Blackwood (5 page)

  It turned out Miranda couldn't take the quiet either.

Phillips flipped up the collar of his jacket and lowered his head, the better to fake invisibility. He navigated through the terminal at the Norfolk airport, skimming past people weighed down with carry-ons they were too paranoid to check. He'd expected the voices to start chattering as soon as his feet hit the ground, just from being so much closer to home. On the island, listening to music had been the only thing that helped. When the plane landed his iPod was ready in his pocket, his earbuds dangling around his neck. But so far, there was nothing. Not even the vaguest of whispers tickled the edges of his awareness.

  The TV screens he passed were all Roanoke Island, all the time. Norfolk was close enough to pick up regional news. He didn't stop to watch.

  Guilt did force him to a stop in front of an arrivals board. The situation on the island would mean his dad had extra ammunition for special favors. He'd have done his best to get Phillips' mom clearance to wait at the actual gate, to make sure he didn't pull a runner.

  Phillips found the flight number he was looking for and backtracked. Not far, a couple of gates. He stayed close to the wall.

  There she was. She sat in a chair waiting for him. Her smooth brown hair was cut shorter than the last time he'd seen her, framing her face. She held an e-reader in her lap, but stared ahead at nothing instead of reading. She looked tired.

  He walked to the bank of pay phones and dialed her cell. Remembering that his dad also had access to GPS tracking, he left his own cell off. "Mom?" he said when she answered.

  "Yes, sweetie?"

  She wasn't too happy about him having lied about his flight details. He'd called her from Lexington and told her he was switched to a slightly later flight on a different airline – the one she sat waiting for, not the one he'd actually been on. She was even less happy when he told her he'd see her at home later.

  "Phillips, how will you get there? Do you know what will happen when you're back on the island? It's been almost four years." She always worried about him. He wished she wouldn't worry so much. He'd noticed a few new streaks of gray in her hair.

  "There's something I've got to do. I'm sorry," he said. He didn't tell her about seeing Miranda on the news. He could still hardly believe
that
. He knew how hard it was to get her to react. He'd done his worst, hadn't he? And she'd just stood there.

  He hadn't been able to forget that, to forget
her
. He needed to see her, and there wasn't time to make his mother understand why.

  When he hung up the phone, he realised his mom was right. How was he going to get there?

  He did the obvious thing.

  His mom always parked on the third level in the thirteenth row in the parking garage. That way, she never forgot where the car was. He found their faithful maroon sedan and located the spare keys in the little magnetic box behind the rear right wheel. Then he stole the family car.

Once she made it home, Miranda sank onto the sofa. Her hands formed a tight ball in her lap. Sidekick sat on the floor beside her, big eyes full of worry.

  The family legend ran that the Blackwood name was linked to the fate of the island. None of them had ever lived anywhere else. The knowledge lived deep in her bones: Blackwoods were doomed to Roanoke Island. She wouldn't have believed her dad could leave, let alone
disappear
.

  But if all those other people had done just that, if her dad had, who was to say she wouldn't be next? Even if her life
was
going to be spent in a place that didn't want her, that didn't mean she was ready to vanish. And where had the missing people vanished
to
? She couldn't imagine that it was any place good. When she was young she might have hoped differently, but there were no waiting fantasy lands, no sudden entries to worlds where wizards and unicorns frolicked under glittering waterfalls and everything became magically perfect.

  Wherever the people were, she bet they weren't any safer than she was.

  Then she remembered the closet in her dad's room, which he'd stuffed full of boxes the day they moved in. He caught her going through it soon after, and pulled her aside, shaking her twelve year-old shoulders. "Don't ever go in there," he told her. "There's a gun in there." When she got older, she thought about going through the closet when he was out and getting rid of the gun. She worried about it, about her dad and his bad days. She'd never liked the idea of it waiting there, cold metal of some unknown shape and size. But he'd told her not to touch it and she hadn't. The idea of a gun in her hand had made her too uneasy.

  But now she walked up the hall and into her dad's room, careful not to look too closely at the messy bed and discarded clothes. The stale smell of boozy sweat made it feel like he was home. Not missing. Not gone.

  Holding the closet's contents with one hand to prevent an avalanche, she slowly opened the door wider. She reached up and pulled the string that lit the bare bulb, then began to carefully rummage. She moved out a box crammed with the button-down shirts her dad used to wear when he held a straight job, and another that proved empty. Three more boxes followed, filled with dust, old newspapers, and neckties.

  She emptied about half the closet's contents, enough so she could lean inside and look around. Stretching to see behind the remaining cardboard boxes, she spotted a thin wooden box about the size of a briefcase, crammed in sideways behind the rest. She made a fist and rapped the edge. A hollow echo of the rap replied, like she'd knocked on a door.

  Behind her, Sidekick whined. "I'm being careful," she said. "Shh."

  Wedging herself into the closet, she perched on the unstable stack of boxes and reached down to pull the box up and out. The case was made of dark wood and had a brass catch.

  She'd never seen it before. The clasp sprang open easily, and she lifted the lid.

  It took her a moment to identify the object inside as a weapon.

  The dull gleam of hammered metal, the surface as long as her forearm, wavering with the memory of the strikes that had created it. A thick base gave way to a thicker barrel, like a small cannon. Jewels encrusted the handle, and even she could tell they were the real thing.

  Some sort of antique firearm, it had to be. Puzzling over the heavy object in her hand, she shut the closet. The bizarre weapon must be worth a small fortune. She couldn't believe her father had never pawned it for a bottle. Could this really be what he'd meant when he told her there was a gun in the closet?

  Then she spotted the small strange symbol nestled between the gems, a sort of stick figure with a circle body that had curved legs and straight arms, and an open half-moon on top.

  She'd seen it before. The same symbol had been stitched at the center of those three black sails, whipping in wind that didn't exist, flying above the decks of a black ship that didn't exist either.

Phillips had never been a good driver and – judging by the horn blows of skittish drivers on I-64 – his skills hadn't improved from taking several years off. He didn't even have a license. He'd taken his dad's car years before and been apprehended by one of the island's stalwart officers. His parents had told him he could have a license when he turned eighteen and became "responsible for his own actions."

  The long bridge that cut across the Croatan Sound was dead ahead. Instead of going across at Manns Harbor, he'd decided to take the new bridge, since it bypassed downtown Manteo for the convenience of people headed to other islands. If his mom had already reported that he'd taken the car, his dad and the rest of the force would be on the lookout.

  He hoped his mom would understand why he'd ditched her once he could explain – if that was even possible. Truth was Miranda's face – then, now – had transformed the flickering uncertainty inside him into a strong, sure flame. He was
certain
she was in danger. Which meant he had a chance at redeeming himself. A chance to help keep her safe.

  
If only you had a clue why you're so sure she's not safe.

  He took a deep breath. Once he crossed the bridge, there was no going back. He'd be home. His mom was right. He had no idea what was going to happen.

  Three and a half years of quiet. They'd been nice.

  The bridge rose up in front of him, a green sign with white letters telling him exactly where it would take him. The way to get back to the home he'd never missed.

  He eased onto the bridge and floored the gas, letting the car surge forward and whip across the asphalt at dangerous speed. The other side of the highway crawled with cars like slow-moving bugs, but his side was nearly empty. The lanes went on for so long he didn't know how he'd stand the suspense. He suffered for five miles of wide road over the choppy blue Sound.

  The highway finally leveled out onto land, tires separated from the earth by pavement alone. The familiar forest, thick treetops like green bubbles, came into view lining the highway. An idyllic glimpse of home. A lie.

  The backed up traffic on the other side of the bridge continued onto the island – honking tourist rentals and retiree fancy cars mixed with a few older vehicles of long-time residents, all creeping toward the bridge. The mass disappearance was real. It was real enough to empty out a good portion of the Outer Banks at the end of tourist season.

  Phillips braced for the spirits to sense his presence.

  No whispers. No screeching. No voices.

  Other than horns and road noise, Phillips didn't hear
anything
. Huh?

  Phillips eased off to the side of the road as soon as he could find a wide spot and cranked down the window by hand. An insistent breeze swept through the car, ruffling his hair and Tshirt. It carried no voices to him.

  He waited in case the sudden rush of noise made him unable to drive.

  The breeze tugged at him. The sounds it brought were natural ones. Finally, he eased the car back onto the road, driving with more caution in case the voices showed without warning. There had never been any warning.

  
Welcome to Roanoke Island,
said the sign he passed. No matter that it felt like someplace else, he was back. Had he changed that much, or had the island? The question was pushed aside by a more pressing one.

  If he wasn't going to be sidelined by the dead, then he had an itinerary to keep. Where did Miranda Blackwood live?

4

The Call

When the knock at the door came, Miranda was on the couch examining the strange gun. She scooted forward, about to get up, before realising she had no clue who was outside.

  Her father would never go with a simple knock if he couldn't get in. And they never had visitors. When she wasn't working, she'd sometimes hang at the Grove with Polly and the crew, but wouldn't dream of inviting anyone over. She preferred to keep what little privacy she had intact.

  Miranda waited to see if the person went away. There was another knock instead.

  Miranda slowly climbed to her feet, gripping the metal of the antique gun. Any weapon was better than nothing. She could use it as a threat or to hit someone with or–

  A muffled male voice spoke: "Mr Blackwood? Or Miranda, Miranda Blackwood?"

  There was something familiar about the voice, but she couldn't place it. The familiar made her fingers tighten around the gun. Whoever was out there, her instincts said they were somehow a danger to her.

  Sidekick's body brushed the side of her knee as he stood beside her. His tail thumped a steady rhythm against the coffee table.

  Could it be Bone or those idiots he hung out with? She'd never considered any of them dangerous, but she'd never been all alone like this either.

  
Breathe. You have a sort of weapon. You have to answer or this person won't leave. Just point the gun with the right amount of menace.

  She opened the door in one quick motion, stepping back and raising the weapon as the door swung in. She attempted to imitate a movie stance, to radiate confidence. Her hands trembled.

  "What do you want?" she said.

  "Miranda?"

  And – click – she placed the voice, matched it against the tall boy standing in her doorway. It was early evening and not anywhere near dark outside yet, but his face was in shadow. Still, she knew him. She took in his messy black hair, the glint of eyes that would be more black than brown. She'd never expected to see him again. Not after he managed to leave.

  "Phillips Rawling?" She blinked in disbelief, but he didn't vanish. Her fingers loosened and the gun clattered to the ground between them.

  He lunged forward, bending over the antique weapon.

  "Careful," she said.

  "You be careful. You're the one acting like a CIA assassin."

  He
would
say something like that.

  He didn't even look at her, instead leaning forward to check out the gun. "Anyway, I'm safe – at least I think I am," he paused. "Is that a matchlock? Awfully ornate. And it has a trigger. Hmm…" He shifted it with the toe of his shoe for a better look.

  Miranda couldn't figure out what he was doing at her house. Or on the island, for that matter. He'd gotten away from here. He was supposed to be off at some reform school. And even if he
had
come home on purpose, that didn't explain what he was doing on
her
doorstep.

  "What's a matchlock?" she asked, mostly to say something. Anything.

  He glanced up at her, then immediately back to the gun. "Matchlocks were the precursors to modern guns, more or less. Ones like this – although not exactly like this, because this one is weird – were developed during the Elizabethan period, and they're not easy to use. You have to light the barrel, essentially."

  Miranda was impressed. "How do you know all that?"