FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Sylvie halts. Mouth agape. What? She watches her father exit. Was that it? All that was required?

  “Come along, Sylvia.” Mrs. Rutherford is already headed for the cellar door. “Break-time’s over.” She doesn’t wait for Sylvie to make sense of things. Strides away. Entourage of Old Men trailing behind her.

  Sylvie needs to run to catch up.

  ~

  “Y’ought not be so hard on yer Da. He’s only tryin’ to do right by ya.” Martin leads Dawn into the lighthouse. Through the crush gathered in the cafeteria. Members of the Watch waiting to hear that the captive has been broken. That she’s given up all she knows. That Roscoe has been located.

  “He deserted me, Grampy. In the middle of nowhere.” Dawn eyes the angry assemblage without understanding. Wondering if she’s done something to earn their ire. “I seem to have that effect on people lately.”

  A bubble of silence follows them. People clamming up as Dawn comes in range of hearing. A dull murmuration beyond that. Keeping Circle business safe from the outsider. Especially given what just happened to the last guy to break the Circle.

  “If yer Da left ya there, he had reason fer doin’ so. Of that much ya can be certain.”

  “I’m sure he did. He’s always trying to teach me some kind of lesson. But maybe he could’ve managed it without making me walk across the island again.” She waits for her grandfather to unlock a door. Behind it: The staircase leading to the Lesguettes residence. “I don’t know... Maybe he was just pissed. I mean: I guess I deserted him first.”

  Martin ushers Dawn inside. Up the stairs. “I’ll confess: Been a long time since I could rightly say I knew the man. But never once did I know my only son to be as petty as that.”

  “Why are you sticking up for him? He abandoned you, too. Left his whole family behind. The entire island. Maybe that’s just what he does.”

  Martin smiles sadly. “Sons and daughters leave. There’s no personal slight in it. Only natural they fly off. Start nests of their own. All ya can do is keep yer window open. Ready for ‘em to return through if they need it.

  “Sylvie’s back with me, now. Wanda’s been in and out more times than a sewing machine. Always a place here fer all of ‘em. Fer yer ownself too, ever ya need it.” Reaching the second floor, he pauses. “Ya’re nare alone, Dawnie. Whatever comes, ya’re welcome here, and I hope ya know it.”

  She takes his hand. “I do, Grampy. I know it.”

  “Good.” He shuts his eyes. Squeezes back. “Maybe ya’ll convince yer muleheaded Da of it, too. The stunned arse.”

  Dawn laughs. “I wouldn’t bet on him listening to me.”

  “Jaysus-Aitch, I shudder to think: Stayin’ at the Talbot, with our own homey lighthouse standin’ here. B’ys got less sense than the Lard God granted a goat.” At the base of the narrow attic stairs, Martin steps aside. “There ya go.”

  Dawn’s disappointed. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  With all that’s going on beneath them - and assuming she wasn’t looking for company - he’d only planned to escort her in. But the idea of spending more time with his granddaughter is far more appealing. “Wouldn’t want to impose myself on ya...”

  “You couldn’t Grampy.” She gives the old man a hug. “Never.”

  Starting up the attic steps together, Martin asks, “Lookin’ fer anythin’ particular today?”

  “Family Tree stuff... I’ve found a date. When something important’s supposed to have happened. I need to find out what. I was going to go to the library. Then I thought it might be a good excuse to hang out here. Grams held onto local newspapers, didn’t she?”

  Martin stifles a guffaw. “Safe to say she did, Dawnie. Yer spot-on on that one.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  BOOTLEGGER’S FORTUNE FOUND

  Cracking the code used by Moishe “Molars” Abramowitz after pouring over more than a decade of personal correspondence, noted archaeologists Cache and Treasure Hunter made the discovery of a lifetime when they located an entrance to the bootlegger’s secret tunnel system, long-rumored to run beneath the St. Lawrence River, but never before proven to exist outside the realm of dime fiction.

  Lost for ninety years, following the massacre which resulted in the death or imprisonment of the majority of the Abramowitz syndicate, the underground thoroughfare was thought to be the primary route through which Molars and his confederates transported illicit Canadian liquor into New York state, though most prohibition-era historians had come to consider its existence apocryphal.

  Despite facing the derision of their peers as they investigated what most scholars believed to be little more than modern mafia myth-making, the Hunters’ expedition is now being hailed as a triumph, having revealed a veritable time capsule that otherwise would have been lost to the ages.

  ~

  SACRED RELIQUARIES RECOVERED

  In a find the Catholic Church is praising as monumental, the sacred remains of no fewer than twenty-four saints have been rediscovered in a forgotten secret chamber beneath the basement floor of a fourth-century cathedral after more than seventy years of concealment.

  Secreted away since the height of the Second World War, when the German Ahnenerbe Institute sought to secure any artifacts related to Aryan cultural heritage or the occult, this collection of relics had long been assumed stolen or destroyed when the cadre of priests responsible for its relocation and safekeeping were captured and killed.

  Following a trail of paperwork, rumors, and scuttlebutt, Cache and Treasure Hunter - famed husband-and-wife team of archaeologists - worked meticulously to narrow down possible hiding places to the Tuscan commune of Colle di Val d’Elsa. There, their efforts were rewarded when their unauthorized excavation of the basement floor of the abandoned Basilica of San Valentine uncovered a variety of reliquaries and philatories allegedly containing the bones and preserved body parts of such saints as Charlemagne, Sturm, Vergilius and Emeric.

  Thought to be the largest re-discovery of its kind, the cache has now been moved in toto to the Vatican where it awaits verification.

  ~

  LOST ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION LOCATED

  After setting out to recreate the fateful final voyage of the Mewson-Ross, the crew of the science vessel, Europa have succeeded in finding the ship’s final resting place, frozen into the icy coast of the Marie Byrd Land region of Antarctica, nearly a century after its disappearance.

  Embarking in the spring of 1922 under the leadership of Dr. Dorothea Garroda, the aim of the Mewson-Ross expedition had been to verify the theorized location of a crater supposedly caused by a meteor-strike, and in so doing, prove that strikingly similar myths hailing from three separate continents were in actuality linked to a single, real-world event.

  Narratives handed down over generations in the southernmost regions of Africa, Australasia and South America all tell of battles between the gods, resulting in the ejection of usurpers from the heavens. Each tale describes stars or flames falling from the sky to the south as war rages above, and the great geological upsets (earthquakes and tsunamis) which followed the impact of the final - and largest - of the celestial objects to descend.

  Dr. Garroda, an anthropologist concentrating on the fields of comparative religion and sociology at Harrowsmith University, (co-ed since 1971, but at the time exclusively a women’s college) noted the commonalities shared by these folk-tales and posited a natural explanation: That each society had simultaneously witnessed a spectacular meteor shower, culminating in the impact of the one meteorite to successfully reach the earth.

  To substantiate her theory, Dr. Garroda drafted her students to collate any pertinent information from the collected myths. Together, they attempted to triangulate a possible location where they might find the crater produced by the hypothetical impact. First, as an exercise. Then, as the stimulus to launch an expedition to prove the conjecture they had all come to accept as a clear and obvious truth.

  The very concept of a primarily female expeditionar
y team was loudly and publicly derided at the time, with the parents of many of Dr. Garroda’s students first complaining, then removing their daughters from the university entirely rather than permit them to undertake such a hazardous journey. But these complications proved to be little impediment to Dr. Garroda’s plans, and indeed, only increased the drive and certainty of those students remaining.

  When the Mewson-Ross failed to return, public outcry was nothing less than devastating to Harrowsmith University, which only managed to survive the tragedy at all due to the largesse of anonymous benefactors.

  Most of a century later, new department heads at the university were reading up on its history when they came upon the tale of Dr. Garroda’s ill-fated voyage. Falling in love with the story, and arriving at similar anthropological conclusions, they determined they would mount a follow-up expedition, intending to retrace the journey of the Mewson-Ross, in the hopes of discovering its final resting place, then continuing on in search of the crater that was the subject of its original quest.

  Drs. Treasure and Cache Hunter are well-known in academic circles as ‘rock-star archaeologists,’ though whether the sobriquet is intended as compliment or insult depends entirely on the speaker. If chairing Harrowsmith’s archaeology department was seen by many as a settling-down for the married couple, the opposite has proven true, with the vast majority of their tenure spent far off-site in the field, continuing to scour the globe for antiquities long thought to be lost or destroyed.

  Far from solving the baffling disappearance of the Mewson-Ross, however, the discovery of the ship itself has only deepened the mystery. Frozen into the pack ice which had crushed its bow, the survey vessel was both empty and emptied. Not only did the Hunters’ investigation uncover no sign of human remains, it found the ship stripped of anything that could be removed, leaving only the hollow shell behind.

  Inside, a message had been scratched into the hull:

  Gone to join the Devil at the place he fell to Earth.

  -dg

  Increasingly treacherous conditions forced the Europa to turn back soon after finding the grave of its predecessor, lest it suffer a similar end. The still-hypothetical crater after which both missions had quested remains as yet unfound. The mysterious fates of the crew of the Mewson-Ross may never be fully solved.

  ~

  Netty leans back from the monitor. Impressed. Almost inclined to give the Hunters a free pass. In spite of the reckless endangerment caused by the holes they’d left dotted around the island. Besides, should they manage to find the alleged Treasure of Mossley Island, the resulting publicity would be a certain boon to the local economy.

  On the other hand, should word get out before the Hunters manage to unearth the pirate booty in question, that could mean a sudden influx of treasure hunters. All hoping to scoop up the riches themselves. If professional archaeologists can inadvertently cause the injuries they have, what kind of nightmare might amateurs cause?

  Not up to her, either way. Sheriff Schilling assigned her the case, believing it unsolvable. In one day she’s turned the snipe-hunt into a turkey shoot: Identified the culprits. Determined their motivations. Researched their pasts. And found where they’re staying. Bringing them in for questioning is now just a matter of staking out their cabin. Waiting.

  Soon, the Hunters will be in hand. Unsolvable case solved. Any satisfaction Schilling might be expecting from watching her fail as deputy? Stolen. Not bad for her first day on the job.

  On that note, Netty rises. Clears her litter from the cubicle she’s rented at the So-High High-Speed Internet Cafe. Happy to pay for web access, if it means avoiding her new boss at the station house. Glancing around the shop, she takes in the cross-section of humanity gathering together to connect. Kids playing games. Resume writers hunt-and-pecking. Seniors smiling over bifocals at grandchildren held in front of webcams by tired parents far away.

  Despite the general din, a single voice stands out: “The other guy? He never says a word. Nothing. Maybe he can’t. All I know is, he doesn’t.”

  Netty scans the room. Looking for lips that sync to the words.

  “He just ignores Scoutmaster Brad completely. Like he’s not even there.” Voice warped. Crackling with puberty. “So this gets him all red and huffy. Like with Tig that time? As if this guy’s just one of his scouts and not some... Huge, shaven-headed, tattoo-covered ass-kicker he’s run into in the middle of the woods.”

  Cache Hunter. Her suspect.

  “And he starts in about being environmentally aware, and how - even though he’s got no clue what the guy’s doing - he’s probably not supposed to be doing it. And this guy? He’s totally cool. Going about his shit. Doing his thing. As if there isn’t some dickhead all up in his grill. And if I were Scoutmaster Brad? I’d be pretty happy this guy wasn’t paying attention.”

  There: A kid. Middle-school age. Talking through a headset. Netty sidles over.

  “No, no. He doesn’t even have a choice. Finally this dude just grabs him - he’s like a foot taller - and pins him up against a tree, like to say: ‘Okay. You got my attention. What’re you going to do with it?’ And I swear to God, Brad’s about to piss his PJs. Then, the bald guy looks down and sees us and he has second thoughts, because... Witnesses, right? So he lets him go, and gets right back to doing... Whatever it was he was doing.”

  Netty slides in behind the kid. Peeks at his screen: Monsters in battle armor wandering through a forest. He and his teammates on a fantasy role-playing campaign.

  “When Scoutmaster Brad gets back to camp-- Well, first he falls down the hill. Gets covered in mud. But then, he hands us some bullshit about the guy showing him a permit that said he’s allowed to dig up the woods, and actually it’s us who set up in the wrong place, so we’ve gotta strike camp and go without even cooking breakfast first... No, I know! I’m still starving.”

  Silent. Bald. Tattooed. Digging in the woods. Netty’s heard enough. She reaches past the kid. Closes the lid on his laptop.

  “What the fuh--” The kid whirls. Pissed, as only an offended twelve year-old boy can be. Her uniform makes him quickly reconsider.

  “This him?” She shows him her phone. A photograph grabbed from an article on the Hunters’ exploits: A tall bald man and a tiny blonde lady. Behind them, a wall of skulls. The kid stares at the screen without understanding. Netty elbows him. “Is this the guy you saw in the woods?”

  The kid just nods. That’s the guy.

  “Okay, scout...” Netty smiles. “Think you might be able to draw me a map?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Sylvie enters. Unprepared for the foul wave of stink that greets her. She reels. Covers her mouth and nose. Barely holding down her lunch. A little warning might have been nice, but Mrs. Rutherford hardly seems to notice it at all. Even closes the door. Shutting them in with the stomach-turning aroma. Giving it no opportunity to dissipate.

  On a threadbare cot, propped up against one rocky wall: Their captive. In a pool of her own filth. Bladder and bowels emptied. Thin sheet covering her shame. Long-since soaked through. Disguising nothing. Beyond this small concession, no one has seen fit to address the situation.

  Seeing Sylvie, she grins. “Finally! A non-cadaver to talk to.”

  Even Mrs. Rutherford is surprised to hear it. “So you do speak.” She scrapes a wooden chair across the floor. Drags it far too close to the unrestrained prisoner. Even if she does appear to be completely incapable of movement. “I must confess, we were beginning to think--”

  “You were?! First time for everything then, isn’t there?” Her eyes shift. Look to the old woman. Head remaining stationary. Thick brace around her neck holding it upright. “Howsabout you go celebrate that milestone, while she and me have a little chit-chat, huh?”

  Sylvie almost checks behind her. To see who their red-headed prisoner might be referring to. No idea what she’s done to earn such an honor.

  Mrs. Rutherford sits down. “Ms. Lesguettes has joined us in a strictly
observational capacity. You’re still dealing with me, I’m afraid.”

  “Aw, don’t be afraid, little lamb. Everything’s going to be all right. Not sure where you got that ‘still’ though. I haven’t been dealing with you at all, have I? Haven’t been. Won’t be. Honeybee.”

  Mrs. Rutherford chuckles. “It’s your belief, then, that the decision is somehow up to you?”

  “It is.”

  “And whyever would--”

  “I’ve got the answers. To most - if not all - of your stupid questions. And I’m not giving you any. Not ever. But her? To her, I’ll talk.” She waits. When Mrs. Rutherford makes no move to leave, she adds: “Alone.”

  The old woman clasps her hands. “Dr. Marquand says you need x-rays, Sylvia. You may well have broken a few ribs when you collided with this young lady. I certainly hope that’s not the case. Still, it certainly beats having a broken spine.” She reaches forward. Lifts a lock of flame-red hair that has fallen over their captive’s face. Tucks it back. Behind the woman’s ear. “Being totally defenseless.... Unable to feed yourself. Or even control your bowel movements. A lifetime of indignity and dependance. That would be far worse, wouldn’t you say?”

  Paralyzed. On impact. Spine snapped when Sylvie rammed into her. Stopping her from messing with the pulser, or anything else, ever again. Realizing the damage she’s inflicted, Sylvie can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the woman. Again, this is information that would have been useful to have before entering the room.

  Mrs. Rutherford continues: “You’d be forgiven for thinking there’s not much worse that can happen to a person. I wouldn’t blame you. You are pretty badly off. But you’d be wrong to assume there’s no lower plateau to which I could send you. You still have so much that can be taken away. Your lovely face, for instance.” She strokes the woman’s cheek. “That alone might still be enough to win a man’s affection. He’d have to be willing to service the many needs of your broken, useless body, but it’s possible. Possible in a way it wouldn’t be for a person whose features were, say... Disfigured by acid.”