Nil (34 page)

“Bart,” Rives said. “Or what’s left of him.”

Even though I wasn’t a Bart fan—and it was tough to find one after the Miguel debacle—it was awful to see him like this: pale and bloated, with one hand missing. I wondered how he ended up in the water, washing up here, and I wondered what killed him. It was another Nil mystery to add to the rest.

The fellas dragged Bart’s body onto the beach. There was no blood, which seemed strange. Jillian stood beside me, her nose crinkled like she smelled something bad. All I smelled was the ocean, thank goodness.

“The last time I saw Bart, he was talking to Talla.” Jillian paused. “Weird.”

“Totally weird,” I agreed.

Bart was dead; Talla was dead. And then there was poor Miguel, fate unknown. Heesham’s Search team had turned out to be a dadgum mess, and the only one still standing for sure was Heesham. He towered over the body, his size casting an enormous shadow over Bart’s corpse.

“Wonder what he ran from this time,” Heesham said, frowning.

“What?” Rives said sharply.

“Did you see those cuts on his back? Something sliced him up, man. Something with claws. Bart was in full retreat when it got him.”

“Now what?” Dex asked.

“Now we bury him,” Thad said. “Since Johan’s out on Search, same for Macy, I’ll lead the service, unless someone else wants the honors.” He looked around. No one volunteered. Not even Sy, Bart’s former roommate. The silence was telling.

“Then it’s settled,” Thad said. “I’ll handle the service.”

Now Sy spoke. “Uh, maybe we should send him back out to sea.” Now that he had everyone’s attention, Sy looked like he’d just swallowed some unripe redfruit and was trying not to choke. “You know, like an ocean burial.”

“You mean feed him to the fishes?” Rives asked, smiling slightly. “Make him shark bait?”

“No.” Thad shot Sy a sharp look. Rives may have been Leader, but Thad was still in charge. “We bury him. What Bart did doesn’t make it right for us not to treat his body with respect.”

“Just not near Talla.” Rives’s voice was hard. And that was the end of the discussion.

Bart was buried in a very poorly attended service, outside the City lines. He got two crosses: one on his grave, one on the Wall.

It wasn’t until later that I realized Bart had shown up at noon. If a gate had flashed, it wasn’t around here. Or if it was, we were all too busy looking at the water to see it.

Thad had thirty-four chances left.

“Charley!”

Jillian’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and the Wall. I hadn’t moved since Sy carved Bart’s cross.

“Hey.” I turned toward Jillian. “What’s up?”

“You okay? You haven’t moved in, like, an hour.”

“Jillian—” I fumbled, trying to frame my question and not sound Ramia-looney, “Thad’s certain that the labyrinths mean one thing: that there’s one way on and off the island—a gate—and that catching a gate is like finding your way through a maze. But I can’t stop thinking that the labyrinths mean something more personal. That we’re here for a reason, and that it’s up to us to figure it out.”

I took a breath, primed to test my latest wild theory. “Sometimes I think that the key to how many gates flash in a set is tied to the personal journey part of a labyrinth, like we each hold the key, inside of us.” I didn’t mention that I’d seen a quad within minutes of landing; I’d no idea what that meant. “What do you think?”

It took Jillian a long time to answer.

“I think that we’re all searching,” she said slowly. “That being here has changed us all; I mean, how can it not? But”—she sighed—“is there some deep reason we’re here? And does discovering it help us get home? Sorry, but to me it feels like a stretch. Back home, people disappear all the time and are never found. It’s the mass disappearances that get attention, like ships or planes in the Bermuda Triangle, or entire families that vanish. I believe freak things like Nil exist without any hidden agenda.” Her tone went from apologetic to firm. “Talla worked harder than anyone here to get home, and she didn’t make it. Same for Li. So what didn’t they figure out?” She shook her head. “Sorry, my friend, but I agree with Thad. We’re here because each of us got swept up by an invisible storm. Wrong place, wrong time. All we have to do now is catch a gate to make the return trip.”

I stared at Jillian, processing her words.

“What is it?” she asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” I shook my spinning head. “You said something exactly right. Jillian, you’re a genius!” I hugged her quickly, then dashed to my hut and collected all four of my rubbings. The paper I’d used was thin, more like tracing paper than parchment. I carefully spread out all four of my rubbings on the ground in front of my hut and stared at them. Soon I had an audience. Jillian, Rives, Thad, Dex, Jason, Macy, and Ahmad all peered over my shoulder.

“Okay, here goes. We know once gates flash, they roll north along longitudinal lines, and they never flash in the same spot—or on the same latitude—two days in a row. And we know the gate sequence starts here. I’m sure this is Quadrant One.” I pointed to the bottom right quadrant, to the spot where the man stood outside the maze on the drawing Ahmad found, the one Thad called Countdown. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. But I’ve been thinking it’s a wave of gates, passing over the island, and I think that’s where I went wrong.”

Moving slowly, I gently laid one rubbing on top of another, using the number twelve at the top as a constant. The Man in the Maze lay on the bottom; Countdown sat on the top. The remaining two rubbings were sandwiched in the middle. All the number twelves were carefully aligned, their edges sharp. I stepped back, gazed at the rubbings, and like a hidden picture that leaps out after careful study, I saw precisely what I was looking for: the straight lines within the mazes faded, and the circular etchings took center stage. Swirling lines, spinning toward the epicenter, toward the center of
every
maze. Separately, the drawings were a labyrinth; together they were a guide.

Behind me, Rives sucked in a breath.

“It’s not a wave,” I said, my eyes still traveling the rubbings, “it’s more like a storm—like an invisible tornado. Or a hurricane. It swirls around the island, mimicking the circular path of the labyrinth, starting here”—I pointed at the bottom right quadrant again—“in Quadrant One, then moving left, clockwise, hitting each quadrant in turn, no more than four times.” I looked up. “That’s what I was missing—the circular pattern. And I needed all four rubbings together to see it.” I spoke out loud even as my thoughts gelled. “We rarely see the gates that flash first, because so much of the southeast corner is blocked by volcanoes; we usually catch the storm in Quadrant Two, the southwest corner. And I think the rogue gates that don’t quite fit are like outer bands of a storm, slightly off latitude but still within the same quadrant.” I paused. “What do y’all think?”

Dex spoke first. “It’s bloody brilliant.”

“I think you’re a hell of a Second,” Rives said, grinning. “I’m glad you’re here, even though I’m sorry you’re here.” He looked at Thad, who was quiet, then to me. “So, you gonna hit Quadrant Two tomorrow?”

“I have to check with my island guide,” I said, “but I’ll let y’all know. I hear there’s a storm coming.” Smiling, I crossed my fingers; I couldn’t help it.

Please let my latest theory be right.

CHAPTER

52

CHARLEY

DAY 84, NIGHT

The day after I broke out my storm theory, we were riding high. Noon brought a gate, a gorgeous single. Flashing fast and furious across the southern black field, Thad didn’t have a prayer of catching it, but it was there. And then it was gone.

And so the chase began.

We chased gates, and we chased noons, and the faster we ran, the faster time flew. Minutes drained like sand through a sieve, too many at once, too fast to stop. Each time I reached out to seize a moment, it was gone.

Day 331 turned into 332; 332 flew into 333. Sunrise, sunset—334, 335.

Three hundred forty.

Three hundred fifty.

Each dawn broke sooner than the last; each noon came faster still.
Stop!
I wanted to shout. But we couldn’t stop the clock; we could only hope to beat it. Time only slowed during that excruciatingly long moment when we grasped that noon had passed and Thad was still here. That moment felt like an eternity, until a mix of guilt and regret and worry came to wash it away. Then time sped right back up, like pressure made the minutes fall faster.

Trying to relax, I focused on the ocean. Usually the waves were a sure-fire cure, peaceful and rhythmic. But not tonight.

Camped on the north shore, nights here were unnerving, creepier than nights near the City. With clouds to the east blocking the stars, blackness saturated the night, the sky, even the sea. Right now, the invisible ocean crashed incessantly against the rocks, furious and impatient.

Blocking out the sea, I switched to my charts, mentally reviewing my latest notes. Using the storm theory, our gate sightings had definitely increased. But it still wasn’t enough. I knew it wasn’t enough, because Thad was still here.

He should already be gone.

Instead, he lay beside me, one arm slung across my waist, eyes closed, jaw relaxed. Sleep softened his ever-present intensity. For countless minutes, I watched him sleep, forcing the moment to slow, trying not to freak out.

He’d challenged me, weeks ago.
If you really believe in us—that we’ll both make it—it doesn’t matter if we wait.

I hadn’t brought up making love again; neither had he. But I thought about his words, more often than he knew, because they went so much farther than just the physical. Wait to make love, wait to dream. Wait to plan. Wait to talk about the future, because lately it hurt too much.

He should already be gone
.

The thought crept back in, persistent and disturbing.

What are you missing, Charley?
Finding a gate was one thing; catching a gate was another thing altogether.

“We’re doing everything right, aren’t we?” I whispered. Silence answered me, punctuated by waves beating against the rocks, crashing like fear.

Aren’t we?

CHAPTER

53

THAD

DAY 351, DAWN

Using a wooden knife, Charley peeled the rind off a mango in a few slick swipes.

“Tell me again,” she said, licking juice off her finger. “They say that the best way to memorize something is repetition before you fall asleep and again when you wake up.”

I didn’t need to repeat it; I had her address down cold. But I knew she needed to hear it.

“Charley Crowder. Eighteen Mountain Laurel Drive, Roswell, Georgia.”

“Again.”

I laughed, and repeated her address. “Now you.”

Charley said my address, then handed me a slice of mango. “I’ll call you as soon as I catch a gate.” We both knew our cell phones were long gone. Lost, or canceled, or both. But families don’t move, not when their kids are missing. “I promise.” She grinned. “I’ve always wanted to see Canada. I’ve got a tack on Vancouver on my wall map. I just need to move it over a speck to get to your house.”

“Speaking of maps, did you pack yours?” I asked.

“Got ’em right here.” She patted her satchel.

“Let’s pack and roll.”

She smiled. “And pray the gates roll, too.”

My gut clenched. Charley had switched the words from hope to prayers, revealing the desperation behind her casual reply.

Dropping my pack, I wrapped her in my arms. “They will,” I whispered. “I’ll make it.”

“I know.” Her voice was fierce. “You have to.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I didn’t want to let Charley go, but we had around four hours until today’s noon and a two-hour hike, give or take, to get to the meadow. Past the lava fields, past Bull’s-eye, it was the same meadow that I’d woken up in exactly 351 days ago. According to Charley’s charts, this latitude was due a gate, and the meadow was wide open, another hot spot ready to pop in the opening quadrant on the storm track. The only downside was that since the grasses were tall, you couldn’t see the gate rising until it broke above the grass line. But, once it did, the meadow offered room to run. And although I didn’t share the feeling with Charley, this spot felt tailor-made for me. I’d been snatched off one mountain, then landed at the base of another, and to me, it seemed fitting that if Nil wanted to let me go, she’d send a gate there. In the shadow of a snow-capped mountain that I’d never be allowed to climb.

“C’mon.” I kissed her forehead, gently, because I still could. “Let’s hike.”

As we trekked, dainty Miya was as quiet as Nil. She glided over the ground, walking without a sound, and she rarely spoke, except to Jason. But judging by the way he smiled at her, Jason didn’t mind.

I’d only been back to the meadow twice since I’d landed, including the sleepless night preceding Bull’s-eye’s discovery. I’d spent my time in the City, or in the arc Charley had identified as holding the best odds. But outside that arc, the meadow sat ready. Today we’d see how Nil wanted to play.

The hike took longer than expected. As we neared the meadow, I felt edgy and Jason looked worried. Gauging by the sun, noon was close. For her part, Charley looked determined.

The meadow sprawled like an open target. Tall grasses waved in the wind; trees were scattered to the left, Mount Nil rose to the right. But the rest was wide open.

“Watch the grass line,” Jason said. His eyes were busy.

“Look!” Charley cried, pointing.

For one surprised second, I thought she’d beaten Jason to the punch, then I realized she was pointing to a pair of horses. Running in sync, their brown coats glistened as their hooves trampled the grass. The sound was a dull echo; we were too far away. Oddly ordinary, the sight was peaceful.

Miya spoke sharply. “Something moving in grass. There.”