Generation Loss (36 page)

"What
do we do?" I demanded. "He's got a fucking gun—"

I
remembered the flare gun below. As Toby hunched over the tiller, I darted to
the companionway and climbed down. Kenzie held the two-way radio and the NOAA
band. The boat hook and my camera were on the bench beside her.

"Is
that radio working?"

"I
don't know." She punched a button. I heard a blast of static. "I
think so. Maybe."

"Keep
trying." I flung open the drawer, grabbed the flare gun. As I passed
Kenzie I hesitated, then grabbed my camera and climbed back up on deck. Toby
stared at me from the cockpit, his face taut. He gestured angrily at the flare
gun.

"That's
useless!"

"Not
if I nail him."

The
distance between the boats had narrowed to about fifty feet. Denny's arm
dangled limply at his side. He had a gun but showed no sign of using it. His
head looked misshapen, his features blackened and smeared across his face like
tar. His jaw sagged, and I could see where the flesh had been torn away, like a
peeled fruit.

He
was smiling.

"I
see you," he cried thickly.

"He's
coming right at us." I shook my head in disbelief. "Like he’s going to
ram us."

"Look
out—"Toby swung the tiller, and the sailboat tacked sharply to the right.
"Watch your head!"

I
ducked and grabbed the rail as the Boston Whaler shot toward our stern. There
was a grinding sound, and the
Northern Sky
lurched.

Toby's
face went dead white. "He's going for the rudder—he's trying to shear it
off—"

The
outboard's roar became a furious whine. The Boston Whaler circled then swept
toward us again, Denny crouching over the motor.

"By
his feet." Toby called to me and pointed. "There's a plastic
container, it's usually got fuel in it. You only have one flare. See if you can
hit it."

I
braced myself against the rail. It was hard for me to take aim with one eye
bandaged, but I did my best. Denny straightened to stare at me. His mouth
opened in a wordless shout.

"I
see you too," I said, and fired.

There
was a low
whoosh,
and a white ball rocketed toward the Boston Whaler.
Around us the world glowed as a bright plume like a meteor's tail split the sky
in two. Denny lifted his face, arms outstretched, his shirt blinding white. The
flare plummeted soundlessly to his feet and continued to burn, not fiercely but
steadily, while brownish smoke rose around him. I dimly heard Toby behind me,
cursing. Then the
Northern Sky
arced smoothly away from Denny's boat and
began to churn across the reach.

I
clung to the rail and stared at Denny. The flare's light still glowed in the
Boston Whaler's stern, but he made no move to put it out or kick it away from
the fuel container, only stood with arms lifted and face tilted to the night,
as though welcoming something. I could see the dull glint of the gun in his
hand. Then his fingers opened. The gun fell, disappearing into the water. Denny
lowered his ruined face until he stared at me then stooped for something at his
feet. The flare, I thought.

But
then he straightened. His eyes trapped the flare's dull glow as he shook his
head, slowly, sorrowfully, and his mouth split into an anguished smile as he
held something out to me, a large, flat, rectangular object that flapped in the
freezing wind and billowing smoke. His book.

There
was a hiss like air escaping from a valve. Denny's legs bloomed orange and
black.

"Get
down!" shouted Toby. "That's the fuel line!"

A
column of flame shot into the air. Denny screamed, a terrible high-pitched
sound like a child's cry, and the engine exploded.

I
stared transfixed as gold and argent pinwheels spun from the boat's stern.
Black smoke ballooned and momentarily obscured everything as I grabbed the
camera around my neck and clawed off the lens cap. I braced myself against the
rail, shielded the lens from sleet, and coughed as oily smoke enveloped me then
dispersed, windblown, as Denny burned.

I
shot him as he died, his clothes ragged wings and his hair ablaze, his hands
beating at the flames as though they were swarms of fiery bees. His face
blackened and collapsed; one arm twitched rhythmically as the boat began to dip
below the water's surface; and still he burned, a man like a dancing ember. I
pressed the shutter release and angled myself along the rail, coughing as smoke
coiled around me and my eye streamed, until a dome of black and gray erupted
from the water's surface and the Boston Whaler disappeared. Gray eddies washed
toward us, the stink of diesel and melted fiberglass and charred meat.

The
Northern
Sky
drifted, slowly, its engine a soft drone. As in a dream I replaced the
lens cap on my camera, pulled it from my neck, put it in my bag, and shoved it
out of the way. I stood against the rail and stared across the black swells.

A
life preserver floated a few yards off, yellow nylon line, a clotted white
shape that might have been part of the outboard engine: scattered wreckage that
was too far off for me to see. Freezing rain beat against my face. It was a
moment before I realized I was crying. I wiped at my one good eye, touched the
sodden bandage on the other, and gazed back out at the water.

The
life preserver had drifted out of sight, but the swells brought other things
closer: sheets of oversized paper, some torn but others miraculously intact, or
nearly so: Denny's book, its pages ripped from the homemade binding. I stared
in disbelief as a sheet floated past and disintegrated before my eyes, its
layers detaching themselves—leaves, hair, green pigment, ochre, albumen, blood,
all dissolving into a bright slick upon the surface of the sea then
disappearing into flecks of foam and brown kelp. A tiny shard like an arrowhead
seemed to crawl across a page floating past. A swell lifted it, and a torn
photograph curled from the sheet. I had a glimpse of eyes blurring into mouth
and hands, a turtle's shell.

I
gasped and leaned forward with one hand, reaching for a sheet that seemed
intact. My fingers closed around one corner, the heavy paper sodden but untorn.
Another swell nearly tugged the sheet from my grasp. I stretched out my other
hand to grab it, winced as my hand closed on it and my legs suddenly shot out
from under me. My boots slid across the icy deck as I pitched forward, and
overboard.

The
water slammed me like a wall. My mouth opened to scream, and I kicked out
frantically as I sank. Frigid water filled my mouth and nostrils. I kicked
again, frantic, pinioned by utter darkness. Freezing water crushed me; I saw
nothing, felt nothing but that terrible weight and then the shock of light,
air, my name.

"Cass!
Cass!'

I
gasped then choked as air filled my lungs, felt a dull pressure against my
cheek. Something glinted then struck' me again, on the shoulder this time. The
boat hook. I tried to grab it but my hands were numb, then dimly saw a figure
reaching from the stern. Kenzie.

"Hang
on!" she shouted.

Another
shape appeared behind her. "We got you, Cass, hang on there—"

Toby
grabbed me by the shoulders as Kenzie dug the boat hook beneath my arm.
Together they pulled me on board. I knelt, puking up sea water, as Toby draped
a blanket around me.

"Come
on, girl, let's get you below. Come on," he urged. "You're gonna
freeze to death."

He
half-carried me below deck, giving instructions to Kenzie beside us. "Try
to get her warm, whatever you do keep her warm—"

Kenzie
forced me onto one of the bunks and peeled off my clothes, wrapped me in more
blankets, then lay beside me. Most of the grime was gone from her wan face, and
she'd put on one of Toby's heavy sweaters over her filthy sweatshirt.

"Are
you okay?" she whispered.

I
nodded but said nothing. The two of us lay there in silence, listening as Toby
spoke calmly into the radio and then climbed back up on deck.

When
he was gone, the cabin seemed to contract around us. The lamp guttered to a
dull glow as I listened to the creak of wood, a noise like someone scratching
at the hull. The hiss of sleet sounded like my name. After a while Kenzie and I
sat up, still without speaking. We crouched side by side on the bunk, with
Toby's worn blankets wrapped around us and his voice echoing faintly from
above, and stared out the porthole into the darkness until the first lights of
Burnt Harbor shone through the night.

27

we
were met by John Stone and Jeff Hakkala, two ambulances and a number of state
troopers. A crowd had already gathered outside the Good Tern. I recognized
Robert and die two guys who'd set upon me earlier; also Merrill Libby; Everett
Moss, the harbormaster; and a small white TV van, headlights blazing through
the fog.

"My
camera," I said.

Toby
gave me a funny look.

"Its
safe," he said. "I put it below. Out of sight," he added.

I
swore as someone started running toward us from the news van.

Toby
put his arm around me and walked me toward the ambulance. When the reporter
drew up beside us, Toby shook his head fiercely.

"Can't
you see this lady's injured?"

"That
ain't no lady," a voice yelled as the reporter fell back into the crowd.

I
glanced over to see Robert standing beside Kenzie and her father. He grinned at
me, tongue stud glinting in the headlight, then turned away.

At
Paswegas County Hospital, Kenzie was examined and treated for trauma and
poisoning; there was no sign of sexual assault. My arm was cleaned and
bandaged. I got fifteen stitches and a temporary eye-patch.

"You're
going to have a scar there," the ER doctor told me.

I
stared into the mirror, at a black starburst of stitches and dried blood beside
my right eye.

"Souvenir
of Vacationland," I said.

I
was released around three am. They kept Kenzie overnight then released her the
next morning to her father and the ministrations of local law enforcement.

I
spent the rest of the night with the state police. So did Toby. There were a
lot of questions, especially for me, and I gathered there'd be more once the
FBI arrived and investigators saw what was in the trees on Tolba Island. I
didn't want to think about what they'd find in the quarry, or that clearing.

I
was beyond exhaustion. And I felt a sick pang, that I hadn't saved Denny's
book. All that terrifying beauty, lost. Only glimpses would remain, in the
pictures Ray had, and Lucien Ryel.

But
they were like postcards of the Taj Mahal. And I'd seen the real thing.

Denny
Ahearn had created an entire world out there with his turtle shells and
daguerreotypes, his mangled home religion and tormented attempts to reclaim
something from the death of the girl he had loved all those years ago. It was a
horrifying world, but it was a real one. How many of us can say we've made a
new world out of the things that terrify and move us? Aphrodite tried and
failed.

Monstrous
as he was, Denny was the real thing. So was his work. He really had built a
bridge between the worlds, even if no one had ever truly seen it, besides the
two of us. Now it was up to me, to carry the memory of the dead on my back.

It
was dawn when Toby finally drove me to the Lighthouse.

"Here."
He handed me my camera. "I figured you'd want this." As I turned it
to the light, he added, "No one's seen it. Didn't seem like it was their
business."

The
sign in front of the motel now read no vacancy. Merrill had arranged for us to
be given cabins in the woods behind the motel, rather than the rooms near the
main road.

"In
case reporters start showing up," explained Toby. He looked drawn and
exhausted, but also immeasurably sad. "Be a little harder for them to find
us there."

"That's
thoughtful of him."

"Merrill's
not a bad guy. I told you that. I should have, anyway." He looked at me
and shook his head. "You should get some sleep."

"Yeah.
You too," I said and stumbled inside.

Sunlight
leaked through the blinds as I locked the door. I kicked my boots off and set
them atop the heater, downed the last two Percocets and fell into bed. I slept
like the dead, dreamless, mindless. When I finally woke, it was night again.

I
spent the next two days in a daze: no booze, no drugs. A lot of time giving
statements to various law enforcement officials. A background check brought up
the time Christine had called the police on me for domestic assault, but as
she'd never pressed charges no one could run with that. Toby and Suze vouched
for my whereabouts and everything I'd done during the time since MacKenzie
Libby went missing. Toby made no mention of me slipping him a Mickey. There
were a few raised eyebrows and some unpleasant moments—I've never been good at
interviews—but there was no arguing with the fact that Kenzie was alive and
safe, and that she wouldn't have been if I hadn't intervened. I gave all my
pertinent contact information and was told I could go, for now.