Almost too much to make sense of: The goo. The sea monsters. The gruesome demise of the old lady herself. His first inclination? Alert Mrs. Rutherford. Spill everything. Expose the trio and their vendetta against the Old Men. Further ingratiate himself. But with the creatures gone - if Wanda and her co-conspirators are to be believed - so goes the Old Men’s primary source of longevity and vigor. In which case, it might behoove him to keep his knowledge to himself.
After all, how much more valuable might he be, if the Old Men suddenly find themselves unable to take care of business on their own? If they were force to rely on him? His strength, stamina and youth? Might it not make him indispensable?
So, instead of reporting on what he’s seen - rather than warning the people he’s so long looked up to and hoped one day to join - Sheriff Doug Schilling quietly sneaks back along the corridor. Slinks up the steps. Creeps out through the loading dock. Climbs back into his squad car.
Driving off, he leaves Wanda-and-friends with the run of the Home. Hoping they wreak a path of destruction from which only he can save the Old Men. Silently egging them on to do their worst.
CHAPTER NINE
Rocks crunch. Sand shifts. The ever-changing ground unstable beneath Ren’s boots.
He walks slowly. Stooped over. The helmet’s light barely cutting through the silty water. Illuminating the path ahead. With each step, the ungainly suit becomes heavier. The effort leaving him drenched in sweat. Despite bitter cold. Constantly checking and re-checking his course. Adjusting his bearing. Losing orientation whenever the compass isn’t directly in view.
At this depth, the world is moonlit. Nothing is more than a silhouette until close at hand. Everything in constant motion. Suspended sediment spiraling in secret patterns. Stirred by unflagging currents. Dizzying if he focuses on it.
Surrounded by nothing, Ren is uniquely alone. Entirely cut off from humanity. Not just remote. Unlocatable. A pinprick in the ocean. One fleck of flotsam. Never has he felt so separate.
How long has he been out there? Hours? Days? The walk has absorbed all sense of time. No clock among the instruments on his forearm. A cruelty whose severity he couldn’t have predicted. His only measure: The needle of is air gauge. Creeping slowly across a green pie slice. Nearly into the yellow now. Time is passing. That much at least, he knows with certainty.
And ashore? Has his absence been noticed? What’s going through Dawn’s mind? Has she contacted Netty, yet? Are they searching for him? The thought pulls taut his heartstrings. Is it truly possible he might never see them again? Worse yet: That he might simply vanish from their lives without explanation? Unwilling perpetrator of a sudden desertion they will spend the rest of their lives questioning.
But neither friends nor family can help him now. Thinking of them will only make his journey harder. So - forcing them from his mind - he continues on alone.
A sudden deep sea sandstorm kicks up. An impenetrable moving wall rising around him. The silt in the water reflecting back his helmet’s beam. Whiting out his vision. Leaving him blind.
Ren stops. Eyes clenched shut. He gropes in the metal sphere containing his right hand. Feeling for the switch. Shutting off the lantern. Replacing white with black. The particles in the water now blocking out as much light as they’d been reflecting. For a moment, the darkness is soothing. A respite from the harsh glare. But quickly, it becomes overpowering. Burying him.
Gasping for breath, Ren looks upwards. Through the small portholes on the ceiling of his helmet. Overhead, there is still blue. And somewhere, above that: Sunlight. The open sky still exists. The wide world still spreads out in all directions. Broad. Open. Expansive. The idea alone is calming.
Ready to move forward once more, Ren feels for the light switch. But before he can press it, he sees something. Ahead. A gauzy mirage, possibly. An after-image? Or... It’s a light. Two, actually. A small blue circle floating above a wider more diffuse glow.
The second diving bell! It must be: Signal lantern on top. Interior light shining out through the narrow panoramic window.
A wave of giddy excitement washes over him. Nearly to the next waystation! He giggles nervously to himself. Hearing the mania in his own laugh, he stops. Down here - where everything is heightened - all extremes are equally dangerous. He can’t allow himself to give in to joy any more than to despair. He needs to remain even-keeled. As neutral and emotionless as possible. It’s his only hope for making it out of the ocean alive.
He aims for the light. Moving at a faster pace than he’d previously dared. Vaguely worried about walking blind, but unwilling to turn on his headlamp. Not if it means losing track of the next bell. No way.
Not when he’s so close to completing the first stage.
~
The dice rattled across the table. Deflected off the monitors. Settled onto sixes.
“Shut! Up!” Libby slapped the desktop. She simply couldn’t fathom the boy’s luck.
He smiled. Bore off his last four checkers. “You’re gammoned. How many times is that?”
“Shut up.” She stared at the dice. Willing their configuration to change. It didn’t.
It had only taken a few weeks for him to start beating her regularly. By this point, he rarely lost.
“I must’ve had a good teacher.” He sat back from the board. Totaling their scores with a dull golf pencil. “Good at teaching, I mean... At playing? Absolute balls.”
“You must shut up. Now you must. Really.” She collected the pieces. Began setting up for another match. The loser’s duty.
The boy absently scanned the monitors. The view unchanged. All well. As always. He mulled another jab to aim at his partner. On the verge of perfecting the wording when he heard the creak. Light footsteps. From the other side of the crow’s nest. “Did you hear that?”
Libby frowned. Continued her task. “Mice. Hear ‘em all the time.”
“No...” He sat back. Listening. “I really don’t--”
Another creak. Louder. Then, shuffling.
The boy jumped to his feet. Looking past the screens. Into a recess. Beneath the steps to the lantern room. Storage for a few old crates. Despite the darkness gathered there, he spotted a small movement.
Instantly, he knew. What it was. Who. But before he could start in its direction, Libby snagged his wrist. Squeezed. “Sit.”
“You don’t get it. It’s exactly what I used to--”
Flaring eyes underline Libby’s whispered command: “Do NOT spoil her fun.”
Shocked, the boy lowered himself onto his seat. Dropped his volume to match hers. “You know who it--”
“Of course. It’s Wanda.”
His six year-old sister. Up past her bedtime. Sneaking out of the Lesguettes family residence. Into part of the lighthouse where she wasn’t allowed. Just as he had. Though he hadn’t made his way there until he was ten.
He couldn’t make sense of Libby’s response to the unauthorized incursion. “So, what? You’re letting her stay?”
“She’s not doing any harm... Just let her think she’s getting away with it.”
“But... What if she hears something? Something she’s not supposed to?”
“Well, let’s see...” Libby smirked at him. “Did you ever hear anything you weren’t supposed to?”
The boy’s mouth dropped open.
Libby rolled her eyes. “Thought you were so careful and clever, didn’t you? Absolutely certain no one ever realized you were hiding in there.”
Truthfully, he knew his father had spotted him. Once, when he’d brought his other sister along. Beyond that, he’d never realized he’d been found out. “Guess I always just assumed--”
“Sounded like a goddamn heard of buffalo stampeding through.”
“What?! No!” The boy laughed. He really had considered himself the sneakiest of all at the time. Imagining he moved like the wind. Coming and going unnoticed. Without leaving the slightest trace of his presence. “But wait... Letting her stay... Doesn’t that count
as breaking the Circle?”
“Allow me to pass along to you the rhetorical question your dad posed to me, the first time we were paid a late-night visit by the intruder we came to refer to as: The Lighthouse Ninja...” Libby leaned in close. The boy mirrored her. “He asked me, ‘What’s the likelihood, really, that any Lesguettes child will not eventually come to join the Circle?’”
The boy thought about it. Having just joined - with the older of his two younger sisters already chomping at the bit to do the same - the answer seemed clear.
“All right. She stays.”
“Attaboy! Now... Let’s give her a thrill, huh?” Libby pushed her chair back. “Quiet night out there.” Her voice loud once more. False, though he wouldn’t bet on Wanda recognizing it.
Catching up, the boy stammered: “Y-yeah... Not much of anything going on.”
“I don’t like it!” Libby pounded the desktop. Scattering backgammon pieces everywhere. “It’s TOO quiet! I think they must be up to something...”
“You, you do?” Bewildered, the boy vaguely remembered hearing similar skits played out for his benefit. Never the wiser for it. No wonder he assumed the job was an exciting one. Despite all evidence to the contrary.
“Of course! And just when it seems there’s absolutely nothing happening... That’s when it’s most dangerous!”
“Then... This must be our most dangerous night, yet!”
“Yes! Truly, the island is lucky to have us on watch. Without our vigilance, there’d be nothing at all stopping them from-- WHAT’S THAT, THERE?!” Libby leapt to her feet. Suddenly pointing at one of the monitors.
The boy jumped in spite of himself. Staring at the screen. Seeing nothing to differentiate it from any other moment of the closed-circuit feed since he started doing the job. “What? I don’t--”
“No, I guess you’re right. It must have just been a trick of the light... But we’d better keep an eye on things, just in case.” Libby winked at him. Her partner. Welcoming the boy to the other side. Now, officially: In on the joke. It was a good feeling.
She ducked beneath the table. Gathering up the dice and checkers she’d bounced to the floor. Done with the play-acting for the time being. “Hit the head if you need to. I’ll set up. You won last, so I roll first.”
~
The hatch opens. Swings upward. Inward.
Relief washes over Ren as he climbs the ladder. Out of water. Into air. He throws a leg over the edge. Rolls into the second diving bell. As quickly as he can manage: He removes his helmet. Strips out of the suit. Free, however briefly. Almost weightless with the burden lifted from his shoulders. Light-footed without the weighted boots doubling the effort necessary to complete each and every step.
Covered in perspiration, the cold interior chills Ren on contact. Breaks through his weariness. He breathes deeply. Finds the air something less than fresh. Slightly sour, even. A reminder: The bells are checkpoints. Not rest stops.
Originally intended as an early warning network of additional guard stations monitoring the deep sea against underwater attack, the diving bells quickly proved unworkable: Too expensive to maintain. Too onerous to man. No one willingly volunteered for five day shifts of claustrophobia and cabin fever. Especially in winter months when the arrival of relief crews was often delayed, extending the nightmare to a full week or more.
Each diving bell features: A kitchenette. A shower/water closet. A foldaway bed.
Maybe no one looked forward to being stationed in one, but - following his underwater walkabout - this all sounds pretty good to Ren. Unfortunately, his time there is short. The ache in his lungs reminds him: The bell’s atmosphere will not support respiration for long. Just enough to allow him to prep for the next leg of his journey. A pair of fresh tanks lean against the wall. Awaiting his attention.
He gets to work: Opens the back of the dive suit. Unhooks the old tanks. Tosses them aside. Installs the replacements. He doesn’t open the airflow. Not yet. Not until he makes sure Plan B is still an option. Moving quickly, he leaves the suit. Other, older business to take care of.
In a kitchen drawer he finds silverware. Grabs a butter knife.
In the washroom, he stands on the toilet. Dizzier than he should be. Air thinning. He brushes it off. Counts wall tiles: Nine from the left. Two from the ceiling. He wedges the knife next to the tile. Pops it out. Revealing: A hole in the wall.
Right where he’d left it.
His fingers probe the space. Find: A key. His key. Unbelievably, undiscovered in all the intervening years. Plan B? Still an option. Last resort, but possible if necessary. He pockets the key. Pushes the tile back into place. Exits.
In the main bell, Ren pauses. Peers out through the narrow panoramic porthole. Less than a foot tall, but running the width of the bell on one side. If not for the threat of death by asphyxiation, he might just enjoy the view. Sea-life coming and going. Gazing in at him without much concern. Floating languidly away. Following their movements, his eyes grow heavy. His head tips.
Overhead, the main lights flicker. Shut down.
Shit! Lulled by lack of oxygen, he’s lingered too long. Slapping himself on the cheeks, Ren hauls ass. Back into the dive suit. Helmet on. Securing everything as quickly as possible. Forcing himself to double-check each fastener as insurance against his own fuzzy brain.
As he works, another visitor swims up to the window. Much larger than the others. Larger than Ren, even. It grips the exterior of the bell with long, webbed talons. Glares in with cold eyes. A malignant gaze. Taking the measure of the man struggling into the dive suit. Then, it swims away.
Unnoticed.
CHAPTER TEN
“Not to worry, lad. No rush at all. I’ve all the time in the world remaining, don’t I?” The Electrician reaches the lighthouse parking lot. Sits against his van’s rear bumper. Puffs a cigar stub to life. Waits for his apprentice to catch up.
Outside the lighthouse, members of the Watch swarm. Wanting to know what’s going on. What happened on the beach? Who’s been hurt? Who survived? Mourning their fallen colleagues. Trading misinformation about the attack. Descending on the few survivors for eyewitness reports. The Electrician dispatched them easily, with a few barbed epithets. Max on the other hand...
“Max! You were down there, weren’t you?”
“What did you see?”
“What about Sylvie?”
“What happened to Fat Antoine? Do you know? No one will tell us anything!”
He weaves his way through the confused and curious crowd. Bearing the blackened remnants of the pulser. Exhausted after toting it up the cliffside staircase. Struggling under its weight. Receiving exactly zero offers of assistance.
He’s okay. More or less. Only bruised by leaping away from the overheating battery moments before it exploded. No new lacerations received. No broken bones. He’s limping, but really: No more lopsided than he’s been since surviving his first explosion. At McLennon Lighthouse. What seems like three lifetimes ago.
“Guys, Sylvie said I can’t talk about it. Not until the Old Men debrief me, okay?” The lie sounds legit, anyway. Does the trick, too: Clearing everyone from his path. Disappointed, but without further question or comment. Allowing him to tote what’s left of the metal sphere over to Norman’s van.
“Just toss it in, right?” The old man rises as his apprentice approaches. He slides open the side door. “Don’t have to bother bein’ careful of it now, do ye?”
“It’s not like it was intentional. We didn’t mean to blow the thing up.”
“No, but ye knew it was comin’ din’tcha? Sylvie’s fingers gettin’ burnt and seein’ it flickerin’ and not thinkin’ to come back and find out what I could do about it.” Norman flicks ash from his stub. Climbs up into the driver’s seat. “Who’s to say I couldn’t’a fixed it some? Sentcha back out without the risk o’ blowin’ your own fool souls to Hades.”
Max peers into the congested van. Its interior: Lined with shelves and drawers. Full of poor
ly-maintained power tools. Not a lot of room for the big metal sphere. “We got them all, though. Extinguished every last little monster. That’s what matters.” With a grunt, he heaves the pulser atop the pile of junk. Pushes it in farther. Until it no longer seems likely to roll out of position.
“Aye, but ye coulda had that and not exploded yerselves. Next time, just...” Norman fades out. Caught on the idea of next times. Knowing he’s in short supply. Shaking the dark thoughts from his mind, he starts the van. “Yer gonna want to give that slider a mighty slam. Won’t likely latch, otherwise.”
Max hauls back. Shoves the van’s side panel along its groove. Before he’s even let go, Norman peels away. Leaving him stumbling. Barely catching his balance in time to see the van reach the edge of the crowded parking lot. Scraping paint from the sides of at least two parked vehicles as it exits.
Watching the van head down the highway, Max sighs. Turns away as it disappears over a rise.
“You’re welcome.”
~
“Sylvie! What a pleasant surprise!” Held mid-air, the red-headed saboteur is thrilled to see Sylvie pound down the cellar steps. The Old Men lifting her are not. Mr. Wynneau and Mrs. Chilton lower their captive back to her badly stained cot. Straighten. Readying to face whatever Sylvie has for them.
Previously congested with Old Men, the cellar has now mostly emptied out. Sylvie is plainly shocked to find the three remaining in the midst of removing their prisoner.
The redhead snickers. “Have to say... Didn’t expect I’d see you again. Guess we both have a knack for evading the inevitable, huh? But what’s happened to your poor fingies? Our toothy friends didn’t get to nibbling at them, did they?” She bites at the air for emphasis.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 5