The Summer Man

by S. D. Perry

  Jenny Todd, I presume, Tommy thought, still happy with himself for standing up to Trevor. Still a little surprised, too, by how much he’d wanted to pound Trevor’s face in. Presumably someone would do it, eventually. His dad was fond of saying how people always got what was coming to them, and Tommy wanted very much to believe that; it just seemed fair.

  The waves out in the bay were tipped with white, but the water at the base of the pier was mostly still, the lap rhythmic and slow. It was shallow, too. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Tommy could feel his exposed skin sucking up the heat. Another hour and he’d be a lobster. He’d make a point of sticking close to the pier. Under it, maybe.

  They approached the group, Trevor still hanging back, acting indifferent. Toward the end of the pier, a man with fishing gear leaned against the rail, looking down at them. Looking at the teenage girl, Tommy figured as he got a closer look at her himself. She was tall and had long legs and round hips and big breasts; she had a heart-shaped face and a pretty smile; she had shining reddish-brown hair piled on top of her head, with long wisps of it curling down the back of her neck. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen in real life.

  Jeff introduced him around, kind of, but Tommy missed some of the names, working to appear cool and clever and witty by the way he stood, trying to stare at Jenny without staring. He had half an erection from the very slight glance he’d dared at her breasts, and willed it to go away, told himself that she was at least seventeen, that the smile she gave him was friendly, nothing more. Much as he might wish otherwise. He’d known about masturbation for quite a while, and he wasn’t a fanatic or anything, but he’d been more into it just lately…like, a lot more. And he didn’t think it on purpose, but he did think it, that Jenny was going to have a starring role at some point in the very near future, like tonight.

  “Hey, Jenny,” Trevor said, nodding at the beautiful girl, and she smiled pleasantly enough at him, too, but there was zero interest in the look. She might have been smiling at a mailman or a waiter or something. Tommy felt a weird kind of satisfaction that she wasn’t interested in the older boy, either. She pulled out a lime-green cell phone about a second later and started tapping keys.

  “Sissy, will you keep an eye on Jay?” she said, and one of the girls nodded eagerly. Jay’s sissy, Valerie, was maybe nine, had frizzy hair and a rounded, unformed body and a missing tooth. Another girl volunteered to assist, and they promptly surrounded the little boy, who was rubbing handfuls of dirty sand on his stomach for no apparent reason. Her babysitting duties delegated, Jenny walked away from the group, still punching keys. There was a blanket and a couple of bags of stuff in a relatively clean patch of sun, next to the rocky wall separating the beach from the parking lot above. Jenny knelt on the blanket, nearly knocking over a tall can of energy drink, arranging her long legs just so…

  Tommy wasn’t the only one looking. He glanced away long enough to see that Jeff, his friend Mike, and Trevor were all watching her, various dazed expressions on their faces. Jeremy, a glasses-wearing, quiet kid who seemed younger, was more interested in claiming the best raft. He and one of the little girls were already exclaiming over the chill of the water.

  Tommy caught a small movement from the pier. The fisherman was still looking down, but he was watching the kids—them, not Jenny. He had thinning, sandy hair. His bland, middle-aged face was red, sunburnt maybe, and the look he wore…

  “Who’s that guy?” Tommy asked. The look he wore was creepy. He looked hungry. But as soon as he realized that they were all turning to look at him, he backed away from the rail, suddenly deeply interested in his fishing rod. He jammed a shapeless sun hat on his head and looked out over the bay.

  “Some perv, probably,” Jeff said. “Come on.”

  They set out the rafts and inflatable tubes, the girls giggling and shrieking as they positioned themselves on the plastic toys. Tommy got a clear, purple-tinted ring with a patch on the side and rubber handles. The water was uncomfortably cold, but the handles allowed him to pull his butt mostly out, and his feet quickly went numb. After a few moments in the reflected sun, the cold felt good.

  They floated around the end of the pier, the waves keeping them from drifting too far out. They paddled out to the drop-off, Tommy getting chills even looking out to where the water turned black. Thinking about that dream he’d had, about the depthless ocean. Thankfully, the water was too cold and choppy there for them to linger.

  The sun had grown hot, and everything seemed hazed out in shades of brightness, and Tommy realized he was having a good time, that he liked being out on the water. Jay, the little kid, got splashed and started screaming that he wanted to make sand castles instead, so he and his sister and the other girls paddled their rafts back to the beach. Trevor tried to smoke, sitting on a big blue foam board, and immediately dropped his lighter in the water. Jeff and Tommy and Mike all cracked up. After several choice curses, Trevor wondered aloud if Jenny had a light, and kicked himself back under the pier, muttering about “fucking little kids” as he went.

  “Trevor’s kind of a dick,” Tommy ventured, when he was sure Trevor was out of earshot. Jeff didn’t say anything, but Mike nodded vigorously.

  “I heard he got busted for stealing a couple of weeks ago,” Jeremy said, floating on a flat foam mat shaped liked a frog. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his pudgy, peeling nose. “He took some stuff from the hardware store. His mom had to go down to the police station and get him.”

  “Aw, Trevor’s all right,” Jeff said.

  “No, he’s totally a dick,” Mike said. “He pushes people around all the time, and that’s the second time he’s gotten caught. My dad says he’s a bad egg.”

  “A bad egg?” Jeff smirked. “That’s stupid. Who says bad egg?”

  Tommy was about to volunteer that he’d used the term himself, a perfectly acceptable descriptive when you didn’t want to say asshole in front of your parents, when from the beach came a high, squealing scream. Tommy looked over and saw that Jay had stripped out of his SpongeBob shorts and food-stained tee and was running bare-ass naked across the sand, laughing while his sister shouted after him to stop. Jenny’s blanket was empty, she was nowhere to be seen, but it didn’t look like an emergency or anything; he was just being a little kid, and now the other girls were chasing after him, calling his name. Jay shrieked and ran faster, his pudgy little legs kicking up sand, his babyish arms pumping, his round butt shiny white, practically glowing in the sun. He should be falling down; he was wearing sandals that appeared to be on the wrong feet, but he was losing them, fast. It was kind of funny.

  Tommy shaded his eyes, looking up at the pier, where the fisherman had been hanging out all morning—and saw that the fisherman was watching Jay, and that he had his hand in his pants and was moving it rhythmically, his glassy-eyed stare fixed on the little boy. They were close enough to the pier, it was maybe fifteen feet up and not far from where they were floating, that Tommy could clearly see what he was doing—but he couldn’t believe it; he couldn’t believe that someone would do that, right in the open like that.

  A little kid, Tommy thought, and felt sick.

  “Hey,” Tommy said, then suddenly he was screaming it. “HEY!”

  The fisherman turned and looked at him, still jerking it, and he was staring right at Tommy as he shuddered, his mouth falling open, his tongue sticking out just a little…and then he had his hand out of his pants and was scooping up his gear, turning, running away.

  “Was he jacking off?” Jeff asked. “He was, wasn’t he?”

  Everyone was staring at Tommy. Even Jay had stopped running. Jenny and Trevor appeared from under the pier a beat later, blinking in the sudden brightness, both of them holding cigarettes.

  “I didn’t see,” Jeremy said. “Was he?”

  “That’s fucked-up,” Mike said, and it was Tommy’s turn to nod, and then they were all paddling toward shore, Tommy dropping into the icy water as they got closer, his good feelings
about the day turning confused and falling away as they dragged their floats onto the sand, and everyone was talking at once. Then Jenny was telling everyone to shut up, she was trying to call the cops, and Sissy was holding her little brother wrapped in a sandy towel, her eyes filled with tears. Jay started crying that he wanted to go home. Tommy could relate; he just wasn’t sure where home was, exactly; not today.

  Friday morning, John and Bob went to meet Amanda at the closed deli half a block from the police station. John was tired; Bob had picked him up at his house a few hours after he’d gotten home from Sarah’s, which meant he’d slept, including last night’s nap, five hours? Not so bad, except he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full eight. Research, caseload, his long, lovely nights with Sarah…six, seven days? As they walked toward the deli, Bob was telling him about what he’d heard only that morning, rumors of orgies out at the artist’s retreat, but John was trying to focus on the meeting ahead, on presentation, on objectives. What had seemed so clear only a week before had become clouded—and at the same time, the deep connection he’d made with Sarah had actually clarified some things for him, had made him reconsider the nature of the influence. They’d talked a lot about the possibility—the probability—that the intimacy they were experiencing had been boosted chemically by whatever was happening to Port Isley and its inhabitants…but Sarah had pointed out, and rightfully so, that if that were true, the things occurring could not easily be categorized as wholly bad or destructive. Considering how fulfilled he felt spending time with her, how mutual the attraction was, it was hard to argue. He found it hard to argue with her about much of anything, he was so consumed by their sudden, incredible affair.

  I’m fine, he told himself, gripping the thin file he carried more tightly. At least well enough to take action. Hadn’t they found evidence? They had enough, he was sure they had enough.

  There had been four suicides in Port Isley since about the first week of June, including Ed Billings and Dick Calvin. Last year, there had been one. All year. There had been four murders in the same six-week period—Lisa Meyer; Ed Billings’s wife, Darva; Sadie Truman; and Annie Thomas. Last year, and for two years before, none. Zero. Even accidental deaths were up within the city limits, two in the last week—a local had fallen down his stairs during a small house fire, and another had perished in a single-car crash; both men had had blood alcohol levels over .15. Bob had learned that the car crash victim had been in AA, had claimed to be sober for better than six years, and had attended his meetings religiously…up until sometime in June. There had been Karen’s rape and a handful of other probable sexual assaults—things that hadn’t made it to police report stage, that likely never would. Like what had happened—almost happened—to Amanda with her mother’s boyfriend. They’d kept the research focused on what they could prove, but Bob had dug up a lot more, through conversations with the families of hospital workers, chats with friends and neighbors. Sexual abuse and domestic violence were up, and there were undoubtedly a half dozen ugly scenes playing out unwitnessed and unreported for every one that Bob had heard about.

  But how many stories are there out there like ours? Sarah had asked, her voice soft in the darkness, the feel of her naked skin like cream, like velvet, clichés that didn’t even touch the epiphany of her body against his. How many others like us? Letting go of sadness, anger, old defense mechanisms? Embracing the good people we find?

  John let out an involuntary sigh, remembering what had followed. On a purely intellectual level, he knew that what was happening between them couldn’t be love. This was neurochemistry in action, hardwired instinct plus a projection of hope, beliefs about intimacy…but he also felt an excited flutter in the pit of his stomach every time he thought of her, and he couldn’t make himself not feel that.

  She did have a point. If there were others like them, connecting, then the changes weren’t all bad. But people discovering themselves wasn’t something they could quantify, nor was it the kind of stuff even Bob could get, asking around.

  The reporter had proved to be extremely adept at hearing things; he had a wide network of people who liked to gossip and was friendly with any number of summer residents besides. John supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised—Robert Sayers had been a regular byline in a major city newspaper when John himself had been in diapers—but the casual finesse with which Bob drew people out and got them talking was remarkable. John had thought that he’d have the edge, considering his career choice—

  and how much Bob drinks

  —but his own questions had turned up little. The Catholic priest he’d spoken to had wanted to tell him more, he was sure of it, but in the end, the good father had clammed up, saying that the only thing happening in Port Isley was God’s will. And the social worker had been a brick wall, start to finish. He’d learned that church attendance was up all over—so much so that the local Baptist minister was thinking about applying for a permit to hold Sunday services at the fairgrounds—but that wasn’t particularly helpful. John had turned the interviewing over to Bob and spent his very few spare hours compiling the notes Bob gave him and figuring out how to run a probability-statistics program on his aging computer. If he’d run it right—and he was pretty sure he had—they had more than enough to convince Stan Vincent, and then the chief would…he would do something. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but John couldn’t seem to imagine much further than their meeting with Vincent. They would lay out the facts, the facts, and Vincent would nod slowly, understanding filling his eyes, and then…

  He’ll know what to do. John was sure.

  They turned the corner on Main, and there was Amanda, alone. She sat cross-legged on the curb in front of the deserted deli, smoking, reading a book, wearing all black except for her half-laced, screaming-orange high-tops. She looked up and saw the two of them approaching, dog-eared her paperback, and slipped it into a flowered bag.

  She stood up, dropping her cigarette to the pavement. “This is a bad idea,” she said. She ground the butt into the cement with her toe. “He’s not going to listen.”

  John held up the file. “Two-hundred-percent increase in violent attacks in a three-month period, better than eighty percent of those in the last six weeks. Five weeks, really. Massive increases in medications prescribed and purchased, hospital ER reports, complaints filed…ah, church attendance, counseling sessions scheduled…vandalism…”

  He looked to Bob for help, his brain too tired to remember any more, but Bob was looking at Amanda.

  “You get a feeling for this?” he asked. “About Chief Vincent?”

  She did a head shrug, tipping to one side and back. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think it’s just what I think.”

  Bob nodded. “When I saw him at the hospital, he seemed…hostile, I guess. Not like himself.”

  John had to smile at that. “We can welcome him to the club, then.”

  Bob snorted, and Amanda grinned.

  “I suppose you have a point,” Bob said. “Still. We could go to the county sheriff’s, bypass the problem entirely.”

  “The evidence is important; it’s how we’ll get people from the state or the feds to listen,” John said. “But I’m counting on the fact that the chief lives here, that he’s well aware of the increase in violent crime…and that he may be experiencing symptoms himself. When he sees the numbers, realizes how bad things are, and that there’s a possible reason for how he’s probably been feeling…”

  They looked mollified, if not convinced. Sarah had agreed with his logic when he’d discussed it with her. She’d stopped worrying about the effects of the agent on herself or her son—her belief was that whatever was happening, the people who were inherently stable would remain so—but she was concerned about having Tommy in an unsafe environment. John wasn’t sure how she’d come to her conclusions, but she seemed committed to them.

  Maybe she just doesn’t want to leave, he thought. Karen had made it clear that she wanted Sarah to stay for as long as she cou
ld.

  And maybe she doesn’t want to leave me. The thought was intoxicating. If they could convince Stan Vincent to take them seriously and then to take over, to deal with what was happening, he could shift his focus back to work, where it belonged…and to Sarah and what was building between them. She was going to talk to Tommy, soon—they’d both agreed that until they were sure they wanted to continue their relationship, it was better that he not know the depth of their involvement—but John had never felt more certain of anything.

  “Let’s do this,” he said firmly, and Bob nodded once, and Amanda sighed, and they started for the station.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I an Henderson watched the trio of locals walk out of the chief’s office, their faces red, their expressions resentful and angry. He’d recognized Bob Sayers and the shrink, John Hanover, when they’d come in, asking to speak to Vincent. Henderson had spent the next ten minutes trying to place the teenage girl, stealing looks through the wide window to the chief’s office from his desk. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was also keeping an eye on the meeting. On the chief.

  Vincent was standing at his door, watching them leave—and when he saw Henderson watching, he waved him over.

  “Got a real winner this time.” The chief gritted his teeth as though he were trying to smile as he ushered Henderson in.

  “What did they want to talk about? That was Grace Young’s daughter, wasn’t it?”

  Vincent ignored the questions, went to his desk, and picked up a handful of papers. He walked to the garbage can and deliberately dropped them in. He was trying to appear casual, but his every move radiated anger and strain. “Town’s falling to pieces, swear to Christ. I expect bullshit from the summer people, you know?”

  Henderson raised his eyebrows, waited.

  “It would seem that we’re not doing our jobs,” Vincent said. He paced back to his desk, turned, seemed not to know what to do with himself.