Blackwood Page 4

  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 some
thing 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?"

  He straightened, and finally looked at her. There wasn't much distance between them, just the space of the threshold she hadn't invited him over yet. And there was just enough light to see that the years that he'd been gone had been kind… to his face, anyway. She resisted the urge to smooth her hair.

  He shrugged. "My dad's really into antique firearms, and I grew up around the Outer Banks. Don't you still work at The Lost Colony?"

  "I'm an intern, not the prop master," she said. "Wait. How do you know where I work?" She put a hand up to stop him from answering. A couple more inches, and she'd have touched him. "And, um, why are you here?"

  "Why are you answering your door wielding a valuable historical artifact?"

  The gun was worth money, then. Miranda stooped to pick it up, dangling it by the barrel like someone might hold a dead rat by the tail. "I just found it looking for… Never mind."

  "Can I come in?"

  He didn't seem to be joking. She almost said no, but he looked so serious. She gestured with her gun hand for him to come inside, swinging the metal in a semi-welcoming fashion.

  "I guess so."

  "Thanks," he said.

  She shut the door behind him, watching as Sidekick nosed Phillips' fingers. Some guard dog. He slumped onto the floor, tail thumping.

  "Is your dad–" he started.

  "No, he's not here. Which is good for you. He doesn't care too much for you."

  At least, not if he remembers who you are.

  "Understood," he said, and then, "Listen."

  Which she did, but he didn't say anything else. She moved the heavy gun again, indicating the couch. They sat down on opposite ends of it. Unlike at the door, she carefully made sure she created as much distance between them as possible, fingering the gun that lay flat in her lap. Never in a million years would she have expected Phillips Rawling to be on their couch.

  "So," she said. "Just get back?"

  Phillips nodded. "Yeah. A couple of hours ago."

  "So," she said.

  He shifted to face her, erasing a fraction of the distance. "Yes?"

  "Why're you here?"

  "Look, I'm sorry. I know it's weird to drop in here out of nowhere and… surprise you. I'm sorry about that. But I had to see you."

  Miranda listened hard. She let the gun slide onto the couch between them.

  "Please put that thing on the table or something," Phillips said.

  "What did you call it again?" she asked, keeping it in her hand.

  "A matchlock – where did you get it?"

  "I–" she stopped. "No, I don't think so. Not until we talk about why you had to see me, after all this time."

  Phillips didn't rush to say anything.

  Wait. "Have you heard about the missing people?" Even as she said it, she figured out why he'd come. Injury, insult, the whole enchilada. She'd been distracted by how he looked, by the surprise of him showing up. Too distracted to see the obvious. "You think I had something to do with it, don't you? Because I'm a Blackwood. Because of… everything. Are you going to call me a snake again? We can probably get it on CNN this time."

  He still didn't say anything, only looked at her. It wasn't that different than the look he'd given her all those years ago, the one she'd never forgotten. She wanted to be wrong about why he was here. Let me be wrong.

  He sighed. "You're sort of right – I am worried that you may be involved. Is your dad one of the missing?"

  She hadn't been wrong. Miranda picked the supposedly useless gun up and pointed it at him. "Get out."

  He held out his hands. "Wait–"

  The phone rang, its high-pitched wail like a slap. Miranda squeezed the gun's trigger without meaning to.

  Phillips cringed even though there was no noise. Not at first. The whoosh came a heartbeat later, as a curtain of black powder sprayed from the end of the barrel, coating him as completely as a shower. A faint burning scent filled the air.

  Miranda struggled to breathe. "Are you OK?"

  Phillips used a finger to sample the powdery film coating his skin, sniffed and tasted it. "Just coated in… sulphur and, maybe, charcoal?"

  "I didn't mean to…" Shoot you. She couldn't say the words.

  "I know. No big deal. I'm fine."

  The wail of the still-ringing phone made it through her shock. "I should get that." She checked the handset before picking up. Manteo Police. Her stomach tightened. "Hello?"

  While she listened, she watched Phillips attempt to get the worst of the dust off his eyelashes. Having sprayed him with the powder should feel satisfying. He deserved the payback. Especially since he'd come here to accuse her of – well, she still didn't know what exactly.

  "Be right there," she said, and clicked the phone off.

  "Who was that?" Phillips asked. His curiosity seemed to transcend the thick powder still clinging to his skin.

  Miranda considered lying, but told the truth. "Your dad."

  Phillips jolted to his feet. Black dust flew in the air around him. "What? Why?"

  "He needs me to come to the courthouse. They found mine."

  "Found your what?"

  "Dad," she said. "They found my dad."

  Reality crashed down around her, settling into place like the walls of their ramshackle house. Ramshackle, but inescapable. She placed the gun on the table, being more careful. She frowned. "I thought you said it couldn't fire without being lit."

  Phillips looked like he wore Halloween make-up gone wrong. Sidekick nosed his fingers, testing them with a lick and shuddering.

  He said, "It couldn't. But this is gunpowder. I can smell the sulphur. So it has a trigger mechanism even though it shouldn't. Where did you find it?"

  The box she'd unearthed from the closet was a few feet away, and she was taken aback by how much she wanted to show it to him and see what theory he'd have. But she didn't have any reason to trust him, not after eighth grade, not after he'd rushed here to say she was "involved" with the disappearances. An answer would only provide more ammunition. So to speak.

  "You better get cleaned up. I have to go get Dad."

  5

  Found

  There wasn't anywhere for Phillips to park his mom's sedan around the courthouse. There might not be that many permanent residents in town, but every single one left must have converged on downtown. Cars crammed all the spots that the media's satellite trucks hadnt occupied. Every major network was represented, along with the local cable station's van. Phillips had let Miranda out a block away and was searching the side streets for a gap.

  Miranda. Up close, he'd been able to see the changes the years had made in her. She was taller, and her curly hair was wilder. He could tell that she was still the same girl, with too much weight on her shoulders, trapped by the island and what being from her family meant. He related. She hadn't wanted to let him drive her to the courthouse, but she'd flagged him down before he could leave. Her own wreck of a car wouldn't start.

  He couldn't have screwed up the conversation at her house worse. She believed he'd come
to embarrass her again, to hurt her. She hadn't said an unnecessary word to him on the drive.

  He had to find a way to make it right. He was even more worried about her after the appearance of the weird old gun. Not being able to explain why he was worried didn't change what he knew.

  Miranda Blackwood wasn't safe.