Revel (7 page)
Please don’t come out of the water
, I prayed silently.
Please
.
His voice called to me again, cutting across the water and the night air, clear and penetrating. “You’re a newcomer here.”
“Yes,” I said. “Just visiting,” I added nervously, keeping my eyes away from his whole … area.
“May I give you some advice?”
“Sure.”
“Stay out of the water here, Lander.”
There was nothing advice-like about it at all. It was an order, issued in nearly a snarl.
“Oh, really?” I snapped, lifting my head. “Well, thanks. I hope Nessie, or whatever it is, decides to have you for a midnight—”
I stopped, realizing he was gone. I mean literally gone. No splashing or kicking, nothing. The moonlit water was serene. How had he disappeared like that?
I turned and dashed up the beach and onto the path, not looking back.
“I
saw someone swimming last night,” I said, picking at my breakfast the next morning. The night before, I’d lain awake until my grandmother’s tread on the stairs told me she was back, and then finally slept, huddled beneath my covers while in the corner a damp quilt scented the air with salt and roses. I had such a strange dream—I was playing the piano in our old living room back in Kansas but there was no sound, no matter how hard I banged on the keys.
“Where
is
that old biscuit?” fumed Gran, peering out the kitchen window. “He promised he’d be here first thing.” She turned to me. “What did you say?”
“There was someone down at the beach. Swimming out there in the dark.”
“What were you doing out there?” she demanded, hands on her hips.
“Just walking. Thinking,” I answered. “Why not? I noticed you went out.”
She blinked and then scowled at me. “Never you mind about that. You say you
saw
somebody?”
Obviously, whatever my grandmother had been doing, she meant to keep it a secret.
“Just a guy,” I said absently.
A very good-looking guy. And amazingly rude
.
“And he …” Here Gran paused, her expression puzzled. “He
talked
to you?”
“It was more like he talked
at
me,” I corrected her. “Ordered me to stay out of the water. As if I’d be nuts enough to go out there and splash around in the dark.”
“And so you would be. You stay away from the water,” said Gran with a huff. She clattered dishes into the sink. “Leave things alone that you don’t understand.”
Her sudden fierceness confused me. What was there to understand? I’d gotten freaked out by a fish and insulted by a hot skinny-dipper. It wasn’t anything to make a fuss about. The only strange thing was, I couldn’t get the sound of his voice out of my head.
Stay out of the water here, Lander
.
Just the thought of it made me mad all over again. The jerk.
Seeing my dark look, Gran softened. “There’s no harm done. It doesn’t matter. Where
is
that Ben Deare?” she said, twitching aside the curtain. “Sometimes I don’t think that fella has both oars in the water.”
“You still want me to leave,” I said, so softly I could barely hear myself.
Gran dropped the curtain. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. C’mon. We’ll go down to the dock and find him.”
She was worried. She didn’t even give me time to gather my things before climbing back into the golf cart. She remained silent, her lips pressed together tightly as we retraced our path from yesterday.
Overnight the weird mist had disappeared. Blue cloudless sky hung overhead and contrasted with the dark outlines of towering pine trees. The wind gusted, making the water in the harbor shiver with small waves and ripples. I followed Gran down the dock toward the spot where the
Belores
was tied, but stopped short as she whispered, “Oh my Lord.”
Ben Deare’s sailboat had been vandalized. More than that. The
Belores
was mutilated. Heavy canvas sails hung over the side of the boat, ripped into tangled shreds. Splintered pieces of wood lay in heaps on the deck. The mast was still upright but looked like it had been attacked with a sledgehammer, judging by the deep dents and gouges. Someone had destroyed the motor too: the propeller blades were twisted into a mangled mess, the thick metal plates torn like pieces of aluminum foil.
Gran sucked in a breath. “Mary and Joseph.”
“Who would do this?” I whispered.
And who
could
do this?
The damage would have taken incredible, explosive force. And a vicious desire to destroy an old man’s property.
“Where’s Ben?” I asked. The thought of him set a sick feeling churning in my stomach. Suppose he’d been nearby, or worse, on board, when this had happened?
My eyes scanned the mess. There was no sign of blood. Only a wet trail of oozy water and seaweed hung over one side of the boat.
“The other men have gone out for their hauls already. I’m going to go up and ask at the Snug if anyone’s seen Ben,” said Gran, hurrying away. “You’d better wait here in case he shows up.”
I checked my cell phone again. She’d been right about the terrible reception—there was still no signal. How did they call 911 here? Did they even
have
911?
I walked along the dock, looking for any sign of activity. There was no one around and only a few boats tied up. Most of the boats here on Trespass weren’t as shiny and clean as the fancy ones in Portland. With their chunky, squared-off shapes and old tires tied to their sides that bumped against the dock, they said working class all the way. I walked by slowly, reading the names:
Ugly Marie, Rosebud
, and
Little Sue
.
I stopped. We’d been wrong about the dock being empty. At the very end a tall young man was loading lobster traps onto a big, powerful-looking boat. The name
Widowsong
was painted on the side, and the boat looked newer than all the rest.
With a smooth, swinging movement he lifted a large
wire trap from a stack on the dock, then turned and jumped the gap to the boat and placed it neatly on the deck.
I realized as I came closer it was the guy from yesterday in the square. Mr. Authority. I was surprised at how young he looked. Probably not much older than I was. He was also sort of nice to look at, handsomely rugged in a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. He noticed me and stopped to stare.
Only not at me.
“Watch out!” he yelled, pointing behind me.
The dock shook under my feet. Something was coming. Something big. I whipped around as a huge black form lunged toward me. My hands shot up, too late to protect myself from the tangled mass of hair and paws and long, lolling red tongue.
I teetered backward as a shaggy black dog landed on me. Hot breath and drool slapped me in the face as I windmilled my arms, trying to get my balance. It was no good. My cell phone went flying and I landed with a slamming thud on my butt. And just in time to see my cell phone skittering toward the edge of the dock. I yelped and threw myself sideways to grab it, but I wasn’t fast enough. There was a faint but unmistakable plink as my phone went into the sea.
“Buddy!” yelled the young man. “Down. Get off her!”
The mountain of dog stood over me, licking my face, his black tail wagging in a frenzy of excitement. But somewhere deep in the doggy brain the command must have registered;
with one last slobber he backed up. Wincing, I pushed myself to sitting.
“Jeez, are you okay?” The young man strode over. I put a hand up for him to help me stand, but instead he bent, grabbed my waist and without hesitating hoisted me to my feet. I think my feet actually left the ground a little. Close-up, he was even taller than I’d first imagined, cornstalk tall, with a thatch of blond hair way up high.
“Sorry about that,” he said. He let go of me, removing his hands from my waist as if I were something delicate that he was afraid would fall over. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked the dog sternly. The dog blinked eyes like big chocolate pools of innocence at his owner and wagged his tail.
“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing the animal’s thick fur. “I like dogs. This one looks like he’s got a little yeti in him.”
“Making a good impression, I see,” said Gran, coming along the dock. “Sean Gunn, this is my granddaughter, Delia, she isn’t staying.”
Somehow she managed to make that last phrase sound like part of my name. This was getting kind of ridiculous.
Sean nodded hello. He had a nice face with broad, strong features and sun-streaked blond hair that stood out from his tanned forehead in attractive disorder. “I saw you yesterday in the square.”
“Yeah, I attracted quite a crowd. It was kind of weird.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry, it’s not you. It’s just a pretty quiet place here.”
Quiet
wasn’t exactly the word I would have chosen.
Weird, eerie
or
isolated
, maybe.
“It couldn’t have been too quiet when Ben Deare’s boat got trashed,” I remarked. “Did you see who did it?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t seem that concerned.”
He tilted his head slightly, regarding me with thoughtful brown eyes. “Why does it matter to you?”
“I’d like to know Ben is okay.”
“He’s taking Delia back to the mainland,” Gran interjected. “He was supposed to meet us first thing at the house.”
Sean nodded. “Ben can take care of himself. Better than most. And his boat will be fixed.” He looked at me. “We take care of each other here. So there’s no need to worry.”
“But he could be—” I began, but was cut off. The dog, apparently thinking I’d sent an invitation to come back, my being upright and all, trotted over and stuck his nose in my crotch.
“Ugh. Hey!” I nudged the dog’s persistent snout away.
“Buddy!” yelled Sean. “So uncool. Get in the boat.”
Buddy galloped away and leapt onto the boat. Sean looked at Gran and me, seeming to be at a loss for words. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled finally. “I should get back to work. Bye.”
Gran looked at me. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I muttered, examining my scraped palms. “But my phone is swimming with the fishes.”
“It doesn’t matter about the phone,” said Gran. “Let’s go aboard. I want to talk to Sean again for a minute.” She pointed to my raw hands. “And he’ll have a first aid kit on the boat.”
But apparently Sean Gunn wasn’t the “welcome aboard” type. He’d already returned to stacking his lobster traps and replied with a polite, noncommittal shrug to Gran’s request for a few words with him. While she went up front to talk to him, I looked around the boat.
Sean Gunn must have been doing well in the lobstering business. In contrast to Ben’s floating junk drawer, Sean Gunn’s boat looked brand-new, well-equipped and like a model of ruthless efficiency, right down to the spotless woodwork and gleaming hardware on the rails.
An array of heavy nets, spear guns and spike-ended poles hung on a wall of the cabin. It looked like an undersea hunting arsenal. I eyed the lethal-looking black point of a sleek metal arrow, reached up to touch it and changed my mind.
God help Nemo if this guy is looking for him
.
Just then Sean Gunn strode over and handed me a plastic box of first aid supplies. Meanwhile, Gran remained up toward the front, feeding the big black hound something she took from the depths of a pocket.
“Do you need a hand?” Sean asked me, wiping his palms on the back of his jeans.
“No, thank you.”
He nodded with what seemed like relief but didn’t leave.
I sat down and opened the kit, which was neatly organized and well stocked, and began to apply disinfectant spray to the bloody scratches on my palms. Sean stood by, arms folded. Watching me like the Bactine police or something.
“I’m fine,” I said, glancing up. “Thanks.”
He shifted his feet. “I’m sorry about my dog. If he scared you.”
“That is not a dog,” I told him, laughing. “Did he fall into a vat of toxic waste or something as a puppy?”
Sean smiled. Just a little one that tugged the corner of his mouth. “He seems to like you.”
I smiled back. “I got that impression. Still have the drool tracks on my neck.” I stuffed the supplies back into the box and handed it back to Sean. As he reached for it the sleeve of his T-shirt lifted slightly and I noticed a tattoo on his upper arm. It was a dagger, entwined with swirling coils. The dense black motif against his skin looked fresh, the skin around it slightly reddened and shiny.
“Nice ink.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Your tattoo. It looks like you just got it. It’s nice.”
“Oh.” Sean ran a hand over his biceps, covering the black point of the dagger. Almost as if he wanted to hide it. His hands were big, with chafed red skin and rough fingernails bitten down to nubs.
Silence hung between us. I wondered what it would take to get Sean Gunn to smile again. Or at least relax. He
had the air of someone who didn’t do either one easily. Or maybe ever. “What is it, some kind of a gang thing?” I asked jokingly.
But Sean didn’t smile back. His open features hardened ever so slightly. It was as if he’d tightened his face, closed it, so I couldn’t see inside.