Eight

Eric explores late into the afternoon.

He finds nothing, at least, nothing that he is looking for.

The orchids, or a production facility maybe, a homespun lab of some sort. He supposes he will know it when he sees it. That’s how it is in his job, and he has always quietly thought to himself that that is why he has been successful in his work. That, and something less easy to admit, that maybe he is never satisfied. Neither in life, or work, nor in love—he always wants more. It has made him a good journalist, this desire in him to search for more, but although he knows it deep inside, he has never admitted to himself that this same thing has left him alone, with a heart that nervously beats for fear of never finding. But something just clicks when he’s on the right track of a story, something just clicks. Like something clicked when he saw Merle’s face.

*   *   *

He finds himself back at the Cross House, and pulls out the map again, trying to decide where to look next.

It is getting late, but that does not matter, because it will not get dark. The flower moon is rising above the hill. He studies the map that Tor gave him.

It looks hand drawn, but he can see it is printed, and there’s a title and a price on the back of it. There is something about it that nags at him, but he’s finding it so hard to think. He wonders if he’s getting ill; it’s twice now that his mind has felt like this. Cloudy.

With an effort, his head clears, and into his memory comes the image of the map of Blessed, the one that he’d saved on his device.

He realizes that the map in front of him is not the same as the one he had recorded back at the office.

That one had two halves, a very distinct shape, like the two wings of a butterfly, though the western half slightly smaller, giving it a lopsided look. The two halves were joined by a narrow strip of land.

Eric looks at the paper map in his hand. Only the eastern half of the island is printed. Half the island is missing.

Now why, he thinks, would they print a map of only half the island?

That would be stupid. Unless, unless, unless you wanted to keep half of it secret.

He knows he’s on to something.

And he knows his journalist’s mind is working well, when he immediately makes another connection.

That path, up the hill, last night.

It was a path that went nowhere, or at least, seemed to.

The path was somewhere off Crossway. He turns his bike, and begins to pedal.