Page 55 of Dead of Summer
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen them before this weekend. They just showed up yesterday.”
“A bunch of them,” she said. “Looks like Geoffrey cloned himself.”
She stood still for a moment. Henry had watched her mouth drop open. “Oh dear.”
She’d stepped away from the eye of the telescope, inviting Henry to look.
Alice Gallo in a dress far too adult for her to be wearing. She was drinking something from a martini glass. One of the older men took her by the arm. Henry had watched her break free from him.
“We have to do something.” Margie gripped Henry’s sleeve. “I’m not letting those people get away with—I’m going to go out there.” She had that stubborn look on her face. “I’m going to climb onto that boat if I have to.”
“Margie, no, you’re not. And then what?”
“I’m going to ring the police,” she said, starting to the phone. Henry worried he’d already wasted too much time.
“Aren’t you the one who always says he has the officials in his pockets?”
“Well, I’m not going to just sit there, while they, they—poor—” At this her chin had begun to crumple.
“No, of course not,” Henry said quickly, nothing more upsetting to him than his wife’s tears. He went back to the telescope to assess the situation.
There were more people on the deck. A different, higher deck thanearlier. He had caught sight of the dress. It was easy to see, the way it caught the light like a flare. Alice was arguing with someone. He saw only another set of hands gesticulating wildly as she inched farther and farther back toward the edge of the railing.
There was a flurry of movement, and she was tipping with a sudden violent force over the side of the yacht.
“What’s happening, Henry?” Margie cried, her voice shrill with fear.
But Henry was already thudding down the steps and skidding out onto the dock to the tiny boat. He yanked at the motor cord, but it didn’t catch. He’d been meaning to fix it, hadn’t Margie been on him to fix it? The oars in the bottom of the boat would have to do. He had snatched them up and sank quickly into the seat, pulling with all his might toward theOphelia.
It was all quiet on board. The light from the yacht shone in patchy spots on the water as he rowed toward it. “Hello?” he called out as he drew closer to it. “Is anyone there?”
Henry looked down into the water and saw the flash of something bright. He dropped to his knees in the hull of the boat and leaned over the side, reaching for it. His fingertips touched something in the darkness. He grabbed under the water, searching.
His hand had closed around something. Not human. A piece of fabric, heavy and waterlogged. He thrashed around looking for the girl, but she was gone.
There were confused yells on board. “Where’d she go?”
“Goddamn it! Find her!” A scurry of flashlights.
The light had hit Henry square in the eye, blinding him. When it moved, he could see the outline of someone looking down at him.
“Alice?” A young woman’s voice tore through the night. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was looking up into the face of Orla O’Connor. “Help! Have you seen my friend?”
“Hey! Who’s there?” It was the young Clarke boy next to her. “Look, it’s that freak! I bet he’s got her.”
Henry began to row away. He was panicking now. As he retreated toward the Rock he saw another figure join them on the deck. He could barely make out the rumble of Geoffrey Clarke’s voice across the waves. “What’s going on here? Who was that?”
Henry had rowed as fast as he could away from the yacht, the dress glittering dully like the skin of a fish in the hull of the boat.
Now Henry looks out at theOphelia II.The new Clarke yacht is as still and white as a mausoleum.
A line of movement in his periphery makes Henry move the telescope away from the lawn, skimming the water. A small rowboat is moving toward the yacht. He recognizes the slender back of the woman bowing forward as she rows.
FAITH
Faith pulls herself up onto the sleek edge of the yacht. Geoffrey’s skiff had arrived ages ago now, but she sees no sign of life on the bottom deck of the boat. She secures the rowboat off to the side with a rope, hoping that in the shadows no one will notice it there.
She creeps barefoot up the steps to the second-floor deck, passing through a row of empty lounge chairs. She can hear music now, a thin bass line coming from one of the floors above her. Faith tiptoes to the central stairway encased in glass and cautiously follows it up to the third floor. She finds another smaller open deck here. Behind it is a set of closed French doors. The music is louder now. It’s electronic and clubby, something that Faith might have heard at a bad tourist-filled nightclub in her early twenties. The low grumble of a man’s voice rises up over the beats on the other side of the wall. Geoffrey. She moves toward the door. If she bursts into the room and finds him with Gemma, it will do nothing. He will surely deny it all. She has to catch him in the act. She retreats, moving out around the side of the yacht.
