Page 99 of Summers at the Saint
“Scotty?” Brad’s voice cracked. “Scotty Whelan? Is that really you?”
“Yes, sir.” Whelan was bemused that he’d automatically reverted to his youth, addressing the older man as if the years hadn’t passed and Brad was still his stern, eternally disappointed stepfather.
“Praise Jesus!”
Was Brad crying?
“Oh, son, you don’t know how often I’ve thought and prayed for you over these years. Are you still in the army? Your mom was so proud of you for enlisting.”
“Actually, it was the marines. I’ve been out quite a few years now.”
“Well, good for you,” Brad said. “And I hope you’re doing well? Got a family and settled down?”
“Doing well, thanks,” Whelan said, neatly sidestepping the family question.
“And where are you living these days? I’d love to catch up with you and…” His voice cracked a little. “… make things right. I wasn’t much of a dad to you when I had the chance, wasn’t much of a husband to your mom, either, but, well, I’m a changed man these days. You could say I’ve seen the light.”
Why was it, Whelan wondered, assholes only saw the lightafterthe damage was done?
“I wasn’t too eager to be parented back then,” Whelan conceded, trying to be civil.
“You asked where I am. And that’s actually why I’ve called you. I’m down at the Saint.”
There was a long pause. When Brad spoke again, his voice seemed to have hardened. “The Saint Cecelia? What on earth?”
Whelan cut him off. “Kasey died, you know.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t know that. When?”
“Last summer.”
“I wish I’d known. Your mother and I…” Brad sighed dramatically. “Well, another in my list of regrets.”
“Mine too. Look, I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but all these years, I’ve had questions. About Hudson. And how and why he died.”
“Water under the bridge now,” Brad said, and Whelan could picture him, praising Jesus, or something like that. “You know how he died. In that pool, at the Saint.”
“But why? He was a good swimmer. And I’ve looked into it. Talked to people who were there, including both the lifeguards. There were no other kids in the pool. One minute he was fine, then the next minute, gone. And there was no follow-up, no police investigation. The owners of the Saint saw to that.”
“There was an investigation,” Brad said.
“By who?”
“By me, well, a guy I hired. Your mother wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t leave it alone. She was sure there was some nefarious force at work. She couldn’t sleep or eat. So without telling her, I hired my own investigator.”
“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?” Whelan asked, stunned.
Brad laughed and for a moment Whelan recognized the pre- Rapture Brad.
“No offense, son, but you weren’t really part of the equation back then, were you? You blew in and then out of your little brother’s funeral in what, two hours? If that?”
“Probably less. And I’m not proud about that.”
“There’s enough shame to go around where that unfortunate chapter of our lives is concerned,” Brad said.
“Did your investigator come up with anything?”
“Yes. And no. I had an autopsy performed, and that’s when we learned that Hudson had eaten a lot of food before going into that pool that day. Cereal, which his mom had given him that morning, hot dogs and French fries from the snack bar at the pool, and then, the thing we couldn’t account for, some kind of peanut candy.”
