8th Day

by Kate Calloway

  Ben was showing me around, obvious pride in his voice as he spoke over the roaring motors. "Today we're working on propeller blades," he said. "One of the power companies in California uses them on their windmills. They contract with us to design them to their specifications and manufacture the product."

  "You just make one part at a time?"

  He laughed. "Even the most complicated contraption imaginable is made one part at a time. Then it's just a matter of assembly. We manufacture the parts and ship them, complete with assembly instructions. It's much more cost-effective to ship parts than entirely assembled hardware. Especially with the bigger items. Of course, we do assemble some of the smaller stuff here on the premises."

  The room was the size of a gymnasium, with lime green machinery stretching from one end to the other. It seemed every square inch of the room was being utilized. Bright yellow lines painted on the concrete floor separated the workstations, and overhead, florescent lights cast a sickly glow over the entire production area. Along one wall, sealed crates were stacked three-deep and twice that high, a yellow forklift poised for action beside them. I noticed a glass-enclosed loft above the north side of the shop with gray computer terminals and large drafting tables visible through the windows.

  "And you personally do all the designing?"

  "That's the fun part. Let me show you." He led the way past the kids working at their stations and stepped onto a lift, painted the same green as the machinery. I followed him onto the lift and soon we were rising above the noisy shop to the loft.

  "A little quieter in here," he said, closing a dual-paned slider behind us. "I call this the think tank."

  "Impressive," I said. And it was. Computers lined the walls, their screens glowing with geometric designs and three-dimensional views of mechanical parts. The hardwood tables in the center of the room held architectural drawings, slide rulers and other tools of his trade. I examined one of the drawings and Ben came over to explain.

  "Right now, I'm working on a design for a self-loading staple gun. The guy who patented the idea has contracted me to manufacture it, but his design is faulty. We're still negotiating, but I figure by the time I've worked out the problem, he'll have come around."

  "So you do more than just manufacture farm equipment," I said. I walked around the loft, which had glass windows on three sides, designed, no doubt, so that Ben could keep an eye on his charges. On the far northeast corner of the shop, I saw the same boxcar I'd seen at the entrance to the mine.

  "What's the boxcar used for?" I asked.

  "Hauling our refuse, mostly," he said, coming to stand beside me. "We load it here and the car takes it right through the mine to the sledge heap on the other side of the valley. We also use the mine to store some of the finished products awaiting pick-up if we get backed up in here. As you can see, I've already maximized the use of this facility. In the beginning, I thought this would be more than ample space. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Growth is a good thing. But we've had to get creative."

  "I'd like to see that mine sometime," I said, thinking about what Jo had said about Isolation.

  "Oh, not me. You couldn't drag me into that bat-infested hellhole for anything. I go as far as the entrance where we store the crates, but that's it. I thought I'd ride the boxcar through the tunnel, one time, you know, just to see what it was like? That was the last time I ever did that! About scared me half to death." His eyes were wide and I believed him.

  "So, if no one rides the boxcar, how does it get from the shop to the mine entrance and back?"

  "Battery," he said, smiling. "Just like a golf-cart. We charge her up and put her in gear. She chugs right along the track like clock-work. We meet 'er on the other side of the mine to unload merchandise or down at the sledge heap to dump debris. The miners used the cars to haul out the tailings and dump them down the ravine where the tracks end and we use the same dump they did for our refuse loads. Turns out the mine wasn't a complete waste after all."

  I looked out at the kids, genuinely impressed with their working demeanor. They were industrious and efficient. There wasn't the usual horseplay you'd expect with a bunch of teenagers.

  "You train them, too?" I asked.

  "Yep. I get them for four weeks at a stretch, just like the ranch and mess hall. The first week is nothing but safety instructions and dry runs. They don't get their hands on a machine until the second week, and then it's pretty elementary. By their third week, they're ready to roll. I work them for forty-five minutes and give them fifteen-minute breaks out back. I've got tetherball, racquetball, ping-pong, a trampoline, stuff kids like. They look forward to those breaks. It makes the machine shop one of the most sought-after shifts at the camp. That, plus they're really learning usable skills. By the end of the year, every kid has had a turn at most of the different machines here. Each time they come through, we're making totally different stuff, which keeps them from getting bored. The last thing I want is a bored teenager working heavy machinery."

  "I'll bet," I said, thinking about all the child labor laws being broken here. It was probably another reason they didn't want Camp Turnaround to be accredited. The last thing they'd want was someone looking over their shoulders, breathing down their necks. Just then, the forty-five-minute bell clanged. Like automatons, the kids stepped back from their stations and even through the thick glass, I could hear the sudden quiet as the machines shut off. The kids removed their goggles and hung them on pegs next to their stations. Next, they shrugged out of their green jumpsuits and hung those on the pegs beside the goggles.

  "I can't believe how efficient they are," I said.

  "They've practiced a lot. And this is a particularly good group. They behave because they know I'm watching. Somebody deviates from the routine, they lose their break. How do you think I keep things so clean in here?" he said, chuckling. "I count on someone screwing up at least once a day. The screw-ups get clean-up duty on their breaks. Oops, there's one now."

  Ben slid open a window and produced a whistle from his pocket which he stuck between his lips. The shrill sound caused the students to freeze and glance in his direction.

  "Gonzalez! You just lost your break! Put your suit back on. The rest of you, you've got fifteen minutes!"

  The kids bustled out to the rec. area behind the shop, with the exception of Gonzalez, a chunky Latino who was looking up at Ben with his arms outstretched in frustrated innocence.

  "What? What'd I do this time?"

  "You're sagging, man. How many times do I have to tell you to cinch up your pants?"

  "But they slip down, man! I was wearing the jumpsuit. It wasn't hurting nobody!"

  "You know the rules, Gonzalez. We don't allow that gang-banging crap here and you know it. You gonna give me a hard time about this?"

  "No?" he said, more than a little whine in his voice. For a big tough kid, he looked ready to cry.

  "Good. You can start with the broom. You do everything else right the rest of the day, I just might let you take the next break. "

  Gonzalez said something under his breath and Ben let it slide.

  "The other nice thing about a break every hour is that it gives me a chance to sneak a smoke. Care to join me?"

  "No, thanks. I better get to class. I appreciate the tour, Ben. I'm really impressed."

  "And I appreciate the company. Stop by any time."

  Chapter Seventeen

  So far, the day wasn't going very smoothly. After my morning class, I'd hurried to the machine shop to wait for Maddie only to find that Ben had sent the crew off to lunch early. After lunch, Ida escorted Maddie to Doc's office for a therapy session. I spent much of the afternoon class getting to know the students better, but still didn't have any reason to believe that one or more of them was involved in Miss Sisson's disappearance. The only remotely promising lead came when a tall rangy kid named Todd Timmins angrily etched Defy Authority, Anarchy Rules and Life Sucks! on his desk. He seemed surprised that I wasn't going to report the incid
ent to Coach. After class, I asked him if he would've defaced the desk if Miss Sisson was still there and he shrugged. Then something happened that I least expected. Todd started to cry.

  "You must miss her a lot," I said, wondering where all the emotion was coming from.

  His green eyes looked tortured and he really started to blubber. "You don't understand," he stammered, still crying. "She was, she was nice to me. She believed in me. And she made a promise to me. Then she broke it."

  "What kind of promise, Todd?"

  "It was personal," he said, pulling himself together. "Between her and me." It was obvious he wasn't going to divulge the nature of the promise. Had the promise been broken because she left? Or had she broken the promise before she left? I didn't get the chance to ask because Todd Timmins turned and stormed from the room, but not before issuing a terse warning at the door. "You better not tell anyone," he said.

  I didn't know if he was referring to the crying, defacing the desk, or the secret promise Annie Sisson had made and broken.

  To top off an already frustrating day, I waited for Maddie at the stables, but she never showed up.

  Now, the late afternoon breeze made the grass ripple across the meadow seductively and Gracie and I were surreptitiously watching Jo Bell as she tried to capture the motion on canvas from her front porch. She was an enigma, I thought. From the back, she looked every bit the boy I'd first thought her to be. She wore a sleeveless flannel showing off well-developed biceps and tanned, sinewy arms, though they were currently crisscrossed with cuts and welts from the barbed wire. Her worn jeans hugged her handsomely and her scuffed black cowboy boots and hat completed the picture. But her movements were graceful and she had an aura about her, I thought, that radiated both strength and sensuality.

  "I can't concentrate if you watch," Jo finally said, gracing us with that boyish grin I found so appealing.

  "Who said we were watching?" I asked.

  "I can tell," she said. "You're supposed to be working, I thought."

  Earlier that day, I'd written the names on note cards of people I thought had either had an opportunity or motive to kill Annie Sisson, if in fact she was really dead. Grade and I were moving the cards around on the little table between the Adirondack chairs. Gracie picked up the card with Doc's name on it and flipped it in the air.

  "Can't see the motive with Doc, Cass."

  "No. But he was out and about that night. Anything could have happened."

  "No way," Jo said, giving up on the painting. "Doc is not involved in whatever you think might've happened." Her tone was firm and it was clear she wasn't open to speculation on the issue.

  Gracie sighed and picked up the next card. "The truckers? What possible motive could they have had?"

  "Maybe a hit and run," Jo suggested, only halfway kidding. "Anyone want a beer?"

  "I'll take one," Gracie said.

  "I'll help," I said, getting up to follow Jo into the kitchen.

  "Thanks," she said, giving me a quizzical look. I found myself blushing as she handed me two cans from the fridge.

  "You do that a lot, you know?"

  "Do what?" I asked.

  "Blush. Like right now. I make you nervous, don't I?"

  "No. Of course not. Not really."

  Jo laughed. "Yeah, I do. You're not sure what to make of me. But you like me, huh?" She pushed back the brim of her cowboy hat and grinned.

  I looked at her, feeling my cheeks grow even warmer. She was right. I liked her. And she made me nervous. Before I could muster an answer, Jo leaned forward and touched her lips to mine. It was so brief, I barely had time to feel it, yet the jolt that slammed through me was undeniable.

  "I like you, too," she said, brushing past me on her way out to the porch. I was left holding two cans of beer, wondering what had just happened. The only thing I knew for sure was that my heart was thudding like an adolescent's. And as uneasy as it made me, the feeling was one I liked.

  Gracie was holding the card with Clutch's name on it, twirling it between her two index fingers.

  "No way Clutch had anything to do with it either," Jo asserted. "Him or Doc. Why don't you all just ask little Maddie what happened? It'd be a whole lot easier than trying to piece it together."

  I told them about my failed attempts at getting Maddie alone so I could question her and Gracie nodded.

  "It's almost like she's afraid to be alone," she said.

  "Clutch says he thinks she's planning to run again," Jo said.

  "When was this?" I asked.

  "He mentioned it yesterday Said the way she's always looking off into the woods is a dead giveaway. That and the fact that she's pilfered beef jerky from his stash in the tack room several times now — he figures she's stockpiling supplies for another trek in the woods."

  "Clutch mention this to Coach?"

  "I kinda doubt it. They're not that close, really. I get the feeling Clutch doesn't always approve of the way Coach handles the kids. I know for a fact he doesn't like the whole Isolation thing. And that stupid cattle prod. I saw Clutch about blow a gasket the one time Coach used it in front of him."

  "So how come they let Coach get away with it, if no one approves?"

  "Beats me. He was always the golden boy of camp. I guess he still is. Hey, now. What's this?"

  Jo stood and reached for the binoculars that hung on a peg near the door.

  "Damn! Somebody lost their ride."

  "Whaddaya mean?" Gracie asked.

  "See that palomino tearing across the meadow? She's got a bridle but no saddle and no rider. Come on."

  We followed Jo the short distance to the nearest stable and bridled three horses, not taking the time for saddles.

  "You ride bareback okay?" she asked, leaping onto her black gelding.

  "More or less," I said. My leap wasn't quite as graceful as either Jo's or Grade's, but I managed not to fall off the other side as we shot out of the stable and across the meadow toward the palomino who had slowed to an agitated trot. Before we even came to a stop, Jo slid off her horse and took the palomino's reins, speaking into his ear in soothing tones.

  "It's one the kids take." she said, looking out across the grassy meadows. "Clutch let them go on an outing today."

  "By themselves?"

  "We keep an eye out. Clutch was out mending fences during their ride so he wasn't ever too far away. And I know Ida took a ride this afternoon, which she does all the time, but I'm sure today she planned it because of the outing. The kids get a sense of freedom, but they're never too far away from staff. They shoulda all been back by now, though."

  "Doesn't someone count?" I asked. "What if one of the kids decided to bolt?"

  "You still don't get it, do you?" she said, gliding back onto her black horse. She pushed her cowboy hat back off her forehead and settled her blue-gray eyes on mine. "It's not worth it to screw up here. Ten minutes of freedom, or even twenty-four hours of it if Coach decides to let you stay gone that long, aren't worth the punishment. Only the real die-hards risk it. It's because they know they'll be punished if they do something wrong that they're allowed any freedom at all. Clutch can afford to give them the occasional outing because he knows they won't dare screw up."

  She had already started off across the meadow, trailing the palomino behind her.

  "You think someone fell off?" Gracie asked.

  "There should be a saddle," Jo said. "The kids are never allowed to ride bareback. That's what bothers me." She used the binoculars still strung around her neck to scan the borders of the valley. "Oh, shit," she uttered. "Someone's down."

  She set off at a gallop and we kept up beside her, kicking up dust as we flew across the grassy meadow. In the distance, I saw what Jo had seen with her binoculars. A form lay motionless on the ground, a smaller lump not far away, equally as still.

  As we neared, I saw that the second lump was indeed the missing saddle. The saddle blanket lay in a crumpled heap beside it. A dozen feet away lay the inert form of Belinda Pitt.


  "Holy shit," Jo said under her breath.

  We leaped off our horses and rushed to the girl, who, at the sound of our footsteps, started to move. She mumbled something that sounded like "Coach," or maybe "Clutch."

  "Belinda. Are you all right?" I asked, bending over her. Her face was deadly white and covered with perspiration.

  "My leg," she said, her lip starting to tremble. From the odd angle, I could tell it was badly broken.

  "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

  She started to shake her head, then nodded, then started to cry.

  "It's okay, girl," Jo said. "We'll get you outta here." She was leaning over Belinda and I noticed that the top two buttons of Jo's flannel had come undone. Her words were as soothing as they'd been with the trapped colt, but Belinda's eyes had opened wide. Even in her state of shock and agony, she was blatantly staring at Jo's breasts.

  "We should keep her warm," I said. "I think she's in shock." I glanced pointedly at Jo's breasts and grinned, causing Jo to glance down and then turn bright red. "You do that a lot, you know," I whispered, brushing past her as I went for the horse blanket.

  Gracie kneeled down beside Belinda and started pressing her fingers along the back of her neck, gently probing. "I don't want to move her until we're sure it's just the leg," she said. I laid the blanket beside them and watched Grade expertly assess the degree of Belinda's injuries.