Gasps and murmurs. Netty waits them out.
“Though currently, no one has come forward to claim responsibility for this heinous crime, apparently there was some indication...” She glances down at her notes again. Distancing herself from the bullshit she’s being forced to spread. “...that this may have been the work of a revolutionary faction of citizens, working to protest the building of the Cumberland Channel Bridge.”
“More of those folks who set themselves on fire?”
“I’m... That’s what I’m being told, Deputy Stewart.” Netty scans the room. Sees heads nodding as her fellow officers’ worst assumptions are confirmed: Terrorists! Planting bombs! And all because the mainland government has foisted on the island this bridge no one even asked for. Soon, every Islander would know exactly who to blame for the day’s tragedy. Exactly as Mrs. Rutherford intended.
“As of now, the names of any victims who have been identified are being withheld until their families can be notified. As for specific suspects... I’m told the investigation is ongoing.”
“Whose investigation?” A voice from the crowd. Verbalizing every cop’s shared frustration: Shouldn’t we be the ones doing the investigating?
“Come on, guys... You know the drill. When the Watch--”
“So it’s Circle business, then?” Deputy Stewart again. She should know better.
Netty glances toward the waiting area. Civilians gathered along the wall. All with questions of their own. Listening intently. Ready to spread their slanted version of the news into the world the moment she’s finished delivering her report. Among them: Mother Agatha. As requested. Not smiling, exactly. Something in her sanguine expression distinctly at odds with the dour faces surrounding her.
“It’s... The Watch has the situation in hand. When the services of the Mossley Island P.D. are required, they’ll let us know. For now... We’re to cut a wide berth around Martine’s Beach. Leave it in their hands until further notice.”
Irritated to be cut out of the loop entirely, the cops glare at Netty. Blame her for the decision. As if she’s personally stopping them from fighting the forces of terror. Keeping them from the glory that is their due as officers of the law. None recognizing the cover-up being presented to them.
“So. That’s our official story, kids. Outside that? Everything else is no comment, right? Right. Back to it, then.” She crumples the scrap of paper. Tosses it in the trash. Departs center-stage.
The room re-awakens. The ambient din ramps back to cacophonous.
Netty looks toward the reception desk. Makes eye contact with Mother Agatha. Beckons. The nun nods. Rises.
Netty doesn’t wait for her.
~
“Very forceful.” Mother Agatha catches up. Joins Netty in the cramped observation room. “Authoritative.”
“Thanks.”
“But it was my understanding you’d been relieved of such duties, Deputy.” The nun’s snide smirk must be her natural resting expression. “Demoted to a rank more suited to your abilities.”
“Yeah, seems I’m stuck with lots of shit-work I’d rather not be dealing with anymore.” Netty pulls a chair out for the nun. Slides it in front of the darkened monitors. “But someone has to sort through the sub-human criminal garbage floating in and out of the place... Thanks for coming in so promptly, by the way.”
Mother Agatha ignores the implication. Takes the proffered seat.
Netty turns on the closed-circuit televisions. In their respective interrogation rooms, Mr. and Mrs. Hunter don’t appear to have moved at all. “You know these two?”
Mother Agatha laughs to see the couple. “Well I should. I hired them.”
“You hired them...” Netty does her best to stay cool. Stay out of the way... Let the nun incriminate herself.
“Yes, I’m afraid I must admit to a side-interest beyond my more ineffable spiritual vocation.”
“Outside abducting teenage girls, you mean?”
This knocks the smug expression from the old woman’s face. Momentarily satisfying, if not entirely professional.
“No. That is not what I mean.” A deadly glower replaces the smirk. Netty feels the chill. Not sure it’s an improvement, but at least it’s honest. “Perhaps you should consider recusing yourself from this case, if you’re unable to proceed impartially?”
“Can’t see it becoming an issue.” Netty brushes her off. “But you were saying: You have a hobby? One which will fully explain why you’ve hired these jackholes, presumably?”
“You’ve heard of the Bloody Pike, I assume? The Treasure of Mossley Island?”
Netty maintains her composure. Betraying nothing. Hiding her elation as the pieces fall into place. Exactly as she’d deduced. “You’re looking for it. You commissioned the Hunters to dig on your behalf.”
“It’s not the most appropriate diversion for a woman in my position to entertain. Concerned, as it is, with the uncovering of material riches. And truly: I’m not interested in the treasure for the sake of finding fame or fortune... I simply enjoy solving puzzles. Unexplained mysteries and unanswered questions drive me nuts.”
Netty nods. “So, you’ve brought in the leaders in the field.”
“Of course. I’m not likely to place my confidence in any of these... Local kooks. If they were ever going to, they’d have found it by now.”
“And you’re aware the Hunters have been digging on public land? Only to leave the holes abandoned when they didn’t pan out. Without the slightest concern for any unsuspecting citizens who might stumble across one? Or more accurately: Into one?”
“I certainly didn’t authorize that. Has anyone been hurt?”
“There have been injuries, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, no...” The old nun is contrite. “I feel just terrible about this, Deputy. Where did it happen, might I ask?”
Netty uncovers a corkboard on the wall. Revealing a topographic map of the island. Mother Agatha stands. Scans the red circles marking the location of each hole.
“But... That’s not public land at all, Deputy Hubert. These areas... They’re all privately owned.”
Netty frowns at the map. Every hole they’d discovered was located in an easily accessible area and most were commonly frequented by the general populace: Parks. Open fields. Woodlands. That’s what made them so dangerous: Anyone not paying attention was at risk of stumbling into one.
“I don’t understand... These aren’t protected island spaces?”
“No, indeed. Legally, they’ve been placed into the island’s care and stewardship. But this is all Pearce property.”
Netty flinches at the name. Suddenly realizing she has not completed her homework. She’d let her enthusiasm for collaring the nun push her forward without fully understanding the situation. “You mean it’s--”
“That’s right, it’s mine.” Mother Agatha smiles broadly. “As sole surviving heir to the Pearce estate, I own all of it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What’s in ye, girl?” Gardner tears through the electrical tape securing Wanda’s arms to her body. “Nare before have I seen a gilly turn down a meal. Not ever.”
“It isn’t the first time somebody’s called me sour, Young Man.” She lifts her sore limbs. Stretches. Oven mitt still taped to one hand. Tattered bandages clinging resolutely to the other. “But what in holy-fuck were you two doing here?”
Gardner nods toward Trevor. Still bound on the platform floor. “Seems the b’y’s got a beef with the Old Men. I came ‘long as his Virgil. Seems we got ourselves caught.”
“Yeah, well... Lucky for me, you--”
“Did you two not just watch a poor old woman get torn apart?” Trevor breaks in. Shaking with shock. “Eaten by a pair of... Sea monsters? But it’s all cool? We’re just moving on? As though we didn’t just witness something truly terrible?”
Gardner and Wanda share a look. Answer over one another:
“Honestly can’t think of a more fitting end for her.”
/> “Better goddamn believe it, b’y. Ye knew the whole story, ye’d understand she got less’n she deserved.” Gardner grabs his cane. Hobbles toward the machine suspended from the ceiling above the catwalk.
“Hey!” Trevor squirms. “You mind maybe undoing me? Considering you’re who tied me up in the first place, I mean.”
Gardner scoffs. “Give ‘er a pull there, genius.”
Frowning, Trevor pulls. The extension cord binding his wrists behind his back loosens instantly. “What kind of knot was that supposed to be?”
“The kind ye’d use to pretend-tie an ally, ye stunned arse! I was playin’ at double-agent, remember? Ye really think I’d leave ye defenseless on the floor?” Gardner shakes his head. “How is it ye’ve not so much as tested it once since I bound ye?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but that was my first time being held captive.” Irritated - with himself as much as anyone - Trevor gets to his feet.
“Here’s a tip then, lad: Most folks, on findin’ ‘emselves tied up or trapped? They try an’ get loose.” Gardner leans his cane against the machine. Looks it over.
“Trevor’s very accommodating.” Wanda peels the last remnants of electrical tape from her strangely mismatched clothing: Pajama bottoms. Men’s dress shirt. Barefoot. Completing the ensemble: One bandaged hand and that oh-so-stylish oven mitt. “If you knew the man’s wife, you wouldn’t even question it.”
Trevor huffs. Offended.
If Wanda notices his reaction, she doesn’t care. Crossing to the worktable. Poking at Ike, the crash-test dummy splayed out across it. “Don’t suppose this fine fellow has another set of coveralls laying around?”
No such luck, but next to the dummy’s head, she spots the jar. Half-filled with an oily black fluid. Miss Philips knew it by the name Dr. Ramsey had used: Ichthyoplasm. Better known to Wanda’s fellow addicts as: Goo. She holds it up to the light. Watches rainbows glimmer through the blackness. Feeling nothing. No interest. No desire. “So, the Old Men... All junkies like me, huh?”
“Ayup. Got ‘emselves right hooked.” Gardner flips a switch. The crane which had suspended Wanda over the tank quivers. Cable spools back into the arm. Until only the hook is left dangling. “Been that way longer than ye’ve been alive.”
“But this stuff... It’s different than what’s on the street, right?” She shakes the jar. The contents swirl. Thinner than the goo she’s used to.
“It is. That there’s the real deal. Uncut. They take it different too.” He flips another switch. The mechanical arm swings away. Withdraws.
“Craziest thing I’ve ever seen.” Trevor shakes his head. “They have a whole room of booths for it. Like saunas. They roast themselves in the stuff. Come out practically char-broiled.”
“Saunas?” Wanda shudders involuntarily. “I’d’ve thought I’d tried every delivery method out there, but that’s a new one on me.”
“Don’t miss a trick, these bastards.” Leaning heavily on his cane, Gardner heads back to the railing. Stops at the control panel. “Ye can bet: Were there a better way, that’s how they’d do it instead.”
“But you were one of them once... How come you’re not--”
“Poisoning myself? With the venom of those evil monsters?” Genuinely disgusted. “I’d sooner feed myself to one.”
“That why they booted you?”
“Didn’t help me any.” He runs his hands over the controls. Refamiliarizing himself. “But no. That ain’t why.”
“So? Why, then?”
Gardner sighs. “Tried gettin’ rid of them.” He gestures below. Into the tank. “There was six of ‘em, then. I managed to harpoon one: Ginger. Stuck her. Hoisted her up over the water so’s the others could watch her die. Took too long, though. She was the only one I could get to ‘fore bein’ found out. They dragged me away kickin’.”
“Addicts don’t appreciate having their supply threatened.”
“No, indeed.” Gardner presses a button. On the machine, blue lights flash. “My mistake? It wasn’t enough for me: Just endin’ ‘em. I had to have ‘em suffer. Coulda got ‘em all in one fell swoop, if I’d’a just used the failsafe.”
He turns a dial.
A wall panel opens below. Just above the surface of the water. A mesh sphere the size of a softball slides out on the end of a bar.
“Is that...” Wanda recognizes it from her time on the Watch. “Like, a miniature pulser?”
Trevor leans against the railing. Watches the bar extend. Stopping only when the ball reaches the center of the tank. “What’s a pulser?”
“Keep yer eyes below, ye’ll see fer yer ownself.” Gardner grins. Sets his finger on a button. Whispers: “Been a long time in comin’, but I told ye I’d come back for ye, didn’t I?” He presses.
Foom! A flash bulb flares inside the mesh sphere. Emitting a single pulse.
It hits the gillies. Turns them instantly into vanilla pudding.
Simultaneously, Wanda recoils as the wave reaches her. She grabs at her skull. Screams.
~
The black ocean absorbs her voice. Deadens the screams. Not just her own. The joined pain and horror of all the other selves. Sharing an utter anguish as two parts of their whole are unexpectedly extinguished. Torn away from them. The entirety compromised by the loss.
The initial agony is comparable to her hand being crushed. But as the pain spreads across the network of individuals, it lessens. Portioned out among so many, the torment thins to tolerable. Diminishing quickly to a cold awareness.
We are two fewer. But remain legion. Innumerable. Those who deplete us will be eradicated. In time.
Just as the shared pain was minimized, the shared thirst for vengeance builds recursively. Gaining strength and momentum as it bounces from node to node. An echo chamber of rage demanding retaliation from whichever part of the entirety might best be able to achieve it.
~
Wanda gasps.
Lying on the platform now. Trevor cradling her head. “It’s okay. You’re all right.”
Gardner hobbles over. “Not supposed to have any effect on humans. Not anymore it’s not.”
Seeing the old man, Wanda flushes hot. Hidden within gauze and tattered oven mitt, her hands flex. Talons demanding they be sunk into his arteries for what he’s done. She stops them. Stops herself. Forces fingers into fists. Holds them tight across her chest as the murderous impulse fades.
Trevor watches his sister-in-law with grave concern. “Wanda, you’re, uh...” He points to his own upper lip.
She wipes her nose with the oven mitt. It comes away covered in blood. “Ugh. Bit of a geyser, huh?”
“Dunno what happened to ye, girl.” Gardner leans over. His proximity no longer inspiring any homicidal urges. “It shouldn’t’ve done that to ye.”
“Yeah, well... Probably it has something to do with this...” She bites at the tape holding the mitt to her hand. Peels it away with her teeth. Shakes the mitt off. Revealing: Long webbed fingers, tapering to sharp black talons.
“Saints preserve us.” Gardner takes an involuntary step back.
Trevor goggles. “What-- Wanda... How’d this happen?”
“The Old Men. How else?” With index claw, she slices through the bandages on her right arm. Exposing her stump. As Dr. Ramsey had predicted, it’s developing just like the first.: A new hand growing where the previous had been lopped off. No claws yet, but new fingers are already formed. Each connected to the next by a thin, fleshy membrane.
Gardner is haunted by the sight. “It’s madness.” His voice, scarcely more than a breath. “Madness.”
“Were those the only ones?” Wanda gets to her feet.
“Doin’ that to a body... They must’ve gone right ‘round the bend.”
“Hey! Young Man! Ten-hut!” Wanda claps her hands together. “Those gillies down there. Was that all of them? Or do the Old Men have more tanks like this hidden away in other places?”
Gardner snaps out of it. Still unable to tear his gaze from
her hands. “None I’m privy to. All six I knew of were all housed here. Must’ve died off o’er the years, though. These last two were lookin’ none too healthy. Not long for the world, regardless of my intervention.”
“Good.” Wanda nods to herself. Plotting. “That means you just cut the Old Men off at the knees. Won’t be long before they start going into withdrawal.”
“It’s already happening.” Trevor steps forward. Instantly on the same page as Wanda. “We overheard talk of rationing. Spreading out the supplies to keep them covered. But what about...” He braces Gardner. “What about a back-up? You know where they’d keep it, if there was such a thing?”
The older man nods. “Used to store it up some. Just in case. Course... Two gillies couldn’t give near as much as six. ‘Specially not if they were poorly.”
Trevor turns to Wanda. “We destroy that? We cut them off from their addiction completely. That’ll put Old Men on the ropes. Good as done.”
“Works for me.” Wanda grabs the glass jar from the table. Swirls the black murk around once before hauling back. Chucking it across the tank. Against the far wall. It smashes. Goo sizzling. Pocking the splash mark permanently into the cement wall. “Looks like we’ve got us a mission now, boys. Let’s get to it.”
~
Crouching low. Peeking through the crack in the door. Schilling watches the trio move away. Slowed by the old man and his cane, they cross the catwalk. Descend a staircase on the far end.
Schilling leans back. Against the wall. Processing all he’s witnessed.
After delivering Wanda into her safekeeping, Miss Philips had forced him to leave. But he hadn’t gone far before returning. Sneaking back in. Intent on catching a glimpse behind the scenes. He’d caught a lot more than that.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 4