“Mom.” Natalie was having none of this. She wanted her mother’s intolerable optimism back. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I am,” her mother said. “I am,” she repeated. “But listen. If I’m not, you’re going to have to take your baby sister. And you’re going to have to bring her to the mainland.”
She paused, letting it sink in.
“Natalie,” her mother went on, “I need you to do for your sister what I did for you. Whatever happens to me, you need to make sure she gets the vex.”
PART III
QUARANTINE
CHAPTER 15
The Wicked Always Return
ASTRID STOOD AT THE GATES of Goldsport, bound up in her father’s arms. Her heart pounded in her ears. The sound of the rifle echoed out through the trees. The wicked woman lay dead beyond the chain link, bleeding on the road. Her blood flowed into the still-wet glob of ice cream that she’d spat out, and turned pinkish. Astrid couldn’t bear to watch. She twisted her face into her dad’s arm.
Meanwhile, the adults were discussing what to do next. Specifically: how to break the news to everybody in Goldsport. Just a few days ago the old folks had thrown a tantrum at the very mention of the vex. And now they’d have to be told that, after years of silence, the wicked had finally returned. They were going to lose it.
“I think it should be you,” Mr. Bushkirk said, looking at Astrid’s dad. “Bad news sounds better coming out of your mouth than it does mine.”
No arguing with him on that one.
“Besides,” Mr. Bushkirk went on, “you are the chairman of the board. Burdens of leadership and all.” He grinned through his mesh veil. If the fact that he’d ended a woman’s life a few minutes ago had any effect on him, it was hard to tell. “Junior and I will deal with this,” he said, nodding his bonnet down at the body as though it were no more than a heap of unwashed laundry. “No sense putting it off.”
“You two will manage all right by yourselves?” Amblin Gold asked.
“We always do,” Mr. Bushkirk said, nodding at his son. Hank didn’t even look at him. Like Astrid, he appeared to be in shock. “We manage great.”
And so it was decided. The Golds would return to the greenway to break the news to everybody, while the Bushkirks would remain behind at the wall. There they would gather up firewood, build a pyre, and burn the wicked woman’s body.
No—Astrid caught herself—burn Eliza’s body.
Eliza, who’d said she missed her mom.
Eliza, who’d wanted real mint-chocolate-chip ice cream.
She’d been shot to death, and now they were going to set her on fire. Astrid’s mouth felt dry, and she still couldn’t get her breathing right.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Astrid’s father said, breaking the silence as they returned to town. He reached out and rested his gloved hand on the nape of her neck, as though to reassure himself that Astrid really hadn’t been hurt. He sounded too relieved to be properly angry. “You should never have stayed up at the gates,” he said.
“We asked her the question. . . .” It was all Astrid could manage.
“Even so,” her dad said. “Even if it turned out that the lady wasn’t infected. True doesn’t necessarily mean good.” At this Amblin Gold fell silent for a moment and pulled his hand back. He seemed lost in ugly memories.
“The second you noticed a stranger at the gate,” he finally continued, “you should have come back to town to tell me. Or Mr. Bushkirk.”
Together they reached the western hatch and passed through the quiet room. Astrid’s father sterilized his bee suit and began the arduous task of stripping it off.
“Did you recognize her?” Astrid asked. It had taken the whole trip back to town for her to work up the nerve.
Her father didn’t answer at first. He pulled his legs free of the bee suit and then took his time turning it right-side in. “What?” he said, making like he hadn’t heard.
“The woman. Eliza.” Astrid paused. “She said she knew who you were.”
Amblin shook his bee suit out and hung it onto a hook affixed to the clear greenway wall. “Yeah. That was weird, wasn’t it?” He turned to face Astrid. There was something about his expression that didn’t sit right. “Not the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard the wicked say, though.”
“Oh . . .” Astrid fell silent, uncertain of where to go from here. She was positive that her father had reacted when Eliza spoke. In fact, he had all but jumped out of his skin when she’d said her name. Could it be that, in the heat of the moment, Astrid had simply imagined it?
She didn’t think so.
“So, Eliza didn’t even look familiar?” Astrid asked as casually as she was able.
“Nope,” Amblin said.
Yeah. That was definitely a lie.
• • •
Together they headed down the glass shunt, directly to the plaza. On the way they ran into Mr. Collins, wrapped in a silk dressing gown and wearing a pair of snakeskin boots. His glasses were askew, and his breath smelled of mint and sherry. He must have come from the weekly bridge tournament hosted by Missy Van Allen. Few people ever left that party sober, or fully dressed.
“Did I hear a . . . um, a gunshot?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. His dressing gown opened as he did so, revealing coils of silver chest hair. His boxer shorts had pictures of martini glasses on them.
“That you did,” Amblin said.
“Didn’t know there was a hunt scheduled,” Mr. Collins said, smiling at the thought. “Not a bad idea, though. It’s been a while since we’ve had anything but seafood for commemoration.”
“It wasn’t a hunt,” Amblin said, squeezing past Mr. Collins and continuing down to the plaza. “There was nobody at the west hatch,” Amblin called back. “Do you know who’s supposed to be on duty?”
“Oh dear.” Mr. Collins fell in after them, clutching his dressing gown closed to keep it from fluttering behind. “That would be me, I suppose.” He straightened his glasses and smiled sheepishly. “But here I am, aren’t I? On the case.”
He must have been going for a laugh, but Astrid’s dad gave him nothing. They came to the final junction, where the greenway opened out onto the cavernous plaza. The dome was deserted, dotted with litter from the picnic. A half-made sandcastle crumbled silently. Amblin headed to the little stage. There, he powered up the Goldsport PA system.
“So,” Mr. Collins said, peering at them both through his little golden bifocals. He’d finally realized how upset they were. “If it wasn’t a hunt . . . ?”
Amblin made no answer and instead toggled the PA on and off a few times. Then he brought the microphone to his lips and delivered the news straight.
“This is an all-call announcement from the chairman of the board,” he said. “A wicked woman has been discovered and killed just outside the gates.” Amblin paused, maybe to allow this to sink in for everybody. Mr. Collins let slip a stream of surprised obscenities, and the PA microphone picked up a few of them. Moments later they could hear his curse words echoing through the greenway, rebounding down the crystal halls. Astrid’s father scowled at him but continued.
“I repeat, the wicked woman is dead. All investors are requested to come to the plaza immediately for more information. Thank you.”
All across Goldsport, people must have dropped what they were doing and raced to the plaza. Mr. Gregory was the first to arrive, dressed in long underwear and the top half of a tuxedo—he must have been at the bridge tournament too. He was followed moments later by the Abbitt twins, Missy Van Allen, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, the extended Pratt and White families, and even Klara Bushkirk, wandering through the entrance with a puzzled expression on her face. Soon nearly the whole town was squeezed into the plaza—just under a hundred lucky souls.
There wasn’t an immediate panic. Rather, when they heard the news, the Goldsport investors mostly just seemed sad. They fell into silence, avoiding eye contact and shifting their weight. Mr. Gregory sat down on the d
amp sand, worrying the shining lapels of his tuxedo jacket between his thumb and forefinger. He was the first to speak.
“I guess . . . I guess I’d started to hope that they’d all . . .”
He didn’t even have to complete the sentence. There was an immediate general nodding of agreement. “That they’d all died out,” Mr. Collins finished for him.
“Or starved to death,” Mrs. Bishop said.
“Or killed each other,” offered Missy Van Allen.
“Don’t be dumb,” snapped Mr. Pratt. “The wickedness doesn’t work that way.”
“That we know of,” said Mr. Bishop. “Who knows what the wicked will do when there are no true people left?”
Then the gathered crowd slipped back into silence. They stared off into nothing, all lost in their own personal versions of the vanished world. Astrid didn’t have the heart to tell them that, based on how Eliza had killed that rabbit, they could definitely rule out the hope that the wicked would simply starve to death.
Eventually, Amblin cleared his throat. “Well . . . ,” he said. “We know that there was at least one more out there.”
“So she was alone?” Mr. Gregory asked.
Amblin nodded.
“You’re sure?”
“Not completely. It’ll be a good idea to search the woods beyond the wall. But we can talk about that more when Henry gets here.”
“Was anybody hurt?” Klara asked from the back of the plaza.
“Nobody,” Amblin said. Though, of course, that didn’t count what had happened to Eliza herself. “The wicked woman never became violent. But she failed the question. Henry took care of it.”
At this there was a great, collective sigh. The crowd seemed to be taking a moment to give thanks for the existence of Henry Bushkirk. Klara, for her part, seemed not to recognize the name.
“Any guesses as to where she came from?” Mr. Collins asked.
At this Amblin Gold only pursed his lips and shook his head. But there was something in his expression that seemed to say: not now.
“Eliza told me she’d been traveling up the coast,” Astrid offered.
“Who?” Mr. Gregory blinked up at her from the sand.
“The wicked woman,” Astrid said. “Her name was Eliza. She told me that she saw the lighthouse turn on, and that she was on her way to check it out.”
“Honey.” Her dad put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s just give it a rest about the lighthouse. This isn’t the best time.”
“But that’s what happened,” she said, pulling out of her father’s grip. “Eliza told us that her family lives on Puffin Island.”
Now there was a very different kind of silence. Astrid scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for some hint of recognition. But nobody, not even Klara, would meet her gaze. Amblin closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his bushy temples.
“That she did . . . ,” came a voice from the entryway. “No use denying it.”
It was Henry Bushkirk. Everybody turned to see him standing at the plaza entrance. He must have sprinted all the way back to the greenway, because he was struggling for breath. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his bee suit yet. Astrid could see Hank standing just a few paces behind him. He, too, was still in his bee suit.
How had they both returned so quickly?
“Not that it’s any excuse—” Mr. Bushkirk was brought short by a sudden fit of coughing. He doubled over, flecks of phlegm snagging on his mesh veil. When he finally spoke again, he seemed more or less to have recovered his wind.
“Excuse me,” he said. “What I was saying was, that isn’t any excuse for the way you handled things, Amblin.”
That made no sense at all. Astrid glanced at Hank to see if he knew what his father was talking about, but he wouldn’t make eye contact.
“What do you mean?” Amblin said. “How did I handle things?”
“Oh, come on,” Mr. Bushkirk said. “Are you going to make me spell it out?”
“Yes,” Amblin said. His face hardened, and for a moment his eyes seemed to blaze almost as brightly as Astrid’s. “I am.”
“Very well.” Mr. Bushkirk sighed, his disappointment false as a wax apple. “What I mean is how close you let the wicked woman get. To you. To all of us.”
“My dad didn’t go anywhere near Eliza,” Astrid said. She must not have been speaking very loudly, because no one seemed to notice.
“I was no closer to her than you were, Henry.”
“Amblin! We both know that isn’t true!” Mr. Bushkirk threw his arms out, making like he was shocked.
“Yes, it is,” Astrid said. Again, it was as though no one could hear her. The entire population of Goldsport had their eyes and ears locked on Henry and Amblin.
“And I must say that I don’t approve of this, either.” Mr. Bushkirk pointed his gloved finger about the plaza. “I don’t think it’s smart for you to be in here with everybody else. Especially before we know whether or not you got yourself exposed.”
At this Mr. Gregory leapt up off the sand. “What are you talking about, Henry?” he asked. “What do you mean ‘exposed’?”
“Of course he didn’t get exposed!” Astrid must have been shouting this time, because now people finally took notice. For the first time since he’d entered the plaza, Mr. Bushkirk looked right at her. There was a wet shine, a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. But his lying mouth betrayed nothing.
“You can’t know that for a fact, honey,” he said. Then, to Amblin: “Did you really not tell them yet?”
“Tell us what?” Missy Van Allen asked.
“Dear me.” Mr. Bushkirk wagged his head from side to side. “Listen up! Everybody, for your own safety, I’d like you to all move away from Amblin Gold.”
“He didn’t get exposed!” Astrid shouted again.
It made no difference—a frantic shuffle had already begun. Everybody pressed themselves up against the curved glass dome, leaving Astrid and her father stranded at the center of the plaza. A few people even pinched at their shirt collars, pulling them up over their noses and mouths, to avoid breathing the same air as her father.
“There’s no need to get too worked up,” Mr. Bushkirk went on. “It’s really just a precaution at this point.”
“But my dad was wearing his bee suit!” Astrid shouted. “And he didn’t even touch the lady.” As everyone knew, singers weren’t the only way you could catch the wickedness. The virus also spread from person to person. Just a handshake with the wicked, or a fist to the nose, or even an unfortunately aimed sneeze could be the end of you. But that was pretty rare. Most of the time, if an infected person got close enough to touch you, it ended with them stabbing or strangling you.
“Hank!” Astrid wheeled around on him. “Tell them!”
Hank did nothing. He just stood there at the entrance to the plaza with his eyes on his boots. She knew that he was afraid of his dad, but this was just ridiculous.
“Honey, please, there’s no need to get excited.” Mr. Bushkirk patted the air with his gloved hand. “No one is saying your dad touched the wicked lady. But he did get close to her. Much too close, if you ask me. Though I guess most of us here can understand his reasons. . . .” Mr. Bushkirk paused. Then he let out a long, world-weary sigh, dragging out the silence.
“The wicked woman was one of them,” he finally said. “She was one of the people from Port Emory.”
This name set off a whole chorus of huffs and gurgles from the crowd of investors. At first it meant nothing to Astrid, but then she remembered—Eliza had used it too. She’d said that she’d been on her way to Port Emory, to take a boat to Puffin Island.
“Now, none of us,” Mr. Bushkirk said, “are proud of what happened between our community and the folks in Port Emory. And I know, Amblin, that you took it real hard.” He turned now, once again addressing Astrid’s father directly. His voice had taken on this pleading, friendly, I’m-on-your-side quality. “But, Amblin, that just can’t excuse how careless you were
today. I don’t have to tell you this, right? You’ve got to know that you should never have let her come inside the walls.”
Now, finally, the crowd was seized with real panic. People gasped, and shouted, and grabbed one another by the shoulder.
“I didn’t do that,” Astrid’s father said through clenched teeth.
Astrid said it louder, her mind racing faster than her words could keep up. “He didn’t . . . No! He didn’t do that! No one came inside!”
Henry Bushkirk ignored them both. “It’s a lucky thing my boy came and got me when he did,” he said, speaking over the commotion. “I found the two of them right outside the greenway. I asked the lady the question, and unfortunately she failed it, so I had to shoot her. But like I said, I don’t feel very comfortable with how close she was to Amblin. You all know how easy wickedness catches. And more important, I’m not too happy about the decision making at play here. He just opened up the gates and let her—”
Fuck no—Astrid went ballistic. She was not about to let this happen. Her dad seemed paralyzed by Henry’s words, frozen and gaping, so she climbed up onto the little stage and grabbed the PA microphone. “That’s bullshit,” she said, interrupting Mr. Bushkirk. Her words boomed through the plaza. “Everybody, Henry Bushkirk isn’t telling the truth.”
That got to him. He spun on Astrid, eyes narrowing with undisguised menace. “I most certainly am,” he said, “though I can’t blame you for trying to cover for your dad.”
Astrid couldn’t believe the man. He’d just shot a woman through the head, and now here he was shamelessly spitting lies out of his smiling mouth. If he was capable of all that . . . well, who knew what else he could do. But she didn’t back down. She met Henry’s gaze, then very deliberately pressed the microphone up to her lips, so close that it almost went inside her mouth.
“You are a liar,” she said.
The word echoed down the empty halls of the greenway. It rebounded back at them, as though the sanctuary itself were speaking it. “Hank,” she said, turning to her one friend. “You were there—tell them! Eliza never came inside. My dad never got anywhere near her. You know it’s true!”
How We Became Wicked Page 11