FROM AWAY ~ BOOK ONE Read online

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Wanda?”

  Wanda’s eyes open. Delia’s face is only inches from her own.

  “Wanda, I’m so sorry.” Delia shifts away. It’s suddenly clear she is no longer under the covers. Leaning over the mattresses now. Fully dressed.

  “Um... What do you have to be sorry for, Delia?”

  “I believe I can answer that question.” Delia looks back over her shoulder in the direction of Mr. Bolton’s deep, craggy voice. Wanda does not. She closes her eyes. Wishes herself far away.

  “My guess would be that Delia is sorry people like you put her livelihood in jeopardy by forcing her to make hard decisions about her allegiances.”

  “Mmm... That might could be the reason, Mr. Bolton,” says a smoker’s rasp Wanda easily identifies as Miss Philips. “But I’d say she’s sorry she gave Wanda our product, even though she was asked not to do so.”

  “That’s possible, Miss Philips,” says the reedy voice of Mr. Rothstein. “But it seems rather more likely Delia is sorry to have betrayed Wanda. She’s sorry she made a deal with us ahead of time to call if Wanda showed up looking to score and sorry that she did so the very moment the little junkie passed out. Something she wouldn’t have had to do, if Wanda had only answered our calls or replied to our messages, instead of leaving us no option but to cut off her supply in the first place.”

  The others agree:

  “Ah, very astute, Mr. Rothstein!”

  “That’s the nail on the head.”

  Wanda raises up on her elbows. Surveys her situation.

  The trailer is bright. Makeshift drapes drawn back. Sun pounding in. The place doesn’t benefit from the added illumination, though it does seem to have scared away the guests formerly in residence on the floor. Instead, a trio of folding chairs have been pulled up at the base of the mattress pile. Each filled by a senior citizen. In their late seventies - though it’s extremely hard to gauge - the three are possibly the youngest of the Old Men.

  “Look...” Wanda makes a stab at selflessness. “Delia did what you asked her to. She really doesn’t need to be part of... Whatever comes next.”

  Miss Philips leans forward on her four-footed cane. “Agreed. Delia. You may go.”

  Surprised, Delia stays where she is. “But... What are you going to--”

  “Wanda?” Mr. Bolton makes a show of being confused. “I’m not certain, but Delia may want to be included. Should we rescind our kind offer?”

  “No!” Wanda almost panics. “Delia. No kidding. You have to go. Now.”

  Delia backs away. Exits her home. As the door closes, Wanda catches a glimpse of Sue, still howling away on mute. She knows how he feels.

  Miss Philips stomps her cane once. Gets down to business.

  “Wanda, should you share our good fortune and attain so advanced an age, I’m sure you will find that, like any finite resource, time grows more precious the more limited it becomes.”

  “Assuming of course,” Mr. Bolton breaks in, “we allow you to get any older at all.”

  “Regardless. I’m sure Wanda can understand: With so little time remaining, we have no interest in any being wasted. And it is particularly onerous for us to spend our meagre allotment waiting to have our calls returned by middle-aged errand-girls.”

  Wanda cringes. Wounded by the description.

  “As is eventual with anything disagreeable, we have reached the point where we must simply no longer agree to it.”

  Mr. Bolton leans forward. “Put plainly: You... Will no longer keep us... Waiting.”

  “I was going to--”

  “Hup-hup-hup!” Miss Philips cuts Wanda off. “Allow me to pause you there to underline something: The very last thing you want to do at this point in our discussion is further waste our time with nonsense excuses... Now. Would you care to continue?”

  Wanda shakes her head.

  “Good.” Miss Philips addresses her companions. “It appears Wanda grasps our point.”

  “Let us see, then.” Mr. Bolton produces a cell phone. “Because our time is so very valuable, you will now be expected to answer any call from any one of us within three rings. Any text within... What seems fair? Forty-five seconds of receipt?”

  “Let’s say two minutes,” Mr. Rothstein counters. “In case she’s a slow typist.”

  The others nod. Wanda doesn’t. “I’m not sure that’s--”

  Mr. Bolton taps his screen. Puts phone to ear. “Hope you didn’t mute it.”

  From somewhere nearby: A muffled chime.

  Mr. Rothstein holds up a finger. “That’s one ringy-dingy.”

  Shit! Wanda dives down the mattress pile. Yanks cushions and covers out of the way. Searching once again for her pants.

  The second chime is even more faint. In digging, she’s only managed to further bury it.

  “Two ringy-dingies.”

  Wanda burrows beneath the sheets. Under the pillows. The third chime is clear. Close. She nearly has it.

  A muffled voice counts the third ringy-dingy.

  There! Denim. She grabs her jeans. Jams her hand into the pocket. Pulls out the phone. Feels it shimmy. Hears the fourth chime.

  Wanda stops. Deflates. She knows: The Old Men make no empty threats. Offer no second chances.

  Shockingly strong hands grab her through the blankets. Pull her out. Turn her over. Slam her down. The two elderly men pin her easily. Each holding an arm one-handed. Their fantastic strength utterly incongruous to their withered skeletal appearance.

  She knows better, but Wanda struggles. She receives an ear-ringing slap for her trouble. The hand moves so quickly, she’s not even sure who delivered the blow.

  Miss Philips steps into view. Unscrews the lid from a jam jar of black goo. She kneels on Wanda’s right ankle. Further holding her prone.

  “Tch. Look at you, Wanda. You’re a regular patchwork quilt down here.” She peers at Wanda’s inner thigh. Pink rectangles in various stages of healing. The map of her addiction. “I’ll give you this: You’ve kept your doses well-separated. No overlapping at all.”

  “She must know someone.” Mr. Bolton leans in close. “Someone who’s doubled-up.”

  Mr. Rothstein agrees. “Not a one of them follows the rules unless they’ve seen it for themselves.”

  They’re right. She’s seen it. What happens when someone paints a second coat of the goo over an area that hasn’t fully healed.

  Marshall went into convulsions. Pissed himself. Said afterwards he couldn’t even describe the pain. Now he has a place on his forearm: An angry, oozing sore. Disgusting. Smelly. Always on the verge of seeping through the bandages. He needs to change them three or four times a day. It never gets any better. Some say it will never heal. Never go away.

  “Please. Miss Philips. It’s enough. The threat’s enough. I’ll answer your calls. I’ll do your bidding. You don’t have to--”

  “Wanda... You know better than that.”

  And she does. The trio looks on with something like sympathy. It’s easy to believe they don’t want to do it. Unfortunately, she’s left them no other choice.

  “But before we do what needs doing, there’s business to discuss. As you must realize - based on our repeated and fruitless attempts to contact you - we need you to undertake a task on our behalf.”

  Wanda nods.

  “The mainland has sent another representative. We need him to reconsider his position on the bridge. Because of your delays, there isn’t much time. It needs to happen today. And the reconsidered position... It needs to be permanent.”

  “I can do that.” Wanda has no choice. Never did. Stupid of her not to accept it sooner.

  “Good. Good.” Miss Philips unscrews the jam jar. Lifts off the lid. “You’re about to suffer, Wanda. A pure agony, from what we’ve observed. But what you need to remember is: How very much worse this could potentially be. Should you choose to force us down this road again with your disobedience, we will make sure the placement is far more... Visible.�
�

  She lets that sink in a moment. “Do we have an understanding?”

  Wanda nods.

  Miss Philips looks to the men. They tighten their grips. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She pours the thick, black goo onto Wanda’s inner thigh. Directly over tender squares of healing skin. It sizzles on contact. Crackles.

  The pain is indeed the worst Wanda has ever felt. By several orders of magnitude.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t feel it for long before passing out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sylvie enters her home without shoes. She’d kicked off her heels in the truck. Tossed them out the window soon after leaving the Elysian parking lot. Her stockings are torn from the short walk up the sidewalk, and will be deposited in the trash at her earliest convenience.

  She dumps her purse to the floor. Strips off the blazer. As she knocks the front door shut with an elbow, she reaches back up her sweaty spine to unfasten her bra. Only as it releases does she take her first natural, unencumbered breath since early that morning and start to become herself again.

  Leaving everything piled where it lays, she climbs the stairs. Unstoppable. Intent on one goal. Nothing standing between her and a hot shower is likely to survive the day.

  As her feet disappear up the staircase, Aaron peeks out from the dining room. He listens to the heavy footfalls carrying his mother across the floor above him. Only when he’s certain she’s not coming back does he emerge. Heading directly for his mother’s purse.

  Kneeling next to it, he digs around inside. As quietly as possible. Checking pockets and flaps. Opening zippers and snaps. Feeling his way through crumpled tissues, wrapped candies and a dragon’s hoard of coins.

  Until finally, he finds her keys.

  ~

  Sylvie’s office is absolutely off-limits. Not just to Aaron. To his father as well. To anyone not willing to incur the consequences of Sylvie’s wrath. Over the years, Aaron has only entered a few times. As a result, the thrill of simple disobedience has not worn off. Adrenaline injects into his system on a constant drip.

  His heart had pounded impossibly hard just considering this course of action. Now that he’s actually in the room - attempting to access his mother’s private repository - he’s begun to worry about the permanent damage its jackhammering may ultimately cause his circulatory system.

  Elsewhere, a faucet squeaks. The shower runs. Aaron relaxes very slightly. As long as the water flows, he’s safe. When it stops, he knows he’ll have a half-hour at the most in which to complete his task before his mother emerges from the bathroom and all bets are off.

  Her office is small. Spare and utilitarian. Without decoration or adornment, unless scattered papers and general lack of organization count. A wheeled desk-chair. A sharp-edged metal desk. A more-or-less obsolete desktop computer. Beneath the one window are four three-drawer file cabinets. Two larger metal cabinets stand at attention along one wall. Each the size of a wardrobe. Shut with heavy padlocks.

  During his infrequent, illicit visits, Aaron’s snooped around often enough to know the books of Circle history are not kept out in the open. Nothing personally meaningful is. No framed photos. No mementos. Nothing sentimental. If the books are here at all, they are almost certainly in one of the locked cabinets.

  Aaron runs through the keys on his mother’s keyring. Trying one at a time on each cabinet. Most don’t even fit the style of lock. Before long, he has run out. Back where he started. Empty-handed. Realizing the mistake he’s made: Underestimating his mother. The only thing worse would be to get caught as well.

  Rushing to leave, Aaron barks his thigh against the edge of his mother’s desk. Stifling a cry of pain he faintly hears: A jingling.

  Like keys might make.

  His mother wouldn’t have just left the cabinet keys in a nearby drawer, would she? He goes behind the desk. Finds the drawers locked. Each with a keyhole of its own.

  After failing to unlock the filing cabinets, the second key on the ring opens the desk’s top drawer. Inside: Some folders. A bottle of white-out. Nothing remotely interesting. Aaron moves on, but as he slides the drawer closed, he hears the jingling again.

  He jiggles the drawer. It’s coming from inside.

  He pulls the drawer all the way forward. Off its casters and out of the desk entirely. Turns it around. Attached to the back of the drawer - usually hidden from sight - are six little hooks. Hanging from each is a key.

  It only takes a few tries to find one which opens a cabinet. On a shelf inside, Aaron finds them: Twelve thin volumes. Hand-bound. His Gram’s books of Circle history.

  He is reaching for one when the water stops running. His mother’s shower finished. No time left to look things over. He takes the first two. Shifts the others. Hoping to mask the empty space.

  Retracing his steps, he locks up. Returns key to hook. Drawer to desk. He grabs the books and he boots.

  ~

  The camera is already set up in his room. Digital SLR on tripod. Secured to his desk. LED lights clamped in a circle. White balanced. Everything prepared ahead of time. Ready to go.

  Aaron isn’t wasting time. Not taking chances. Before reading anything, he’s making high-resolution copies of the books. Once completed, he can return the real thing to his mother’s cache. Remain undetected. Read them through at his leisure without worrying about missing volumes being noticed.

  He slides the first book into place beneath the camera. Photographs its leather cover. Then, the marbled end-papers. Tiny alligator-claw helping-hands hold the book open for him. He can digitally erase them later if he cares to expend the energy.

  The pages are uneven. Thick. Toothy and yellowed. It’s hard to say for sure if the ink started out brown or faded there from black.

  His grandmother’s hand-printing is small and extremely neat, with few flourishes. Most letters are squared across their bottom edge - written atop a ruler or straightedge of some kind. The occasional mistake is crossed-out with a single perfect line through the center. Little spats of ink decorate the margins here and there.

  Without reading a word, Aaron can sense the woman’s personality spread all through the pages. He feels as though he’s met her now. Gotten a sense of who she was, through the passion she had for her work. The time and effort put into collecting these stories clear and indisputable.

  But then, he does read the words.

  It’s not the plan. It’s a foolish and unnecessary risk. Delaying the return of the books to their proper place. Jeopardizing his larger mission. But he can’t help himself.

  Skimming over the text in the few moments it takes to set up and snap a photograph is enough to pull him in. Before long, he’s not taking pictures at all, just reading. Falling into the words. Losing track of time. Until--

  Bam-bam-bam!

  “Hey! Get up!” His mother bangs on his bedroom door in passing. Heading to her room.

  His time has run out. He’d only managed to digitize a small fragment of the first book before becoming entangled in its contents. Now it’s too late to do the rest. Unless he wants to gamble with being discovered, he needs to return the books to their cabinet - and his mother’s keys to her purse - before she finishes getting dressed. The only way to even remotely stick to the plan.

  But now that he’s read one, Aaron’s no longer worried about returning the books.

  The plan has changed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Three Cheese Poofs survive. The road-trip snack bag otherwise exhausted. They are Dawn’s. Waiting on the counter as a reward for a job well done.

  But the job is not done. Unloading a duffel bag onto the pile of belongings she’s already shifted from trunk to cabin, she knows there are still more to be removed from the car. More lifting and toting to do before she can rightly claim her prize.

  Even so, she pauses in the kitchenette. Reduces the odd-numbered snacks to an even pair which she will definitely not touch until the job is all-the-way-done.

 
Returning to the cabin door she brushes greasy orange powder from fingers onto pantleg. Crunching.

  Dawn flings open the screen door. Crosses between the two adirondack chairs that together take up most of the width of the porch. Descends the steps to the SUV.

  With some difficulty, she pulls their largest remaining suitcase from the back hatch. Wraps her arms around it. Sets the corner down on the bumper. Tries for a better hold. Fumbles. Drops the whole damn thing when an engine growls to life nearby.

  At the next cabin, the green Jeep revs loudly. The Hunters. From away.

  Their stereo pounds. Bass vibrates through the windows. Obscuring anything else which might otherwise count as music.

  Dawn shakes her head. Watches the Jeep speed away down the lane. Its thumping audible even after the vehicle disappears into the grove of elms at the edge of the property. When that has faded, she bends to retrieve the suitcase from the ground.

  Now with a much more secure grip, she hoists the bag into her arms. Turns back towards the cabin. Nearly loses her hold again when she sees the two empty chairs are now occupied.

  Dawn’s new guests: The motionless senior citizens.

  Catching her breath - and the suitcase - Dawn laughs weakly. “Where’d you two come from?” She looks from one to the other. Neither responds. Are they really just going to sit there without saying anything? Is that what they do? It’s odd enough behavior to encounter on the Inn’s communal porch, but at her own cabin? It’s downright disconcerting.

  Dawn turns her head. Scans the area for other human beings. Just in case she needs help removing these weirdos.

  “Oh... We’ve been around, dear,” says the old woman.

  Dawn freezes in place.

  “We’re always around,” the man adds. “Somewhere.”

  Dawn looks back at the pair. Their positions haven’t changed. Their expressions remain blank. She climbs the steps. Sets down the suitcase. Crouches next to the woman. Staring openly. At her wrinkles. Her age spots.