Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [13]
“You don’t think it’ll work?”
“Oh, it might,” she replied, ducking down again. “Just don’t know if I like the idea. There’s good things about it, I suppose. Armitage’s little bank account paid for our water tower on the pier, the big gate to keep people out, electric generators, the boats. We live pretty well. Seems to me, though, that if it goes too far, we won’t be an island anymore. It’ll turn into—I don’t know—just another suburb. We’ll get people like you showing up all the time, making rules, screwing everything up.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to stay,” said Paul, surprised that her words had stung him.
“Well,” she said, “you’re sure stirring things up.”
“Not enough, obviously.”
Armitage had left for the docklands almost two hours ago but might not be back for a couple of days. What was he supposed to do in the meantime? Where was Sam now; what was he doing? He paced restlessly, tormented by the thought of all the wasted time. There must be something he could do.
“I’ve been thinking about the police,” he began carefully.
“It’s too risky.” Monica gestured around the boathouse. “What would they think of all this, huh? One look, and me and Armitage get sent to some group detention home in the suburbs. No way.”
“They wouldn’t have to know about you or Armitage.”
She slammed down the vise grips and hoisted herself up onto the deck.
“Fine,” he said. “No police. I’m just trying to find my brother.”
“You two must be close,” she said. He thought there was a trace of wistfulness in her voice.
Paul felt an unexpected fluttering of arousal. He didn’t know why. She was too thin, too pointy, and she was probably flat, though it was impossible to tell through all the layers of clothing. The girls he liked in Governor’s Hill were curvier, healthy looking, with tans they managed to hold on to year-round. His eyes traveled over the sharp angles of Monica’s pale face, her mop of uncontrollable hair. She was like no girl he’d ever seen.
“I suppose we were—we are, yes.” Lately he’d caught himself thinking about Sam in the past tense. It had been months since they’d last seen each other, and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. A silent, awkward handshake.
“You came all the way down here to look for him,” she said. “Sounds like you take pretty good care of him.”
Paul felt the familiar spasm of guilt—the circle of jeering faces, Sam on the ground, Randy Smith astride him. Paul watched, helpless. There was nothing he could do. They held him back.
“So how does he pay you back for all your bodyguard services?”
“What do you mean?” Paul asked nervously.
“He must help you with your homework, right?”
“Sometimes, sure,” he answered, relieved.
“Come on, Paul, you know what I mean,” she said quietly. “Didn’t he ever tell you you were really stupid?” There was an almost vindictive quality in her voice.
“Sometimes he wasn’t as patient as he—”
“You were doing your two-times tables and he was doing E equals mc squared, right? And he didn’t make you feel like a total moron? He never rubbed it in? You with all the nice big muscles?”
“That’s enough.” His heart was pounding, and a sweaty prickle was working its way down his back.
“You must have been real pissed off—all those put-downs.”
“Sometimes, maybe,” he stammered. “It wasn’t so bad.”
“You beat him up, didn’t you?”
“I did not beat him up!”
“That’s why he ran away.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about! They beat him up, not me! I was the one who stopped them!” He jabbed a thumb defiantly toward his chest. “I was the one who protected him all the time. Me. And he just took it for granted. He didn’t even notice the things I did for him!”
He’d run out of breath, and all at once felt horribly empty. Maybe he’d just needed to spit out the words, like the crazy lady on the main pier, shouting her litany of persecution to anyone who passed.
“That wasn’t fair, what I just said,” he told her anxiously. “He had a lot to put up with, too. More than me. I mean, I didn’t get what he got. It could have been me, but it was Sam.”
“I’m sorry,” said