FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  “It’s still daylight, there.” Gardner sits forward. Checks his watch. Points to the superimposed timecode. “Whatever we’re seeing? It’s already done and gone.”

  Onscreen: Max runs up to Sylvie. Drags her away. She’s not happy. Won’t let him keep her from her friends. But before she can return to them... The man at the center of attention convulses. His belly splits open. White streamers seem to pour out of him. Toward the others.

  “Holy shit!” Trevor covers his mouth.

  Gardner frowns. Struggling to follow the action as the photographer whips the camera from one attack to another. Watching the worms bore into whoever’s closest. Going after their next victim, before the previous corpse even hits the sand.

  When the boathouse door finally slams shut, Trevor closes his eyes. Breathes. Still seeing the white bolts zipping around. Afterimages running across the interiors of his eyelids. Sylvie had barely made it to safety. Tiny monsters right on her heels. Scrabbling around the base of the door. Desperate to get at her. Even after ejecting the woman from their home, the idea that he’d nearly lost her permanently? It was almost too much to bear.

  “Put it behind ye fer now. Ye can panic tomorrow, b’y.” Gardner claps Trevor’s shoulder. Grips it tightly. “We’ve a task at hand. Don’t let’s lose sight of it.”

  “Right.” Trevor opens his eyes. “The task: Get into Rutherford’s room. Find her stash. Destroy it. Ruin the Old Men.”

  ~

  “Ohhh...” Mr. Grist moans.

  He hasn’t made it far. Kneeling on an expensive rug a short distance from his office. Busily trying to pick up what he’s dropped. Clutching at tatters of skin that have slid free from his body, leaving the bloody sinews of his neck and forearms exposed. Working hard to collect every shred. Unwilling to leave any part of himself behind. Easier said than done.

  Despairing, he sits back on his haunches. Looks up from his troubles, just as someone appears in his own office doorway: Sylvie Lesguettes’ husband, Trevor.

  “Hey!” The Old Man struggles to his feet. “You’re not supposed to--” A flap of his forehead rips. Flops down over one eye. “Oh, no! No-no-no!” Grabbing at his scalp, he drops the flesh he’s collected. His panic only making matters worse. Under the assault of his clumsy, grasping fingers, a third of his face tears off entirely. Lands on the hardwood with a wet slap.

  Covering the raw meat of his cheek and brow with one hand, Mr. Grist says... Something. Neither Trevor nor Gardner can make sense of it. Completely unintelligible. The man’s ability to enunciate severely compromised by his missing upper lip.

  “You need to calm down.” Trevor holds out a hand. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll call an--”

  Mr. Grist roars! Rushes the intruders. Inadvertently stepping on pieces of himself. His fallen face banana-peel-slipping underfoot. Mr. Grist slides. Twists. Grabs the air as he dives headlong toward an antique vase. Cracking his skull into the sharp corner of its marble base.

  Breaking it open. Spilling its contents.

  The vase - on the other hand - remains intact.

  Trevor and Gardner look on in disbelief. Neither having lifted a hand against the man. Shocked by what’s played out in front of them.

  Trevor closes his eyes. “Get into Rutherford’s. Destroy her stash. End the Old Men.”

  “A-yup.” Gardner nods. “That’s it.”

  Supporting his elderly companion under one arm, Trevor moves down the hallway. Stepping around the former Mr. Grist. Eyes averted. Aiming for Mrs. Rutherford’s door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Red-faced. Sweat-covered. Panting. Ren lets his helmet drop to the floor of the diving bell. Still exhausted by the massive effort required to swim across the void. On the verge of passing out. Centering himself as he squirms out of the suit.

  Overhead: The lights in the third bell are dim. Running on auxiliary power. Necessities only. Atmospheric systems not included. Nothing coming through the vents. The air is stale. Nearly unbreathable. He has no time to waste.

  The chasm has cost him. Stolen resources he couldn’t spare. With a final leg remaining on his journey, his brain is scrambled. His muscles reduced to limp spaghetti.

  However spent he may be, Ren knows he must try to contact the towers. To tell them: There are gillies out here. Real ones. Even having come face-to-face, it’s hard to believe. He stumbles to the radio. Not really expecting it to work. Finding his expectations fulfilled. No lights. No static. No nothing.

  Maybe they already know. Maybe they’d put him out there, fully aware of the threat awaiting him. Maybe they’d been dealing with these creatures all along. The entire time he’d assumed they were little more than mythology. Or... Maybe the bells had accidentally become the early warning system they were always intended to be. Manned by a single, slowly suffocating exile. If so, it’s even more important he get back to shore as quickly as possible. No longer just for his own sake, but for that of the entire island.

  Ren unhooks the depleted tanks from his suit. Looks for their replacements. Finds only one awaiting him. Tagged with a fluorescent pink sticky note. A black arrow drawn on, pointing his attention toward the third bell’s TV/VCR combo. Another note centered on the screen:

  PLAY ME

  ~

  The boy tugged at the thread. Slowly raised the mast. Pulled aloft the square sail. Its fabric artfully pre-torn.

  He leaned back. Scrutinized his work.

  Inside the large wine bottle: The White Ship. Split into halves at the base of Quilleboeuf, the (soon-to-be) submerged rock on which it met its fate. A short distance away: An escape dinghy. Likewise resting on the sea bottom. Its escape permanently interrupted.

  Across the woodblock table: The boy’s father. Working on his own shipwreck. In his own bottle. Carving a tiny figurehead from balsa wood. He paused. Peered over his magnifying glasses. Saw the boy frowning. Eyes unfocused. Mind elsewhere.

  “Out with it, b’y. Where’s yer head at, then?”

  “Mm?” The boy looked up. “Nowhere. I’m here. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, ya’re fine, are ya?” His father nodded to himself. “Only somethin’s plaguin’ ya, and that much is right plain. But if ya’re fine, then... Pardon my intrusion, ol’ cock.”

  “Sorry.” The boy set down his tools. Looked up at his father. “Can I ask you - just in general... How do you know what counts as Circle business and what doesn’t?”

  His father squinted at him. “Why? Ya say somethin’ somewheres ya fear ya ought not’ve?”

  “No, no. I’m just... I’m worried I might. Accidentally. If I don’t know for sure what’s all-the-way off-limits.”

  The boy’s father thought for a moment. Then, returned to his carving. “It’s right easy: Ya come down from the nest, ya bring nothin’ with ya. Work stays at work. That’s all and everything ya need to go by.”

  With a thin straw, he blew sawdust from the little figure. Targeting the smallest nooks and crannies. Satisfied, he reached for a blunt brush. A jar of primer.

  “But you have to say something, don’t you? To your wife, or your kid? A person needs to talk about their day. Maybe it’s nothing specific. Maybe even half of it’s just something you made up. But if you never say anything, wouldn’t that just make people more suspicious?”

  His father sponges primer onto his carving. “Trouble with lyin’s that ya then gotta keep track of every black tale you conceive of. And to whom ya told what. And why. Hard enough rememberin’ the real events of yer life. Lard tunderin’, ya gets to my age ya’ll find yerself without a map to what stories ya lived and which y’only told. Thinkin’ all of ‘em must’ve happened in turn. Sounds like a recipe for addleheadedness, y’ask me.”

  “What about Mom? You must have--”

  “Nope. Nothin’.”

  “But she lived through the trouble, too. Right there beside you. And she took down all those interviews, right? So if she already knows, isn’t it--”

  “Old business, she knows. B
ut not from me. New business, she needn’t. She’s on the periphery, sure. Aware of more’n most. Still, she’s outside the Circle, and not lookin’ to get in. So, I don’t say and she don’t ask and we both of us live the happier fer it.” Sliding the primed carving beneath a heatlamp, he started mixing colors. Taking tiny daubs directly from the necks of paint tubes. “Besides... Have to set the example, don’t I? For the troops. Ask not of them what I wouldn’t m’self and all that. ‘Spect ya’ll come to understand one day.”

  The boy wasn’t so sure. Nevertheless, he returned to his model making. Using improbably elongated tweezers to insert oars into the bottle. Affixing them to the ship’s gunwales. Into little oarlocks. When he finished, they stuck out at all angles. Hastily discarded by drowning oarsmen. Looking like nothing so much as the disjointed legs of a crushed spider.

  Tired, he packed his tools away. Glancing over at his father’s work. Using tiny brushes, the man had nearly finished the figurehead: A charging unicorn. White with a golden mane. Red reins twisted around her. Full of motion.

  “Do you really think the rest of the Watch goes along with it? That they all just follow your lead, and none of them ever bring Circle business home with them? Nobody discusses the Watch with their husband? Or tells the wife what happened on their last patrol. Because they trust them, and they need to share their lives with someone.”

  “Hm.” The boy’s father slipped off his magnifying glasses. Rubbed at the dented bridge of his nose. “Took me a minute, but I’m seein’ it clear now. First I’d thought ya’d let slip somethin’ yer ownself. That ya were right worried fer yer future should ya be found out. But...” He looked closely at his son. “But it’s not yerself ya’re talkin’ ‘bout at all, is it, b’y? Ya’ve learnt of someone breakin’ the Circle, and it’s eatin’ away at ya, isn’t it?”

  The boy said nothing. Not right away. But - as his father had finally seen through him - it wasn’t long before all he knew came spilling out.

  ~

  “So. Here your journey ends, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Rutherford smiles from the television. This recording: Significantly less than three decades old. Brand new, in fact. Custom-made for Ren. “Sadly, someone has neglected to finish refilling that final replacement tank. Its contents will not be enough to get you home, though you’re more than welcome to try. In fact... I encourage it.”

  Ren is confused. Unable to shake the oxygen-deprived fog from his brain. Stagnant bell air not helping any. Despite the clarity of her words, he cannot accept Mrs. Rutherford has plainly sentenced him to die. Though death has always been a possibility, that’s not what the bells are for. Is this some new final challenge? To continue on, in the face of near-certain doom?

  “Like all Lesguettes, René, you’ve become a serious thorn in our side. But, unlike the rest of your family, you’ve now extended your nuisance beyond our borders. Reminding the mainland we’re out here. Foisting that ludicrous bridge upon us. Diminishing our power by forcing us to answer to the feds. In the past few years, you’ve proven to be even more trouble to us off the island, than your father has been on it.”

  Ren groans as the truth sinks in.

  Of course. He’d accepted the repercussions of breaking the Circle with as much grace as he could muster. Knowing there was no possibility of avoiding punishment. Trying to escape it would only risk pulling Dawn into the middle of the situation. And the simple fact was: He’d made that vow. He’d broken it. He’d earned the consequences.

  But he’d never considered that the Old Men might take advantage of the situation. As little as he thought of them, he’d vastly overestimated their scruples. Granted them too much humanity. Assumed that at the bottom of their misguided hearts they were still basically good people who only wanted what they thought was best for their fellow citizens. Despite his deep-seated cynicism regarding island politics, he’d been seriously naïve.

  “Twice since your return, we’ve attempted to engineer your demise. Twice, you’ve evaded your rightful fate. But now... Beneath the sea, where no inconvenient interlopers can possibly intercede? Where there is no one to block falling pillars intended to crush or smother the flames meant to incinerate? It appears as though the third time will truly be the charm.”

  That’s what she thinks. Ren grabs the empty tank. Hangs it over the edge of the hatch. Leaves it lowered into the cold water of the moon pool. Starts yanking triangular panels off the wall. Each one removable for easy access to the bell’s inner-workings in case repairs are necessary. He clears a space around the air vent. Revealing the blending compressor. The air scrubbers. Two fifty litre tanks of Hydreliox: The gas mixture meant to provide the bell with breathable air.

  Everything is shut down, but still intact. The tanks used, but not emptied. Not quite.

  “Thanks to your own father’s timely testimony - we’ve been able to place you exactly where we want you. As you well know: Yours will not be the first life claimed while attempting to complete this gauntlet. Your death will raise no further questions, nor do we anticipate reprisal. It is, after all, Circle business.”

  Unhooking valves, Ren tugs a hose from the wall. Just long enough to reach the moon pool. He yokes it to the tank. Opens the valves. Turns on the compressor. Keeping close watch over the pressure gauges. Crossing his fingers against blowing the bell to kingdom come.

  “There’s no point in attempting to leave any sort of message behind. No one will see it. No one in the Watch, anyway. Once you’ve passed, a team of Old Men will be dispatched to claim your body and clean up any mess you’ve left be--”

  Clack. Ren stops the tape. Enough of that.

  Beyond the hissing hose, the bell is silent. Closing his eyes, Ren finds himself losing balance. Wobbling. Unsteady. Time’s growing short. He only needs to hold on long enough to fill the tank. After all he’s been through, he should still be able to manage that.

  Clink.

  Ren turns in the direction of the sound: The panoramic window. From outside: A pair of eyes glare in at him. The gilly. Untangled from his boot straps. Returned from the chasm. It hauls off. Clutching a large rock in its hands. Swinging it through the water. Striking solidly against the glass.

  CLINK! A thin white line grows from the point of impact.

  Shit! Ren disconnects the tank from the hose. Detached, it thrashes unhappily. Ignoring it, he rushes for the dive suit. Uncertain how much air he’s bought himself, but knowing it’s worthless if the tank is not installed.

  CRACK! Another hit. Jagged fissures spread across the glass in all directions.

  Ren leaps into the suit. Pulls it closed. Zips the zippers. Clasps the clasps. Buckles the buckles.

  Cracketty-cricketty-crick... Spiderwebs crawl along the length of the window.

  Ren jams the helmet in place. Twists. Praying that in the mad rush he’s managed to seal everything properly. Bracing himself, as the gilly outside - now barely visible through the fragmented glass mosaic - swings its rock one last time.

  CRASH! The windows explode outward. Pressurized air bursts free from captivity. An eruption of giant bubbles hurtling for the surface. Instantly, the moon pool becomes a four-foot wide spout. The ocean, blasting in. Desperate to reclaim its rightful space. Replacing the trespassing gasses after being held at bay for so long.

  Far above: The ocean boils as the air escapes. Exploding into the atmosphere. A massive disruption, but soon concluded. Calming to little more than foam and ripples. Both of which disperse on the current. Leaving the surface tranquil once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Netty reaches her front door. Unlocks it. Looks back to the driveway. Waves off the squad car making sure she gets in okay.

  The window rolls down. Deputy Chartrain leans out. “Want me to pack up your stuff? Bring it by?”

  Netty shakes her head. “If Millie hasn’t boxed it already, Schillings has probably ordered it tossed. Besides, I didn’t leave anything behind I see myself needing again.”

  “You change your mind, jus
t let me know.”

  “Thanks, Deputy.”

  “No problem, Sheriff.” Chartrain gives a neat salute. Backs out. Drives off.

  Netty watches him cruise away. Then heads inside.

  ~

  First things first: Boots off. Shirt untucked. Bra undone.

  Long sigh.

  Netty decompresses into her home. Tries valiantly to keep panic at bay. The reasons she hadn’t resigned when the Old Men first demoted her all still exist: The mortgage. The bills. The overly-relied-on line of credit. Her prospects as former sheriff/career cop looking for work outside law enforcement? They hadn’t improved either.

  But continuing on under Schilling’s command was plainly untenable. She’d spent long enough following the edicts of the elderly cadre that ran the island. Justifying it to herself as the fare she had to pay to make a difference. The price required for contributing to her community. But serving at the whim of their ignorant and fawning toady? That was one step too far.

  The solitary benefit of Netty’s demotion had been: Remembering the simple joys of hands-on investigation. Enjoying the process. Following leads to logical ends. Something she’s always been good at. Skills that apparently haven’t atrophied over her years in management. An important reminder as she turns her energies to confronting the one case which has most plagued her over her time in the department.

  She pauses in what had once been her dining room. Converted into an ersatz office over the course of years. Not intentionally. Unconsciously, through the accumulation of files and photos and photocopies. She hadn’t lied to Chartrain: She needed nothing further from her former workplace. Nothing she hadn’t already liberated. The only items she might have considered asking for would have been files pertaining to the Broken Girls abductions. But when it came to that case, the home database she’d already accrued was likely larger than the one remaining at the station.