Dead Man's Switch (9 page)

This stuff from Blake would have been a great distraction except for what it could mean about Mack.

Johnson said nothing as they stepped into the empty house. He pretended it was normal even though this was the first time King had invited Johnson into the house since Ella's stroke.

They didn't want to be in Johnson's house. Might lead to questions. So they'd settled on King's. Needing darkness.

Straight to King's bedroom. No mention of Ella and the huge hole that her absence made in the fabric of King's life.

“Should try making the bed someday,” Johnson said. It was a swirl of blankets and sheets. “If my dad saw that, he'd freak out. He's on me for every little thing.”

“Nobody in this house cares,” King said. Enough of an explanation.

King stepped to the window and pulled the drapes. He knew it would be dark enough, even midafternoon. This was, after all, his bedroom. Too many times in the past ten days, he'd lain there in the
darkness, wondering about the shell of his mother, her breath in and out, regular, sucked into the coma as if she'd stepped into quicksand. Like quicksand, it was something you didn't see until it was too late. Just like that. A stroke.

“We're assuming Blake wants us to find the answers,” King said. “How good is it going to feel to be right again.”

Johnson held the flashlight. “No new emails. This has got to be it.”

No new emails. After leaving the dock, King had retrieved Blake's iPhone and checked.

“Lights off then,” King said, holding the small box that the magnet had snagged from the bottom of the reservoir. This small metallic box had a combination lock. He snapped off the light switch.

And there it was, on the top of the black box. Four numbers. Two. One. Five. Four.

“See it?” King asked.

“Two one five four.”

King stepped over to the wall and flipped on the light switch again. The numbers were invisible on the box.

He rotated the numbers into position.

The lid popped.

“Never gets old,” Johnson said with a hint of triumph in his voice. “Being—”

What stopped him was the sight of the contents.

Johnson sighed. “Now what?”

The contents of the box consisted of a remote control in a ziplock bag that was in another ziplock bag that was in another ziplock bag. Completely waterproof.

“Blake does want us to get to the end,” King said. “We agreed on that, right? And we're the only ones with his flashlight.”

King snapped off the bedroom light again. “See if there's anything else.”

And there was. On the bottom of the metal box. Glowing white in the ultraviolet light.

ASK SAM TO SHOW YOU HER MEASLES.

CHAPTER 17

“Sam,” King asked. “Are you feeling okay?”

King, Johnson, and Samantha were in Sam's neatly mowed front yard. Tips of branches on the large tree centered in the lawn bobbed in a breeze. Samantha sat on a tire hanging from a rope tied to one of the thicker branches higher up. She had a stuffed dog in her lap, big enough that the top of the dog's head touched the bottom of her chin. The dog had a collar with a small pink round disc hanging from the center to match the pink ribbon tied in a bow on its head.

“Great,” Samantha said. “I'm feeling great.”

“So you don't have measles?” Johnson asked her.

“Yes,” she said. Giggled. “I do.”

“Measles gives you spots,” Johnson said, frowning as he looked at her face. “I don't see anything.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Guys,” King pleaded, staring at the stuffed dog. He'd seen a picture of it somewhere.

“No,” Johnson said, betraying some irritation. “I'm not wrong about this. I don't see anything.”

“You got your eyes open.” Samantha raised her hands around the stuffed dog. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Johnson said. “Okay. I can see.”

“How many?” Samantha asked.

King guessed that Samantha enjoyed having someone around and wanted to prolong the conversation just so she wouldn't have to swing on a tire with only a stuffed dog for company. King understood the feeling. The island was lonely.

“We're supposed to see your measles,” King said to Samantha. He felt a sense of urgency. “Can you help us?”

“Not until MJ tells me how many fingers I'm holding up. Because I was right—he
can
see.”

“A bunch of them,” Johnson said. Impatient.

“I'm not talking until you answer right,” she said. She emphasized it by pressing her lips tight and blowing her cheeks out. She pressed her chin down on the stuffed dog's head.

“We don't have time for this,” Johnson said. “Come on.”

Sam shook her head from side to side, and her hair flew straight out.

“Nine,” Johnson said.

She continued to shake her head, holding out her fingers for him to count.

“Nine,” Johnson said. “I can see and I can count.”

Samantha broke her silence to giggle. “Count again.”

“Can I answer?” King asked.

“Nope. Just MJ.”

“Aaarg,” MJ said.

“Multiplication tables,” King told him.

“Huh? Multipli—” Johnson stopped himself. “Oh, got it.”

He made a show of studying Samantha's fingers. “The pinky is up, the next finger is down, and the rest are up. One and eight. You have 18 fingers up.”

Samantha giggled and shook her head again.

“From her perspective,” King said. “You can do this, MJ.”

Johnson frowned. He held out his own fingers. Took a second to figure it out. “Okay, 81. You have 81 fingers up.”

Samantha, with her arms still reached around the stuffed dog, applauded.

“But I don't see measles,” Johnson said. He turned to King. “Why can't anything be easy about this?”

“What's supposed to be easy?” Samantha asked.

“MJ,” King said. “How about ix-nay on-ay e-they iscussion-day ere-hey?”

“What?” he said.

“Nix on the discussion here,” Samantha said. She looked at King. “Whatever you guys are doing, maybe I should help. MJ's not that swift.”

“We're good,” King said, thinking maybe Samantha had a point.

“So what
aren't
you supposed to be discussing in front of me?” Sam asked.

“Nothing,” Johnson said. “Especially with a smart-mouth little girl.”

She crossed her arms. “You shouldn't lie to little girls. You wouldn't be here unless you wanted to talk about something. Because you never come over to play. But if you want to discuss nothing, I can do that too.”

“MJ,” King said, “would you mind getting on your knees and begging forgiveness for calling her a smart-mouth little girl?”

“You sound serious.”

“I
am
serious. She's smart, but not a smart-mouth.”

“Little too,” Sam said. “I'm okay with smart and little.”

Johnson knelt.

“Good enough,” Sam said before Johnson could speak. “Now tell me how I have Measles.”

King liked Samantha and her exhibition of total control of the situation.

“Give us a hint,” King said.

She shook her head.

“Remember, I was the one who suggested that MJ kneel like a knight before a princess.”

“Okay then. Blake gave me Measles.”

“Blake was sick too?” Johnson asked.

King had a hunch. “Sam, how do you spell ‘measles'?”

She grinned. “Capital M-e-e-z-elz.”

“She's wrong,” Johnson said. Triumphant to be smarter than a little girl. “Elz isn't even a letter. It's m-e-a-s-l-e-s.”

“Nice,” King said. “You won a spelling bee against someone younger than half your age. And by the way, you missed the important part. The capital
M
.”

“It's M-e-a?” Sam turned to King, who was obviously the default arbitrator. “Not M-e-e?”

“I like the way you spelled it,” King said. “Especially because it had a capital
M
. The one that MJ missed.”

“This conversation makes me feel like I'm with Alice in Wonderland,” Johnson said. “Really.”

“Yeah?” King told him. “I'm the one who had to stop you in the middle of a yes-no argument with a little girl. You'd probably still be in the middle of it.”

“No,” Johnson said.

“Yes,” Samantha said.

“No,” Johnson said.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“MJ!” It came out a little sharper than King intended. But still. Johnson couldn't even figure out that Sam was messing with him.

Johnson looked hurt.

Samantha giggled.

“Sam,” King said. “Would it be okay if I held Measles?”

“Sure,” Sam said. “Blake said I could have this if I promised I wouldn't tell anyone his secret name except for you.”

She extended the stuffed dog from her lap. “Blake also told me I could have it if I gave it to you for a while if you asked for it.”

“We won't keep it long,” King said, reaching for it. He thought the urgency inside him should have eased, now that they had figured out the next step along the path that Blake had prepared for them before drowning. But it was the opposite. Each step might be one step closer to King learning something he didn't want to learn about his dad. Besides, holding the stuffed dog didn't exactly give him any idea
of what the remote control was for. Maybe something hidden inside the stuffing?

King turned it over, looking for a seam or stitching that might show that Blake had hidden something inside the stuffed dog. He shouldn't have done it in front of Samantha, but the urgency seemed to be at a boil.

Maybe the remote control would make the dog move. Or make something inside the dog beep to let him know it was there.

King pulled the remote control from his pocket, pointed, and clicked.

“Where's the nearest fire hydrant?” It was Blake's voice coming from the tiny speaker that hung from the dog's collar.

“Cool,” Samantha said. “How'd you do that?”

CHAPTER 18

“I've never been in an airplane,” King told Johnson. “And I've never admitted that to anyone. Except you. Now.”

“No biggie,” Johnson said. “I won't tell anyone.”

They were on the front porch at King's house. Steady rain dripping on the overhang above. But feeling no chill. The evening was warm.

“That's not my point,” King said. “It's not a big deal that I haven't been on an airplane. Lots of kids haven't been on airplanes. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yet you've kept this a dark secret.”

“Not dark. Just a secret. Because of how bad I want to be in an airplane. I've been on this island my entire life. Trips sometimes to Seattle, but that's it. Like my parents cocooned me here. I'm busting to break out.”

“Going to get all sentimental here, like you want wings?” Johnson asked. “Become a beautiful butterfly?”

“I think this is a good example of why guys rarely share feelings,” King said.

“My point too. See how I managed to end the conversation? Now we don't have to share feelings.”

“So let me tell you why I was thinking about airplanes,” King told him. He was talking a lot and knew why. They were waiting for the iPhone to ping. The one on the table between them. Blake's iPhone. King didn't like the silence.

“Not because you feel like singing a ballad about finding your true self someday?”

“
Sky Mall
magazine. You heard of it? It's on airplanes. People can shop while they're flying.”

“When I was little,” Johnson said in a dreamy voice, “I wanted to be a ballerina...”

“You made your point already with the butterfly thing.”

“…until I found out you had to be a girl to be a ballerina.”

King snorted. “Go ahead and tell people I haven't been on an airplane. It will be worth the trade. Because I'm going to love telling them about ballerinas.”

“Dreams are fragile,” Johnson answered.

King was impressed that he couldn't tell if Johnson was serious or not.