It will have to be sufficient. Enough to pursue Mother Agatha to some form of justice. Starting from the beginning again. Building the case into a solid and unassailable monolith. Then, presenting her findings to... Who? The feds? The media? Whomever is willing to listen. And someone will. They’ll have to.
But first? A shower. Scrape off the remnants of the day. Of the career. Of her former identity as peace officer. Only after that can she consider how best to approach her fresh start. Preparations for her new path can begin tomorrow.
So, down the hallway Netty goes. Unclasping her belt. Unbuttoning buttons. The brown polyester uniform not among the things she’s going to miss about the job.
Oddly, she finds the bathroom door closed. Is she not the only Hubert to ditch work early? After whatever it was that had happened at the lighthouse that day - Circle business, naturally - it wouldn’t be too shocking to find that her son had come straight home as well. She raps twice. “Max?”
No answer. She tries the knob: It turns. The door opens a few inches. Stops. Encountering some sort of obstruction. Oh, no... Worst-case scenarios pass through her head. Most involving her son’s recreational drug use she’s mostly pretended wasn’t a problem. Then? Somehow she imagines situations that are even worse.
Dreading what she might find lying against the door, Netty forces her head through the crack. Whatever she’s expecting, she’s ultimately unprepared to find her bathroom occupied by black vines. Its thickest branches seemingly growing directly from the drain in the sink and the wastebasket.
The tangled plant is alive. Mobile. Knots of serrated black leaves rotate toward her. Open up. Revealing clusters of sickly yellow berries.
“What in--” is all Netty manages before the berries compress. Puffing an ochre cloud into her face. She coughs as she inhales the spores. Then, drops to the floor. Half-in her bathroom. Half-out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A hand squeezes Sylvie’s shoulder. “Ms. Lesguettes?”
She rouses slowly. Sore all over. Serves her right: Falling asleep sitting up. Head angled sideways. On what must be the world’s least comfortable chair.
Above her: The nurse. Waiting for her eyes to focus before continuing: “Your father’s out of surgery. It was uneventful, but the doctor will be able to tell you more as soon as she’s available, all right?”
Sylvie sits forward. Stretches. “But he’s okay, my dad?”
“We’re just getting Mr. Lesguettes into his room now. If you’ll follow me, I can take you right to him.” The nurse doesn’t wait for a reply. Simply strides away.
Ignoring her aches and pains, Sylvie follows.
~
Following his angioplasty, Martin Lesguettes has been installed in a private room. He remains unconscious. Unresponsive. Despite the procedure’s success.
The doctors and nurses have cleared out. His daughter has yet to arrive. Nevertheless, the frail old man has an unannounced visitor.
“Oh, Martin... You asinine old fool.”
Mother Agatha looms over his bedside. Hands clasped. Her back to the door. Something like sorrow on her face. “What brought this on? Could you feel it coming? Did you scent it on the air?”
Her countenance creases. Pure hatred, impossible to disguise. “Surely you don’t believe I’m going to allow you to miss what happens next?” Her knuckles go white. Crackling as her hands clutch one another. It’s all she can do to keep from reaching for his neck. Throttling the old man in his bed. Damning the consequences. “No... You won’t deprive me of my victory. I promise you that. You’ll survive to see it all come crashing down.”
From a pocket in her black cardigan she produces a small jam jar. Peers through the glass at the substance inside: Black rainbows shimmer back at her. “A proper dosing will do you better than a fresh coat of paint. Cure what ails you. Leave you good as new. I’ve seen it work wonders on injuries far more extensive than yours.”
She looks him over. Stretches out a boney index finger. Tap-tap-taps it against his forehead. Then, presses with her fingernail. Pushing a little crescent moon into his flesh. “The question is: If your brain is the problem...” She leans in close. Lips brushing his ear as she hisses: “How best to get at it?”
~
Sylvie stops in the doorway. Backs up a step. This is the room the nurse directed her to, isn’t it? A temporary slip of paper in a slot by the doorframe confirms it: Martin Lesguettes.
Why, then, is a tall woman in black leaning over the bed? Blocking Sylvie’s view of the patient. Something about the visitor is familiar: Her stature. Her bearing. Only when the woman rises, does her wimple become visible. This final clue in place, Sylvie recognizes the old nun. Storms forward. Blood boiling.
“What the holy fuck do you think you’re doing here?”
Mother Agatha stiffens, but doesn’t turn. “My mission. Ministering to the sick.”
“Doctors minister. All you do is yap.”
The nun turns to face her. Hands clasped. “Communication is central to my vocation.”
“Huh. And here I thought it was mostly all about stealing weak teenage girls from their families.”
Mother Agatha presses thin lips together. “I’d suggest you look inward, Ms. Lesguettes. Any weakness in your sister was firmly ensconced long before we encountered one another. In fact, our sisterhood empowers all--”
“What about me, then?” Sylvie advances. “Why is it you don’t ever seem to empower anyone your own size?”
“We offer solace to all kinds.” The nun stands her ground as Sylvie pushes into her personal space. “Wanda was searching when she found St. Neot’s. I’ll always regret we weren’t able to supply her with what she sought. But if she remained lost after we parted ways? That may be in no small measure because you were no longer looking for her.”
Wounded, Sylvie stops. Allowing room enough for Mother Agatha to slide around her. Head for the door. Before exiting she turns. “I’ll keep your father in my prayers.”
Sylvie watches the nun leave. Follows her to the door, to ensure she keeps going. But what in the world had brought the woman there in the first place? To visit her father? Beyond the situation with Wanda, Sylvie’s unaware of the two of them ever crossing paths. What would bring her to his bedside now?
Alone with him, she unclenches her fists. Flexes her fingers. Deflates. The adrenaline of confrontation burning away.
After a moment, she pulls out her phone. Swipes through her contacts. Almost surprised to find she’d added Wanda at some point. Her sister selected, Sylvie’s finger hovers over the call button. Debating.
A light groan interrupts.
From the bed. Her father shifts. Sylvie rushes to his side. “Dad?”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move again. Consciousness yet to return. But the tiny glimmer of hope is enough. Sylvie pulls up a chair. Watching him closely. Just in case.
Phone returned to her pocket. Call to her sister forgotten.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dark. No color in the sky when Dawn opens her eyes. Uncertain of time or even place. Floating, seemingly. On a picnic table raft, surrounded by the susurrating ocean. Resting against... Max? Somehow, she must have fallen asleep leaning on him.
Embarrassing.
She looks up at his face. Finds him asleep as well. A dark shape rising behind him. Leaning across the picnic table. Something gleaming in its pale hand: A long steel needle. Sliding into Max’s ear.
Without thinking, Dawn grabs the wrist. Grimacing as her fingers sink into its moist flesh. She yanks it away. Squeezing. The tool releases. Disappears into the water.
Max wakes. Confused. “What’s--”
Dawn pushes him to one side. Out of the path of a sharp-bladed chisel. It slices the air. Thunks into the table-top where Max had been. She catches the thing’s forearm. Pulls and twists. Sliding off the bench. Landing ankle-deep in what’s left of the tide. Pitching her weight forward. Dragging their attacker across Max. Over her shoulder.
“Holy crap!” Max is agog as Dawn throws the thing. Easily twice her size, if not larger. More than he could ever expect to move, let alone toss.
It slams into the surf. Rolls to its feet. Wheezing. Black rags soaking wet. Stringy white hair hanging over a wide, flat forehead. Pulpy flesh nearly as colorless. Its features stretched. Distorted. Drifting from their proper placement. As though sliding away.
Max half-crawls half-falls off the loose-jointed table. Lands on his knees. Looking on in disbelief as Dawn faces down the strange figure. Fish-men. Worm-things. Now... This guy. How many monsters can one person be expected to face in a twenty-four hour period?
It maintains its distance. Neither advancing nor retreating. Bowing low. Long limbs held out toward Dawn in supplication. Hands open. Palms out. Stubby fingers webbed together. A hybrid. Halfway between human and gilly.
Its voice: A wet gargle. Barely intelligible. “You’ve... Grown strong.”
Without lowering her guard, Dawn shouts back: “Do I know you?”
Cloudy eyes bulge at her from the deep hollows beneath its heavy brow. “I know you.”
“Then you should know: I won’t ever let you hurt my friend.”
Frustrated, the creature waves Max off. Dismissing him. “The boy’s not important.”
“He is important. He’s important to me.”
Grabbing onto the picnic table, Max pulls himself to a crouch. Ending up eye-level with one of their attacker’s weapons: The chisel. Left embedded in the wood. A familiar gleam running along its edge in the twilight. What makes him so certain he’s seen it before?
“All that matters is... You’ve returned.” Still hunched over, the creature takes a step toward her. “Now, you must let me take you home.”
Dawn’s eyes narrow. “Home? Where’s that?”
“Not far. You’ll remember soon.”
Pulling the chisel free, the pieces suddenly come together. Max remembers. “Dawn!” He scrambles forward. “It’s the dollman!”
Angry, the thing hisses. Lurches toward him. “You will not interfere!”
“Stop!” Dawn stands between the two. Holds the creature back with an extended index finger. Turns to Max. “Dollman?”
“From Adderpool. I wasn’t hallucinating, I saw it. Through the window. It was coming after you. Just before I passed out.”
Dawn’s mind races: Adderpool. The rotting toy shop. The inexplicable doppelgänger photograph. All connecting to her past. “I’ll go.” Quiet. To herself. Then, to the creature: “I’ll go there with you.”
It’s too-wide mouth stretches further as it smiles.
“But-but-but...” Max is shocked. “You can’t!”
“He holds the key, Max. I have to do this.”
“I don’t understand...” He shakes his head. Lost. “He was going to kill you.”
“He knows more. About where I come from. That’s why I’m here.”
Strings of drool hang from the thing’s open maw. Max can’t let her go with it. Not alone. “Then I’m coming, too.”
“He will not!” Their attacker pounds the surf with one fist.
Ignoring the creature, Dawn grasps Max’s hands. “Thank you, Max. But this isn’t that. I’m no damsel for you to keep safe. You coming? It would only make things harder. Because then, on top of taking care of myself? I’d have to protect you, too.”
“Dawn...”
“I’ll be okay. But you have to promise me: You won’t follow. And you won’t tell anyone.”
“I... I can’t, I...” He can see it: Her mind’s made up. He’s only delaying the inevitable. So instead? “It’s almost sunrise. If I haven’t heard from you, safe and sound, by the end of the day? Assume the posse’s coming.”
Dawn’s eyes smile before her mouth does. Then - with that mouth - she kisses him. Not quite fully on the lips, but not just on the cheek, either. His anxiety is briefly flushed away by a thousand other emotions. Only to return tenfold as she steps past him. Toward the creature.
“All right.” The last thing Max hears her say, before she lets it lead her away. Leaving him alone in the empty cove. “Take me home, then.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“What I’m saying is not that the situation isn’t tragic - it absolutely is - and you cannot pretend there’s anyone who could miss Mr. Sheffield as much as I...” Mrs. Chilton pontificates from the passenger seat of the black sedan. Speaking loudly. Over wind pounding through open windows. Outside: Black farmland rolls by without definition. Headlights revealing little more than the road. “But, if there is to be a silver lining to the situation, it is that - for the first time since 1989 - we are in a position to inject some fresh blood into our ranks.”
The driver glances over. Suspicious. “Why do I get the feeling you already have someone in mind?”
“I make no apologies for having added my own children to the list, Mr. Wynneau.” Standoffish. She’s been forced to justify her nepotism more than once in the past. “But that was long ago. I suspect at this point, they’ll both be considered too old to qualify for induction.”
Alone in the backseat, the red-headed saboteur contributes a remark. It doesn’t quite make it through the gag tied around her head.
Mrs. Chilton scowls over her shoulder. “Your commentary is neither invited nor desired, I’m afraid.”
“Oh...” Mr. Wynneau blinks his eyes. The car slows. Pulls to the side of the road. “Woah. Woah. Woah.”
Mrs. Chilton touches his arm. “Are you having another--”
“C-Certainly appears that way.” Safely stopped, he clenches his unfocused eyes.
Their prisoner watches in silence. Gaze shifting back and forth between her captors.
“Should we switch? I can take over.”
“No. We’re nearly there. It’ll pass.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And while driving? Better my dizzy spells slow us down than your spasmodic limbs suddenly send us careening off-road.”
The hazards flash in the night. Lighting the gravel shoulder in orange bursts. No other traffic visible. The rural route empty in either direction.
Mrs. Chilton smacks the dash. Groans. “This new ration is simply not adequate to our needs.”
Steadying, Mr. Wynneau takes hold of the steering wheel once more. “Mrs. Rutherford cannot squeeze blood from a stone.” He shifts into gear. Pulls slowly away. “If it isn’t there to be had, perhaps we need to accept it. Rather than adding to the Old Men... The time may have come to quietly fade away. To turn over the reins to a more standard democratic system once more.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” He carefully gives the car gas. “Truthfully, even before the shortage, I’d begun to reconsider the wisdom of maintaining our position on the island. And I can tell you, Mrs. Chilton: I’m not the only Old Man to feel this way. Woah!”
The car brakes abruptly.
“Another episode?”
“No, no.” He points forward with his chin. Headlights glaring from a fluorescent orange sign: Penguin Crossing. Far easier to see than the four nearly invisible nuns currently plodding across the road ahead.
Mrs. Chilton frowns. “Have you ever known the sisters to travel after dark like this?”
“No. They’re lucky I was paying attention.”
“Ngle-phzm!” In the backseat. Their passenger is agitated. “Brgle-nwdle-zous!” Making noise. Not loudly. But a lot of it.
Enough for Mrs. Chilton to finally reach back. Yank down her gag. “What?”
“Should’ve driven straight through.” She chortles. “We’re each worth ten points.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
Shoonk! Through the driver’s open window.
Shunk! Through the passenger’s side.
One arrow for each of the Old Men. Piercing their skulls.
Surprised, Mrs. Chilton reaches up to touch hers. Offering this cogent analysis of the situation: “A babawa. Ababua.”
Mr. Wynneau pees his pants. Goes
into a grand mal seizure. Legs suddenly rigid. Slamming into the gas pedal with full strength.
The sedan’s wheels spin. Catch. The vehicle takes off. A bullet across the deserted highway. Off the other side. Through a wire fence. Slamming head-on into a tree. Hood crumpling around it.
As the nuns run to the crash site, a sound can be heard. Over the still-grinding engine... Over the continuous blast of the horn...
The red-headed nun’s uproarious laughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sue storms out of his doghouse. Teeth flashing. Barking madly in the pre-dawn stillness. He’d be waking everyone in the trailer park if his vocal chords remained intact. Instead? He produces only steam.
He’s not entirely silent: Claws scrabbling against the dirt path he’s worn in the yard. Chain clinking as he strains toward the approaching intruder. But if anyone notices his energetic defense of the property, they pay no attention.
Wanda, least of all.
Jaw clenched. Stride purposeful. Headed for the final stop of her overnight drug-den crawl: Delia’s trailer. A place she’d come to score more times than she could count. Where so often she’d flopped on the floor. Unaware of the world around her. Blissed out on goo. Surrounded by those of like predilection. Chased by similar demons. Kicking identical gongs. Here, the goo supply had seemed eternal, even in times of drought.
But no more.
Her night has been fruitful. She’s robbed the Old Men of options. Wrought a path of destruction as deep and wide as possible. Smashing stockpiles. Emptying reserves. If the elderly bastards aren’t already suffering mightily at the hands of withdrawal, they soon will be. A situation she personally knows all too well, thanks to them. A just punishment they’d more than earned themselves as manufacturers of the deadly substance.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 12