“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 look
ed 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.
“Yeah. Something like that.” Without another word he turned, went to the front of the boat and began to wind a rope into a stack of neat coils at his feet.
I was just trying to make conversation. Maybe they actually spoke a different language here. It sounded like English, but there were subtleties I couldn’t hear.
“Thanks for the Band-Aid,” I called over my shoulder, and went toward the side. No way would I ask him for a hand over to the dock. He’d made it clear he was so busy. I spotted Gran, who’d already gotten off the boat.
I was about to step across the short distance to the dock when the Widowsong revved to life and began to pull away.
“Hey! Stop! I have to get off!” I shouted.
Sean slammed the throttle, or the clutch, or whatever it was, forward and made me skitter backward, my sneakers squeaking on the deck. “Sit down!” he yelled.
The dog promptly sat on my feet.
Grabbing the side of the rail, I stared as the dock withdrew and the expanse of swirling black water between me and land widened. “Gran!” I shouted. But Gran only stood there, hands clasped together up on her chest. As I watched she raised one hand in a stiff, silent farewell.
Really?
She wouldn’t do this. I didn’t have any of my stuff. How could she do this?
I untangled myself from Buddy and crossed to Sean’s side. “Turn the damned boat around! I want to get off!”
He looked down at me, his face infuriatingly calm. As if he couldn’t imagine what I was making such a fuss about. “You will. Just as soon as we get to the mainland. Now go sit down.”
“My grandmother put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. Maisie asked me to bring you back. So what?”
“So I don’t want to go,” I yelled, trying to overcome the loud noise of the motor and keep my whipping hair out of my mouth. “Turn it around!”
“Nope.”
I glared up at him. “I’ll pay you, okay? C’mon.” I staggered against the roll of the deck before planting my feet. Back at the house, I still had those little gold coins. “A hundred dollars to take me back. Please?”
Sean looked down at me and for a moment there was a look of kindness in his brown eyes, like he wanted to help me. But he shook his head. “Sorry. Believe me, this is for your own good.”
When I didn’t move, he added, “Attention, passenger. We’ve turned on the No Smoking sign. The captain requests that you sit your ass down.” He turned his attention back to the open stretch of water.
Jaw clenched, fists tight, I held down my temper by calling Sean Gunn a string of dirty names in my head and made my way back to the edge of the boat. It wasn’t that far, I thought, looking toward the dock. I licked my lips and eyed the rolling drop to the water. Maybe I could swim it.
Ugh. No way.
Buddy began to bark at me.
“I really wouldn’t do that,” Sean called over, obviously thinking I was a whole lot braver than I was.
“Look,” he said louder, “you’ve got to sit down. No kidding. We’re coming to the Hands. It’s gonna get rough.”
I just crossed my arms and remained standing; I was mad about being surprised—no, kidnapped—like this and felt weirdly pleased about the uneasiness in his voice. He should be nervous.
“I came through the Hands before with Ben Deare just fine,” I shouted. “And his boat is a lot smaller. So just how bad could it possibly—”
An earsplitting scrape sounded along the length of the hull and the Widowsong slammed to a lurching stop. I pitched forward, scrabbling to catch hold of the curved railing even as the boat tipped sideways. Then, unbelievably, I saw the opposite deck begin to rise out of the water. Like the empty end of a seesaw.
I screamed and tumbled over the side.
The shocking cold of the water was a hammer strike on my skin. Seawater burned in my nose. Eyes shut, I swept my arms forward and kicked, reaching blindly for up. I opened my eyes. There was no bright surface above. Just swirling dark water and bubbles. Panic exploded in my chest and I flailed, trying to right myself. With relief I saw the large white form of the boat’s bottom looming nearby. And then I
saw what was under it.
While my mind couldn’t really process what I was seeing, my eyes were forced to absorb it.
Two huge, scaly animals gripped the bottom of the Widowsong, their shapes like the dark silhouettes of a nightmare. Webbed hands. Claws. Spiked tails. One of the monsters swung and fixed me with reptilian yellow eyes. Its jaws unhinged like a bear trap, showing rows of curved, sharp teeth, and it screamed at me. The obscene roar reverberated through the water and suddenly the creature swam toward me with rapid undulating movements and a bobbing motion of its head.
I screamed, and a rush of bubbles frothed from my mouth. The creature stopped abruptly, as if startled, and swung away.
The next thing I saw was its long tail with spiky side fins whipping through the water, coming at my head. It would have been a great shot in a 3-D sci-fi movie. Unfortunately, this was real. Before I could move, the tail struck me on the side of the head and sent me spinning, drifting. The world went dark, as if someone had cupped a hand over the end of a kaleidoscope.
Stunned, I floated down. A buzzing noise filled my head, and I had the awful dreamlike sense that I couldn’t move. I had to move, to get air. But I couldn’t. My arms and legs wouldn’t answer the frantic commands of my brain. As a heavy burning weight filled my chest, the need to breathe became unbearable. I prayed in that moment for it to stop.
Then I saw it. From the black depths below me, something small and white and shimmering appeared. It grew larger, floating up toward me, glowing against the murk. It was an angel.
The angel was dark. Black hair floated around his face like plumes of glistening raven feathers. And he had only a single, gleaming wing. That didn’t seem to matter. His deep blue eyes were all I could focus on. Brilliant and intense as a lightning strike, they fastened on me and didn’t let go.
Revel Page 5