The Old Men look at Sylvie’s hands. Bandaids covering each burnt fingertip.
Sylvie ignores the redhead’s taunting. Storms forward. Enflamed. Advancing on the woman with intent to do grievous harm. Until Mr. Rothstein steps into her path. Arms outstretched to hold her at bay. “Uh-uh. Sorry, Captain Sylvie. Mrs. Rutherford wants her moved.”
“After what we just went through? All we’ve lost? You think I’m anywhere near done with her?”
“Aww... And I’m going to miss you, too!” The prisoner snickers. “But, given how I’ve played you so far? The old lady thought it best I be relocated. Can’t say as I disagree...”
Sylvie makes a sudden break around Rothstein. Gets a few feet closer to the woman before he manages to tackle her to the floor. Holding her wrists behind her back - turning her arms to the very edge of dislocation - he hauls her to her feet again.
“Wow! A valiant effort! I’d clap, but...” The woman’s head doesn’t move as she points her eyes down at her paralyzed self. “Well, you know...”
With Sylvie momentarily restrained, the Old Men resume their task. Shifting the woman from cot to waiting wheelchair.
“Rothstein! You can’t just let her... Don’t you want to make her pay? It wasn’t just my friends she bushwhacked out there. She took down Old Men, too!”
Rothstein leans in. Whispers: “You really think Mrs. Rutherford’s taking this evil bitch out of here just to go easy on her?” Sylvie’s eyes widen as she listens. “I know you want to crank the handle yourself, but be honest: Who would you guess could come up with the more severe punishment? You or the old lady?”
“Oh! Oh!” The redhead shouts. “I have a guess! I can play too, right?”
Sylvie looks over her shoulder at Rothstein. Pleads: “You... You have to take me along... I need to be there.”
“But that’s not what we need... We need our questions answered. If the bastards are going on the offensive, that will prove far more valuable than exacting petty vengeance. You must see that.”
Sylvie stares at the floor. “She killed my best friends... They’re all I had left.”
Rothstein loosens his angle on her arms slightly. “Even so. Lashing out at her will only make it harder for us to get the information we need. It’s not going to bring them back. It won’t bring back Mr. Nolty. Or Mr. Sheffield. And it’s certainly not going to help your father any.”
“My--” Sylvie is baffled. “My father?”
“Oh, look!” The saboteur laughs. “She didn’t know!”
“But what’s... Mr. Rothstein?” Sylvie cranes her neck. Looks back at the Old Man. “Has something happened to my dad?”
~
Because she made the call, the paramedic is asking Dawn questions. Because she made the call, and because she’s a relative. But she has no answers. Knows next to nothing about the man. Her grandfather: Martin Lesguettes. Certainly nothing that could possibly be of help at a time like this. She’s not even saying “I don’t know” anymore. Just watching, as the two EMTs lift the stretcher into the ambulance. Seeing its legs collapse as it slides inside. How it shudders as it locks into place.
For his part, Grampy doesn’t notice. Thankfully, he is not awake for the jarring ride.
What nobody asks about? How frightened he’d seemed before it happened. How the color had drained from his face as he looked at her. No one wants to know about the worst part. The part she’d never forget: That he’d pushed her away when she tried to help. As though the very possibility of contact with her was terrifying.
“Was it you, Miss Lesguettes? Did you, in fact, scare your grandfather to death?” Nobody asks that. And a good thing, too, because: “I believe so,” she’d be forced to admit, “I don’t know how, but... Yes, very probably, I did.”
All around the lighthouse, people have gathered. Maintaining a polite distance from the ambulance. Watching her grandfather get squared away. Peering into the vehicle as the experts prepare him for transport to Midgate General. A few have patted her arm in passing. Whispered well-wishes and reassurances. A few faces she vaguely recognizes from Aaron’s funeral. But why are they here at all? Who even told them what was happening? Most were already assembled there when the stretcher was first wheeled out.
“Dawn?” A familiar voice. She turns to see Max approaching. Throws herself against his chest before he knows what’s hitting him. Clutches at his scrawny frame. “Woah! Okay. What are you doing here? Who’s in the--”
“My Grampy. He... He fell.”
“Holy shit, dude. What happened? Is he okay?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. No one can tell me. They’re saying heart incident. Possible brain incident. I don’t even know what incident is supposed to mean, Max. I don’t--”
“Miss?” The paramedic again.
Dawn makes eye contact, but holds on to Max. Maybe he can protect her from further questions she can’t possibly hold the answers to. “Are you coming?”
“Coming?”
“There’s room, if you’d like. And it might help your grandfather, having someone ride alongside--”
“Move it!” A shout from the lighthouse. Dawn looks back as the crowd splits. Everyone leaping out of her Aunt Sylvie’s way. Making room as the woman storms forward. Fists clenched. Barely stopping, her nose inches from Dawn’s own. “Where’s my dad?” Accusatory. Does she think her niece has hidden him?
Dawn points to the ambulance. “He’s--”
Done with her, Sylvie moves past. Hoists herself aboard. Crouches at her father’s side.
Just as the doors are swung shut, she glances back at Dawn. Her eyes throw daggers. Machetes. Meat cleavers. Blaming her for what’s happened. Whatever is coming. Eternally tinting what might be the very last moment Dawn sees her grandfather alive.
A suffocating blanket of guilt descends as she thinks about Grampy’s collapse. She doesn’t know how... She doesn’t know why... But Dawn is one hundred percent sure...
She’s responsible.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Terrorism!” Mrs. Rutherford’s lips brush the microphone. “Today’s attack was nothing more or less than a... An... Egregious attack. Er... An assault! On all that we - as Islanders - hold dear.”
She blinks. Curses herself. Her own stumbling delivery. Perhaps it will be seen, not as the weakness of an elderly woman finally feeling her age, but as evidence of her sincerity. Momentarily overcome by emotion in a tragic circumstance.
“And why? What is it which has brought us to this point? What could possibly turn man against brother? Pitting Islanders against each other in spite of shared past and common future? What could so horribly influence our men and women... Good people who could never otherwise conceive of such evil acts, let alone carry them out.”
She looks sadly over her shoulder. At the half-started bridge. Its broken end reaching pointlessly into the late afternoon sky. Symbol of all that’s wrong with the world. She shakes her head at the injustice. “I think we all know the answer. It’s obvious, and... I believe it is, anyway. Obvious and unavoidable. Because there’s only one thing that could possibly be responsible for driving our good-hearted and... Honest and hard-working Islanders to deeds of such... Desperation.”
She pauses before delivering her punchline. Thrusts a blaming index finger toward the offending unfinished monument. “Federal overreach!”
~
A television hangs suspended from the ceiling. Bracketed there by an inexpertly welded steel frame. Tuned to local news: Mrs. Rutherford’s miniature press conference underway.
“When will our nation’s government grasp that nothing good can come of forcing its will on those it doesn’t seek to understand? That doing so will only inspire uncharacteristic lashing out. Whoever is personally to blame for building and triggering this explosive... The true culprits have never even deigned to set foot on our fair island.”
Most of the police station watches silently. Nodding in agreement with the old woman’s empty, facile points.
So rapt are they, that no one notices when the sheriff enters.
He stops in the doorway. Surprised by the all-but motionless room. Following their collective gaze to the television as the old lady continues her monologue.
“Rest assured: Those responsible will be held... Responsible. But we must remember that this heinous event has not occurred in a vacuum. It is vital that we attempt to uncover the larger context. The true motivator behind the circumstance leading to the deaths of so many of our beloved fellow citizens. That being: The disenfranchisement of Islanders, as arbiters of our own lives.”
Unaware of the events of the day, Schilling leans on the reception desk. Speaks low to Millie: “Did I jusht hear her shay: Deathsh of sho many chitizhens?”
Millie glances at him. “The explosion... On the beach.”
He looks back. Blankly.
“Oh!” Millie realizes: He doesn’t know. “But I thought you must’ve been out at the... Haven’t you heard that--”
“Jusht shpit it out, Millie. What in holy fuck ish going on?”
She debates explaining. Then: “Probably, you should talk to Deputy Hubert, Sheriff.”
“I should talk... To Netty?” Red creeps into his cheeks. His forehead.
Millie shrinks back from his rage. “She took the call. From Mrs. Rutherford. When you weren’t here.”
“She did, huh? Sho helpful.” He straightens. Scans the bullpen. Netty’s nowhere to be seen.
Millie fills him in: “She’s with her suspects, I think. Check the observation room.”
~
Empty.
Schilling enters the observation room. Finds nobody home.
“Goddamnit.” He’s running behind the times. Oblivious to a deadly explosion. Unaware of the progress his deputy has made on the unsolvable case that was meant to be another nail in the coffin of her career.
Becoming sheriff, Schilling had thought his days as the-last-to-know were over. But at the very least, he should have some idea what’s going on before his demoted former-boss/current-underling, Netty.
About to go give Millie shit for not keeping better track of his deputies, he notices the monitors. On the first screen: A muscular bald man and a much smaller woman with a blonde Betty Page hairdo. Both appear to be asleep. Heads resting on the metal table. On the second screen: Netty sits across from an elderly nun.
The elderly nun.
Groaning, Schilling rushes out.
On the second monitor, the two women look up as he enters. Listen as he rants. After a moment, Netty rises. Exits with him.
~
“Let’sh jusht get thish shtraight: Are you, or are you not aware that Mother Agatha ish on the lisht?”
Netty is aware. She is definitely aware. “My suspects wrote down a phone number. I couldn’t possibly know who was on the other end, until I called it. What was I supposed to do, then? Ask if she had Prince Albert in a can and hang up giggling?”
Schilling stalks around his office. Pacing behind Netty’s chair. “So you figured, what? Shinche it wash already too late, you might ash well bring her in? Even though the Old Men shpechifically shay she ish shomeone we are to leave alone?”
“Look, the Hunters? That couple in Interrogation One? They’re the ones digging the holes. But they’re only here because that nun contracted them.”
“Why would she do that?” He crosses his arms.
“She says she’s into treasure hunting.”
Schilling snorts in disbelief. “The nun ish?”
“No, I know. It sounds nuts, but she told me directly. And here’s the really strange thing: She claims to own all the land where the digging took place.”
“And doesh she?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got Chartrain looking into it.”
“But if it ish true... She can dig whatever holesh there she wantsh to?”
Netty has no answer.
Schilling does: “Cut her loosh. Her friendsh, too.”
“What?! Schilling, the...” Netty pauses. Calms. Corrects herself. “Sheriff. She’s admitted to it. She’s responsible. For the holes. And people have been injured. Badly. Someone could’ve been killed.”
“She’sh on the lisht! None of the resht of it mattersh, Deputy.” He drags Netty’s chair around in a half-circle. Drops eye-to-eye with her. “The Old Men shay she’sh pershona non grata. You know what that meansh?”
“I do.” Netty cocks an eyebrow. “But how’s your Latin, these days?”
“It meansh: You don’t call her. You don’t bring her in. And you sure ash shit don’t shtick her in the box and queshtion her like a common criminal.”
Netty flinches. Disgusted. Getting flecked by the man’s spittle. “What am I supposed to say to her victims?”
“You honeshtly think I give the shlightesht shit? You shay you’ve come up empty. Shay you’re shorry they got shtuck with a usheless deputy who can’t closhe their cayshe. But from thish point forward, you do not follow any leadsh pointing to anyone on the Old Men’sh lisht and for Chrisht’sh shake, you releashe the nun and her mole people minionsh before you bring the wrath of Mishush Rutherford down on my head.”
Raging inside, Netty opens her mouth. “If it were up to me--”
Schilling cuts her off: “Nothing ish up to you, anymore. Ignore my ordersh and you’ll be looking down the barrel of shushpenshion for inshubordination, Deputy Hubert.”
“The barrel of... What?”
Schilling swallows. Tries to clear the excess saliva from his mouth. “Of... Inshub... Of shushpensh...”
Bored, Netty stands. “Yes, sir!” She strides out of her former office, leaving her former employee dealing with his own drool.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“So, only Sheffield and Nolty, then?” Mr. Hickman sits behind the counter. Stationed at the dispensary window. Phone to ear. “No. I’m not saying they were acceptable casualties, Mrs. Chilton. You know that’s not how I intended it. I’d simply been under the impression the number had been far higher. First reports made it sound as though nearly every Old Man currently at the lighthouse had been cut down in the attack.”
It’s been an unusually quiet day for Mr. Hickman. Beyond telephone calls and a visit from the argumentative Mr. Grist - insisting he was owed a second monthly allotment after using up his first too quickly - the Dispenser had been left to his own devices. Besides himself, the West corridor of the Home was practically empty. With the capture of the saboteur, nearly everyone not already assigned field duty had relocated to Lesguettes Lighthouse. Waiting on Mrs. Rutherford. Expecting her interrogation to lead to new assignments. Ready to go to war. Some itching for it, after so many years of inaction.
“If I’m to be entirely honest, though... It could only help our little shortage to have fewer members drawing on the back-up supply for a little while. Might give Joan and Bette the chance to replenish themselves. Assuming that’s even possible at this point. I know I’d benefit from the opportunity to restock the shelves and regain a little breathing room.”
A shuffling draws Mr. Hickman’s attention. He leans out the dispensary window. Looks down the hallway. It’s empty. No one walking across the persian rugs covering the black oak floors. No one sitting on the cushioned benches spaced intermittently along the walls.
“Well, of course it’s a mercenary position, Mrs. Chilton. But remember: Despite all our rationing, I personally watch the stores dwindle with each passing day. Unlike the rest of you, I don’t have the luxury of denial.” He sits back. Absentmindedly rubs the palm of his hand across the vast expanse of his bald spot. A habit which may well have caused his empty pate in the first place. “No, the circumstances are becoming dire. You may not realize it, but every day, more of us are experiencing withdrawal symptoms. And after using so consistently and for so long, how could we expect any other outcome? I shudder to imagine the situation we’ll be in when the stockpile is not just low, but non-existent.”
More shuffling. He looks again. At the far end of the
hall: An old man wanders into view. Not an Old Man... An elderly man. Leaning heavily on a cane. Breathing hard through his mouth. Goggling at one of the oil paintings hung along the corridor. Then, moving on to the next. Clearly, he has strayed far from home.
It takes Mr. Hickman a moment to place him. Unlike his fellow Old Men, the gentleman slowly advancing down the corridor has changed a great deal over the years. The Dispenser smiles to see the march of time made plain. Watching the man slide one foot forward. Catching up with the other. Unable to raise either from contact with the floor, or cover more than a few inches of distance at a time.
“You’re never going to guess who just sauntered in from the East Corridor...” He stands. Keeping an eye on the intruder. “No. It seems the Young Man has chosen today to pay us a little visit.”
Apparently exhausted by his travels, the Young Man shuffles to the nearest bench. Teeters a moment, then... Plops down. Still catching his breath, he lays his cane across his lap. Clutching it with both gnarled hands. All the while, staring intently at the tapestry hanging on the opposite wall.
“I couldn’t say, but he looks lost to me. Wouldn’t it be delicious if he was finally losing it?” Mr. Hickman sneers. Clucks his tongue. “Oh, if only the poor fellow had deigned to accept the blessings of ichthyoplasm alongside the rest of us. Then, he too may have escaped those capricious ravages of time.”
The Young Man stills. Stares into the tapestry. Rapt. No longer aware of anything around him.
“Right you are, Mrs. Chilton. I’ll go deal with him now. My best to the others.”
Mr. Hickman hangs up. Moves to the door. Pauses... Should he lock the dispensary? Dealing with the Young Man shouldn’t take long, but might require escorting him back where he belongs. In the past, he could step away without worry. Trusting the others to honor the system. But with the rationing, no one’s been getting enough. Just the bare minimum needed to stave off withdrawal. He couldn’t blame any of them for taking advantage of the situation, should they stumble across his window unattended.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 6