A Good Man by P.J. McIlvaine

Author:P.J. McIlvaine [McIlvaine, PJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

We were halfway through our summer vacation in Montauk—the middle of July—the sticky dog days where you got tired of being at the beach all day and having burgers on the grill.

We were all getting on each other’s last nerve. Mom was irritable and tired. She used to be the first one out of bed; now, most of the time, she was in her pajamas all day. And it seemed like she was picking on me for every little thing: not making my bed, not putting away my toys, and forgetting to flush the toilet. I couldn’t do anything right.

Palmer was a grouch bucket, too. I thought we’d bonded over our misadventure at Camp Hero—secrets have a way of doing that—but he treated me as though I were invisible. He’d take off early and return barely in time for dinner. It annoyed the hell out of me, but Mom didn’t seem to care. Summer had turned into a bummer. I was lonely and I missed Berry something fierce.

Something was going on in Ditch Plains, and it wasn’t just me being a mopey brat. Rumors and whispers were growing like crabgrass. Ronnie and Toad would fill me in when we’d get ice cream in town. Gigi was still recuperating from her mouth surgery.

Ronnie licked an ice-cream sandwich. “I heard some farmers are reporting baby chicks being born with two heads. And finding weird symbols painted on their coops and barns.”

“No way,” I blurted.

“My landscaper said there’s been a ton of dead animals in people’s yards, really gross, their insides torn out.” Toad slurped on a cherry popsicle. “And I overheard my housekeeper say that the police arrested a naked lady dancing on the beach by a bonfire after midnight. It was some kind of satanic ritual.”

I lapped up every word as I dug a wooden spoon into my blue Italian ice.

At dinner that night, when I breathlessly reported to Mom and Palmer what the kids had said, Mom’s response was succinct. “It’s a load of hooey.”

“What’s hooey?” I asked.

“Crap,” Palmer snorted.

“Palmer, we don’t use that word in this house,” Mom remonstrated. She never cursed. Dad might occasionally say damn or hell when he was trying to fix something around the house. As things stood, we hadn’t heard from Dad in weeks. Mom insisted that he was busy with his summer courses, but that excuse was wearing thin. And it sure didn’t stop Julian Broadhurst and his Aston Martin from coming around.

“Would you rather I say caca? Or bullshit?” Palmer pushed his plate away and bolted from the kitchen table. Seconds later, he slammed his bedroom door so hard my glass of milk shook.

Mom sighed. “Don’t pay attention to him, Brooks. Your brother’s going through a phase, his hormones are all over the place.”

I didn’t know what hormones were, but it sounded as appealing as a mouthful of dirt. But I was worried about Palmer, and I decided then and there to follow him the next morning and see what mischief he was up to.

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