Vacation

by Matthew Costello

  “Want some sugar, hm?”

  Her face caught the scant light of the room. No moon outside, but the glow from the lights on the paths filtered into the room a bit, outlining her face.

  “Could be.”

  “Maybe that leggy assistant got you going?”

  “No, not at all,” Jack said, realizing how quickly he said it.

  Realizing that he hadn’t told Christie about his encounter with her in the parking lot.

  Then: “The kids. They’re right there. Not sure they’re asleep.”

  “I can be quiet,” he said.

  He could make out a smile. “But can I? I think we should wait. When they’re both out for some activity here or something. Okay?”

  When Jack didn’t say anything it seemed like a bit more distance between them. Maybe something he hoped being here would change.

  He felt Christie reach down and wrap her hand around him.

  “Save that big boy for later. All right?”

  “He hates waiting.”

  “I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

  Christie turned over, her back once again to Jack.

  He followed suit, turning away and waiting for sleep to come.

  * * *

  Except sleep didn’t come.

  Had to be a good hour later, and still he felt awake. Maybe the uncommon feeling of a little alcohol buzz was keeping him up?

  Maybe … something else.

  He lay on his back. He could hear Christie—always such a deep sleeper—as she took in each measured breath.

  Deeply asleep.

  The noise from outside didn’t help either. For a guy from Brooklyn, that was a lot of nature out there. He wished he had ear plugs.

  He sat up.

  Pointless to just lie there.

  Especially when his mind went over the past. His partner, the trap, his wounds.

  Maybe a bit of a walk. Some of that cool mountain air.

  He slid to the side of the bed, his boat shoes only a few feet away. Shorts and T-shirt idly tossed on a chair in the room.

  He snatched them up and then slipped into his shoes.

  He walked out to the living room and into the night.

  For a moment, he stood on the porch, looking at the camp. All the cabins nice and quiet. No more sounds of singing coming from the lake to compete with the cicadas.

  In the moonless night, he could just about see the outline of the mountains that circled the lake.

  He took a breath.

  Fifteen. Twenty minutes of walking.

  Then another try for sleep.

  He walked off his porch.

  21

  The Service Road

  Though the day had been hot, the night quickly turned chilly.

  Jack rubbed his arms as he stepped outside, holding the porch door behind him so he could close it gently.

  He took a breath of the sweet mountain air with just a hint of pine. Another breath. Another smell. Perhaps the decaying mulch of last summer’s leaves and needles sitting on the forest floor.

  He started down the path that led away from the cottages and the center of the camp.

  It wasn’t long before he saw somebody.

  A man standing near a curved lamppost, the light low, just barely enough to illuminate a spot where three intersecting paths met.

  The light caught the man’s collared shirt, pants—and the recognizable shape of a gun holstered to his side.

  Jack kept walking.

  When he got closer, the guard said, “Evening, sir.”

  Jack kept walking.

  “Evening.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  The man seemed to stiffen a bit. Perhaps late-night walkers weren’t that common at Paterville. The camp quiet, save for the cicadas chattering in the background.

  “No thanks. Just getting some air.”

  The guard nodded as Jack came abreast of him.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Just be careful. Dark spots on the walkways. You could trip.”

  Jack stopped. “Sure. Will do.”

  “And sir, of course, stay away from the perimeter. The fence.”

  Jack smiled at that one. Did anyone need reminding not to wander over there?

  “Oh, I will.” Jack looked at the path leading toward the Great Lodge.

  “See you.”

  “Night, sir.”

  Jack continued.

  He came upon two more guards. Now he was curious.

  The first guard stood at the entrance area of the lodge. Not so strange. Jack avoided talking to him and walked well past him to the right, a direction that led out to the playing fields and the game room.

  Guard number three stood near the back of the lodge.

  This one smoking a cigarette, which he threw to the ground as Jack approached.

  The guard coughed.

  His voice seemed a bit slurred. Maybe he’d just had a hit of the cook’s home brew?

  “Lost, sir? The cottages—”

  That word came out a bit wrong.

  “—are back that way.”

  “No. I’m fine. Can’t sleep. Walking around.”

  As if the guard hadn’t heard him, he gestured behind Jack. “They’re back that way.”

  Jack nodded. “Thanks.”

  He turned around, headed back to the front of the lodge.

  When he got there, the guard at the front was talking quietly on what had to be a walkie-talkie.

  The guard gave him a quick look, and went on talking.

  Jack sailed past the Great Lodge entrance and then passed the trail leading back to the cabins. Instead, he started heading down the winding trail to the parking lot.

  Where am I going? And what’s with all these guards?

  He didn’t understand that. Sure, a guard by the gates, the fence. Armed and dangerous. Yeah, that all made sense. Here, though, all around the property? Seemed like overkill.

  A few yards down the path to the parking area, he heard a voice.

  “Excuse me, sir. Do you need—”

  “No. Need to check something in my car.”

  Everyone asking if I need some goddamn help.

  This time Jack didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. All the watching and monitoring made him feel penned in.

  He kept walking, picking up speed. More guards ahead? he wondered. He guessed he’d find out soon enough.

  The parking lot seemed almost intentionally poorly lit. The two scrawny yellow lights left most of the cars in darkness.

  He could find his easily enough.

  Except he wasn’t really going to his car.

  Instead, he walked to the back of the lot. To the service road.

  And through the trees, twinkling like stars hanging too low in the sky, lights.

  Jack moved into the sea of dark cars. He’d probably be as invisible here as the cars were.

  He moved slowly through the lot.

  He stopped by the service road entrance. Even without any real light here, he could see a sign with large painted letters:

  SERVICE ROAD—PATERVILLE CAMP EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  Jack walked past the sign.

  The dirt road curved up, rutted with big stones that, in the pitch black, made him lose footing, his ankle slipping left and right. One twist sent a spike of pain into his injured right leg.

  Not what the doctor recommended, he thought.

  Maybe I should go back.

  But the lights ahead resolved from twinkling stars to big bright lights. Lots of lights.

  Then, as he walked up, sounds. Voices talking in the darkness. Employees blowing off some steam?

  Until he could make out through the wall of trees a large building. A steady stream of white smoke snaked its way from the roof into the crystal clear night sky.

  Must be where they prepared the food.

  The voices louder. Laughs. The sound of someone giving an order.

  Pretty busy considering how late i
t was.

  The road’s angle grew steeper. This service area actually sat on a hill above the main camp.

  From up there, you could probably see the whole camp.

  He took a deep breath, the effort of the climb made harder by now-steady pain from his leg.

  Soon, he’d be on level ground, at this camp within the camp.

  “You can stop right there.”

  Two men came out from the side. Jack hadn’t seen them at all. How long had they been watching him? Did they know he was coming? Or did they just hide in the shadows, waiting for the stray visitor?

  “Yeah. Right. I’m—”

  “Lost? Yeah, you’re lost, all right. You’re not in the camp anymore, friend. This is a restricted area. Didn’t you see the sign?”

  The polite “sirs” of the previous guards had vanished.

  One of the men took a step onto the path, directly in Jack’s way. Big guy, burly arms that his shirt—even with sleeves rolled up tight—was barely able to contain.

  “Sorry. Had—”

  What? He fished for something that explained all about going places where one wasn’t supposed to go.

  “—insomnia.”

  “Restricted area,” the man repeated. “You have to leave. Now.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I will.”

  Thanks? Stupid thing to say. Thanks … for what?

  The other guard had also stepped into the clearing of the path, picking up a bit of the scant light.

  Jack saw that this guy held an automatic rifle.

  So, Paterville never had problems with the Can Heads outside?

  Then why the heavy firepower? All the guards?

  To keep guests from wandering onto the service road?

  How safe was this place?

  The two men in front of him didn’t say anything more, which made the noises from behind them even more pronounced. Laughs, voices, an engine starting.

  “G’night, guys. Thanks for watching out for us.”

  They didn’t respond to that.

  Jack turned around and started down the hill.

  Downhill now—always harder on his leg.

  All his exercises couldn’t make up for the damage and pain that he’d have to live with for the rest of his life.

  To the parking lot.

  His eyes better adjusted to the murky blackness, and it seemed brighter.

  He’d have to pass more guards on the way back to the cottage. His night walk would probably be a big topic of conversation with Ed Lowe and his team.

  What was that guy up to? Walking around like that?

  The parking lot, an open dirt plain, was at least flat. He had no trouble spotting the path leading back to the center of the camp.

  He didn’t worry about greeting any of those guards on his return.

  But he did worry about Christie; he hoped that he could slip back into the bed, under the cool sheets, his body with its slight sheen of sweat, and fall asleep without her waking.

  Without her asking any questions.

  In minutes, he was there, back in the cabin as if he had never left. He got into the bed, slowly lowering his head onto the pillow.

  And though he had questions—things that confused him, things that he wanted to know more about—he quickly fell asleep.

  22

  Morning

  Christie looked at her watch. Nearly ten A.M.

  Not like Jack to sleep in. Though at home, after a rough week, he could sleep well past ten. And after getting wounded, getting up didn’t seem as easy for him.

  But there was something else …

  Last night. She had heard him slide out of bed. Thinking he was getting a drink of water. Going to the bathroom. Instead, she heard him slip on clothes and step outside their cabin, so quietly.

  She didn’t turn over. Didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to be asking him all the time, You okay? Everything all right?

  She had drifted off again, only waking when she felt the mattress tilt as he slid in.

  Again, she just lay there. Keeping her eyes closed.

  Give him time, Dr. Kleiner had said at the rehab wing of Kings County Hospital. Time to do the work, time to make his leg stronger.

  But time also to get over what had happened.

  And that’s what she was doing.

  She emptied her straw bag filled with beach towels. After a cool night, the sun was already hot.

  She looked around at the other families on the lakeshore.

  * * *

  Simon kept digging a massive hole only feet away from Christie’s blanket.

  Sharon Blair sat nearby in an aluminum beach chair with circus stripes. Floppy hat, oversized shades, lost in a book.

  Which was good, since Christie had had enough talk.

  Maybe we’ve all gotten used to being alone, she thought. Independent.

  Or suspicious.

  Now she was just as glad to sit, listen to the kids squealing in the icy water, and watch the occasional cloud hit a mountain peak.

  Simon kept on digging.

  While the two Blair boys went in and out of the water as though performing some kind of drill.

  “Simon, why don’t you go in? Cool off.”

  Another scoop of sand came out. “I will. Digging now.”

  Christie made a small laughing sound. Keeping it light.

  “That is one big hole.”

  Christie remembered how at the Jersey shore her dad would always make the joke whenever she dug.

  Digging to China?

  Time to retire that, Christie thought. The thought of those days at the beach, her whole family, didn’t bring her any sense of joy.

  “You go in later, I’ll go in with you, ’kay?”

  “Sure,” Simon said.

  Christie turned back to the water.

  Obviously something had happened with Simon and the other two boys. Bit of bullying, perhaps? Teasing? Did he get scared?

  Christie guessed he’d eventually tell her.

  Eventually kids tell things.

  Just have to be patient.

  And she wondered: was she also thinking now not just about Simon, but her husband as well?

  * * *

  The dream—so vivid, lifelike, that in his nightmare sleep Jack tossed and turned in the bed.

  His family in a car.

  The rest stop. And Can Heads surrounding it. First a few. Then more. Circling it, banging on the metal. Probing.

  For some reason, he was on the ground, unable to get up. No gun—nothing he could do but watch the scene at the car as a window shattered. The another. The screams of his kids. Christie yelling.

  Still he lay on the ground, more Can Heads on top of him, pulling, picking at him. He would be alive to see the horror that would engulf his family.

  He moaned in the dream.

  Then in the room. Quiet sound at first, then louder, and then—

  His eyes opened wide. Taking in the unfamiliar bedroom. The late morning light through the curtains.

  The dream lingered, the feelings holding on even as he sat up in bed, hoping to shake off the horror. He cleared his throat.

  “’Lo? Anybody home?”

  The cabin quiet. He could see the porch door open, with only the screen door shut to keep the outside and the bugs away.

  A small tent of a note with his name on it sat on the dresser.

  He moved to get out of bed, feeling that familiar jolt of pain that was part of the everyday routine of getting up. Getting up, moving. Doing some stretching in bed.

  That would be followed by the pressure of finally placing his right foot on the ground. It always hurt first thing, the first time he stood on it. As if the leg just wanted to be inactive forever and give in to the wound.

  No fucking way that was happening.

  He walked over to the note and picked it up.

  Down at the beach, sleepyhead. See you there! Xoxo, me.

  Jack put the note down.

  * * *

&nb
sp; “Morning,” Jack said to Tom and Sharon as he sat down next to Christie on the beach towel.

  Tom made a knocking gesture at his head—obviously also the worse for wear after the cook’s moonshine.

  “There you are!” Christie said. “Thought we’d have to take drastic measures to get you up for lunch.”

  “Guess … I was tired. All that driving.”

  He couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark sunglasses.

  “Yup. Lot of driving. And…”

  Jack nodded and turned to Simon.

  “Morning, Mr. Simon. Tunneling, hm?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Christie lowered her glasses a bit, and gave Jack a look up and down. “I see you’re in your bathing suit.”

  He grinned. “Yeah. I mean, it is a beach.”

  “Kind of expected you to wear khakis and”—she leaned close—“strap your ‘little friend’ onto your ankle.”

  “Right. Let everyone know I’m a cop.”

  Truth was, he had looked at his ankle holster and thought of doing just that. Did he go anywhere without a gun these days?

  Hardly.

  Instead, he had taken the gun and holster and buried it under a pile of his shirts in a bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser.

  Not that he felt comfortable now.

  “Well, good. Maybe we can all go in the water, then.”

  Christie made a small nod in Simon’s direction.

  Jack could see that his son hadn’t gotten his suit wet.

  He turned back to Christie. “Yeah. Let me toast a bit. Then we all hit that water.”

  “It’s cold,” Tom said. “It will wake you up, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe I’ll wait.”

  “Tonight’s the fireworks—sit together for dinner again?”

  Jack looked at Christie. Did she like them?

  “Um, sure. Great.”

  “We’ll save you places.”

  Jack looked around at the islands of umbrellas and chairs and blankets.

  Then: “Where’s Kate?”

  “She wanted to go to the game room. Said the sun was too hot.”

  “She just went off on her own?”

  “Er … yeah. This is a camp.”

  Jack tried to gauge why that bothered him. Was it due to those older boys, the lifeguards that he now viewed as human sharks circling an impressionable, just-turned teenager?

  Or leftover feelings from last night? The guards, the whole feel of the place at night.