Blackwood

by Gwenda Bond

  She didn't bother to pick up her coffee cup. She just turned and walked up the hall, leaving him there.

  Miranda thrashed in her sleep. Sidekick's periodic low whining had made for a restless night. She'd been tired enough to get some sleep despite that, but not at ease enough to do it soundly. Instead she watched her dreams play, like movies she hadn't bought tickets for.

  At first, the images had been of the sinister black ship, sailing ever forward. But this dream, the one that would finally wake her, took place in a beachside clearing that she recognised as the settlement that the theater mimicked. There was no ship, but there were people.

  The dream settlers stood in rows facing the Sound, packed sand beneath their feet. They wore clothes that resembled costumes from the show, with one change. Long gray cloaks hung from their shoulders like so many pairs of broken wings. A storm had soaked the beach, and thick thunderheads above threatened its return. The settlers chanted words Miranda couldn't make out. As they raised their arms, their cloaks floated in the air, broken wings straining to fly, and always, always, the settlers passed between them some object hidden from her by their bodies.

  She woke as the last of them began to turn, the secret about to be revealed.

  Polly sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her.

  Miranda scrambled from beneath the covers, questioning whether she was still asleep.

  "Your face is a welcome sight," Polly said.

  Her expression was oddly serious, but other than that she appeared normal. Premature gray hair, T-shirt with paint spatters, familiar brown eyes. A copy of a John White nature sketch hung on the wall behind her like a floral crown.

  "When… Where… What happened to you?" Miranda forced out.

  Sidekick wasn't growling or whining, but he edged closer to lay his head flat on top of Miranda's feet. His furry eyebrows twitched up and down with worry.

  Polly said, "I'm not sure I can explain to you."

  "But you're OK?"

  Polly inclined her chin. "Why are you here?"

  Miranda searched for a place to start. Her father dead, a cute boy swooping in from the past, Roswell's revelation about her ancestor… "I'm sorry about taking your bed. It's a long story. We didn't know if you'd be back or when–"

  "We?"

  Phillips. Miranda hoped he wasn't still being eaten by wild voices. But that didn't matter to Polly. Polly, whose expression had yet to change. Solemn as fake Virginia Dare telling the audience the settlers will never return. Weird.

  "Is it just you who's back?" Miranda asked.

  "No," Polly said, her features shifting into a frown. "I believe everyone managed to return."

  "Return from where?" Even if it was negative, Polly's showing any emotion was a small comfort. What had she been through?

  Polly rose. "The others have breakfast."

  Miranda glimpsed herself in a small round mirror hanging on the wall. The snake crawled up her cheek, and she had to fight the urge to touch it. At least Polly didn't seem to have noticed. She glanced over to check the position of her bag against the wall, without really understanding why the idea of leaving it made her uncomfortable. Other than the fact it held the possibly sacred, possibly evil, almost certainly magical gun inside.

  "Come on," Polly said from the doorway. "Breakfast."

  Miranda had no choice but to go with her or make a scene. Sidekick moseyed along behind her. In the main room, she found two more familiar faces at the small table in the kitchen – she felt guilty that she hadn't really worried about Polly's missing roommates. Kirsten and Gretch were the type who stayed out late and picked up tourist boys on vacation. Miranda didn't know them that well.

  All three of the others were dressed in real clothes, while Miranda fingered fuzzy pajama bottoms printed with penguins in top hats.

  "Hi," Miranda said, uncertain.

  Polly grabbed a seat at the table, smiling toward the other girls in a way that didn't reach her eyes. Miranda pulled out the chair next to her and sat, trying not to be so obvious in observing her friend. Which left her the other girls to watch.

  They had the same serious expression as Polly – more disconcerting on them than on her. Miranda's memories of them not at work involved giggling and downing fire-red shots at after-parties.

  The redhead, Kirsten, gripped a donut in one hand. She took an enormous bite of it, chewing with an energy that said she was either starving or the world's biggest donut fan.

  Gretchen said, "Good morning… Miranda…"

  The way she trailed off left Miranda waiting for more, but Gretchen said nothing else.

  "Have some donuts." Polly filled the silence, tapped the box. "Kirsten would talk of nothing else."

  Having finished her previous, the girl with red hair selected an enormous cruller shaped like a curled hand from the box and bit into it, using her other hand to shove the box toward Miranda.

  "Um, OK," Miranda said, taking the smallest donut in the box, though she was more of a chocolate than a glazed girl. The box, soggy with icing, proclaimed its origin at the Stop and Gas less than a mile away. "When did you guys get these?"

  "I walked for them." Kirsten spoke around a mouthful of cheap pastry. "The man at the gas station showed me a picture of us." Her eyes flicked to Gretchen, who tilted her head in curiosity.

  "You didn't say before," Gretchen said.

  "No, you didn't," said Polly.

  Kirsten chewed, and said, "They were not good pictures." She paused, "Photocopies. He knew we were missing. The picture said so."

  Miranda managed to swallow the one bite she'd taken. "Everyone knew you were missing. There were a lot of you."

  "We know," Polly said.

  "He gave me the donuts," Kirsten said.

  Maybe they'd been taken by a cult after all, if this was what people who'd been brainwashed acted like – not like themselves, but not entirely different. "That was nice," Miranda said. "So, what happened to you guys?"

  Kirsten hadn't lowered the donut, and the three of them gazed openly at one another, having a private conference without speaking. "We can't tell you," she said. And Polly added, "Yet. We are not ready to tell you yet." Polly attempted to soften the words with a smile, which made Miranda even more uneasy. She needed to talk to Phillips.

  Unfortunately, he was in jail.

  "Have you checked in with the police?" Miranda asked. "They've been looking for you guys. You should probably go over there."

  "I called," Polly said, "and after breakfast we will go to the courthouse. That is where they want us to go."

  Relief nearly made Miranda fall off her chair. To get out of this house, away from these stiff, donut-scarfing girls, she'd take her chances at being caught.

  "Great," Miranda said. "I can drive you, if you want–" Polly was frowning at her, so she came up with a reason "– you know, if you don't feel up to operating heavy machinery."

  "Heavy machinery," Polly echoed. "That sounds like a good idea."

  17

  Connections

  The minutes crept by with Phillips wishing he could make them pass more quickly. He drummed on the legs of his jeans, struggling to subdue the brittle voices in his head while he waited.

  His mom might be scared, but that just left him to sort this out on his own. So he waited (and waited) for the noise in the station to die down. They'd take everyone they could spare to manage the crowd and check the identities of the returned at the 'cattle call.' There'd probably be just one or two guys left behind at the jail.

  By the time it finally got quiet, he was more than ready to put his plan into action.

  He stood, took a deep breath, and then launched his body forward. His knees hit the cell floor near the bars, and he shouted in real pain. He banged his fists on the floor, hard enough to bruise his knuckles. He raised his hands and tore at his hair.

  He dove so deep into the performance that he barely noticed when the officer appeared outside the cell.

  "Are you OK, son? Your
father's not here."

  He turned his head toward the voice. He didn't know this particular officer, some younger guy who couldn't have been on the force that long.

  Phillips shouted again, his cry fading when he heard the officer curse and start to walk away. "Wait…" Phillips choked out the word. The choking part came easy, given how little he'd had to drink and the fact he really had spent the night moaning in agony. "Meds," Phillips said. "Need Roswell meds. Call doctor."

  "I don't know," the officer said. "I can call your father and ask–"

  Phillips cut him off with another roar of pain. "Meds," he said, "call Roswell."

  He doubled over in what he hoped was a realistic imitation of pain. At the corner of his vision, he saw the guy nod quickly. "Hang on," the officer said. He was talking to himself as he walked away, "Sure, Chief, I'm the one who let your son go crazy. Sorry about that. Maybe you should just never promote me in return… Crap!"

  Phillips moaned some more, settling in to a pattern of pitiful cries, lowering onto his back on the bench. He kept the pitiful low enough that if he strained to block out the voices – they seemed less agitated at the moment, or was he imagining that? – he could hear the officer's return. It didn't take nearly as long as he expected.

  "Uh, Phillips," the officer said, "your dad actually had the doctor leave these."

  I bet he did.

  Phillips moaned louder and fought his limbs into an elaborate sit. He jerked to his feet. The officer had a small cup of water and a handful of several pills. This would be the hard part. The part he had to pull off or be stuck in here while whatever bad thing had come to town went after Miranda.

  "Thank you, officer." Phillips forced out the words like a sleeptalker, tone loud and broken. He stumbled to the bars, then bounced off them and fell down onto the floor. He watched through slitted eyes as the officer realised he didn't have a free hand to unlock the cell door with and then maneuvered the styrofoam cup between two fingers of the hand that held the pills, angling the key smoothly with his left hand.

  Not a fumbler then.

  Phillips waited for him to get close, and reached up for the pills and the water. Looking skeptical, the officer guided the cup to his hand. Phillips had a flash of insight. He needed to convince this guy. So, he did the last thing the guy would expect based on his reputation. He cooperated.

  Phillips opened his mouth and extended his tongue. The officer hesitated, then dropped the pills into his mouth. Gel-coated. Finally, a break.

  He took a sip of water and spilled the rest on the floor, making sure it looked like clumsiness. He grabbed the officer's arm before he could leave. "Can you… Can you…" The officer had to believe it was hard for him to get the words out. "Take me to the bathroom."

  The officer's eyes narrowed again, and Phillips let his own become flying-saucer huge. He hoped he looked like he'd been taking acid or smoking pot. Huge pupils disconcerted people, and his should do the trick. He noted the last name on the guy's tag, Warren, without recognition – he didn't remember any Warrens, so maybe this guy's family had moved here after Phillips was sent away. Maybe he hadn't gotten the full dossier.

  The officer shook his head. "The chief said to keep an eye on you, but leave you put."

  "Please." Phillips trembled. "The meds. They knock me out cold. Haven't been–"

  "There's a toilet in the cell," Officer Warren pointed at the corner. Phillips knew almost no one was ever made to use that thing. In a town this size, that'd be tantamount to treason against a fellow citizen. Tourists, on the other hand…

  "Not the tourist toilet." Phillips grabbed his arm again, struggling to his feet. "I don't have long. The meds. Take me."

  Officer Warren's attention flicked back and forth between the cell toilet and Phillips. "Crap. All right. But don't tell your dad, OK?"

  Phillips closed his eyes, flicked them back and forth behind closed lids with a moan. He popped them open. "I'll tell him you helped me."

  A satisfied smile transformed the officer back to high school age. God, he looks younger than me. In all the ways that count, he seems to be younger than me. Phillips gave a moment's regret to the trouble this guy would be in when his dad came back. Maybe they'll bond over it – I've tricked my dad enough times.

  First, he had to get out of here though. He bent as he stood, enough to dump the pills in his hand with a casual tired swipe across his mouth.

  He leaned his weight against the officer, heavily. His timing had to be perfect.

  They walked – the officer normally, Phillips half-stumbling – up the hall and into the station. The bathrooms were on the far side of the large open room, on the other side of the break area.

  Officer Warren wasn't the only one left after all. A vaguely familiar man in a black suit that screamed FBI sat at the big coffee table in the break area. His head was tipped back to watch the muted ceiling-mounted TV.

  The man's presence complicated things. Phillips traced the consequences – of both success and failure. Once he took the next step in this plan, he'd be in the kind of trouble he'd always avoided. The kind that wasn't so easy to get away from. The decision was his to make.

  And in that moment, wrecking his future didn't matter. Only today mattered. Only tomorrow mattered.

  The rest could storm down afterward and ruin his life. He'd take the chance.

  The FBI guy was drinking coffee. Another cup rested in front of the vacant chair next to him. So he and the officer had been watching the coverage together, drinking coffee. Phillips had banked on both. After all, who wanted to miss the action? That guaranteed the TV'd be on. And all these guys had been working since the disappearances were reported, which meant the need for even more caffeine than normal.

  On the TV, the brittle blonde reporter he'd watched Miranda dismiss so perfectly was beaming. The scene behind her was of crowded chaos in the courthouse square.

  Phillips raised his hand toward the screen. "Oh my god," he said.

  The weight of Phillips' extended hand carried him forward, the FBI agent spinning with a moment's surprise.

  "What is the kid doing out here?" The agent got up, agitated.

  Phillips kept his eyes trained on the small square of TV, his hand shaking like an arthritic old man's. Officer Warren grabbed his other elbow to steady him, and said, "He's the chief's son and he's having a hard time of it."

  Phillips really would have to put in a good word for Officer Warren. This guy wanted to stay local. He wasn't courting the fed's favor a bit. He was loyal to Phillips' dad.

  The FBI guy must have reached the same conclusion. "That's not your call – that boy may have murdered an innocent man just because his girlfriend wanted him to. And your chief promised we could question him after the head count. Take him back."

  The officer's shoulders squared. "Not yet."

  The fed took a couple of steps toward them and Phillips knew the time had come. Act fast, or go back and wait for John Dee's main event. The voices in his head kicked up a notch in volume, roaring like they wanted him to act.

  Phillips ignored the fed. He blinked like he was dazed by the images on the screen. He powered forward, breaking free from the distracted officer's grip. He slipped a hand into his pocket and then back out as he crashed into the table – hard enough to rattle the cups, but not hard enough to upend them. "Oh god, so sorry – can't control…" he said.

  "Grab him," the FBI guy said.

  Phillips reached out quickly, innocently, to slide the cups back into place. His hands floated over their tops before he released them, trailing the powder from the sedative capsules he'd crushed in his palms into the coffee cups.

  The FBI guy moved forward to shoulder him away from the table. Phillips turned and gratefully grabbed the officer's hand.

  "You think this kid's trying something, Agent Walker?" Officer Warren said, disgust in his tone, as he led Phillips toward the bathroom. "He's suffering is all. And I seriously doubt he's the murderer, since he has an airtight a
libi. Down here, we require you to back up accusations with facts."

  The fed stalked back to the chair, yanked it out and swung back into place. Phillips' teeth pressed into the flesh below his bottom lip to stave off a grin as the fed picked up the cup and drank from it. Like a horse to water.

  He crossed his fingers that the pills didn't taste too strong or work so fast that Officer Warren caught on before the plan worked. After all, the officer had to suck down some coffee too, if this was going to work.

  Phillips made it to the bathroom with a smoother step, indulging in a few deep breaths, as if the meds were kicking in. "The pills are working," he said, keeping his voice weak. He went inside, counted off an eternity of fifteen seconds, then flushed and opened the door.