Deep Betrayal

Gabby’s room was just past the last frame, judging by the band posters and pile of clothes on the bed.
    A second door was opened a crack. I peeked in. A blanket hung heavily over the window, making it seem more cave than bedroom. The light from the hallway raced in—breaking across the walls, exposing a floor-to-ceiling collage of Jack’s artwork. I slid my hand along the wall inside the doorway, searching for a light switch. I flipped on the light and drew in a sharp breath.
    It was like being underwater. A blue light flooded the room. Seconds later, a lava lamp sent a pulsing pattern of bubbles across the ceiling. Pictures of mermaids, some beautiful, others terrifying, plastered the walls. He’d drawn some images on full sheets of paper, others cut out precisely along their exquisite shapes. Charcoal drawings, oil paintings, sculpted pieces that reached toward the center of the room.
    I walked in, holding my breath. On a bookshelf beside the bed, a battered sketchbook lay open. I flipped through its pages. Every single drawing was of Pavati, her blue-sequined tail unmistakable. Her lavender eyes stared out from the paper as if she could leap at me as soon as I turned my back. Page after page. Until I got to the back cover and found something I would have never expected.
    There, Jack had stashed at least two dozen letters, all sent from a P.O. box in New Orleans. The postmarks indicated weekly letters through last fall, but then they tapered off. There were six weeks between the last two. Pavati had sent her final letter just two weeks before my family arrived. I pulled it from its envelope.
Jack ,
Don’t send any more letters like the last one. Get a grip or you’ll ruin everything .
    P
    Oh, poor Jack.
    “I see you’ve found my son’s room,” Mr. Pettit said.
    I jumped and slammed the sketchbook shut. “It’s beautiful.”
    “It’s a nightmare,” he said. “Ever since his friends all left for college he’s gotten stranger and stranger. I keep telling him he’s got talent. He should pursue this art thing if that’s what he wants to do. So what if he’s a year behind now? People go to college later in life all the time these days. But there’s no talking to him.”
    Mr. Pettit handed me a torn piece of paper. “Here’s Dr. Coyote’s address and phone number. Are your teeth bothering you?”
    “Something like that.”
    I found Calder pacing in the woods beyond the car, pitching pinecones against the trunk of a tree. When he saw me coming, he lobbed one over my head and reached for the piece of paper I handed to him. He read it quickly, nodded, and said, “Let’s roll.”
    The sign read DR. EVERETT COYOTE—THE GENTLE DENTIST. It seemed like an oxymoron to me. Calder pushed open the door and a string of bells announced us to the receptionist. Calder walked quickly into the office and put both hands on her counter, leaning toward her with a wide smile.
    “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
    “No,” Calder said. “We were hoping to speak to the dentist.”
    “Oh, well, you’d have to have an appointment to do that.”
    “It’s important,” Calder said, and I felt the temperature tick up a degree or two.
    The receptionist’s eyes widened and her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Well, I suppose I could go see.…”
    A man in a white lab coat came into the lobby through another door. His gray hair stood off his head like a puffy dandelion gone to seed. He pushed the last third of a sandwich into his mouth and picked up a magazine from the coffee table.
    “Dr. Coyote?” I asked.
    “Hmmm? I’m sorry.” His words came out garbled. “I was just finishing my lunch. I didn’t know I had another appointment so soon. Let me clean up and we can get started.”
    “I’m not here about my teeth,” I said.
    “Well, honey, I’m sorry, that’s all we do here,” he said, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “I can’t help you with much else.”
    “Actually … we thought maybe we could talk to you about Maighdean Mara?” Calder asked. He leaned in and focused his eyes on the doctor’s.
    Dr. Coyote’s caterpillar-like eyebrows shot up; then he chuckled and diverted his eyes. He wiped his hands on his wide-wale corduroys and glanced at his receptionist. “Why don’t you kids come on back. We can meet in private.” Calder and I exchanged looks as the dentist led us to a small officedecorated in pastel dentist chic. Two chairs sat opposite the desk, and Calder and I fell into