Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

A fishing boat took them to Eastport, and Uncle Doddie met them in front of the pier by 8:00 a.m. It was a cold, bright morning, and the puddles reflecting the blue sky were the only indication there'd been a storm at all. Uncle Doddie looked old and tired as Gil climbed into the blue truck. The strong sun showed the blue veins beneath his thin skin when he took off his cap to rub a hand over his bald head. It made Gil sad, that irrefutable evidence that his uncle wouldn't be with him forever.

It made it even harder to lie to him.

"Hell of a thing." Uncle Doddie shook his head as he backed away from the coast guard building and the little hotdog stand across from it. "And the Freya , lost. What were you doing out there, Gil?"

"Fishing." Gil settled Mr. Brimstone—Bryn—into his lap, where the cat immediately started making biscuits with his big paws.

"Fishing," Uncle Doddie repeated.

"There was no sign of bad weather," Gil said. "The sky was as clear as glass when we set out."

"You know, you don't have to do it," Uncle Doddie said. "The fishing. Hell, boy, the house has been in the family for four generations, and my pension from the Coast Guard is more than enough to keep us fed until you… figure things out. You've got one life, Gil. Make something of it. Don't throw it away."

He left the like your mother unsaid, but Gil heard it anyway.

Gil sunk lower in his seat, making himself as small as he could and curling his shoulders around the cat. But then Bryn's green eyes met his, and they held a sharpness Gil felt in his belly. He pushed his shoulders back, sat up straight, and looked over at his uncle. He hoped only Bryn could hear the rapid beat of his heart.

"You're right," Gil said decisively. "I'm going to take care of it."

Uncle Doddie smiled as he pulled onto the highway, and half an hour later, they were home. The trees surrounding the house blazed with autumn color, and a wheelbarrow full of pumpkins from the back garden sat in front of the porch.

"Go on," Uncle Doddie said, not turning off the truck. "Clean up and get some rest. I'm going to head into Machias to the insurance office, let them know what happened to the Freya . You do what you need to do."

"I will." Gil patted his uncle's shoulder and stepped out of the truck, followed by Bryn. The hard rain had brought out the scent of the leaves, and they mingled with sea air. It was fresh and bracing, and it felt like a new start, though Gil wasn't na?ve enough to think it would be that simple.

He went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. He couldn't remember ever being so hungry, and he rummaged through the cupboards for something to fix for them.

"How are you going to take care of it?" Bryn rested a hand on the gingham tablecloth.

Gil turned to face him, happy—and maybe a little disappointed—to find him wearing jeans and a burnt orange, long-sleeve T-shirt. "I don't know."

"I could help," Bryn offered, smiling and flashing his sharp canines. "As long as we do it before midnight."

Gil shook his head. "I don't want to be hasty. I need to think this through. Do it right."

He went to a small glass case on the wall between the kitchen and the front room. It held some certificates, a black-and-white picture of Aunt Kate and Uncle Doddie on their wedding day, and a little brass plaque that read "George MacNeil – ‘Doddie.'"Gil open the clasp and took out a small, striped ribbon as Bryn came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Gil's waist.

"Uncle Doddie was awarded this. It's a sharpshooter ribbon from the Coast Guard. And this one is a sea service ribbon." Gil pointed to other ribbons and medals. "Distinguished marksman, expert rifleman. And this is a Gold Lifesaving Medal."

Bryn took the sharpshooter ribbon and turned Gil to face him. "He's proud of you."

"Why?" Gil's voice was barely a whisper; it hurt getting that one word out. But what he had to say next was going to hurt a lot more.

"Bryn… I don't know how this is going to go with Grady. I could end up dead or back in jail. I'm sure Uncle Doddie would take care of you… you know. But it's probably better if you go."

Bryn took a few steps back. "Go?"

"You… you were… you are… everything to me." Gil cursed his clumsy tongue and slow, stupid brain. This was important, but he couldn't find the right words to make Bryn understand. There was a reason he preferred to stay quiet. "You're this incredible magical being. You shouldn't be stuck here with me. Even if I come through this, I…. There are hundreds of losers like me in small towns up and down the coast. If that's what you really want, you won't have trouble finding someone just as good or better."

Gil sort of hoped Bryn might argue, but he wasn't surprised when he didn't. "Yeah, and I'm stuck as a cat six days a week. Hardly the ideal relationship situation for you."

"Yeah." Gil took Bryn's hand and smoothed his thumb over the back. He looked into his luminous green eyes, trying to burn them into his memory. "You're the best friend I ever had. I…."

A big rock shattered the bay window and showered Gil and Bryn in glass.

"MacNeil!" Grady yelled from outside.

By the time Gil turned for the door, Bryn was Mr. Brimstone again, following on his heels. Gil picked up the shotgun that rested in the corner and stepped out onto the porch as the cat darted past Grady and toward his expensive truck. At least he'd learned to steer clear of Grady's cruel streak.

Gil gestured toward the broken window. "What the fuck?"

"Our associates said you never showed up with the product," Grady spat. "Where is it?"

"The bottom of the ocean," Gil said. "I got caught in that freak storm last night. The boat went down."

"That's gonna be a problem." Grady shook his head. "That product was expected in Toronto by some very powerful people, Gil. And shit rolls downhill. Those powerful people don't get their shit, they start leaning on my associates, and my associates start leaning on me. But it's not my fault, is it?"

"It's not mine! I can't control the weather."

Grady took a step forward and only stopped when Gil raised the shotgun to his shoulder. "Here's the deal, Gil. Our friends are on their way here, and they expect their product or the million dollars it's worth. I am not taking the blame for this. Now, you tell them it's all on you and plead your case—maybe they let you work it off—or I tell them about this house and your uncle."

"Not if I don't let you leave," Gil said.

"Please." Grady stretched his arms out to his sides. "We both know you're a big, fat pussy. I could piss in your face and you'd say ‘please, sir, can I have another.'"

He was right. Gil couldn't shoot Grady, not even to save himself. He lowered the gun.

"That's what I thought. If you can get your hands on any of your uncle's money, I suggest you do it. If you get enough, you might get to keep all your fingers and both eyes. And don't think about trying to leave, or I'll burn this place to the ground with the old man inside."

After spitting on the ground, Grady climbed back into his truck. "What the—" He found Mr. Brimstone in the cab and tossed him roughly to the ground. The cat yowled and ran up the porch steps to hide behind Gil's legs.

As soon as the truck disappeared down the road, Bryn stood and faced Gil, his expression enough to freeze Gil's blood.

"Stay here, Gil."

"What are you going to do?"

Bryn cupped Gil's cheek and kissed him softly. "I'm afraid we won't see each other again. You should go to a public place, somewhere a lot of people will see ye… somewhere ye'll be remembered."

"No. Wait." Gil grabbed hold of Bryn's shirt at the chest. "Let's talk about this. Plan things out. I… I could go undercover, help the Coast Guard get to the big guys. We don't have to do anything drastic."

"Gil… go somewhere ye'll be seen. Let me do this for you, and know ye deserve every bit of it. If ye care for me, ye'll do as I ask."

"No! I won't let you?—"

In the next instant, Gil was left holding empty air as the massive black cat darted across the lawn and into the woods.