FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

“Try not to think about all you’ll be missing out on.” Both girls spin simultaneously. Each smacks an ass-cheek before strutting away together. The movement obviously rehearsed. Pre-choreographed. Mandi and Allison’s idea of an ideal exit for the teen movie in which they co-star.

  He’ll miss them. Like cholera.

  Max returns his attention to Adderpool. Expecting Dawn to be nearly back. Preparing to chide her for losing them their ride. Not-at-all unhappy about the long walk home that lay ahead of them. Instead, he barely catches a last glimpse of her: Crossing the road from her graffiti masterpiece. Heading towards a shop across the street.

  Before Max can even think to shout, Dawn disappears inside.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Sylvie crashes into the door when it stops unexpectedly. Thirty degrees short of the wall it usually bumps up against.

  “The hell?” Rubbing her forehead, she peeks around the edge. Into her own foyer. Looking for the blockage. There, she finds Trevor’s largest suitcase. Next to it: Two smaller suitcases. A duffelbag. A large backpack. It takes a moment for her to grasp what this means. When she does, she rolls her eyes.

  “Very dramatic, Trevor.” She slams the door behind her. “You didn’t need to wait for me to come home. An empty house would have been just as impactful.”

  Nobody answers. The house is quiet. Dark.

  “All right, then.” Sylvie reaches behind herself. Unhooks her bra. Groans as it releases. Relieved. Stepping around the luggage, she notices a light in the living room. Follows it. Finds Trevor. Waiting on the couch. Laptop on a tray table in front of him. Its glow: The only illumination in the house.

  Sylvie enters the room. Drops into the nearest armchair. “Trouble making up your mind, Dear?”

  Trevor unplugs a USB cord. Detaches a small black rectangle. Tosses it to his wife.

  She catches it. Turns it over. “A camera?”

  “Aaron’s.”

  “Aaron doesn’t have a...” A blurry memory tugs at her mind.

  “It’s new. Bought it with his second paycheck.” Trevor watches Sylvie closely. Sees her expression shift. “Yeah... You almost remember, don’t you? I bet he tried to show you, but you were too busy to care. Or just... Disinclined. That’s why you didn’t realize it was missing it when you went through the box your goons collected for you.”

  “I wasn’t the one who--”

  “Yeah, I almost bought into it. That the Circle would be paranoid enough to black out everything in Aaron’s journals from years before he was even a member. Maybe he accidentally knew some of their precious secrets - just from watching your comings and goings. Possibly without even realizing it. But there’s no way he spilled enough in there to require that level of censorship.”

  Trevor’s laptop goes to sleep. The room darkens as the screensaver comes on. Brightens again. Colored by a rainbow of digital fireworks.

  “And then it clicked for me: The only other reason to chop so much out, would be if it were somehow personally embarrassing to someone. Someone whose failings as a parent might warrant mention in a child’s diaries. Someone who would have no compunctions permanently vandalizing her son’s autobiography in order to whitewash her own history.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “I don’t care what it was like. I care about the result. I care that you apparently thought there was still too much Aaron left in the world, so you decided to get rid of a chunk of what little remained.”

  “Trevor...”

  “Fortunately, there’s more Aaron around than you realized.” He gestures to the camera in his wife’s hands. “And let me tell you, Sylvie: That thing? It’s the jackpot.”

  Anxious, Sylvie turns the camera over. Finds the power. Turns it on. The LCD lights up. Displays the most recently-viewed photograph: 62 of 194. A page of neatly printed words. Browning ink on yellowing paper. Her heart sinks.

  “What have you done with these?”

  “Read them. Copied them. Saved them someplace secure.”

  Sylvie scrubs through the pages. Hand-printed by her mother. Captured by her son. Both gone now. One hundred and ninety-four pages. The entire first book.

  “If you’d just left me Aaron’s journals, that might’ve been enough. I would’ve been satisfied. For a while, at least. Probably wouldn’t have even realized the camera was there.”

  Sylvie shuts off the phone. Pockets it. “You really shouldn’t have read these.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “You know why, Trevor...”

  “Yeah, I do.” He smiles. “I just want to hear those magic words one more time. So go ahead... Tell me it’s Circle business.”

  Sylvie crosses her arms. Refuses.

  “No?” Trevor shifts the tray table out of the way. Stands. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to be associated with what’s on that camera, either. Because if that is what the Circle is all about? Sylvie... You guys are certifiable.”

  He closes the laptop. Drops the whole room into shadow.

  “It’s not, though, right? Your people don’t actually believe that stuff. Sea monsters? Mermaids and carnivorous plants? Body-warping plagues and mass-murder? That can’t possibly be what your secret society is based on. Not for real. You’d all have to be legitimately crazy to believe what’s written down in that book.”

  Sylvie remains silent.

  Trevor only gets louder: “Tell me you haven’t based your life around some drunken sailors’ folk tales and sea shanteys. There must be more to it.” As he crosses the room, mania creeps into his voice. Frays it at the edges. “You don’t really think there’s something evil in the water that might climb out and attack the island at any minute, do you? I need to know that’s not what you pulled our son into. Please, God, Sylvie! Tell me that’s not what Aaron died for!”

  “I...” She looks up at her husband. The man is clearly so desperate for answers. Wanting to be told he’s wrong. Of course not. We don’t literally believe in monsters. We’re not insane. Instead? All Sylvie can manage is: “It’s Circle business.”

  Trevor is staggered. “You didn’t just...”

  “Trevor. It’s not up to me.” She reaches for his hand. He yanks away. Disgusted. Avoiding contamination. She doesn’t press. “I’ve asked. So many times. I never wanted to keep anything from you, but they... They won’t let me bring you in. And I can’t say anything, unless they...”

  Leaving a wide berth, he walks around her chair. Exits the living room. She watches him go. Too exhausted to give chase until: The front door creaks open. Thuds against the suitcase.

  “Trevor!” Sylvie heaves herself out of the chair. Follows him into the foyer. “I’ll ask again. Things are different now.”

  Dusk glows in through the wide open door. He’s taken the big suitcase outside. Already returning for the next two.

  “Don’t you get it? You’ve read the book. So the Old Men... They don’t have any choice anymore. They have to say yes!” She follows him out the door. Onto the stoop. Watches him plant the smaller suitcases on the sidewalk next to the first. “It wasn’t even anyone’s fault. Nobody broke the Circle. You just found out on your own.”

  He climbs the steps. Goes back inside. Grabs the last of it. The duffel bag and backpack.

  Sylvie leans into the doorway after him. “In a way... This is the best thing that could’ve happened. I’ll finally be able to tell you everything. No more secrets. No more lies. You’ll see we’re not crazy. And you don’t have to--” He tries to leave. She blocks his path. Reaches out. Hooks a backpack strap to hold him in place. “You don’t have to go. Please. Trevor. Don’t go.”

  Finally, he stops. Looks down at her. His eyes far more sad than angry. “Sylvie... I’m not going anywhere.” He lets go of the backpack. It drops to her side. Swinging by the strap she’s holding. “I just need you to take your things. And get out of my house.”

  He dumps the duffelbag at her feet. She looks down at it. At the backpack. Her things.

  Oh. />
  She’s done. Doesn’t argue. Simply turns. Steps down to the sidewalk. Among the luggage he’s packed for her.

  Behind her, the front door closes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “We’ve asked you here to remind you of your promise.”

  “Promise?” Martin grimaces in the harsh light. Holds an arm in front of his face to block it. “What’re ya on about?”

  The Old Men are seated in their customary places. Dimly lit by green-hooded desk lamps growing from the boardroom table. As usual, Mrs. Rutherford speaks on their behalf: “You made a commitment to us, Martin. To resume the role of Watch Captain, should Sylvia prove less than satisfactory in the role. Do you recall?”

  “Do I... Lard Tunderin’ of course I recall! Ya think I’ve lost my beans or somethin’?” He limps forward. Stops at the boardroom table. “What’s all this yer playin’ at, Margie?”

  “We’re...” Mrs. Rutherford stumbles. “Let’s just...”

  “We’d rather you remained--” says Mr. Pincolm.

  “If you could stand back from the table...” asks Ms. Spinx.

  “I think we’d all appreciate if you kept this on a professional level, Martin. If you would please--”

  “Bah!” He pushes off from the table. Throwing his weight forward with his good leg. Heads towards the tall oak door.

  The Old Men mutter amongst themselves. Mrs. Rutherford rises. Starts after him. “Martin? Where are you--”

  He holds out a palm to her. “Just ya stays where ya’re to, there, Margie. I’ll come where ya’re at, don’tcha worry.” He catches himself against the wall next to the exit. Flips a row of switches.

  Overhead, banks of fluorescent lights hum. Flicker. Flood the room. The Old Men cringe beneath the white glow. Squint and rub their eyes.

  “Ah!” Martin smiles. “If not for bringing to light the lot of cadavers stacked up in here, I’d say that was a right improvement!” He takes hold of an empty chair. Pulls it away from the wall. Leans heavily against it. “Now. I know it’s been a goodly long while since I had reason to pay a visit, Margie, but ya can’t’a been so quick to forget who yer dealin’ with, can ya?”

  “No, of course--”

  The chair shrieks against the floor as he pushes it toward the table. “I’se the b’y what put you old cocks together. It’s me what gave ya yer say-so. F’not for Martin Lesguettes, there’d be no Old Men, and I may well stand cursed for it yet, so none a’ ya better let the fact slip from yer minds from here ’til the blowin’ of Gabriel’s horn.”

  Mrs. Rutherford pastes on a pleasant face. Pretends not to be bothered by the glare of the lights. “You’re right, of course, Martin. We’ve instituted some... New methodologies. It was our mistake to think you’d accept that sort of treatment.”

  “Ya means to tell me, every time she comes in here, my Sylvie puts up with yer nonsense?”

  “To be fair, Martin: She’s never known an alternative.”

  “Little wonder she looks like the cat come outta the washing machine when yer done with her. Jayzus Aitch.” Arriving at the table with his chair, Martin turns to Mr. Pincolm, sitting closest to Mrs. Rutherford. “Shift it!”

  Startled, the Old Man slides over. Makes a gap. Martin pushes his seat into the space. Sits. “So. Yer thinkin’ on taking Sylvie down, are ya?”

  The Old Men are taken aback. Mrs. Rutherford speaks: “Sylvie is not the leader you guaranteed us, Martin, and with recent events--”

  “I’ll be the first to admit: She’s not grown into the job how I’d hoped she would. And nobody’d blame ya for it, that’s for sure.” He takes in the faces at the table. Strangely youthful, beneath the wrinkles. Vital under pure white heads of hair. “But neither will they thank you for foistin’ some old fogey on them in her place.”

  “But you--”

  “Sure enough, I promised. And I’ll stand to it. Good as my word.” He nods. Sets his jaw. “But even so, I’ll just remind ya that while the Watch reports to the Old Men, we’re not yer employees and we’ll elect our own damned Captain, thank ya very much an’ God bless. I set us up separated for a reason, and if ya’ve started thinkin’ of the Watch as yer own personal army to command, ya’ve more than demonstrated the wisdom of that choice.”

  The Old Men aren’t happy. They look their displeasure one to the next.

  “Yeah.” Martin sneers. “That’s about what I thought. So here’s how it’ll be: We’ll be givin’ her one more shot at it, with me overseein’ things. See if she pulls it together. She can’t? I’ll step back in all the way until a better choice can be found.”

  Mrs. Rutherford gauges the room. Debates her options. “That’s... Satisfactory.”

  “Good.” Martin sits forward. Knits his hands together on the table. Addresses the room: “So that’s the business ya asked me here on, but it’s not what brung me.”

  The room is silent.

  Mrs. Rutherford clears her throat. “Ren.”

  Martin shakes his head. “We’ll get to him. My first concern’s his daughter, Dawn. My own grandchild. I wanna bring her in. Into the Circle.”

  Mrs. Rutherford sits back in her seat. “Martin, she’s-- She’s from away.”

  “Maybe. But she’s Lesguettes through-and-through.”

  “That’s not how we--”

  “She’s legacy. The only one I’ve got left. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

  Mrs. Rutherford considers.

  “This decision’s all yours, Margie. I’m comin’ to ya, hat-in-hand.”

  After a long moment, she shifts her chair back from the table. Opens a drawer. Lifts out a small wooden gavel and its anvil. She stands. “We have a quorum, Mrs. Donnelly?”

  “We do, Mrs. Rutherford.”

  “In question is the petition for the admittance of one Dawn Lesguettes to the Circle with all rights, privileges, and obligations entailed. All in favor, say aye.”

  No one is in favor.

  “Opposed, say nay.”

  All are opposed.

  “I’m sorry, Martin.” She won’t make eye-contact. “Circle members must be born-Islanders. Nobody could expect an exception on that stricture. Not even you.”

  “Thank ya, though, Margie. For puttin’ it to the vote. Good on you. That alone...” He grips her forearm. Gives a brief squeeze. “It’s more’n I’d dared to hope, truly.”

  She nods. Gives a sincere half-smile.

  “Petition denied.” A light gavel rap and it’s done. Mrs. Rutherford scoots both anvil and gavel back towards their drawer. Martin touches her arm. Stops her.

  “One other thing...” He sighs deeply. Centers himself. “I’ve learnt of a break in the Circle. A member, who’s spoke to an outsider on Circle business.”

  Mrs. Rutherford frowns. Shifts gavel and anvil back into position. “Who?”

  “That’d be my own b’y, Ren.”

  Gasps and murmuration all around.

  Mrs. Rutherford thinks. Then: “He told your granddaughter.”

  The Old Men are horrified.

  “What did he tell her?” demands Mr. Grist.

  “How much does she know?” asks Dr. Bauer.

  “Enough I had to bring it to ya.” Martin keeps his chin up. Stands strong. “He don’t believe none of it. Not anymore. Told her as if it were a joke. How foolish we superstitious Islanders can be. The crazy things we’ll believe... But he told her, sure enough. And so, she knows.”

  “And had we admitted Dawn to the Circle?”

  Martin shrugs. “Wouldn’a been worth the mention, would it?”

  She assesses the crafty old man. “No... I don’t suppose it would.”

  She addresses the room. “At issue is the just and rightful punishment of one René Lesguettes, Circle member in... Dubious standing. Full membership suspended on grounds of abandonment of Mossley Island. Relocation to the mainland. Currently accused of breaking the Circle. Revealing Circle business to an outsider. In light of these revelations, I hereby propose the swift and
sudden implementation of: The Bell.”

  Martin can remain no longer. “I’ll be leavin’ yas to it, then.” He pushes back his chair. Rises. Limps slowly away from the boardroom table.

  Mrs. Brass stands. “I second the Bell.”

  Mrs. Rutherford nods. “Thank you, Mrs. Brass. All in favor, answer in kind.”

  One by one, the Old Men stand. One by one, they agree: “The Bell.”

  Martin reaches the exit. Pushes open the heavy oak door as Mrs. Rutherford’s gavel cracks. “We have the required unanimity. The proposition carries. ”

  He steps out of the Oceanus Conference Room. Starts down the corridor. As the door closes itself behind him, Mrs. Rutherford’s voice sneaks out:

  “May the gods have mercy on his soul.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “Nurse Eldon was doing rounds. She went to look in on Paula and found her bed empty. The monitors had all been unhooked and shut down. She was just gone. Vanished.”

  Netty pauses. Leaves Ren an in. He doesn’t take it. Stares out the passenger window. Watching the waterfront glide by. Industrial docks giving way to revitalized tourist-friendly boardwalk. The sun sinking slowly behind it all.

  “From canvassing, all we get is that nobody’s seen anything. The security cameras show the usual comings and goings. Somehow, somebody managed to get her out without leaving a trace. She sure didn’t go anywhere on her own.”

  Ren has barely said a word since Netty informed him of Paula’s disappearance. The latest awful curve in the poor woman’s saga. First: Beaten into a coma. Then: Awake, but just the tiniest bit bat-shit nuts. Now: Gone. It would be enough to knock anyone off their rails.

  “Nurse Eldon seemed pretty upset about it.”

  Ren turns away from the view. Examines Netty’s profile for a few seconds before suggesting: “Maybe we should ask if she knows anything about the Broken Girls.”

  Netty flinches. Uprepared. She glances at Ren. Finds him stonefaced. Serious. Willing to brook no further bullshit. So, she pulls herself together. Checks her mirrors and puts on her blinker. Turns into a parking lot and pulls into a space facing a waterfront playground.