Deep Betrayal Page 0,50

spit up in all directions before Jack was skittering out of the way and yelling, “Get off me! Get off me, you freak!”

“Stay away from Lily, and stay away from me. Don’t think I don’t know who killed Tallulah. You set this ball rolling. This boy’s death is as much your fault as theirs.”

Jack’s face burned red, and he looked nervously at the body. “I acted in defense. In defense of Lily. What they do … it’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t always think so, did you?” Calder’s voice rose above Jack’s, and Jack cowered back into the trees. “You were all right with it when you thought Pavati was yours forever.”

“Shut up!” yelled Jack, covering his ears. He turned away from us and banged his forehead against a tree.

The sound of voices coming up the beach pulled us out of the trees, back toward the spot where Connor lay.

“What’s this? Hey, guys,” said Brady Peterman. Three people followed, including Connor’s roommate, Eric, and Serious Boy. “What’s going on? Has anyone seen—”

Brady froze and put his arms out to stop the others from going any farther. I watched as his mind worked to come to terms with what he was seeing.

I stepped in before Jack could say anything more. “I found him here,” I said.

Serious Boy trained his eyes on me.

“How did he get here?” asked Brady. “What the hell happened?” Eric covered his mouth to hold back the dry heaves.

“I warned you about this,” Jack said, wiping the remaining tears from his cheeks. Bits of pine bark clung to his sweaty face.

“Shut up, Jack,” Brady said. “Bear, maybe? I told him not to have snacks in the tent.”

“Oh, wake up!” Jack said. “The body’s too clean for a bear.”

“Show some respect,” Brady said. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.” He looked over his shoulder at a tall blond guy in a Marquette sweatshirt. “Get on the radio, Mick. Call the Coast Guard. Jack, give me that blanket of yours. We need to cover him up.”

Jack handed off the blanket and stalked down the beach. I watched him go and saw, beyond him, my father’s face barely above the waterline, watching from the dark water. “Calder,” I said, turning, but he’d disappeared, leaving just as silently as he’d arrived.

Over the next few minutes, the rest of the campground was alerted and gathered solemnly on the beach. The other kids displayed a combination of fear and curiosity. No one knew Connor well enough to cry; rather, ashen expressions were the norm. Eric, Connor’s roommate, sat beside the body until the Coast Guard arrived.

Serious Boy kept his distance from me, just as he had the night before, but his pale blue eyes never left my face. That is, until the other Cornucopia boy dragged him away, saying, “Let it be. One should be enough,” and giving me an icy glare that froze me to the core.

20

FATHER’S DAY

The next day after Mass, Calder and I sat in a sunny park across the street from the Bayfield Police Station. It was quiet here, and I was glad for that. Early-morning sun streamed through the trees. Two coffee cups stood in the grass between us. This morning I’d opted for Calder’s double espresso in lieu of my usual caramel mocha latte. Calder read to me from my anthology of Victorian poets, trying to distract me from morbid thoughts, but it was tough going considering the material he was working with.

After a few minutes, he turned the page and began to recite from one of my favorites—the one that always made him roll his eyes. This time he used a funny voice, mugging and preening, as he read Tennyson’s “The Merman”:

I would be a merman bold,

I would sit and sing the whole of the day;

I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;

But at night I would roam abroad and play

With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,

Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower.

I knew what he was doing. But trying to make me laugh wasn’t going to work. Nothing could take my mind off Connor.

Calder had explained to me, months ago, how mermaids hunted. Somehow, the way he explained things, it sounded almost excusable. Now having seen the wasted remains of their hunt, it was impossible to think about. More terrifying than the inescapable memory of Connor’s vacant, milky eyes was the knowledge that he wouldn’t be their last.

Calder slipped into Hopkins’s “Epithalamion” without me noticing he’d turned the page.

… there comes a listless