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“I’m head of the council, and you’ve just come bursting in and interrupting my work, so if you have something to say, why don’t you just say it to me?”
“Meeooow,” Taylor mocked her. “Cranky much?”
“Taylor.”
“Kid says he saw Whip Hand.”
Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You know Frankie?”
“Which one?”
“The one who’s a boy. He says he saw Drake Merwin walking along the beach.”
Astrid stared at her. The mere mention of Drake Merwin gave Astrid chills. Drake was—had been—a boy who proved all by himself that you didn’t have to be an adult to be evil. Drake had been Caine’s number one henchman. He had kidnapped Astrid. Forced her with threats, with sheer terror, to ridicule her own brother to his face.
He had burned down Astrid’s house.
He had also whipped Sam so badly that Sam had almost died.
Astrid did not believe in hate. She believed in forgiveness. But she had not forgiven Drake. Even with him dead, she had not forgiven him.
She hoped there was a hell. A real hell, not some metaphorical one, so that Drake could be there now, burning for all eternity.
“Drake’s dead,” Astrid said evenly.
“Yeah,” Taylor agreed. “I’m just telling you what Frankie is saying. He’s saying he saw him, whip hand and all, walking down the beach, covered with mud and dirt and wearing clothes that didn’t fit.”
Astrid sighed. “This is what happens when little kids get into the alcohol.”
“He seemed sober,” Taylor said. She shrugged. “I don’t know if he was drunk or crazy or just making trouble, Astrid, so don’t blame me. This is supposed to be my job, right? I keep my eyes open and come tell Sam—or you—what’s up.”
“Well, thanks,” Astrid said.
“I’ll tell Sam when I see him,” Taylor said.
Asrid knew Taylor was trying to provoke her, and yet it worked: she was provoked. “Tell him anything you want, it’s still a free…” She had started to say country. “You’re free to say whatever you like to Sam.”
But Taylor had already bounced away, and Astrid was talking to air.
ELEVEN
47 HOURS, 53 MINUTES
THE PERDIDO BEACH Anomaly, that’s what they called it on the news. The Anomaly. Or the Dome.
Not the FAYZ. Although they knew that’s what the kids inside the Anomaly called it.
The parents, the family members, all the other pilgrims who gathered in a special “viewing area” at the southern end of the Dome tended to call it the fishbowl. Sometimes just the bowl. That’s what it was to the ones who camped out there in tents and sleeping bags and “dreamed” of their children on the other side: a fishbowl. They knew a little of what was in the bowl, but the little fish, their children, did not know what was outside in the great big world beyond.
Construction was going on in the area. The state of California was rushing through a bypass for the highway. The old r
oad disappeared into the bowl and reappeared on the other side, twenty miles away. It made a mess for the businesses on the coastal route.
And other businesses were springing up on the south side of the bowl. The tourists had to be fed, after all. Carl’s Jr. was building a restaurant. So was Del Taco.
A Courtyard by Marriott was being thrown together at startling speed. Next to it a Holiday Inn Express had broken ground.
