Blackwood (12 page)

  An image flickered in her mind of that enormous black ship on the horizon, moving fast toward the island, sails filled with uncanny billowing speed on a windless day.

  She chose her next words carefully. "I need help, not a kook."

  "He was my shrink." Phillips took her hand and tugged, and she knew she'd go anywhere he suggested. "He knows more about the island's history than anyone around and we're
in
kooksville here. We need a kook's perspective."

  Miranda had no feelings about Roswell one way or the other, another colorful local character she mostly avoided. But he was Bone's dad.

  "Do you mind if we swing by and pick up my car?" Miranda said. "I miss her."

  Phillips' eyebrows rose. "Sure."

  Her hand warmed in his as they walked to the car. What did the day have in store? What would wreck the fragile connection between them?

  Sure as the ghosts in Hill House, something was coming. The breeze told her that.

Pineapple had done Miranda the favor of starting. Phillips had frowned at the word scrawled on the yellow car's side, suggesting they hit a car wash on the way, but she told him not to worry about it.
Part of the price of being me
, she told him, and he let it go. Being behind the wheel made her feel more in control of their destination and what they'd find there.

  "Why does he live all the way out in Wanchese? Do you know?" Miranda asked, cutting Phillips a look.

  Phillips hadn't been watching the scenery. He leaned against the door, angled in toward her. The weight of his gaze on her profile made it difficult not to blush. She was grateful the snake was on the other side of her face, hidden for the moment.

  "I never asked him. It's probably cheaper out here?" Phillips reached a hand over to brush a hair off her cheek and Miranda hiccuped Pineapple's wheel. He laughed. "Am I making you nervous?"

  The car windows were down to make up for the lack of a/c. The day was a joke of perfect. The mystery breeze, the bright blue sky, the too-green trees and grass. Why had she remembered the black ship?

  "It's not just you," she said, truthfully.

  "Good," he said, then, "Not good that you're nervous, but good that I'm not why. Roswell's OK, I swear."

  "If you vouch." She considered warning him about Bone, but that would ruin the main point of driving Pineapple. She didn't expect to get anything useful out of Mr Crackpot Theories, so the best she could hope was to find out if her status on the island would spook Phillips now that he was back.

  
Now that he's back and you want him to be yours.

  Her fingers tightened on the wheel. It was as if a spirit or a demon had invaded her mind and body.

  "Did you know your grandmother that well, Mr Homeowner?" Why was she prodding him? Because she wanted him to tell
her
about the letter – the letter she shouldn't even know about. She couldn't explain it, even to herself.

  He slipped around a fraction in the passenger seat, looking out at the scenery. "Not that much. My dad always made sure we had limited time together. He didn't want her teaching me stuff."

 
 
Leave it alone. "Did you want her to… teach you stuff?"

  Phillips exhaled. "No, I only wanted it to go away. To go somewhere so I could be normal."

  "That would be nice," Miranda said.

  "That's not what I–" Phillips tapped his fingers against the door, a repetitive pattern. "You are normal."

  
Leave it alone
. "Just what every girl wants to hear."

  Miranda wished the silence that followed didn't strike her as familiar, but it did.
You have to know how easy he is to push away.

  Wanchese was on the far side of the island, which still wasn't that long a drive. May as well have been a world away. Far from the tourist haven of Manteo, Wanchese possessed a wilder feel, despite having a couple of bed and breakfasts and boat rental places, and a harbor packed with commercial fishing vessels. This wasn't where the big money was – it was where the fishing village was.

  There was no picture-prettified downtown to echo Manteo's, not even a Main Street. Most of its locals hoped to remain lost to the tourist flood by keeping a firm hold on this tip of the island. This was the perfect place to live if you didn't want to be bothered.

  "Turn here," Phillips prompted. He pointed to a road ahead that shot through trees.

  A short way into the woods, they came to a small rise with a nice cottage on top. The house must have been originally intended for a timeshare, by the looks of it. The sandy paint had faded over time, though, and now the place looked more like a home than a getaway. Bone's truck occupied the driveway.

  She put Pineapple in park and Phillips climbed out of the car. He poked his head back in after a moment. "You coming?" he asked.

  "Against my better judgment," she muttered. Pineapple's motor died with a rattle of agreement.

11

Crackpot Theories

Miranda examined the cottage from the yard. This was definitely a house designed as a vacation home. The bedrooms would be farther apart than normal, a large common room and kitchen separating the parents' room from the children's. A deck at the back stretched into the woods, the edge of the railing just visible.

  Phillips turned from the front door. "Miranda?"

  So he knew she was stalling.
Why am I trying to scare him off?
She didn't have an answer. And she'd have sworn the snake crawling up her cheek heated under his questioning look. Burning, glowing, flashing "not normal". Wait until Bone saw her.

  Miranda tromped up the steps to join Phillips, the house too simple to justify further lingering to study it. The door swung open as she reached his side.

  Bone appeared in the doorway, wearing a light blue Tarheels T-shirt. His cheeks hollowed even more than usual as he exhaled in surprise, mouth dropping open into a black hole.

  She suddenly regretted her plan. What if Phillips
did
get spooked? Miranda angled her head so her hair hid the mark on her face.

  "If you're here to try to get me in trouble, I didn't have anything to do with your car," Bone said. "So forget it."

  Phillips' eyebrows shot up – h
e practically talks with those things
– as he gave her a questioning look. He said, "Did he–"

  "Forgotten," Miranda said, not to Phillips but to Bone. "I know it was you, but we're here to see your dad." Bone's mouth opened to say something, and she sighed. "Not about you, Bone. About something else."

  She looked over and discovered Phillips hadn't taken his eyes off her yet. His eyebrows finally dropped, and he said, "You must be the Boner."

  "Just Bone," Bone gritted.

  Miranda bit back a smile. "Where's your dad?"

  "In the library," Bone said, suspicious.

  Phillips said, "You could wash the car while we're talking to him."

  Bone snorted, stepping out onto the porch. "I didn't have anything to do with it. I already told you."

  Was Miranda imagining it or was Bone actually nervous? They were far out in the woods, but, come on, Phillips wasn't a bruiser, and neither was she. And his dad was home.

  She let her own eyebrows shoot up in an imitation of Phillips. "Are you scared?"

  Bone straightened. "Scared that bad luck just showed up at my doorstep."
This
was the Bone she knew and loathed. "Bad," he added for good measure, "luck."

  Phillips nudged Miranda through the door with his shoulder. She had to get way too close to Bone to enter, but she did it. Phillips moved fast behind her, lightly pushing her the rest of the way inside. His hand shot back to slam the door and lock it. With Bone still standing outside on the porch.

  "I don't want to be in the same house as the broken Bone," Phillips said.

  Miranda idly worried that Bone would do something else to poor Pineapple. She hadn't imagined his fear though, and he wasn't banging on the door.
Good enough
. She tipped her head to Phillips in thanks.

  Phillips called, "Dr Whitson? It's Phillips."

  Miranda tried to figure out where a library might be inside the neat house with the exact floor plan she'd predicted from the yard. Who'd have guessed Bone would live in such tidy digs – or his eccentric dad, for that matter? Clean hardwood, modern furniture, and no TV in sight. It could have still been a timeshare waiting for the next guests to arrive.

  The floor shifted under her feet, and Miranda stumbled into Phillips. He caught her, seemingly not bothered by the door opening
below
them.

  The square section of the wood floor that had tossed her slowly rose. It was a trapdoor hatch into a level below. Basements were so unheard of on the island that Miranda had never seen one before. Sure, the house was on a little hill, but what about the water table? Was this guy truly insane?

  "Down here." Dr Roswell's hand reached over the lip of the opening to wave them down, his feet thumping on the rungs of a ladder painted a pristine white as he descended back into what appeared to be a well-lit if snug underground space.

  "It's safe – I promise," Phillips said. He released her elbow and started down the ladder. He paused, the opening a frame around his face. The moment was like a strange photograph.
My whole life is like a strange photograph
. "It's OK," he said again, lower.

  He continued down, the top of his head disappearing, leaving the ladder clear for Miranda. She'd be safer down there than upstairs where Bone might decide to reappear. She took a deep breath and did her best not to think about being trapped under the earth, about worms and dirt and the things she sometimes had nightmares about crawling over her mother's body in the cold, cold ground. She pressed from her mind the steps down to the coroner's room, her dad laid out on the table, clear skin mocking her.

  She reached the last rung.

  The library was a little smaller than the living room. Three walls were lined floor to ceiling with books, some in glassfronted cases. Framed area maps and prints she recognised as John White's drawings covered the fourth wall. Tables held high stacks of yellowed documents with frayed edges. All of it was probably arranged in some system only Roswell could comprehend. Frankly, the crackpot's library reminded her of
The Lost Colony
gift shop.

  "Do you mind getting the door?" Dr Roswell asked.

  Phillips must have suspected the effort it took for her to stay down here, because he hurried back up the ladder. The door thunked into place, deepening the hard shadows thrown by the lamps in the corners. Tight spaces didn't usually bother Miranda, but she was already off her game. Her hand went to her cheek automatically.

  Roswell extended his hand to her. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

  That his bearded face was familiar didn't make him any less of a stranger.

  "Miranda Blackwood." She shook his hand, ducking her head when it seemed like his eyes gravitated to her cheek.

  "She's a friend," Phillips said. "Her father was murdered the night of the disappearance and we're trying to figure out if there's a connection."

  Roswell was interested. "How do you think they're connected?"

  "I know you have theories about the lost colonists," Phillips said. "I bet you have theories about this disappearance too. I want to know what they are."

  "Sit, sit," Dr Roswell said, taking a seat.

  That left only one small wooden chair at the nearest table. Miranda chose to take the carpet and let Phillips do the talking.

  "Where should I start?" His question wasn't for them, since he didn't wait for an answer. "At the beginning."

  Miranda exchanged a look with Phillips.
This better help.

  "These are my theories, understand, but they are based on years of research. I am not a crackpot."

  Miranda studied the loops of the carpet beneath her. "Of course not," she said.

  "Go on, Doc," Phillips said. He was comfortable with this man in a way that Miranda didn't get. "Tell us."

  Roswell leaned forward in his chair. "The first colony was actually a joint project of Sir Walter Raleigh and John Dee. Everyone here knows Raleigh – are you familiar with Dee?"

  Phillips made a sort-of sign with his hand. Miranda scanned the show's character list in her mind and came up empty.

  "Dee was a philosopher, a physician, and an alchemist. His power is difficult for us to understand today, so it may help if you also think of him as something else. A sorcerer. A holy man, even."

  An involuntary cough escaped Miranda's lips.

  Phillips reached down with an open palm and she scooted forward to let him take her hand. He held it on his knee. "Go on," he said.

  "Believe me, I know how all this can sound to someone who hasn't sifted through the documents in this room. Someone who has grown up believing the local version of events," said Dr Roswell, peering at her with way too much intensity. "But haven't you ever thought to yourself that parts of the story about the colonists are awfully vague? Why on earth would they have traveled across the ocean to live in such an inhospitable environment? If you think about it, you'll discover I'm right. That, in truth, you know little about the colonists themselves, even less about why they came here, and nothing about where they disappeared to."

  What he was saying wasn't
totally
cracked. Miranda thought about
The Lost Colony
's script, knowing it stretched the truth anyway, and could find little except the colonists doing the stuff of daily colony life and fearing starvation and attack. Still… "The colonists were absorbed into the local tribes, weren't they? We're sure of that now."

  He tapped a finger against his lips. "Are we? It's a very convenient theory that one. No one has to die in that configuration. Here's another little known fact about the colonists – not long before John White left for England to try and summon help and provisions, there was a murder."