When he surfaced, Ryan saw J.B. and Mildred less than twenty feet away. They managed on their own, hacking, coughing and spluttering up river water. Hoyle bobbed to the surface behind them.
“Dry land’s over that way,” Ryan called out, knowing it would take a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. He pointed.
J.B. looked around, managing to hang on to his fedora while he floated. “Where’s Doc, Jak and Krysty?”
“Don’t know.” Ryan went down again, kicking violently, knowing they were running out of time. He met Krysty, who was coming up, pulling the slack form of Doc after her, barely illuminated in the ghostly water.
Grabbing a shoulder of the old man’s frock coat, Ryan helped Krysty swim to the surface. “Let me have him,” Ryan said when they were up.
Krysty nodded, breaking away and treading water. She gasped, the sound echoing over the flat planes of the water and reverberating in the cave over the movement of the river current.
Ryan levered an arm under Doc’s chin and started for shore.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dean lay on his back on his bed in the boys’ dorm, his hands clasped behind his head. On the top bunk, he was almost lifted from the general hubbub from his roommates, and from the din oozing in from the hallway and the other rooms on that floor of the building.
He focused on a fly clinging to the ceiling. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad to have been born a fly. And flies, Dean noted, seemed to be happiest when they were face deep in a pile of shit, which was exactly where he figured he was.
A heavy step trod on the wooden floor of the dorm, causing boards to creak.
“Uh-oh,” someone said, signaling a mad dash that got all of them cleaning up their bunks. Paper swished as it was put away, and books made leaden thunks dropping into footlockers in front of the beds.
Dean didn’t move. There wasn’t any way he could get into more trouble.
“Boys,” Nicholas Brody’s deep voice rumbled, “I’d like to pass a few moments with Mr. Cawdor if I may.”
Dean sat up on the bed, his bare feet dangling over the edge. He’d showered that morning, and his hair was still damp. He wore only the school-designated T-shirt and his underwear.
His three roommates moved back to their beds, looking at Brody but trying desperately not to meet the man’s glance.
“Alone,” Brody said.
Immediately the three boys jumped up and herded out into the hallway, relief evident in the way they carried themselves.
Brody closed the door behind them, then reached into Dean’s footlocker and brought out a pair of pants. He tossed them to Dean. “In proper decorum, if you please, Mr. Cawdor.” He turned to face the window, hands locked behind his back as he stared out into the courtyard where the flag waved in the breeze from the pole.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” Dean said as he shoved one leg into the trousers, “or I’d have been ready.” As much trouble as he was in, not getting dressed as asked would have been the least of his problems. But he had respect for Nicholas Brody.
“I really wish you had not ventured up onto that building, Mr. Cawdor,” the headmaster said tiredly. “Really, I wish you had not.”
“What’s going to happen to me, sir? For what I did.”
The headmaster grimaced. “That remains to be seen, lad. I am faced with a most difficult situation. Mr. Ventnor was summarily excused from the rest of his classes this year, over his father’s insistent arguments and hostilities. He’ll not be returning to this school without due attention in regards to this situation, nor without an official apology to this institution and to Miss Lemon. But that was due in part to his own licentious behavior and how he handled the whole affair, as well as his father’s bullheadedness.”
“Is that what’s going to happen to me?” Dean felt his stomach lurch. He didn’t realize how much he was going to miss the school, or how much the idea that he could get kicked out sickened him.