Seeders: A Novel (26 page)

His smile fell away. “You shouldn’t think bad thoughts about them, Isabelle.”

“No, I wouldn’t. They’re quite lovely.”

“Stay with me tonight,” he said, delighted. He put a hand on her shoulder, moving close. He smelled earthy, like mushrooms, and the growth covered his entire forehead, surrounded his eye, and continued down the side of his cheek into his stubbly beard. The ax was digging into Isabelle’s leg and she eased back from his grip.

His eyes gleamed. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I should go back to the house, get my things.”

When he heard those words, Jules lost all reserve. He dropped the ax and took Isabelle in his arms and kissed her hard. His warm tongue snaked into her mouth, tasting bitter.

She pushed desperately on his chest but her resistance was met with the strength of an ox. The muscles in his fingers barely flexed. It took no effort to keep her still and Isabelle realized that struggling was useless.

She bit his lip, clenching her teeth down hard.

They broke apart and Jules staggered back, holding his bloody mouth.

“I’m leaving,” she rasped. “Don’t follow me.”

He looked wounded, but not from the bite. “You said you were going to stay.”

“I can’t. Just leave me alone.”

“Isabelle, I swear. Spend just one night in the woods. One night and you’ll understand, I promise. It will all be clear in the morning.” He moved closer.

Isabelle pulled out the knife. “Don’t touch me.”

Jules stepped back, reaching down to pick up the ax, just as Sean came out of the woods carrying a large fern. The roots dangled from his hands.

“Sean, come here,” Isabelle said.

Instead he walked to Jules, standing behind him and suspiciously eyeing his mother.

“I said come here.”

Sean blinked and sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve.

“Leave the boy alone, Isabelle. He has a job to do.” Jules gave Sean a hearty shove back toward the woods and told him, “Get back to work.”

She felt rage and fear at the same time, wanting to pounce on the man, but paralyzed to move. “Don’t hurt him.”

Sean turned with a final scowl at his mother and headed back into the woods.

“Come back, Sean,” she cried, but his quick steps were fading, and she tried to follow.

Jules blocked her path. He held the ax over his shoulder. “Go home, little girl. Before someone loses their head.”

Terror burned in her cheeks and Isabelle had a feeling of helplessness so overwhelming she could barely stand.

With a hand to her mouth, she backed away, and then started to run, stumbling through the woods and blinded by tears. She rounded a bend and headed in the same direction as Sean, the sound of Jules’s laughter pushing her on.

CHAPTER 27

MONICA CHUGGED THE LAST BOTTLE
of wine while Luke kept a comforting hand on her back. His mind was working, trying to deduce how she could have seen a dead man walking. She hadn’t eaten any of the biscuits.

“My hands are shaking so bad,” she said. “I can’t stop shaking.”

“Shhh, it’s over,” he said and kissed the bruise on her arm. “You’re okay.”

“I’m not okay! I’m fucking scared out of my wits. God, he was
so gross
!”

Luke took a slow breath and rose from the bed, pacing in a small circle. “I don’t get it.” He stared at her. “You never ate a biscuit.”

“Duh, Sherlock. Obviously you were wrong about the drugs.”

“Maybe it was Beecher trying to scare you. He was probably holding up the body and chasing you around.”

“Don’t be an idiot. That thing was two inches from my face. I could
smell
him.” She drank from the bottle so fast she coughed it all onto the mattress. “Shit.”

Luke started pacing again. It helped him think. “Maybe Beecher was right. The plants make you see things that aren’t there.”

“What are you talking about?”

His shoulders dropped as he exhaled. “I didn’t want to say anything because I thought it might freak you out. Plus, I didn’t quite believe it myself.”

“Spill.”

“Dr. Beecher thinks my grandfather did something to the plants on the island. I’m not positive, but they might be messing with our heads.”

“What plants?” she asked.

“The ones on the island.” He could see her next question arising and headed it off. “According to Beecher, plants are conscious beings, like people. Their thoughts travel the same way as our own brain waves, but at different frequencies. So if George was able to synchronize the thought frequencies of plants and humans, they might be able to communicate with us.”

“In English, please.”

“The plants are putting thoughts in our heads. I mean, taking our own thoughts and using them to scare us. Although Beecher insists they’re just trying to send us messages. He thinks it has something to do with a fungus. This black stuff that’s growing all over the woods.”

Monica expelled a burst of air. “And you believe him. That’s crazy.”

“I’ve been reading his book. He’s really a brilliant guy.”

“He might be smart but he’s also nuts. Maybe even dangerous.”

Luke nodded. “He has all those … sharp things.”

“Which means we have to protect ourselves too.”

“My mom has a rifle.”

“Good for your mom. We don’t have shit.” She slid off the bed, dizzy from the booze, and walked a crooked line to the window. She could see the shed in the back of the house, and beyond was the flat, empty sea. “Let’s get that crossbow.”

Luke nodded and they headed downstairs.

They walked across the patio, lost in their own thoughts. “We shouldn’t be afraid of something that isn’t real,” Luke said. “It’s just illusions. We have to remember that.”

“Right,” Monica said pointedly. “Sort of like being in a fun house, where things pop out at you and it’s scary but they can’t really hurt you. It’s like George Washington said, there’s nothing to fear but fear itself.”

“That was Roosevelt, but it’s a good analogy.”

They reached the shed and Luke slid open the door. The crossbow was missing. He snorted. “I told you we should have taken it.”

They went inside and took what was left. Monica put a small pair of cutting shears in her leather jacket. Luke grabbed the last knife.

*   *   *

Isabelle turned back before she found Sean because the dizziness had returned full force. She barely made it out of the woods and collapsed to her knees, shaking and bracing her arms for support.

“God, please don’t let him hurt my son,” she whispered and managed to stand on weak legs. She started up the path, but the house seemed to be moving farther away, instead of closer.

She fell back on one knee, out of breath and surrounded by ryegrass whipping in the breeze. She turned her head toward High Peak, where the sky was vivid blue and the hillside rocky, dotted with tufts of grass and springtime weeds starting to bloom.

Someone was walking up the path to the cliffs. The man was tall and dressed in white and when he stopped to turn around, Isabelle felt an icy chill to her marrow.

George was smiling at her, his white lab coat flapping in the wind.

“No, you’re not real,” she whispered.

He waved, motioning her to follow. On bare feet, he took long strides up the steep path.

“Wait,” she called out. She was able to rise slowly and, against her good senses, she followed him up the path. She practically floated up the rocky incline with ease. There was strength in her legs, when a minute ago they were jelly. Her body was fit once again, but her mind remained foggy.

When she reached the precipice, George was peering down at the rocks below. Isabelle heard the roar of the wind and the sound of the sea in her ears. His feet moved to the edge.

No, don’t
.

George turned and waved to her and the air became still. Then, there was nothing but silence and the white light of the sun behind him. He leaned back and dropped noiselessly over the edge. For a moment, time stood still and she heard not a sound, saw nothing but sky.

A blast of sea and wind returned and Isabelle muffled a cry with her fist. She ran to the edge and looked down at the roaring waves and rocks below. Cold spray hit her cheeks. Her father was nowhere in sight. Slowly she sank to the ground. Drunk with terror and fatigue, she lay across the rocky soil and shut her eyes.

What’s happening?

She wanted to think about her father and the hallucinations. Make a connection to the drugs and the biscuits, but her mind was exhausted, her body drained. If she could just sleep for a few minutes, there might be some semblance of logic.

A gentle sea breeze drifted over the cliffs and her stringent muscles relaxed.

Isabelle was vaguely aware of something scratching her palm. It closed around her wrist and her eyes sprang open. Vines of English ivy were taking hold of her hands and feet, tight as handcuffs and curling across her limbs like rope. A rush of nausea kept her from screaming and her body was too weak to fight against their grip.

Gradually, she was pulled to the ledge, and struggled to break free. She could see the roiling ocean below. Green cords snapped their leaves against her back, wrapping her in a straightjacket. Isabelle shut her eyes tight, telling herself over and over that it was an illusion, but she felt her body being dragged against the sharp rocks.

Not real. This is not real.

Then there was nothing. The strangulation of the ropes evaporated. When she opened her eyes she was still on the ground, the ivy clinging innocently to the rocks, flickering in the breeze.

She let out a breath.

“You tried to kill me.” Sean was standing on the path. He looked so young, not more than six, his scorching eyes on his mother.

Isabelle couldn’t speak.

“You wanted me to die.”

Isabelle tried to find her voice, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter. She had no words.

Sean turned from her with an expression of disgust and walked down the path, vanishing beneath the precipice, and leaving Isabelle shattered. She sluggishly looked back to the sea. Against the blue sky was the holly bush Sean planted, its leaves marked with specks of black velvet.

*   *   *

Luke was in the kitchen watching Monica eat a chicken sandwich. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and sniffed, dabbing her eyes. She was still shook up from seeing Hodges.

“How you feeling?”

“Like we’re never getting out of here.”

“Yeah we are. It’s only three more days.” He wanted to change the subject. “I really meant it, about the makeup. I like you this way.”

“This isn’t who I am, Luke. The real me is back in Brooklyn. When we go home, everything will be the way it was before. You’ll be with the brainiacs and I’ll be alone like always.”

“I told you, I’m not going to let you break up with me.”

She looked at him. “So, then … we’re going out?”

“What do you think?” He reached a hand across the table and she took it. With the other hand, he grasped firmly around the back of her wooden chair and dragged it close, so her head leaned against his chest. Then his arm fell across her shoulders and he felt her body relax. The two said nothing for some minutes.

Then she nodded. “You’re right. I’m different here. Better.”

“So is my mom. At home she lets my dad get away with so much crap. He’s such a jerk, and she just takes it. I hate that about her. Except here, it’s like she’s got guts.”

“Least she’s not a hooker. My mom acts like she’s so smart and tough and says that men are stupid bastards and you can play them for every penny like she’s totally duping them. Except, she’s not. She’s the one paying the biggest price, giving up her self-respect. I know because I can hear them in the next room.”

Luke stroked her cheek.

“I guess it’s not her fault. She came here from a crummy little farming town in France when she was just a teenager and didn’t speak English, you know? Didn’t have a job, just some crappy navy boyfriend who dumped her with a baby.” Her finger picked at the sandwich crust. “But you know what? She would never be scared of this place. Or that friggin’ Beecher.”

Luke nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I should talk to him. Find out what’s really going on. He can be an all right guy. I’ve spoken with him before and he was really quite reasonable.”

“Yeah, he seemed like a super conversationalist, half naked on a rock out there.”

*   *   *

It’s not the biscuits
.

Isabelle carried planks of wood from room to room, feeling hope ebb and scowling with disappointment. Drug-laced biscuits would have explained so much, from George’s suicide and Hodges’s murder, to Luke’s hallucinations and Jules’s psychotic behavior. Yet she hadn’t eaten a single one and here she was, seeing her dead father.

For a brief moment she missed Colin. What would he think of her now? He would say she was in over her head. She wasn’t strong or brave enough to save her children. She couldn’t even keep a child from falling out of a tree, let alone protect him from a psychopath.

Something was happening to everyone on the island. They were all suffering from delusions. There was no way she had seen her father and Sean on the cliffs. There had to be a logical explanation. It was something about that fungus—if it was a fungus—or maybe Jules was right about the plants reading their thoughts. Either way, she was going to find an answer. Somewhere in the lab among George’s work, there had to be an explanation, and maybe her education in botany was enough to figure out what was happening. There was no time to waste. By Wednesday, they might all be under this spell of the island.

She dropped the planks of wood and a box of nails on the floor. There was enough lumber behind the shed to barricade most of the doors and windows. As for Sean, what could she do? Perhaps with Luke and Monica, she could attack the campsite, but would anyone be hurt or killed? Maybe she should go alone, sneak up on Jules and shoot him. Would Sean even agree to go with her? Just thinking about it made her tremble. Her only hope was that Jules was more interested in putting Sean to work than hurting him. Her son would return to the house at nightfall, like always. For now, she had to figure out the plants or find a way off the island.