As Neil continued to gaze out across the lake, a faint silhouette became visible in the fog. Between the distance and the dimness of the light, it was hard to distinguish any details, but it looked as if someone was drifting in a canoe. Leaning forward in his chair, Neil moved in for a closer look. The canoe moved slowly among the mist, passing in and out of the swirling clouds of white. The figure seated in the center of the canoe was unmoving, sitting erect as if oblivious to the world around it. Although he couldn’t see the face in detail, there was one thing that screamed out to him, one thing that chilled his blood. The red ball cap. Even in the thick fog, the crimson hue stood out like a beacon. Whoever was in the canoe was wearing a bright red cap, just like Stinky Bateman.
He couldn’t remember rising from his chair, but he must have because Neil found himself standing on the edge of the porch, his fists clenched and his eyes open wide. The figure wasn’t paddling, yet the canoe continued to drift on the calm water, an unseen force propelling it. Sometimes it would float into the dense fog, the red cap being barely visible. Then it would move back into view, wafting along the lake’s surface, obscured just enough for him to never fully see the figure’s face.
Conflicting desires swelled within him. Neil wanted to wake his friends so that they could see it with their own eyes and know that he wasn’t suffering from hallucinations. But he didn’t want to turn away for fear that the apparition would vanish, leaving him with yet another unexplainable poltergeist.
As his eyes tracked the boat, it began to drift into the dense mist, gradually fading from his sight amidst the white haze. Neil scanned the water’s surface, waiting with bated breath for it to reappear. The seconds dragged by. Maybe it had run ashore on the other side of the lake. It wouldn’t be long before the morning sun burned off the fog, clearing the lake of its ethereal covering, making it possible to see straight across the water’s surface.
An hour later, Neil stood on the beach of Lake Friendship when Steve approached. The fog had lifted, and the sky was blue and cloudless. The warmth of the sun pierced through the tree branches and sliced through the chilly morning air, taking the edge off what had been a cold spring night. Although Neil heard the footsteps in the sand, he didn’t turn to see who it was. His gaze remained locked on the lake.
Steve placed his hand on Neil’s shoulder. “You been out here all morning?”
Neil nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Steve sighed. “Neil, are you sure you’re okay? We’re all—”
“You see that canoe out there?” Neil pointed toward the narrow gray boat resting on the water in the middle of the lake.
Steve’s gaze followed his pointing finger. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Someone was in it earlier this morning. I’ve been watching it for a couple hours.”
“No one’s there now.”
Neil refused to take his eyes off the canoe. He felt sickeningly mesmerized by it. “It was drifting in and out of the mist all morning. Are you sure that we’re the only ones in the camp?”
“As far as I know.”
Neil folded his arms and glanced at Steve. “Someone else is out there. I’ve seen him. He was in the canoe earlier.”
Steve’s eyes held him in a skeptical gaze. “Where’d he go? Did he fall in the lake?”
“I don’t know. The mist was too thick to see it all the time. He must have jumped out at some point.”
Steve turned away from the lake, looking back up to Sequoia Lodge. “What makes you think it’s a ‘he’?”
“I’m just guessing.”
“Someone could have hiked in through the forest—the camp isn’t fenced in. I don’t think there’s any new cars in the parking lot,” Steve said. “Maybe someone was doing a little early-morning fishing.”
Neil shook his head. “No. He was here for me.”
“What?”
“He was wearing a red ball cap.”
“What’re you saying?”
“Whatever . . . whoever was out there was trying to convince me that Stinky Bateman was in that canoe.”
Steve sighed, turned back to gaze out across the lake, and then directed his gaze downward at his feet. Neil heard shuffling in the sand beside him. He knew the reason for the awkward silence. “You don’t believe me.”
Steve didn’t reply at first, only sighing as if it were the only response needed. “Do you blame me?”
“I’d hope you’d give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“I want to,” Steve said, folding his arms. “But you don’t make it easy. Voices in the forest. Corpses hanging from trees.”
“I saw what I saw.”
They stood silently for a few minutes, both staring out across the lake. The canoe drifted aimlessly on the water, in no apparent hurry to arrive anywhere in particular. Without even looking, Neil knew what Steve’s expression would be—a sad, concerned look with a touch of pity. His friend’s eyes would be partially closed, his eyebrows furrowed with worry, and Steve would be biting his bottom lip. It was a classic “Steve is worried” look that he remembered all too well.
He’d pondered many thoughts during his solitary vigil at the lake’s edge. But one, which surfaced again and again, had lingered in the forefront of his mind. Could it be true that he’d driven Bateman to suicide? Was all that he’d seen and heard the result of his own guilty conscious? He wanted another opinion. Another perspective on the question of his own guilt. Of his four friends, Steve was the one Neil trusted the most to be honest. But what would his friend think? Would Steve take his question as a sign of weakness? It would be what Neil would think if he were Steve. There was nothing to convince him that his friend would think any different. He opened his mouth to speak, but pride trumped everything and the words remained unspoken.
Neil felt the continuing silence between them grow unbearable. “You went to her father’s funeral?”
Steve folded his arms. “No. Not the funeral. I couldn’t make it to that. But she had a little ceremony—on this beach as a matter of fact. Her father wanted his ashes scattered in the lake. There were only a few people here for it.”
“You see her a lot?”
“No. Just once or twice. I saw her father more than her.”
“Good.”
Steve turned and smiled. “Are you jealous?”
“Nah,” Neil said, shaking his head. Then, smiling, he added, “Maybe just a little.”
Steve laughed. “Don’t worry. She’s all yours.” His hand touched Neil’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get the guys up, have breakfast, and then try to find this corpse of yours.”
After breakfast, Neil led his friends along the trail heading back toward the caretaker’s cabin. Leading the way, he kept a wary eye on the trail and surrounding forest, searching for any evidence to prove his story from the previous night. The white sand was undisturbed and clean of any indication that anyone had traveled along the path within the past day. He scanned the tree limbs and the underbrush, hoping—desperately—to find something, anything to assure his friends, as well as himself, of his sanity. Behind him, his four friends politely refrained from comment as they followed along.
They’d walked the length of the trail, and as they stepped into the clearing behind the caretaker’s cabin, Neil halted and turned to face his friends. Their expressions barely disguised their disbelief.
“Where’s this body of yours?” Patrick said, his arms folded across his chest. “Did I miss it?”
Neil caught the quick glance that Jeremy shot toward Patrick. A silent chastisement to which Patrick simply shrugged in silent reply. Rob kicked at the white sand beneath his feet, sending the tiny granules into the air. “I was asking myself the same question.”
“Okay, okay,” Neil admitted. “There’s nothing here.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Folding the lid of the cardboard box
closed, Sammy stretched a piece of packing tape across the seam. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom. With a black marker, she scrawled “Stuffed Animals” across the side of the box. Her elbows rested on the box top, her chin dropping into the cup formed by her hands. She allowed her eyes to close for a few moments and felt her head bob forward.
Realizing how exhausted she was, Sammy tried to remember when she’d last slept. It must have been Wednesday when she’d last had a full night’s sleep. Ever since, she’d been constantly on the move, making sure that everything fell into place for the weekend. There had been time for a couple quick naps here and there, but it was well over seventy-two hours since she’d really slept.
When she stood, Sammy lifted the cardboard box then carried it out of the room and down the stairs. She added it to the stack of boxes by the front door. A stray hair fell in front of her eye, and she brushed it aside before climbing the stairs once again. With another empty box on the bed, she opened the dresser drawers, removing clothing from each. There wasn’t much left for her to pack. Just a few items were left to make the cabin look lived in. Everything else had been moved out a week ago. She only had to clear out the remainder of her personal items, and then the stage would be set for the final act of the drama that she’d been playing out. It had taken almost a year to get to this point. A year of research, of planning, of manipulation. All fueled by her staggering desire for revenge. With the finale drawing near, there was only one question left to be answered. Would she have the strength to follow through with what she had planned?
Sammy stared at the clothing in the box, realizing that this weekend was a culmination of a lifetime of hatred and anger. She’d expected this to be more satisfying, to have a more climatic feeling. But she instead felt confused, sad, and lonely. There’d been no gratification from her actions thus far. She was beginning to wonder if her inclination toward revenge would have the desired result she’d been hoping for. Maybe she’d been wrong. Perhaps there was no way to get closure, no way to get reprieve from her grief.
Her therapist had once said that everyone deals with their grief in different ways, and Sammy needed to find what worked best for her. How did he put it? “If you didn’t learn to cry, you’d never heal.” He encouraged her to experiment with a variety of activities to find one that brought relief. Journaling. Meditation. Support groups. She’d tried it all, never finding relief until she started planning for this weekend. If her therapist only knew how she was planning to deal with her grief. She was sure he’d not only disapprove, he’d also try to stop her.
Carrying the sealed box downstairs, Sammy approached the front door, balanced the box against her knee, and struggled to turn the doorknob. Outside, she crossed the porch and stepped down the stairs. She set the box on the ground beside her Ford Focus, lifted the hatchback, and placed the box inside. Returning to the house, she lifted another box from the floor and headed back outside.
“Let me get that,” she heard Neil say as he grasped the box, pulling it from her yielding hands.
Sammy remained still, watching as he walked down the porch stairs and placed the box into the back of the car. She hadn’t been expecting him to show up. Not now, and not in this way. What was he doing here? She wasn’t ready to face him. It was too soon.
Sammy followed him down the stairs, her pulse racing as she scrutinized his every move. Did she leave out anything incriminating in the cabin? She couldn’t remember what state the bedroom was in. The living room might be safe but certainly not the bedrooms. She was sure of it.
“I didn’t expect to see you this early,” she said.
He smiled. “I can’t stay away from you.”
She stared at his face for a long moment. The dark shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes told her that Neil hadn’t gotten much sleep since they had last seen each other. The fresh scratches and cuts looked red and painful. Events from the early morning must have been worse than she’d anticipated. She reached up, softly touching his cheek. “Are you okay?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, why?”
Sammy tilted her head and frowned. “I don’t know. Your face . . . It’s all cut up. You look . . . tired. A little pale.”
“Someone kept me up late last night.”
He smiled, but she could tell that it was forced. “That doesn’t explain the cuts,” she said.
“I tripped in the dark last night.” He turned his face away from her to stare into the forest. He was chewing on his bottom lip. He seemed edgy, nervous, and distracted. She glanced at his hand. It hung by his side, trembling. It was a faint tremble, but just enough for her to notice.
He gestured to the boxes in the back of the car. “Packing up?”
She nodded. “Taking some of Dad’s old stuff to Goodwill. I’m sure someone can make use of it.”
Neil leaned back against the Ford, glancing aimlessly toward the forest again. Eventually, his eyes came back to rest on her. “Is there anyone else out here?”
Sammy knew why he was asking, but she tried to put on her best puzzled look. “Huh?”
“Here in camp. Do you know if anyone else is here?”
“Other than you and the other guys?” She shook her head. “I doubt it. Why?”
When his response was delayed, she wondered if he would be honest with her. He hadn’t been up to this point, she knew that. He’d lied about his fiancée. He’d probably lied when he said that he loved her. Would he tell her the truth now?
His eyes shifted back toward the forest. “There’s been . . .” He paused. “I’m just wondering. An abandoned place like this probably attracts a lot of undesirables.”
He turned his eyes toward the ground and shuffled his feet in the sand. Studying him closely, Sammy noted how much he’d changed since arriving at the camp two days ago. His confidence seemed rattled, and there was an air of despondency hanging over him. The weekend was taking its toll. She wondered if she was taking this too far. Was she doing the right thing? “Neil, we’re so far out in the sticks that we have to have our sticks shipped in. I doubt most people even remember the camp is here.”
An awkward silence fell between them. Maybe she should invite him in for a whiskey. Maybe he’d understand if she made a clean breast of it all.
“Do you remember Stinky Bateman?” he asked suddenly.
The nickname was a punch to the stomach. A sharp momentary anger burned within her like flash paper in a magician’s hand. She wanted to scream at him. To curse him. To accuse him. To spew a litany of the most hateful words she could imagine. But to do so would ruin everything. She drew in a slow breath and feigned ignorance. “I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
“Chris. His name was Chris Bateman.”
She paused for a second, trying to make it appear as if it were a struggle to remember. “Yeah. How could I forget? He hung himself here at the camp. Why?”
His eyes darted between her and the forest. The smile had vanished from his face, and she thought, for a moment, that he might be on the brink of crying. But, regaining his composure, he shook his head. “It’s nothing. The guys mentioned the little faggot’s suicide. I wasn’t sure if they were telling the truth,” he said.
Her hand moved to her throat, touching the St. Christopher medal around her neck. It felt bitter cold between her fingers. Sammy’s jaw tightened, and she struggled to remain calm. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to kill him. Not yet, she thought. Not yet.
“I’d better get these boxes loaded,” she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.
“I can help.”
She placed her hand on Neil’s shoulder. “No. Go back to the guys. Enjoy the weekend.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Are you coming back tonight?” she asked.
He smiled, nodded, and then walked slowly away, heading back toward Sequoia Lodge.
Through narrowed eyes, Sammy watched him walk into the forest. There was
no longer any doubt. She knew what she must do.
Summer, 1997
The heat on the last Saturday of July was oppressive, even at night. Despite the sultry conditions, Neil had managed to convince the red-headed Brenda St. James to meet him late that evening down by the rope bridge. Like him, it was her last year as a counselor at Camp Tenskwatawa. She’d been a bit resistant to his earlier advances, so he was feeling pleased with himself when Brenda had finally agreed to their late-night liaison. He’d smuggled a bottle of Jack Daniels into camp a few weeks prior, and he was hoping to use it as leverage to get his hands on Brenda’s pert breasts and tight ass.
He’d taken a blanket, which they’d draped across the white sand of a secluded clearing near the rope bridge. Half a bottle later, he found himself entangled in Brenda’s arms, his hands expertly undressing her. With naked flesh pressed against naked flesh, Neil felt confident that he was going to score. But the muggy night air left their bodies sticky with sweat, and a torn condom brought a premature end to the evening.
Walking back to Redwood Lodge, the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels concealed within the balled-up blanket, Neil was feeling far from satisfied. Brenda had been adamant that she wasn’t going any further without a condom, and since he didn’t have another one handy, that had been the end of it. Now he returned to his cabin—an ache in his balls and a scowl on his face.
When Neil entered Redwood Lodge, he was surprised to find his cabinmate not in his bunk. Since having been reassigned as the co-counselor of Redwood Lodge three weeks ago, Stinky Bateman had spent as much time away from the cabin as possible. Probably in an effort, Neil figured, to avoid him. During the week, Bateman had little to fear from Neil because of the kids being in camp, but come the weekends . . .
Neil stared at Bateman’s empty bunk for a long moment, wondering where the boy could be. It was well past midnight, and it was unusual for Bateman to be out this late. He’d learned long ago that he could set his watch to Bateman’s routines. Up at the same time. In bed at the same time. For Bateman to not be around was odd. Maybe he was out with one of the girl counselors? Neil disregarded that thought as soon as it passed through his mind. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that Bateman would be dipping his stinger into anyone’s honey. Neil figured he stood a better chance of getting Brenda to do him without a condom than Bateman ever stood with any of the girls in camp.
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