Blackwood Page 2

  A golden retriever loped across the yard to join her. Miranda reached down to scruff the fur under his neck. "Hey, Sidekick, hey pretty boy." Sidekick had shown up a couple of years ago out of nowhere. He got his name because sidekicks were always the characters she liked most. TV binge-a-thons were her other main escape.

  Miranda fished her keys from her messenger bag and fumbled at the lock. "The great provider must not be home, huh?"

  She managed to drop both her bag and the keys with a clunk. With a sigh, she bent to pick them up. The low, angry sound of Sidekick's bark made her jump. His yellow head whipped toward the street. His body stretched tight from nose to tail as his throat rumbled.

  He rarely barked. And never like this.

  Then the others started.

  Every dog in earshot bayed and howled in a riotous symphony devoid of any melody. Sidekick's neck craned to the sky, more wolf on a postcard than happy golden retriever.

  Miranda refused to look up, afraid she'd see the ship again. She jammed the key into the door's lock and twisted it hard. The knob spun and the door gave. She kicked her bag inside. Hesitating halfway in, she held open the door, and said, "Come on, boy, come on."

  Sidekick arched his head at her and whined. His eyes glinted in the dark.

  "Sidekick," she said. She fought to keep the panic out of her voice. "Now!"

  Sidekick came, galumphing through the door. His growling quieted once he hit the threshold. The howling outside continued without pause, without song.

  Miranda slammed the door and slid the deadbolt into place. She pulled aside the faded blue curtain and checked outside.

  No ship. Nothing but a cloud floating across the pale moon. The dogs' racket ended, just like that.

  She settled down on the too-soft cushions of the old beige couch, and dragged in a breath. What a night. At least the room that surrounded her was normal – the easy chair covered by the red slipcover she'd made from an old blanket, the ancient floor model TV, and, above that, the grinning photo of her mom playing tourist beside the mast of the Elizabeth II at Festival Park. Sidekick panted at her with his usual mellow-dog grin.

  "Honey?" A voice called from up the hall. "Is that you?"

  Her father was home after all. He stumbled up the hall with the clumsy but somehow sure-footed steps of a professional alcoholic, weaving into the room. Sidekick leapt up next to her, pressing against her side.

  "It's me," she said, when her dad paused and squinted at her.

  His face was stained a red that meant nothing anymore. His skin stayed that way. The distinctive snake-shaped birthmark that crawled up his cheek toward his temple was nearly hidden by the permanent flush. Too many years of drinking for his angry pores to ever calm down.

  "Of course it is, kiddo. I'm headed out…" His voice trailed off.

  She could have traced a thought bubble and provided the caption showing the dot-dot-dots as his mind went blank. It broke her heart a little, every time.

  "Do you need me to give you a ride somewhere?" She didn't want to go back out, but she had to offer.

  "Nah," he said. "Fine… evening for a walk."

  Miranda dropped her head back against the sofa, closed her eyes to a flash of the black ship behind them. She bolted upright to find him watching her.

  He'd be safe out there, wouldn't he? Safe as he ever was? "Have a nice time," she said, "but call if you need me."

  Usually that would have been his cue to stumble the rest of the way to their small kitchen for his keys, then out the door and to whichever bar in Manteo he was welcome at that week. Tonight he hesitated, wavering on his feet, focusing on her with an expression she didn't recognise.

  "You're a good daughter," he said.

  She ruffled Sidekick's fur, not sure what to say.

  Wavering, wavering, and he said, "I want you to know," before completing the circuit to the kitchen and the front door, where he fought the deadbolt and won. He closed the door behind him well enough that she was able to stay put on the couch, half-waiting for the dogs outside to go crazy again. There was only quiet.

  Miranda had a firm policy of never being the silly girl – the kind who went to see what noise that was, or who would believe she'd seen something no one else had. The kind who would call Polly and confess why she'd ruined the show. The kind who wanted someone she could talk to, period. There was no one for her to tell everything or anything, no matter what she wanted. She'd best stick with the policy.

  Plumping the waiting pillow, she eased onto her side and let her eyes close with Sidekick's head on her hip. Her dad would wake her when he stumbled back in later.

  But this way she'd know he made it home OK.

  The Silence

  A realtor wearing high heels and too much lipstick clicked her way across the gas station parking lot, returning to the pumps.

  The fluorescents inside lit the building like a blaze, but no one had answered when she called out at the counter. She'd taken a pack of cinnamon chewing gum. She hadn't shoplifted anything since high school and stealing the gum was a thrill, a memory of what it felt like to get away with something.

  She opened the door of her Prius, and then heard a baby crying. Nearby.

  She considered ignoring it. Instead, she slid one acrylic fingernail around the edge of the gum to open the pack, took out a piece and chewed. She tossed the red sealing cord and wrapper onto the ground and walked toward the baby's cries, telling herself nothing was wrong. Rounding the pump, she could see that the gas nozzle was in the side of the minivan. But no one was watching it. The minivan's window was cracked and, as she neared, the baby's crying got louder. She looked back at her own car. She chewed her gum. She got closer, seeing the fat baby thrashing in a car seat inside. Still, no one came.

  She eased open the car door, feeling more like a criminal than she ever had in her life. She'd stolen gum, but she wasn't going to steal a baby.

  The smell wiped away her guilt. She cupped her hand over her mouth, replacing the foul odor with the warm sweet scent of the stolen gum. The fat little baby must have been alone for a while. She needed to call someone, needed to get the baby out of there.

  Something wasn't right.

  The man woke up and couldn't place what was wrong. He threw an arm over the other side of the bed and found it empty. Empty? He sat up.

  "Honey?" he called. Her name wasn't Honey, but she didn't mind the endearment.

  No answer.

  He stood, waiting for a response. When none came, he wandered through the house. Checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room. Her fancy headphones were next to the doorway, so she wasn't out jogging. She'd worked late at the office the night before. He'd taken three round white melatonin tablets and turned in early. He hadn't wanted her to wake him when she came home.

  He went back to the bedroom and looked at her pillow, covered in ivory Egyptian cotton, the high thread count she liked. The pillow's surface was plump, save the outline of where his hand had landed.

  He walked outside to check for her car. The sedan sat in the driveway. He tore across the yard, wet grass soaking his bare feet.

  The driver's side door hung open. Her purse lay on the ground next to the car. He made an awful sound…

  The girl and her friends had stayed up late, first drinking margaritas, then moving on to tequila shots. One of them had eaten the worm. They'd laughed and passed out. She'd stayed on their couch because she didn't think she could make it to her own rental a few doors down.

  Now she couldn't find them. Were they mad at her? Everything had been fine the night before. How could they have left without waking her? They'd have had to go right past the couch. She usually woke at any strange noise.

  She screwed up her courage – they probably weren't mad at her, she hadn't done anything, right? – and called each of their cell phones. In turn, they chirped, sang, beeped.

  She heard them. None of these girls would ever leave the house without their cell phones. She would never go anywhe
re without hers.

  She'd spent her life watching too much TV. She wondered if they'd been kidnapped, were trussed up by some serial killer with a bloody dissection in mind. She'd have been taken, too, though. Wait. What if someone was still in the apartment? But, no, she'd checked. She was alone here. All alone.

  A breeze blew in through the screen door. She'd left the door open when she checked outside. A tiny drink umbrella all pink and yellow and blue cheer spun off the edge of the sticky kitchen table.

  It hit the floor and twirled away.

  2

  Breaking News

  Miranda stretched and hit Sidekick with her feet. He was curled up on the other end of the squishy couch. Bright morning light stabbed around the sides of the blue curtain, a harsh wake-up call. Her dad must not have made it home last night. Or had he?

  She got up and opened the door. She wouldn't have been that surprised to find him laid out, snoring, on the concrete porch. But he wasn't there. She let Sidekick slip past her into the yard, leaving the door open so he could come back inside.

  Miranda shuffled down the hall and peeked into her dad's room, just in case. The room was empty of everything besides a rumpled bed and piles of clothes. She tried the bathroom next. He wasn't passed out at the foot of his porcelain master either, so she brushed her teeth and got cleaned up.

  Her dad almost always made it home. The times he didn't were because some rookie hauled him to the drunk tank instead of bringing him here like Chief Rawling did.

  In her room, Miranda dressed quickly. She paired a faded red T-shirt with a denim skirt she'd made herself out of a pair of old jeans, using the ancient sewing machine she inherited from her mom. She paused for a longing look at her little shelf of DVDs scored at yard sales and on eBay (or burned off torrents using free wireless). She wanted nothing more than to hole up for a few hours, visit a faraway galaxy or watch hot boys fight gross creatures on the hand-me-down netbook Polly had given her at the beginning of the summer. She wanted to forget about the drama at the theater the night before, about the ship no one but her had seen.

  Instead she'd make a jail run. This is your life, Miranda Blackwood.

  She gave Sidekick the option of outside or in, and he chose in and a bowl of kibble. As she headed toward Pineapple, she discovered the morning was full of unwanted developments.

  Along the driver's side of Pineapple, thick black letters shouted the word FREAK.

  Miranda closed her eyes and colors bloomed inside her lids. She wished for something to kick. Like Bone and his friends. Something clever, like maybe Croatoan, would've been too much to ask of them. She took a breath, walked over, and tested the words with a finger.

  Shoe polish instead of spray paint. That was a small favor. She considered cleaning it off before retrieving her dad, but she didn't want to leave him sweating in a cell any longer than necessary. She'd just have to park so he didn't see it. Otherwise he'd ramble and rage.

  Miranda's first hint that something was wrong – something bigger than her dad being MIA and Bone being a jerk – came when she turned onto the main highway toward town. The traffic made her wonder if there was a hurricane evacuation. The flow was too heavy for this early in the day, even for peak tourist season, which late summer wasn't. Big evacs didn't happen without a day or two's warning, though, and there weren't enough rental cars in the mix. Tourists took off when weather threatened, but plenty of locals, including Miranda and her dad, chose to ride out hurricanes the old-fashioned way, with sandbags, boarded-up windows, and peanut butter sandwiches.

  By the time she reached the edge of town and Manteo's box of a police station – bizarrely painted bright blue – she was convinced something was really, really wrong. The jail's parking lot was across the street, and way bigger than it would ever need to be. Only, the lot was full.

  At least a couple dozen people were milling around outside the jail. Slowing, she watched the woman who owned the town movie theater hug a bearded older man. They were both crying. A local TV van was parked half on the curb, a cameraman capturing the pair's worried embrace.

  She managed to find a spot a street over, and hurried back toward the jail. The people spilled onto the sidewalks around the station gave off fear and worry like a force field. She was about to make her way inside the jail when Chief Rawling emerged from the glass doors.

  A sleek-haired blonde reporter launched out of the van toward him, snapping her fingers for the cameraman to follow. She had giant blue eyes like an anime deer's. Miranda had seen her in person before, when she'd come to the theater to announce the winners of random prizes. But Miranda couldn't remember her name. Blondie would do for a nickname. Wait. Scratch that. Blondie had been her mom's favorite band. Blue Doe. That was better.

  Blue Doe approached Chief Rawling, leaning into her right hand to cradle her earpiece and signaling for him to stop walking. He looked like he was having a very bad day. He was as put together as usual – black hair clipped short, face clean-shaven, navy uniform pressed – but deep lines cut into his forehead and around his mouth.

  The chief had always been nice to Miranda, one of the few people in town who didn't treat her or her dad like outcasts. He had that problem child of his own – so what if hers was her dad? – or at least Phillips had been a problem before his parents shipped him off to juvenile delinquent school. Miranda flushed thinking of Phillips. Her memory of him that day at school stayed sharp as a film she could replay at any time. So did the memory of how he'd looked at her later, like he understood how she felt. It wasn't fair he could look at her like that after what he'd done.

  Behind Miranda, someone choked down a sob. She put away thoughts of the chief's trouble-making son and shifted a few steps closer to hear better. The crowd quieted when Blue Doe held up a finger, signaling the interview was about to begin.

  "Live in three, two…" Blue Doe said. She put on an important voice, "Chief Rawling, what can you tell us about the events of this morning? Is this a mass kidnapping? Is it a terrorist action? A hoax?"

  What in the world was Blue Doe talking about?

  Chief Rawling rubbed his forehead then lowered his hand, visibly remembering he was on camera. "We're not sure at this point, beyond reports of a large number of missing people."

  A large number of missing people.

  "How many citizens of Roanoke Island are believed missing at this point?"

  "We've had about a hundred missing persons call-ins this morning, but that number is extremely preliminary. Most of those people will probably turn up," Chief Rawling said.

  Most of those people will probably turn up.

  "Should people leave the island?"

  "It's too early to recommend that people leave. What we need now is for people to let us know if a loved one is missing, and to report any unusual activity. I'm sorry, but I also need to ask everyone to please wait at the courthouse. We need to keep this building free for police work. Further updates as I have them. Thank you."

  The crowd around Miranda erupted into conversation as Chief Rawling went back into the building. She couldn't move. Was her dad missing?

  She didn't even see the microphone until after Blue Doe had thrust it in her face. "You're just a girl," the reporter said, "are you looking for someone? Is someone you love among the lost? What can you tell us?"

  The reporter's tone held a hefty dose of false sympathy. Miranda, reeling, made a mistake. She spoke.

  Phillips Rawling scooted along a wide stone ledge halfway up the outer wall of the four-story dorm. He pressed his fingertips into the space between fat red bricks above his head. His arms flexed as he lifted his lanky body, leaving the safety of the ledge. He fit the rubber tips of his all-stars into the wall, then repeated the whole process again – finger hold, then foot hold – making steady progress toward the open window of his room on the second floor.

  He was cutting it close. The sun was already up, so scaling the wall made the most sense, even if it was crazy. This side of the dorm faced th
e woods, which made being spotted unlikely. And some kids would already be heading down to the lobby for the group hike over to the dining hall for breakfast. He'd be running a bigger risk of being seen walking in the front door and heading the wrong way up the stairs to his floor.

  And Phillips never got caught. Not since he'd come to Jackson, anyway.

  He jumped in the window, landing on the floor with a satisfying thump. He grinned, thinking of the principal's face at the end of the day when he went out to his car to drive home. The supplies for making the bumper sticker had taken a few months to collect. Adhesive, the right sort of paper, the letters to make the message, all ordered online and sent to the nearby house of a teacher who happened to be on sabbatical for a year. Grabbing them from the mailbox wasn't hard, given the power of delivery confirmation. The principal had put a uniforms-even-on-the-weekend policy into place six months before, followed with a ban on "personal decorations" – aka posters – in the dorms, and so the message practically decided itself: I Love Fascism.