Blackwood (6 page)

  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.

  That wasn't the only thing worrying him. Where were the voices? He wasn't willing to risk trying to call them. Not yet. He'd summoned the voices intentionally just once, and the response had left him muttering in bed for two days, struggling to mute the overwhelming chaos chorus.

  But he couldn't help wondering if he'd been gone for three years for no reason. The voices had
felt
real. That they started the day his gram died and stopped when he left seemed to confirm they were – and that they were tied to the island, somehow. Maybe not, though. Maybe he had some brain disorder and the timing had been a coincidence.

  Phillips found a spot in front of the Pioneer Theater. The box office was dark, despite the fact the movie theater prided itself on always being open. He needed to get back to Miranda.

  The courthouse square consisted of a wide lawn with a fountain and a gazebo, shaded by the white courthouse with grand two-story columns and a wide front porch. Phillips kept his head down as he waded through the lunatic fringe clogging the square, hoping no one would recognise him and flag him down. Unfortunately, the reputation he had to earn in order to leave made him memorable.

  He passed uninterrupted through the crowd and stopped near the bottom of the broad set of steps that led to the courthouse entrance. He hesitated, not eager to face his dad.

  So when the professor type coming off the steps barreled into Phillips, he knew it was partly his fault. Still, he said, "Watch out–" before he realised who the klutzy professor was.

  The man in front of him hadn't changed a tweed fiber. He was wearing the same fussy style suit he always did, no matter the weather, and had a familiar leather binder clasped under his arm. He was known around town as Dr Roswell, so christened because about the only theory on the lost colonists he hadn't held at some point was alien abduction. He really was an M.D., and to Phillips he was also Dr Whitson, the shrink he'd seen to keep his parents happy. Better, he was the shrink who'd spent most of their time together talking history and ephemera while Phillips poked through his personal library.

  Phillips smiled despite the hold-up. "Doc."

  Dr Roswell's beard and mustache took on a friendly walrus shape when he grinned back in recognition. "You magically appear in front of me and now I know I'm officially going mad," he said.

  Phillips gestured at the mob scene. "What do you think all this is?"

  "CNN got my name from Bitty Reynolds, and they thought I'd know." Dr Roswell leaned in, growing serious. "But, Phillips, I don't think what this is can be easily explained. All I know is that it happened once before."

  CNN might not be so far off base. Dr Roswell did know a lot of things that regular history buffs ignored. "I have to go, Doc. There's a girl I have to…" Phillips swallowed, unsure how to finish. "Is it OK if I drop by later? Talk over some explanations that aren't easy?"

  Dr Roswell nodded, "You're always welcome. And good luck."

  "Good luck with–?"

  But Dr Roswell continued on, waving off the calls of the locals now all too eager for his theories. Phillips watched him parting the sea of townspeople, and then walked up the broad limestone steps that would take him to his father.

  At the top, Phillips met the nod of the beefy cop on security, and the guy recognised him instantly. "Your dad's been wondering when you'd turn up. And your mom's pissed. Get in there."

  Great. He headed to the courthouse's revolving door, deciding how best to handle his dad. He was out of practice at being in trouble.

  Despite the sweep of the building's exterior, inside no grand vista waited. The lobby's scuffed marble floor was filled with a crowd of people who weren't usually there. A few tables had been set up, outfitted with phones for a call bank. Phillips' dad had an office on the first floor, up one of the hallways branching off the lobby. He preferred not to work in the jail when he could avoid it.

  Phillips spotted Miranda hovering off to the side of the entrance. He hung back for a second, watching her watch his dad. She must be waiting for his dad to notice her, and all the buzzing activity meant that hadn't happened yet.

  Phillips wasn't sure why his dad had summoned Miranda here, but it bothered him. There was no reason for him to have called her personally.

  His dad stopped to talk to a state trooper and a pasty guy in a black suit. He looked even more tired than he had in the glimpse Phillips got on TV in the airport. Dark circles hung under his eyes like he'd gone weeks instead of less than twenty-four hours without sleep. He responded to something the guy in the suit said, body language dismissive. His dad's mouth fell open mid-sentence as he stared at Miranda.

  Make that
past
Miranda. Phillips waved.

  Miranda turned her head, frowning when she spotted him. "Thanks for the ride. But you didn't have to come in."

  "I wanted to." He shrugged in his dad's direction. Phillips could tell from El Jefe's scowl as he shot across the lobby that he hadn't even noticed Miranda. Phillips talked fast, "I'm sorry. I don't think any of this is your fault. I'm just worried for you. I did a crap job of explaining before, but you can trust me. I promise."

  "I should…" Miranda hesitated, tilted her head to give him a closer look. Then she stepped between him and his father. Phillips didn't know why she'd decided to delay his moment of reckoning, but he was grateful anyway. She said, "Hey, Chief Rawling. You called me?"

  His dad looked from Miranda to Phillips and back again, finally seeing her. "Yes, I did. You better step into my office." He motioned for her to follow him before he spoke to Phillips, "
You
wait here." Then he added, "Until I come back."

  Miranda looked puzzled. "Where's my dad? Is he in your office?"

  His dad said, "You'd better come with me." He touched Miranda's arm, extended his other one to indicate which direction for her to go.

  Miranda dealt Phillips another surprise, when she hesitated and said, "If it's OK, can Phillips come with us?"

  His dad's forehead wrinkled in confusion, but he said, "I guess."

  Phillips trailed Miranda across the lobby and along the hallway into his dad's office. The space hadn't changed much. His dad closed the blinds on the tall, narrow windows to the outside, turning the room into a cave. He peered at Phillips from the other side of his desk. "How are you holding up? Any… problems?"