FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

“Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s to be expected. Going through withdrawal from--” A rag drops over her face. Gags her. Pulling her lips back in a rictus, Mr. Wynneau ties the ends tightly behind her head.

  He looks to his partner. Her shaking has stopped. “You good?”

  Mrs. Chilton releases herself. Nods.

  “Good, then. Let’s get this done with.”

  Each takes a side. They hoist the woman by her armpits. Cram her roughly into the backseat of the black sedan.

  ~

  Even at this distance, the woman’s red hair stands out. A bright beacon. Still visible through the windows after she is manhandled into the car.

  The slamming doors float across the highway as sharp claps. The revving engine makes it to the treeline as a low purr.

  As the black sedan negotiates through the congested lighthouse parking lot, the pair watching from the woods shrink back. Receding into the trees. Remaining just near enough to observe without risk of being spotted.

  But no one is looking for them: Mr. Wynneau concentrating on pulling out. Mrs. Chilton distracted by the quivering of her own traitorous limbs. Their paralyzed passenger unable to turn her head.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the car chooses a direction. Exits the lot. Disappears over the rise.

  Once out of sight, the observers pull their brown cloaks tight. Fade into the darkness entirely.

  Surveillance completed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I’m so pleased we could settle the matter so expeditiously.” Mother Agatha follows Netty through the police station. The Deputy now charged with escorting her to the door.

  “Not sure I’d consider anything ‘settled’ if I were you, Agatha.” Netty doesn’t glance back at the tall nun. Sick of the sight of her. “We might not be able to bring a case against you, but there’s no guarantee those who fell in your holes won’t be pursuing civil remedies. In fact, I’m quite certain they’ll be receiving that recommendation.”

  “Not to worry, Deputy. I think you’ll find they’ve each had a change of heart on that front. At least... When I spoke to them, they seemed content to allow bygones to be bygone.”

  “When you--”

  “The very moment their unfortunate injuries came to my attention, I reached out. To try to make things right, of course.”

  “You-- How could you possibly have had time to--”

  “Penance and restitution are our moral obligations, Deputy. It’s only correct to fulfill them as soon as possible.”

  Reaching the exit, Netty stops. Glowering at the older woman.

  “I want you to know, Deputy Hubert: I understand. You’re only doing your job.” Mother Agatha extends an open hand. Netty glares at it. Clearly repulsed. No way is she going anywhere near the pale dead fish being held toward her.

  Instead, she scans the station. Seeing who is where. Catches sight of Schilling. Watching the interaction from his office. Smiling his metallic smile. Thrilled to force Netty to eat her pride. Finally getting all he’d hoped for out of his promotion.

  Netty bares her teeth. Speaks softly: “And I want you to know, Agatha: Regardless of what the sheriff or his puppet masters may have to say... I’m not done with you yet. You may believe you’ve gotten away with everything, but you’ve only delayed the inevitable.”

  Mother Agatha sneers. “Seems you’re interested in digging some holes of your own, Antoinette.”

  “I know what you’ve done. To all those poor girls. There will be a reckoning. You will be held responsible for your actions.”

  “Hm.” Mother Agatha moves into the doorway. “That reminds me... A friend of a friend asked me to say hello. Paula Fields?”

  Netty remains silent. Her left eye betrays her with a twitch.

  “Wonderful girl. A fine addition to the order. She’s just joined the novitiate at St. Neot’s, you know. Say... Were you ever able to determine who was responsible for her terrible injuries?”

  “As a matter of fact--”

  “It’s a fortunate thing the culprits have limited themselves thus far, isn’t it? Only going after girls. Young men - like your own son, Max - appear to be safe. For now, anyway.”

  Netty’s face flushes red. Her ears pound. It takes all of her resolve to keep from leaping at the woman. “You really believe you’re somehow outside the law, don’t you?”

  “Whose law? Yours?” The old nun scoffs. Leans in. “Sooner or later, Antoinette? You will have to face facts: There’s nothing you can do. Not as sheriff, and certainly not as deputy. I answer to another law entirely, and when its judgments are finally rendered, I will be rewarded with riches beyond measure.” She steps back. “Sheriff Schilling! Please allow me to congratulate you on your well-deserved promotion.”

  Schilling grins as he approaches. “Thanksh. Jusht making sure Deputy Hubert ish treating you right. Alsho, I wanted to apologizhe for our shcrew up in forching you to come down here like thish.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. Any way I can be of service to our community, I’m more than happy to.”

  Netty stares into space. Paying no attention to their niceties. “Y’know... You’re right, Agatha. On this one thing, anyway. For the longest time, I’ve been ignoring the facts. Trying to change the system from the inside. But now that I’m facing the reality of the situation? I can finally see things clearly: There’s nothing any cop can do to stop you.”

  Schilling shifts, uncomfortably. “Deputy...”

  Netty glances at the man. As though just now realizing he’s joined them. “Uh-huh. And that’s the problem, exactly.” She unclips her holster. Pulls off her badge. Sets both on the reception desk. “To whomever it may concern? I quit.”

  She slides between the sheriff and the nun. Smiling sweetly at the angry grimace she’s finally managed to bring out on the elderly woman’s face. “Be seeing you, Agatha.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I don’t get it. How could this give anyone a heart attack?” Max examines the yellowing front page of the newspaper: August 15th, 1965. Young Mother Agatha and her brother in the dot-toned photograph. The headline:

  PEARCE SIBLINGS PLEDGE INHERITANCE TO PUBLIC USE

  Dawn shrugs. “All I know is: Grampy took one look and just... Freaked out.” She kicks at the sand. Heading toward the darkening shoreline. “A couple minutes later, he was laid out on the attic floor.”

  Burp Beach is empty. The surrounding alder grove throwing it mostly into shadow so late in the day. The broken-down picnic table stands just beyond the water’s edge. Up to its benches in ocean. Dragged there by some earlier visitor, no doubt, when the tide was still out. Abandoned to nature’s less than tender mercies.

  As requested, the spot is a quiet one.

  Though Max had offered to accompany her, Dawn hadn’t felt up to following the ambulance to Midgate General. Calls to her father had gone unanswered, so the empty cabin awaiting her was not an attractive option, either. Without thinking, Max had proposed this secluded plot of sand. Where he’d seen brown-robed stalkers peeping on her. Where he’d pulled her from the water, believing her dead. She agreed with the suggestion instantly. He’d regretted it only moments later. Given his day, another trip to the beach might not be the most relaxing of options.

  Regardless, Max wades into the water. Steps up onto the picnic table. It shifts under his weight. Loose bolts acting as hinges. Allowing the top to slant back before catching. Holding in a slightly reclined position. Fine by Max.

  As Dawn plants herself next to him, he finishes reading the article. Not much to it beyond the headline: Rich kids inherit land. Not knowing what else to do with it, they decide to allow the rest of the island to use it freely. Provided they aren’t held responsible for any problems that may result. Pretty generous, really. With nothing more to discover, Max folds the paper along a pre-existing crease. Hands it back to Dawn. “And you don’t even know how you’re connected to them?”

  Dawn slides it into her backpack. “No idea. Just... Stumbled across
the name and date while researching. Kinda strange I’d run into her on the ferry over, though.”

  “Hm.” Max wouldn’t count it as strange. Having lived in close quarters with a limited population his whole life, coincidental run-ins are fairly commonplace. “I have to tell you, Dawn: I know it’s kinda your thing, but I don’t get why you care so much who you’re related to.”

  “Yeah... To be honest, I’m not sure I get it anymore, myself.” Dawn lets her legs hang over the table’s edge. Toes tickling the water. “I guess it’s just wanting to feel connected. To something bigger. More permanent.”

  “Because you don’t? Feel connected?”

  “Outside of my parents - and my grandma when she was still around - I’ve never really clicked with anyone. I mean, I’ve had friends, but... No one I’d consider close, you know?”

  Max nods. “Aaron was that for me. We were tight. No blood relation required.”

  “Not to stir anything up, but... Does it concern you? The thought you might not find that again?”

  “Are you joking? Why should I worry, when I can always turn to Mandi and Allison for company?”

  After an ‘is-that-supposed-to-be-sarcasm?’ pause, the two crack up.

  “Kid, if that’s true, you’re in much worse shape than me.” Dawn falls into Max. The pair lay back against the table. Her head on his chest. Water on all sides. Easy to imagine they’re floating on a raft. Adrift. Alone.

  “Is this okay?”

  “Um... Yeah.” Max stays very still. Hyper-aware of the rise and fall of his own respiration. Not wanting to disturb her. “It’s okay.”

  The waves shoosh. Insects buzz. Dawn sighs. “Back at the lighthouse... All those people... That wasn’t just because of Grampy, was it?”

  “Let’s just say: It was an eventful day. And some of the events... They were pretty shit.”

  Dawn gasps. Slaps his stomach. “Max! I’m so selfish! I didn’t even think to ask. I was so wrapped up in my own--”

  “Don’t be stupid. With what’s going on with your grandfather, you’re excused, believe me.”

  “No. You have to tell me. What happened?”

  “Well...” He thinks. “Started with me getting a promotion. Sort of.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Eh... The jury’s still out. It was...” Max debates. “Fuck! How do people do this? The day was all Circle business, so I’m not sure what I’m allowed to say.”

  “If you can’t be honest about it...” Dawn scoffs. Stops short of passing judgement. “Just give me the gist. Do it Mad-Libs-style: Replace anything incriminating with something innocent.”

  “All right...” It would be skirting the edge of the rules, no doubt. But weighted against the potential relief of getting it all out? Max opts to give it a shot. “One of our... Toasters broke. And we’ve only got just the one toaster repairman, so they decided they needed to train a new one, and I got volunteered. But, before I could finish fixing my first... Toaster, the competition sent some hired thugs to stop me. And we had to... Have them... Deported?”

  “Did you end up fixing the toaster?”

  “I think so.”

  “Yay, Max!” She cheers quietly. Pumps a half-ass fist. “Pop-Tarts for everyone!”

  Max smiles. It fades quickly. “But, the competition wasn’t done with us. They’d... Stolen a company laptop. To get at our files, I guess. So even though we got it back, it turned out they’d installed a virus, and it wiped out a bunch of other computers before we could stop it.” At odds with his story, Max tears up. “We’ve never lost a computer before. Well... Not since I started, at least. We weren’t even sure the competition was still in business at all, so... Knowing they’re out there, willing to attack us... It’s kinda scary.”

  A few stars peer down from the blackening sky. Checking out their own reflections on the surface of the ocean.

  “But I should leave it at that. Probably said too much already, so... Keep it between us, okay?”

  Dawn has no answer. Because Dawn has fallen asleep.

  “Hey.” Max says it softly. Gently nudging her once. “Maybe we should...” However the sentence was going to end, Max thinks better of it when Dawn rolls onto her side. Throws an arm over him. Snuggles in.

  After the day he’s had? If the girl wants to press herself into him all night, he’s not going to argue.

  ~

  She’s with that horrible boy again. Clutching onto him atop the picnic table. Inexplicably attached to the wretched interloper. A nasty complication. But one easily dealt with. In fact? It will be a rare pleasure.

  He watches them closely. Crouching low. Hidden in the alder grove. Breath coming hard. So many years since his last he crossed beyond the wall. Growing weaker the longer he remains outside Adderpool. The air so thin and empty here. So far from the Source. Without it supplementing the air - without the strength it bestows - the effects of his advanced age can no longer be ignored. Joints aching. Gravity’s pull bending him toward the earth. His time spent outside the wall must be short. He must act promptly. While he remains able.

  He removes the leather bundle from his belt. Unrolls it across the sandy ground. Lain out flat, all of his tools are visible: Chisels. Files. Rasps. He selects an awl. Pulls it from its slot. Admires the simplicity. The three inch needle tapering from its ferrule to a fine, perfect point.

  The children have gone silent now. Still. Unaware.

  Soon he’ll make his move. When he’s sure. Then - once the horrid boy is dispatched - she’ll see she has no choice. She’ll return with him. To Adderpool.

  Where she belongs.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It had been dusk when Mother Agatha exited the Mossley Island Police Department. The streets remained active as she descended the three steps to the sidewalk. People coming and going when she parked herself beneath a streetlamp. Still unlit. Unnecessary at the time.

  Bathed now in a pool of orange light, she stands. Tall and upright. No slump to her shoulders. No hunch to her spine. Unbent by the events of the day. So it’s not exactly accurate to say she ‘straightens’ when the Hunters finally emerge. But she does step forward with a smile. Pleased to see them follow her out into freedom after hours in captivity. Relieved it won’t be necessary for her to re-enter the station house in order to force their release.

  For their part, the married couple are well past their limits. Exhausted before they’d arrived. Nearly comatose now. At the bottom of the steps, they pass the nun without acknowledgment. Head off along the sidewalk. Into the night.

  “Treasure? Cache?”

  They pause. Look back at her. Blanks.

  Mother Agatha is sympathetic. But doesn’t bother apologizing to her employees. “Where are we at, guys?”

  The Hunters look to one another. Then, Cache holds up two pinching fingers. Slightly parted.

  The old nun smiles. Nods. “Nice. Be sure to keep me abreast of any new developments.”

  Mrs. Hunter grabs her husband’s hand. Leads him away.

  Mother Agatha turns in the other direction. Savoring the quiet and the chill night air as it sinks into her bones. Satisfied that hiring the Hunters had been a wise decision.

  And now they’re close. She holds her own pinching fingers slightly parted.

  They’re very close.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A nailpolish bottle. The cap is turned. The brush removed. Used to paint the nail of a big toe. A standard pedicure underway at All-Thumbs Mani-Pedi and Spa.

  Most seats are taken. All but one by women. Each being serviced. Pampered. From foot soaks to facials. (With private backrooms for waxing). The tone is loud with chatter. Raucous laughter. Surprisingly heavy music piping in. More appropriate to a spin class than a relaxing spa.

  “Someone upfront asking for you personal, Jewels.” Tammy peeks into her manager’s office. Leaning against the doorframe. “Said she’s a friend of Carlotta’s? Have I met her?”

  Tammy’s new. Doesn
’t know the codes yet.

  “Friends of Carlotta are preferred customers, Tammy. Always assume they’re here to see me.” Jewel saves out of her scheduling spreadsheet. Puts her laptop to sleep. “Seat her at my station. I’ll be right out.” She unlocks the top desk drawer. Takes out one of the last few nailpolish bottles. Checks the sparkling black fluid inside. Drops it in to the pocket of her physician-style white coat.

  Despite the high markup, she’ll be glad to rid herself of the remainder of her stock. With legitimate business booming, the need to rely on ‘specialty imports’ has long-since waned.

  Moving through her salon, Jewel is a walking billboard for its services. French-tips delicately bejeweled. Studiously underdone makeup precisely retouched three times a day. Straddling the border between classy and trashy without teetering.

  Seen from behind: Her new client is a wreck. Not unusual for preferred customers. Sadly, the women who would most benefit are never there to take advantage of the salon’s primary services.

  Sliding behind her station, Jewel runs through her schpiel: “You’ll be wanting a basic shellac. It’s just for show, but we don’t take chances. When we’re done, you pay at the counter, and that’s when you get your premium bottle to take home. It’ll show up on your bill as the outlandishly big automatically calculated gratuity, so thank you in advance. If you want anything more traditional done while you’re here, I’m happy to add it on as well.”

  “Well, I don’t know... Think you could maybe do something with these?” The client lifts her hands from her lap. Pulls off the oven mitts she’s wearing. Lays her palms across the table.

  Jewel can’t help but gasp. The hands are horrors. One distinctly larger than the other. Fingers strangely elongated. Ending in sharp black claws. Connected by membranous webbing. Only now does she look at the woman’s face. Recognize her. “W-Wanda?”