by Gwenda Bond
There'd be another way into the trunk, an emergency method to open it. Or a way aimed at convenience.
Mrs Figgins wasn't deaf, but Miranda took the chance anyway. Selecting a hammer from the toolbox, she went around to the other side of the car – checked the street one last time for anyone else, saw no one – and smashed in the smaller of the rear windows, reaching inside to pull up the lock. Mrs Figgins lifted her head, but she couldn't see anything this far away. She went back to her book.
Miranda opened the door, feeling around the top of the back seat until she found the plastic release lever and yanked it down. The back seat fell into her hand, flattening to provide trunk access.
The box that held what was apparently alchemist extraordinaire Dr John Dee's greatest invention sat inside, waiting like it had in her dad's closet all those years.
"Frak," she said, pleased. And also terrified.
15
Black Sails
Miranda wasn't sure what to do after retrieving the box, but staying at home seemed like a spectacularly bad idea. She couldn't go back to Phillips' house – Sara being there didn't change the chief's obligation to cooperate with the FBI. So Morrison Grove it was.
She'd set out on foot, the only choice available. A couple of federal tank-style SUVs spotted in the distance later, she and Sidekick left the roadside to hike through less visible terrain. The messenger bag was heavy with the gun box and dog food, and she was at war with her own legs. They protested every plodding, uneven step.
Adrenaline vs. Exhaustion: Which will be the ultimate victor?
Poor Sidekick trudged alongside her, no longer bothering to gallop ahead like he had on their earlier trek. "This is the only time you will ever hear me say it's a good thing we live on an island this small, dog," Miranda muttered. If the island had been any bigger, not having a car would have sunk them.
What Miranda knew and the larger shadows of what she didn't swirled around her as she focused on putting one sneakered foot in front of the other. None of it seemed random. John Dee's hieroglyph was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.
Deep in thought, she didn't notice the enormous shadow that fell over her. Not until she stumbled over a rock cloaked in the sudden darkness it cast. Sidekick growled at whatever was behind them.
She didn't want to turn. She turned anyway.
The ship sailed across the land, cutting across the earth as if nothing inhabited it. The sails stretched a hundred feet in the air, the elaborate gray symbols pulling taut in gusts of phantom wind, the gleaming hull below polished black. People stood on the deck. She couldn't make them out in detail, not through the shadow. They were a line of still silhouettes, a wall of stone statues staring out over the island.
She knew that shadows didn't fall forward at this time of day, with this position of the sun, and that they never fell this far in front of an object. That hardly mattered since the ship's appearance nearly broke the rational part of her mind.
Morrison Grove wasn't far, the tree line and roofs of the first buildings visible ahead. Miranda picked up her pace, but Kicks barked his head off behind her. He wasn't following.
"Sidekick!"
She couldn't leave him, even if it meant the shadow ate her whole. She doubled back and pulled at his collar.
The ship glided slowly, steadily forward. They had to get out of its path.
Every dog within earshot struck up a chorus of barks to match Sidekick's. His body thrashed against the pressure of her hand.
Just like the night my dad died.
Miranda had never leashed Sidekick before, but there was nothing else to do. She dropped her messenger bag and removed the strap, clicking one end into his collar as he growled. She caught up the other end and hefted the bag with her free arm. She put all her weight into heaving him forward.
"Come on!"
He fought, desperate to face the threat. But she refused to give in. She moved forward as quickly as possible with the bag clutched awkwardly against her. She didn't stop to look back until they reached Polly's door.
The ship was a dozen feet away…
It was going to sail right over them…
Miranda gave one last jerk to get Sidekick inside with her, then slammed the door and slung the bag aside. The box inside it clunked against the floor, the kibble rattling.
She waited for the impact of the black ship. She waited to feel all her bones breaking as the phantom ship crushed her whole, understanding suddenly that this was probably what had happened to her father.
The impact never came.
When she opened the door, the shadow had vanished. The ship, too.
Oh, it was out there, sailing through the night. The line of dark forms on its deck watching and waiting for an arrival point. Something was coming.
She needed to get to Phillips, get through to him that they didn't have much time left. That with the big black ship sailing toward her, maybe she didn't have much time.
The thought of going back into the night defeated her.
Adrenaline never had a chance. Exhaustion won.
The voices roared.
The noise woke Phillips from the fitful, sweaty sleep the pills had thrown him into. He rocked against the hard wood bench until he achieved the momentum to sit up. He pressed his head back against cool cinderblock. All the physical sensations were muted, as if they were happening to someone else. Someone far, far away. On a movie screen, or in the past. Someone barely real.
The voices overlapped in chaotic fragments, but then they began to sync, melding to a single word loud and clear as shattering glass. The chorus repeated again and again and again:
COMING COMING COMING COMING COMING COMING COMING COMING COMING
He fell onto his knees on concrete, an image of Miranda in his mind…
Miranda on the beach, thinking she'd pushed him down…
Thinking that he didn't understand…
Silence. There was a single moment of perfect silence.
Phillips was alone inside his head.
The Return
In the first moment there was no one, but in the next there was her.
The painfully ordinary woman straightened from a crouch, frowning at the asphalt surrounding her. She stood next to gas pumps with bright yellow heads topped by small video screens, unlit at this time of night. Dawn would come soon enough, and with it customers, blaring advertisements, flashing numbers below, the snick of nozzles being used and replaced. The song of motors coming to life. The fluorescent lights inside the store would shine like unflattering spotlights on all who dared enter.
She found her hands looking for something – someone – and smoothed them against the skirt of her long, flowing sundress. Her eyes possessed a wildness that didn't match the garment's modest lines, the conservative gather of her plain brown ponytail, the muted understatement of neutral brown swiped across her eyelids. The ordinary woman thought of nothing at first, her hands again reaching, searching for someone in unconscious reflex, wild eyes sweeping the parking lot, confirming its desertion.
She inhaled the night, throwing her arms out wide. Her sedate maroon skirt danced in the wind and she permitted her plain lips to curve.
The night was silent, but, eventually, she knew where home was from this spot.
She knew she could walk it.
Across town, another woman walked toward the front door of a big yellow house, her easy strides broken when she made an abrupt turn. She stopped in the night grass, holding the gaze that she'd felt on her back.
The man was on the other side of the street, and unlike her – she traced her attention over her own body, took in the sleek cut of a business suit – he wore a bathrobe over pajama bottoms. But his stiff posture would have told, if the timing hadn't.
They raised no hands in greeting, exchanged no words. She inclined her head and he sent her a slow smile, not of joy, but of knowing. He sat down, posture stiff, to wait on the curb, and a bolt of envy shocked her. She had to get
inside, and so she went with deliberate steps.
Her hand remembered how to open the door quietly enough that he wouldn't hear. Her feet knew how to be clever and silent when coming in late, to pad up the hall so as not to disturb him. She let them lead her to the kitchen first, unable to resist the lure of taste. The mess surprised her, distantly. The refrigerator door was cool in her palm as she opened it, light sneaking out. She examined the contents. Too many boxes, unfamiliar items, the letters a blur that finally resolved into words she could understand. Removing a carton of orange juice, she leaned against the counter and drank deep.
She left the carton out, knowing it would never be noticed. Not in the mess.
She noted the man asleep on the couch, but he didn't wake and she didn't wake him. Instead her clever feet went up the hall. The softness of the sheets – high thread count, the words skated through her mind – was an embrace, and she relaxed into it, closing her eyes and waiting to be discovered.
The girl sat up in a bed that had never been that comfortable, even when it was new. But the sheets and blanket were soft and pink. They didn't belong to the house, but to her. The bedclothes were the only thing that truly belonged to her of the objects around her. Bed, nightstand, and chair had come with the room. This was rental housing. Looking around, she confirmed she was right, and the knowledge edged her to her feet.
She sensed that she wasn't alone in the house.
The other two young women waited in the front room, a landscape dominated by a coffee table littered with junk. Tabloids and dirty margarita glasses. The taller of the others – her hair a silvery gray despite her young age – raised her finger to her lips, and inclined a head at the door to the bedroom behind her.
Someone else had already been in the house, but not one of them. The girl gave a short nod, and they took seats on the couch in wordless agreement.
They didn't speak. There was no point. They needed more time to know enough to have anything to say.
A whine sang to them from inside the room that held the uninvited guest, followed by a low voice soothing the troubled dog. Then, the silence returned.
16
Missed
The silence didn't last, inside or outside Phillips' head. When morning came, he laid on the bench listening to the first clues that something big had taken place overnight. The staccato din of ringing phones, shouted queries, and fast footsteps reached his cell.
Chattering voices also buzzed in the background of his mind, but they weren't anything like the screaming horde that had smashed into him and taken over without so much as a do you mind? or a thank you. This was the rain without the storm, the never-alone sensation he associated with the island – only dialed up a notch because the voices bore a disturbed edge, sharper than usual. The voices were upset.
Not the only ones.
He must have freaked everyone out in the most major of ways yesterday – including Miranda. Trapped Miranda, who truly couldn't leave.
He stood and confirmed that he still wore his jeans and Tshirt, instead of a terrible jumpsuit. At least they'd left him in his own clothes. He had to get out of here.
He gripped the cell bars in either hand, pressing his forehead onto the metal. Wasn't he supposed to have a tin cup he could drag back and forth over the bars until someone came to shout at him? The one time Phillips had broken out of jail he'd still had the force's amused graces on his side and been able to talk his way out. Now that everyone knew his reputation, that wouldn't work.
Why was he even in here? All he remembered were his parents and Roswell and… frowning strangers in dark suits, barking questions he wasn't able to respond to. Who were they?
His mother rounded the corner and padded down the hallway, a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand. The dark smudges around her eyes nearly matched the depressing gray cement wall behind her. She almost dropped the steaming cup, clearly surprised to see him standing.
"Mom," he said, "good morning."
She straightened. "Is it?"
He tried to ignore the buzz and hum raining through his head. "Better than yesterday."
"Anything would be better than yesterday." She must not have slept more than a few hours, if that. She took a sip from the coffee.
"Why am I in here?" he asked.
Her head snapped up. "You don't remember."
Given the busy noises coming from the station floor, he doubted anyone was snooping on their conversation. He spoke softly anyway. "It wasn't like anything that ever happened to me before – all of a sudden the voices just… overpowered me." He paused, attempting to make space away from the buzzing chatter inside. "Is Miranda OK? How freaked out was she?"
His mother shifted so she rested against the bars beside him. She didn't want them to be overheard either, he realised. "Phillips, you're in here because the FBI think you and Miranda worked together to murder her father."
"But I wasn't even here when he died! I was a million miles from here. Well, several hundred." Their theory was as far off as the moon.
She gripped her cup with one hand and reached out with the other to touch his. "I know, hon. But they don't understand where the body could be."
Something in his memory clicked and a snatch of the shouted questions directed at him drifted through his mind. "What did you do with the body?" one of them had asked, a man. An FBI guy.
"Someone took Miranda's dad's body," he said, not a question.
She said, "And you guys were in the funeral home. Why exactly were you in the funeral home?"
So he was in trouble with his mom, too. "Miranda needed to see him and–"
"And you couldn't just ask your dad to arrange it." She sighed. "Phillips, what happened to you yesterday? You were gone. Unreachable. Do you know why it was so bad?"
His forehead touched the bars. "I don't understand it either."
"And the voices are back, aren't they? The regular ones you hear?"
He nodded. "How did you–"
"Your eyes," she said, waving her hand next to her own. "I can tell when you aren't alone in there."
She checked her watch, looked over her shoulder. Was it possible there was more gray in her hair from one night? "The agents will be coming in soon. Maybe we should ask them to transfer you to the mainland. I don't want to ever see that happen again."
Phillips frowned. His mother was on his side, always. "I'm not leaving. Where's Miranda?"
His mother's eyes landed on the wall behind him. "She took off – she's currently evading federal custody. Any idea where she is?"
Miranda Blackwood, federal fugitive. I'm a bad influence. Phillips couldn't stop his grin.
"I don't know," he said, and the truth of that sank in. He didn't know her well enough to know where she'd go, but he knew she was stuck here. "She's still on the island. Mom, you have to get me out of here – I'll find her."
There was a renewed force to the clamor in the front room, and someone broke out in a cheer. It wasn't like they were watching basketball out there. They might have, even in the middle of the apocalypse. But this was the wrong season, the wrong time of day.
His mom's coffee cup vibrated. Her hand was shaking.
"Mom, what's going on?"
The question rested between them for a moment.
She set the coffee cup on the cement floor. Then she rose and put both hands over his.
"They're back," she said.
"Who are?"
"The missing people. Your dad's scheduling a… group cattle call at the courthouse, to do a head count and make sure. But I wouldn't be surprised if it's all of them." She let him process the news, but went on before he could ask anything else. "So why don't I feel like the danger has passed? The danger to you."
The missing had come back to Roanoke Island. He allowed the brittle edge of the voices to bite into him, sure the dead's return was linked.
"Because this isn't over. But you don't need to worry about me – I need to get to Miranda. She's the one in danger."
/> His mom removed her hands from his, refusing to meet his eyes. She never refused to meet his eyes.
"Then maybe this is the safest place for you," she said, tapping her fingers on the bars.
"No," he said. "No."
"I'm… I'm sorry. I think it is, and I'm your mother."
"Mom, you have to trust me."
"This is new territory and… I can't let you go wandering around in it. My job is to protect you. This is the only way I have to do that. You can go back to being bad boy genius when this is over."