on the floor to explain. Because,
of course: He’s equipped his lair with a self-destruct sequence. And the countdown has begun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My wife’s littlest sister married into Adderpool. Wed this shiftless layabout called Morley. Sometimes a lobsterman. More often employed in the holdin’ down of barstools. The Good Lard blesst ‘em with a little boy with all the good of his mum, and nunna the nuthin’ from anyplace else, and he and my own boy got on like brothers whene’er they were together.

  It’d been near a month since last we’d heard from them, when scuttlebutt started about folks from those parts comin’ down with some kinda sickness. We telephoned, to ask was there any way we could help and they told us plain to stay away. Made my wife cry and didn’t sit right with me, but they were clear enough in the request, so we did as they asked and kept our distance.

  By then, the stories comin’ back from Adderpool were gettin’ right hard to lay stock in. Tales of never-ending fevers that gave folks the sweats, then had ‘em shakin’ from the bivers. Everyone gettin’ shit-picky pale and losin’ their hair down to wisps. All of ‘em only conductin’ business when the sun was down, and talkin’ to one another in a language nobody else could understand.

  And everyone with family livin’ there said the same: They was pushin’ us all away. Tellin’ us go and nare return. And for the whole of the town to say that at once, ya knew somethin’ was off, and help was needed, whether wanted or nae.

  So a party was got up. I was on it, right off. And my boy insisted he come ‘long, on account of his cousin bein’ more of a little brother to him, and I couldn’t say naught but yes to that, he was so determined to help.

  Off we went t’ward Adderpool, only to find - nearly there - that they’d blocked the road off the main drag. Dammed up the turn with old buggies and farm equipment. What’s more, they’d broke up the tarmac after that and alla the way into town.