Seeders: A Novel (27 page)

Isabelle hurried to the lab. There was no sign of the green notebook. Her eyes darted from counters of plants and microscopes, shelves of books, file cabinets, and piles of paper on the desk. Where to start? She inhaled deeply and hurried to the desk, opening folders that were filled with pages of scientific babble and strip charts.

Her gaze fell on the note Jules had scrawled the previous morning.

Kumbaya
.

She focused intently on the word, biting her lip. What could it mean? Was it just nonsense like George’s riddle? She tried to recall their conversation. Jules was scared and warned her to go home, but how could she leave the island? He wrote
Kumbaya
and
Try it.

A thin smile formed across her mouth.

Jules was telling her to make a bonfire. Of course; she should have thought of it days ago. She went to the window and stared at the rocky coastline where her family built fires on cold nights and sang songs. It was directly across from Nova Scotia. Too far to see any blaze, but maybe not for passing boats headed for Halifax. Certainly, it was worth a try. Then it occurred to her: If Jules had wanted her to build a bonfire, why didn’t he just tell her to do it? Perhaps he was so convinced the plants were controlling his mind that he had to write in code in order to fool them. The idea was so outlandish she wondered if maybe her own mind was slipping.

Absurd or not, building a bonfire was worth a shot. There was lumber in back of the shed, but she needed all of it to secure the house. The lab was filled with books and papers that would burn, but not enough to make a roaring blaze. Gathering timber from the woods was out of the question, but there were plenty of fallen sticks behind the house. That would be a good start. She felt heartened already, and took it as a positive sign when she spotted a cigarette lighter on the desk.

The back of the house faced the sea. Isabelle dashed across the lawn to the edge of the island where there was a scattering of trees and a seawall that abruptly dropped ten feet to the full wrath of the ocean. The waves and breakers formed a tempest where boats didn’t dare approach. It was fifty miles to land and on a clear day, the faint outline of Nova Scotia was visible. By sunset, the shining beam from the Liscomb Island lighthouse would blink on and off like a cat’s eye, and on rare nights the city lights of Halifax could be seen. But it would have to be a raging bonfire indeed for anyone to notice flames on Sparrow Island.

Isabelle gathered an armful of dry twigs and driftwood, dropping them in a pile by the sea wall. She slid the lighter from her back pocket and lit the whole pile in a blaze. For a moment she was mesmerized by the smell of smoke and crackle of flames and the memory of fires long ago, when she’d curl up between her father and Jules with the heat on her face and a cold wind at her back.

The fire was already shriveling. There were not enough branches on the ground, so she went back inside the house to fetch other things to burn. In the library, she grabbed whatever looked bulky and flammable: two fat throw pillows and a wooden end table. She dragged them outside and set them on the cinders. The pillows exploded into flames, igniting the edges of the table.

By the time Isabelle lugged a small Oriental rug and a silk wall hanging outside, there was a decent blaze going. The wind was changing direction and dragging the smoke over the island toward the house. She threw the rug on the fire, which seemed to smother the flames for a moment, but then suddenly it was all ablaze and black smoke poured over the house and fields of ryegrass. Isabelle coughed as it engulfed her. She threw the silk art onto the heap and then ran to the sea wall, eyes burning from the toxic cloud.

There was not much fire, but a terrifying amount of smoke and the black plume could probably be seen quite far. Unfortunately there wasn’t a boat in sight, and as the wind changed direction, the smoke fell east over the island instead of west toward Canada. It occurred to Isabelle that Jules might see the smoke rising and return to the house. The rifle was resting on the ground and she picked it up.

She watched the sea for a long time, imagining a boat,
willing
it to appear. Finally, a speck flickered on the horizon. It was tiny, and too far out to tell for certain, but what else could it be? The smoke died down and the wind pushed it to sea. Isabelle rushed to the house, grabbing more cushions and a few fat books. The fire was a smoldering pile of chemicals but no flame, and she threw the items into the ashes. She coughed deep from her lungs and looked out to sea. The speck was getting smaller.

“Come back,” she whispered.

Help me, George.

Standing at the island’s edge, engulfed in the smoke, she felt trapped and realized it was a feeling that was far too familiar. Trapped on an island. Trapped in her mother’s house. Trapped in a marriage. It was a pattern that had cost her dearly and one she was determined never to repeat. As soon as she got off this damn island there would be changes, big changes, and she was never going to walk helplessly into a trap again.

Isabelle squared her shoulders. Getting her children to safety was all that mattered and she would succeed or die trying.

She looked out to sea. The speck was gone.

CHAPTER 28

JULES DUG UP BEACH GRASS
, carefully loosening the soil with a boning knife and tugging gently on the roots so they wouldn’t break. The wind kicked up and the spray of the sea was cold on his naked back. There was not much time and many species to collect, more than half of the 128 mentioned in the green notebook. He might have to make do with what he and Sean had already gathered.

The chatter had been loud all day, irritating, so Jules didn’t notice the sound of the boat until it had breached the inlet. He rose from his squatting position, roots dangling from his hands. He grumbled angrily, expecting to see the Coast Guard boat three days too early. Instead, it was the
Acadia
scuttling up to the dock. Jules dropped the plants into a bag and pulled up the leg of his trousers. He stuck the knife back into its sheath that was tied to his ankle and picked up a spear from the sand.

Captain Flannigan was alone on the vessel. He climbed down from the bridge to throw out a couple of docking lines as the boat drifted into the berth, rocking on small swells. He smiled through his russet beard as Jules approached, but then his sparkling blue eyes narrowed and his grin turned upside down. This was not the clean-cut gentleman he’d dropped off a week ago, but a poor rendition of prehistoric man. He was shirtless and filthy, with a stoic expression on a bearded face.

“Dr. Beecher?” the captain asked as Jules grabbed the rope. “’Ardly recognized ye. ’Oweya gettin’ on?”

“Just fine,” he said without looking up. He pulled in the stern line until the boat stopped rocking, and then tied it to a docking cleat.

The captain was no longer his jovial self, and he looked at Jules with suspicion. “’Eard a call on de radio aboyt a fire up by de ’ouse.”

Jules turned his head toward the treetops and saw the smoke for the first time. There was a strong acrid smell and he wondered why he didn’t notice it before. “Oh yes. The children wanted to cook breakfast outside.”

“Aye,” he said, and hesitantly pointed to the spear. “Yer fishin’ wid dat?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Rather sick of the meat in the freezer.” He tied up the bowline.

“Suppose ye can catch some ’addock oyt by de jetty. Crabs if yer fast.” He looked at Jules and his eyes narrowed. “Tried to call. Yer radio ain’t workin’.”

“Yes, the batteries died.”

“Storm comin’ dis way. Big one. Taught ye might loike to come back for de noight. Thar’s a ’otel in town.”

“No thank you.”

“Maybe de lady and ’er young ’uns.”

“We’re all fine. Thank you, Captain.” His brow furrowed. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

“Was on m’ way back from Sable Oiland.” He gestured east.

“Well, you can keep on going.”

Flannigan stared at him for some time. He cleared his throat in uncomfortable silence. “Yer gonna need a radio. Oi got some batt’ries back ’ere.”

“That would be very helpful.”

“I’ll just grab dem.” The captain turned away with a frown.

Jules watched the man climb the ladder to the bridge and then stepped over the swing door, following after him. Soundlessly, Jules climbed the ladder hand over hand, holding the spear tightly in his teeth, and then peered onto the bridge, watching the captain fumble with the radio.

Flannigan spoke into the mic with a low voice. “
Acadia
to Coast Guard. Come in, Coast Guard.”

There was only static.

“
Acadia
to—”

Flannigan turned just in time to see a spear coming at him. He dove to the side and the point flew into the wooden helm, where it stuck.

Jules rushed forward and took hold of the shaft, pulling it free just as Flannigan blindsided him and they both fell on the floor. Jules pounced quickly and straddled Flannigan across the chest, pressing the wooden pole of the spear against the man’s neck with all his might.

“Oi knew ye couldn’t be trusted!” Flannigan rasped through gritted teeth as the muscles in his arms quivered and he pushed back on the pole. Twenty years of hauling fishing nets and lobster traps had given him considerable strength, but he was no match for Jules, who let go of the spear and grabbed Flannigan by the neck, squeezing his massive fingers in a chokehold.

The radio came to life, a voice crackling, “
Acadia,
come in. This is Coast Guard.”

The distraction was enough to loosen Jules’s grip so Flannigan could free his windpipe and take a breath. He punched his fist straight into Jules’s nose and watched him fall away. The boat rocked from the commotion as the captain flailed desperately to his feet and clambered for the ladder. Jules was already standing and taking his time picking up the spear. Flannigan grasped the railing and hit the first rung, but slipped and dropped six feet through the air, crashing onto his back.

Jules got to the edge of the bridge and leapt onto the deck beside Flannigan with the deftness of a spider. He grunted and raised the spear over his head. He could have plunged it into Flannigan’s body right then, but instead he lowered it as far as the man’s rib cage, pressing the point into his chest until he heard a cry of pain. And then he stopped, looking down at his prey.

Flannigan held the spear tight with both hands, as Jules continued to press harder into his chest.

“Ye coward ain’t beatin’ me yet,” the captain said, red-faced and cocky.

Jules had barely applied himself to the task, but now his forearms showed a bit of strain and he grinned, neck muscles tightening.

“Oi ain’t givin’ in, ye snake.”

Jules thrust the spear down hard. The puncture went deep as the pointed blade slid between ribs and into the heart, breaking through muscle and tissue with stalwart force. The pain was quick and severe and Flannigan’s eyes bulged with terror and the shock of defeat. His mouth opened wide in a soundless scream.

After a moment, Jules pulled out the spearhead, jerking the body off the floor. He stared at the wound for a moment as blood rushed over the deck and down the shaft of his weapon. He put his boot on the stomach of the dead man, and slipped the knife from his ankle strap.

*   *   *

Ginny had a headache and went to the bedroom to lie down. The room was drafty and smelled of smoke and she looked outside to see a small fire in the back of the house. She remembered that George liked to make bonfires.

Ridiculous time to be roasting marshmallows.

She sat on the bed. It was the largest room in the house, the one she’d shared with George when she visited him during their courtship, on and off for ten years. It was quite grand, full of Victorian antique furniture, fine silk wallpaper, and expensive trinkets from his travels all over the world, most of which Ginny had placed in her suitcase.

On the nightstand were photos of Isabelle as a child and photos of Isabelle with George, some with Ginny and George, and a few of Ginny alone. She took a mental count and noted with satisfaction that there were more pictures of her than Isabelle.

She sat back in bed and heaved a sigh, weary of looking for the diamond. “Oh, George, I could just kill you,” she muttered, “if you weren’t already dead.”

She reached for a book on the bed beside her and opened the nightstand drawer where she kept her reading glasses. As she reached inside, her finger touched a fold of paper. She pulled the drawer out farther to reveal a small envelope with her name on it.

Ginny
was written in George’s unmistakable script.

She could barely breathe. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears as she grasped the paper tremulously.
Could I have been so blind? What a stupid old woman I am!

Gingerly, her small fingers touched the seal of the envelope, before jerking back. She didn’t dare open it quickly. No, this might be her last chance for success, and she savored the moment. When she couldn’t stand another second, she tore open the envelope and ripped out a notecard. It contained a single sentence.

When you place my body to rest, you will find the Crimson Star.

Then he signed his name,
George
.

*   *   *

Luke was amazed how much kissing Monica calmed his fears and distracted his thoughts; the more intense their passions became, the better he felt about the whole situation. As they groped each other, he began to imagine all his troubles were part of an exciting adventure. As if he were on a dangerous mission, James Bond and his hot leading lady. His hands became more daring.

The door swung open with a bang.

Monica and Luke jumped onto either side of the bed, adjusting their clothes.

“Don’t you knock?” Monica sputtered hotly.

“I’ve no time for formalities,” Ginny said, holding her chest and panting. She looked at Luke. “Boy, where did you see that gravesite with the cross?”

“You mean the one by the pond?”