But seriously?
He wanted to run from the shelter of the loading bay, out into the parking lot, flag down this biker. Because if it was his mom, odds were the person she was looking for—
He could hear the bike coming back.
Even though he couldn’t yet see it, he started jumping up and down and waving his hands like a castaway on a desert island trying to catch a pilot’s attention.
“Mom!” he screamed. “Mom!”
In a millisecond, the motorcycle sped past. And half a second later, so did six Arrivals, all in pursuit.
The woman on the bike had not glanced Archie’s way. But seconds later, it made another pass. Maybe she’d spotted something in her peripheral vision on her previous pass: the boy’s frantic waving. The bike was heading straight for the loading bay area.
Archie waved.
His mother waved.
The Arrivals, unable to turn as sharply or as quickly as the bike, were struggling to keep up. But if they could corner Sandra in the loading bay...
Sandra aimed the bike for the concrete steps. Archie thought: No fucking way.
It was stunning enough to discover your mom could drive a motorcycle. It was something else to consider that she might undertake climbing a set of steps with it.
But that was exactly what she did.
The Harley screamed into the loading bay. Sandra braked it so she wouldn’t hit that bottom step too fast and throw herself over the handlebars. But once she had that front tire onto the first step, she gunned it, lifting her butt off the seat at the same time, and landed it, with a roar, on the dock.
Archie didn’t have to be told to get on. He ran to the bike, threw a leg over the rear half of the seat, wrapped his arms around his mother, locking one hand over the wrist of the other.
Sandra turned her head long enough to say four words.
“Hang the fuck on.”
Archie hung the fuck on. And started to cry.
Forty-Four
Derek had decided to venture out from the safety of the yacht club building to see whether the situation was improving any.
So Derek got up from his table, paid his bar tab — even in the midst of chaos, one must not take advantage — and stepped outside. The first thing he heard, coming from the center of town, were a few more gunshots. People were still doing battle with the Arrivals, trying to bring them down as though they were wild animals. There’d been so many shots over the last couple of hours that no one even turned their head anymore.
Despite the maelstrom, Derek felt strangely at peace. He’d liberated himself from Brandon Kyle. Should have done it a long time ago, but he’d been lured into staying by the money. Kyle had always paid him well, treated him decently. But Kyle, Derek had finally realized, was an evil man. He’d been wronged, it was true, by Lisa Carver, but her misdeeds did not justify the killing of innocent people. What Derek had seen happen here today was unimaginable.
He wondered whether Kyle had found a way off the island, if maybe he’d gotten to the ferry and escaped, although there’d been talk in the club that something pretty bad had happened up there, at the terminal.
Standing outside, looking over a harbor nearly bereft of watercraft, he inhaled the sea air. He’d never been to Garrett Island before. He liked it here. He wondered, if he sold his house and found a small, one-bedroom apartment here, if he’d have enough to live on the rest of his life. Maybe. It was only him. He’d never married, had no children, and tucked money away over the years. Although he was betting the winters here could be hard. Those storms coming in off the Atlantic, they could pack a punch.
Something to think about.
He walked down the planked walkway and around the back of the club. If he was going to head to the center of town to see what was happening, he’d have to be careful. Take narrow pathways between buildings. If he had to cross a road, do it as quickly as possible. Those fucking Arrivals, quiet as they were, could sneak up on you real fast.
“Derek.”
He knew the voice.
Derek stopped and turned slowly. Brandon Kyle, minus his enhanced stomach, his clothes streaked with mud, was half-hidden behind half a dozen tall blue garbage cans at the back of the yacht club.
“Mr. Kyle,” he said. “You look a little worse for wear.”
“I’m not having a very good day,” Kyle said.
“You didn’t make it off the island.”
“No,” Kyle said. “But not for lack of trying.”
Derek nodded, feigning sympathy. He offered up a weak smile. “I kind of like it here. Or think I would, when the crazy car thing is over.”
“Like to spend the rest of your life here?”
Derek gave the question some thought. “Perhaps.”
“I can help you with that,” Kyle said, raising his arm suddenly.
“Jesus, Mr. Kyle,” Derek said, seeing the gun in the man’s hand. “There’s no call for that.”
“I’ve been so good to you,” Kyle said.
“Mr. Kyle, please—”
Kyle fired, putting a bullet squarely in Derek’s chest.
The man’s mouth opened wide — as much in shock as in pain — but no sound came out. He put a hand to his chest, held it there, then dropped silently to his knees. Five seconds after that, he fell to the ground completely.
If anyone had heard the shot — and Kyle had no doubt that people had — they weren’t coming to investigate. It was the Wild West in Garrett today.
Kyle tucked the weapon into the back of his belt, flipped his jacket over it so it wouldn’t be seen, then got out his phone to double-check how to get to the address he’d looked up earlier. He was going to have to do it on foot, of course. Maybe a ten-, fifteen-minute walk, more if he had to take a longer route to avoid Arrivals.
Derek attempted to speak, but his throat was filling with blood. But in his last few seconds, he managed to raise one hand a few inches off the pavement and extend his middle finger.
But Kyle didn’t see it. He was already on the move.
Forty-Five
They still had to get home.
Sandra was comforted by Archie’s arms locked around her as they sped through the streets of Garrett, but she was constantly watching for more Arrivals. She hadn’t forgotten how, while on that bicycle, she’d dropped her guard a moment and nearly ended up as an Arrival hood ornament.
But as they’d sped out of the Garrett Mall parking lot on Rory’s father’s Harley, Sandra had noticed an interesting development. All but one of the Arrivals that had been pursuing her had given up the chase.
One by one, they had either slowed down, or stopped altogether right where they stood. The lone car still after them — a green one — wasn’t keeping up. Granted, the Harley had superior pickup and handling skills, but this Arrival didn’t seem to have its heart in it.
And then, checking her mirror, she saw the green Arrival turn into a driveway, pull up close to the house, and stop.
What the hell?
Ahead, a yellow Arrival turned onto the street, coming their way.
“Hang on!” she said, veering off the road and seeking shelter in the narrow gap between two houses. She stopped the bike and killed the engine. The car might have seen them, but now that they were off the road, there was no sense in letting it hear them, too.
They both turned around and watched to see whether the Arrival would turn off the street in pursuit, even if the space between the houses was too small to allow it to reach them.
But the car did not turn. The Arrival rolled right on by.