Clenching his hands in frustration, he squeezed handfuls of sand until the individual grains oozed from between his fingers. He brushed away the tears from his cheeks, only to scrape gritty sand across the raw skin.
Still on his knees, Neil tried to rationalize what had happened. His memories were still a jumble, but there had to be some logical explanation for everything that had occurred throughout the weekend. Never one to believe in the paranormal, he refused to accept that he was being haunted by Bateman’s ghost. Even if Neil did believe in ghouls and goblins, he figured Bateman would never have enough gumption to return from the afterlife. No, this wasn’t a haunting.
Rising to his feet, Neil paced in tight circles around the sandy parking lot. A guilt-induced hallucination? He laughed at the thought. What did he have to feel guilty about? So he had teased the poor kid. It didn’t mean he was responsible for Bateman’s death. He had mocked people throughout his entire childhood—into college even. None of them had killed themselves . . . as far as he knew. It took eighteen years for him to find out what had happened to Bateman. Could there be others that he didn’t know about? What about now? How many lives had he ruined to discredit witness testimony? He’d never been one to shy away from airing people’s dirty laundry in public if it helped him win a case. Affairs. Criminal records. Professional misconduct. All of it, and more, was fair game in his book. How many marriages had been ended? How many careers crushed? How many lives had been destroyed?
Neil kicked at the sand, sending a cloud of particles into the air. “No! No! No!” he said. “It wasn’t my fault! It’s got to be a hoax!”
Continuing to pace, he tried to apply reason to his unreasonable situation. The lights. The voices. The body. It had to be a prank. A sick, elaborate prank. Who would do this to him? Steve? Rob? Jeremy? He refused to believe that. Why would anyone go to all this trouble?
Why? That was the question that Neil kept coming back to. Why? To get back at him for teasing Stinky Bateman all those years ago? His friends had been involved with harassing Bateman at one time or another, so they should be just as guilty as him. He refused to believe that any of his friends were involved. Well, most of them.
He stopped pacing, noticing the rut he’d created in the sand. Gazing at the sky, he watched the moon creep out from behind the clouds, taking the edge off the darkness. Neil sighed, realizing that he should have listened to his first instinct and not come this weekend. Then, turning abruptly, he trekked off toward Sequoia Lodge.
As he pushed open the cabin door, Neil tried to make as little noise as possible. Despite his best efforts, the hinges creaked, and the handle rapped loudly against the door. Hearing the shifting of a sleeping bag, he saw a dark silhouette rise from one of the lower bunks.
“About time you got back,” Steve whispered. “Come on. Don’t want to wake the others.” He took Neil’s arm and led him back out onto the porch.
With the door closed, Neil leaned against the porch railing as Steve, in a t-shirt and boxers, sat down on one of the chairs. Steve opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind when he got a better look at Neil. “You okay? You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
Neil figured that his face must have looked like hell. It still stung from the scratches he’d received during his flight. He moved back into the shadows, turning his gaze away from his friend. “I, uh . . . it’s nothing.”
He breathed deeply, the relative safety of the cabin gave him a sense of relief and comfort. The cool night air filled his battered lungs, soothing the still burning bronchioles. He was beginning to feel like himself again.
“How was she?” Steve asked.
Neil shook his head, feigning denial. “How was who?”
“Oh, don’t give me that crap. I know you went to see her.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“And?”
Neil laughed. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”
“It must have been good.” Steve glanced at his watch. “You’ve been gone almost five hours.”
“Were you timing me?”
Steve simply smiled in return.
“Did you know she was going to be here this weekend?” Neil asked.
“Nope. Not ’til I saw her car at the cabin.”
“She mentioned you stopped in.”
Steve folded his arms across his chest. “I got to know her Dad a year or two back—came down a lot during the sales negotiation. He wasn’t all that bad of a guy to be honest. I kinda liked him.”
“That’s how you got to know her?” Neil felt a slight twinge of jealousy returning.
“Yeah. She was down here a couple times,” Steve explained. “She’d always ask about you, wanting to know if I’d heard from you. She had a thing for you. Still does, probably. Well, obviously she does.”
“How are you so sure?”
“What else would you have been doing all night? Roaming the forest? Communing with nature? The only nature you were communing with was between Sammy’s legs.”
Neil snorted aloud at his friend’s comment, and then leaned back against the wall of the lodge. In the distance, he heard crickets chirping and the occasional hoot of an owl. The cool predawn air had relaxed him, almost pushing aside any thoughts of his earlier ordeal. “It’s so peaceful here.”
Steve sighed. “Not for much longer. We start demolition next month.”
“At least we got to see the old place one more time.”
Steve turned his head. “I thought you weren’t the nostalgic type.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Neil said, “I’m not. But . . . you know . . .”
“Yeah, I do.”
His mind drifted back to Sammy. He figured she was probably still asleep. She’d told Neil that she thought of him often over the past eighteen years. He’d had no idea how she felt about him and wasn’t sure what to think about it all. The only thing he was certain of was that he had to see her again.
“Neil, I know this weekend might not be turning out the way you’d hoped. Please don’t think of our concern as a slight against you.”
Neil bit at his lip, the quick urge to anger surfaced first in his mind. But drawing in a lungful of cool predawn air, he let the anger fade. “I know. It’s just . . . this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I don’t see and hear things that aren’t there.”
“I’ve known you since grade school. This isn’t like you.”
“We haven’t seen each other in eighteen years. I could’ve changed.”
Steve laughed. “Not you. You’ve always been laser-focused. Granted, you were always laser-focused on yourself, but we all were to a point. You couldn’t have gotten to where you are today if that had changed.”
Neil smiled. “Are you saying I’m narcissistic?”
“In a way, I guess. But you always were. What I’m really trying to say is that everything that’s happened . . . it’s just not you. That’s why I’m concerned.”
Letting Steve’s words sink in for a moment, he gazed out across the dark forest. If his friend was concerned about him now, he couldn’t imagine what Steve would be thinking once he learned about what happened an hour earlier in the forest.
Steve continued, “Not to beat a dead horse, but you seemed fine until you heard about Bateman’s suicide.”
At the mention of that name, Neil turned abruptly toward his friend. “What are you saying?”
“It just seems like a helluva coincidence. You were fine when you arrived. You heard about Bateman’s death, and now you’re seeing and hearing things the rest of us aren’t. I’m not trying to piss you off. I’m looking for answers just like you.”
Looking down at his feet, Neil considered Steve’s words carefully. It was only logical that his friend should be worried about him. He wanted to make a snide remark and disregard Steve’s worry as unnecessary, but his w
ords came out half-hearted and unconvincing. “I’ve got nothing to be guilty about. He killed himself.”
“I never said you had.” Steve paused, and then asked, “What happened? I called dozens of times after you left camp. Not just to tell you about Bateman, but to see how you were doing. You were my best friend. But you never returned my calls. Why?”
Neil shook his head. “I don’t know.” His voice faltered for a moment as he realized that there was no answer he could give that wouldn’t sound egotistical and self-absorbed. “I . . . I just got caught up in things.”
Steve chuckled. “I figured as much. With you, it was always onward and upward and to hell with everything else.”
The crunch of dried leaves and twigs caught Neil’s attention. His nerves still being a bit frayed, he jumped at the sound, peering into the darkness. “What’s that?”
Steve didn’t move. “Don’t know.”
Out of the darkness, Patrick emerged, hands in the pockets of his jeans. His shoulders were slouched forward, and his head was down. He stepped onto the porch and seemed startled to find Steve and Neil flanking the lodge door. “What’re you two doing out here?”
With a sudden, swift movement, Neil grasped the front of Patrick’s t-shirt, swung his friend around, and slammed him into the wall of the lodge. Steve shot out of his chair and gaped. Neil thrust his face within inches of Patrick’s. In the gloom, he saw the shocked expression on Patrick’s face and felt him exhale. The door to the cabin swung open, and Jeremy stepped out, followed immediately by Rob.
“What the—” Jeremy said.
Pressing his face closer to Patrick’s, Neil said, “Why’d you do it? Huh? Why? What did I do to you?”
“What?” Patrick replied.
His fists winding the fabric of Patrick’s t-shirt tighter, Neil shoved his friend back into the wall again. “You think it was funny? Trying to scare me? Sounds hilarious, don’t it? Did you notice I’m not laughing?”
“Neil!” said Steve, stepping forward to pull him away from Patrick.
“Stay out of this, Steve! All of you! This is between Patrick and me,” Neil growled, shoving Patrick against the wall again. “Tell me, you bastard! What’re you trying to pull?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Patrick said.
“How did you do it? Strobe lights?” Neil said. “And the body? Was it a mannequin? I can’t imagine you’d be sick enough to use a real body!” Neil leaned closer, his face an inch from Patrick’s. “Or maybe you are! What’d you do, sneak into a goddamn morgue and steal a corpse?”
Patrick tried to push away. “Neil! Get off me!”
Neil’s grip remained firm. “Tell me why! Just tell me why! What’s Stinky’s death got to do with you, huh? What’s your game?”
“I had to take a shit!”
Neil glared at him for a moment, then his grip began to falter. “What?”
“I was in the bathroom! I had to take a shit!”
“He was!” said Steve. “I heard him go out about five minutes before you came in.”
“But . . . you weren’t . . . the bathroom?” His hands loosened their hold on Patrick’s shirt. Neil took a few steps back. “That can’t be right. I was . . . was so . . .”
Jeremy moved toward him. “Brewster, what’s going on?”
Neil’s eyes darted around, pausing on each of his friends for a moment. “No one else left the lodge?”
Steve shook his head but said nothing. Neil felt confused. He was certain that he’d figured it out. When he saw Patrick walk up out of the dark, he was confident that his suspicions were confirmed. Patrick had to be responsible for the terrifying light and sound show. He was the obvious choice. But now . . .
“What’s wrong with you?” Patrick shouted, running his hands down his t-shirt to flatten out the wrinkles.
Neil didn’t know how to answer. To tell them what had happened would be to invite more questions and more concerned looks. He’d had enough of those earlier when he’d seen the red ball cap. More speculation about how he might be experiencing remorse over Stinky Bateman’s death was the last thing he wanted to hear. He didn’t want to hear it anymore.
But his four friends were standing before him, expecting an explanation for his sudden hostile outburst. Neil didn’t have much choice but to tell them what had happened. They listened as he described the voices, the flashing lights, and the hanging body. He caught the darting glances passing between them as he unfolded each detail. When he’d finished his tale, all was silent, no one making any comment.
After several moments, Steve said, “When it gets light, we’ll go back and see what we can find.”
Neil said, “No, let’s go back now.”
Patrick folded his arms, glaring at Neil. “Screw that. I’m not chasing imaginary ghosts at four in the morning.”
His friend’s disbelief was evident by the look on his face. It was a look that Neil found on all their faces as he glanced between them. “We’ve got to go back now.”
“Why, Neil? Whatever we find now, we’ll find in a few hours,” said Rob.
Jeremy muttered, “If there’s anything to find.”
“It’s too dark,” said Steve. “We’ll go after sunrise. Let’s all get a couple hours of sleep.”
Summer, 1997
Stinky Bateman had his back against a tall pine tree on a Saturday afternoon when Neil and Patrick entered the secluded clearing. They’d been lounging on the front porch of Neil’s cabin when they saw Bateman wander off immediately after lunch with a thick book under his arm. With nothing else planned, they’d decided to tail him. Following Bateman around the lake, they crossed the spillway and passed the girls’ cabins. On the far side of the lake, Bateman had vanished up a narrow path branching off the main trail.
Neil, with Patrick in tow, crept along the path a few minutes after Bateman and caught sight of the him in the small clearing ahead. The boy had his knees pulled up against his chest, and the book was balanced on top. Bateman looked far too content in his little world of solitude, and Neil felt compelled to disturb it.
With long strides, he walked into the clearing and dropped down beside Bateman, folding his legs underneath him. Patrick, carrying his Sony HandyCam, hit the record button and began filming. Leaning in toward Bateman, Neil said, “Nice place you got here, Stinky.”
Bateman pulled away, glaring. “Leave me alone, Neil.”
“Whatcha got there?” He reached for the book, snapping it from Bateman’s hands. Flipping over the cover, he glanced at the title. “Anna Karenina?” Holding the book up to Patrick’s camera, he said, “Stinky’s reading Tolstoy.” He tossed the book back at Bateman’s chest, being sure to lose his page in the process. “I’m impressed. I never took you for an intellectual. Didn’t think there was much up in that old noggin of yours.” Neil tapped on the side of Bateman’s head with his knuckles, as if knocking on a door.
The boy turned his head away. “Neil, stop it!”
Patrick, still recording with his HandyCam, said, “Doesn’t sound like he likes you.”
“Yeah. I’m feeling very unwelcome right now.” He pushed on Bateman’s shoulder, knocking the book from the boy’s grasp. Neil was met with a long stare, more pleading than angry.
“Stop it, Neil!” he said, picking up the book and brushing the sand from the cover.
“You know, Stinky, babes aren’t impressed by intellectuals.” Neil gestured toward the book. “You keep reading crap like that, you goddamn dork, and you’ll never get laid.” Neil paused, and then peered at Bateman. “You do know what it means to get laid, don’t you?”
Climbing to his feet, Neil looked down at Bateman, smiled, and, with his foot, kicked sand in the boy’s direction. The gritty white particles covered the book and Bateman’s face. Turning to Patrick, he said, “Let’s go. I’m bored.”
Chapt
er Twenty-Four
Neil’s friends fell asleep almost immediately, but slumber eluded him. He couldn’t shake the faint voices echoing in his mind. They were barely audible—almost like distant whispers—just the same three phrases playing over and over. Screwing his eyes closed, he tried to shut out the far-off shadows of his past. Never in his wildest dreams did Neil think that he’d ever hear Bateman’s name, let alone his voice, again. But staring at the bottom of the bunk above him, he struggled to clear his mind of the boy’s voice. After tossing and turning for a half hour, he slipped from his bunk.
Outside, Neil sat on the porch, listening to the quiet sounds of nature all around him. Everything seemed so peaceful, making it difficult to believe that all of this could’ve been disturbed by anything other than the rising sun. Yet, not more than an hour ago, the quiet forest had exploded in a dissonance of light and sound, and he’d been caught in the middle. How could anyone have created such utter bedlam in this tranquil setting? Did anyone create it? Could it all have been part of his imagination?
He’d seen the looks his friends gave him when he told them what had happened. Disbelief. Concern. Pity. All the things that Neil would’ve thought upon hearing such an absurd tale himself. It was the pity that frustrated him more than anything else. He didn’t need their pity. He didn’t want their pity. He wanted answers. It was downright farcical to think that Stinky Bateman had come back to haunt him from the grave. There had to be a logical, reason for what was happening.
As the early-morning light broke through the trees, he watched Lake Friendship in the distance; a layer of thick mist hovered low across the water. The white vapor churned in slow undulating swirls, as if it were dancing along the surface of the lake. His watch said it was five in the morning. His friends would rise in a couple of hours, and then he’d lead them back to the path, trying to find the exact location where all hell had broken loose. He already knew what they’d find. Nothing. They’d find nothing. Then his friends would all look at him with the same look of pity he’d seen earlier, probably wondering how close he was to plunging into insanity.
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