Not wanting to waste Bateman’s conspicuous absence, Neil decided that it would be a good time to do a little digging. Earlier in the week, he’d walked in on Bateman with pen in hand and an open leather-bound book. His curiosity was piqued when Bateman made an expeditious attempt to hide the book. Probably a diary, Neil had figured. At the time, he acted as if he didn’t notice, but now, with Bateman out of the way, it was as good a time as any to take a little peek. If nothing else, the little brown book might make for an interesting read.
Reaching under Bateman’s bunk, Neil dragged a pale blue American Tourist suitcase out until it rested in the middle of the floor. Popping the latches, he opened the suitcase and stared at its contents. He’d never seen the inside of Bateman’s suitcase before, and what he found came as no surprise. The kid’s clothes were neatly folded and stacked, with everything arranged with perfect organization. The pale blue Camp Tenskwatawa t-shirts looked freshly laundered. The tan shorts—five pairs in all—were tucked in an orderly pile next to the shirts. Even socks and underwear were precisely arranged within the suitcase, right next to the toiletry bag.
No book. Neil closed the lid and, before sliding the luggage back under the bunk, examined the space between the bottom of the bunk and the floor. Next, he picked up the pillow and rifled through the sleeping bag on the bunk. Still nothing. Yanking the mattress off the bunk revealed nothing either.
As frustration began to set in, Neil replaced everything on the bunk, and then sat down on the edge to think. It was possible that Bateman had taken the book with him. If that was the case, then he was smarter than Neil had given him credit for. There were no other places that he could think of where Bateman could hide the book. Neil was beginning to think that he was destined to lose this round.
Leaning back, he stretched his hands out behind him, resting the palms on the mattress. When his right hand came to rest on something hard beneath the mattress cover, he spun around and smiled. Neil felt the rectangular shape with his fingers and could hardly believe his luck. Bateman had hidden the book inside the mattress cover.
He yanked the mattress from the bunk, unzipped the cover, and reached his arm between the vinyl cover and the foam cushion. Grasping the book, he was quick to pull it out and put the mattress back in its place. Within a minute of finding the book, he was sitting on the edge of his own bunk staring at the cracked leather cover. He felt as if he were holding a gold mine between his fingertips.
Neil wanted to open the book and pore over its pages. Violating Bateman’s deepest secrets was a temptation almost too hard for him to resist. But Bateman could return at any minute. There was plenty of time to read it the next day, he figured.
Crossing to the far corner, he dropped to his knees, prying at the loose wall board near the floor. The small compartment had come in handy for hiding his dirty magazines. Now it would conceal his greatest treasure yet. He slipped the book into the darkened space and secured the wall board back in place. Dropping onto his bunk, Neil drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lunch was a somber affair; the conversation was subdued and sparse. The humor and fun had been drained from the weekend, leaving Neil to feel as if he was responsible for its collapse. His friends, although still congenial, were distant and serious. The jocularity of the first night had held so much promise for the remaining weekend. But forty-eight hours later, he was wishing that he’d never made the trip down from New York. Neil wouldn’t be surprised if his friends felt the same way.
He remained near the cold ashes of the previous evening’s campfire, watching Rob busy himself by the grill, preparing lunch. His other friends were seated around the picnic table, talking quietly amongst themselves. He wanted to join his friends, but an awkward uneasiness hung over him. It was an odd sensation, being so isolated while sitting mere feet from his friends. Accustomed to being the center of attention, it was a new experience for him, one that he found to be detestable. Leaning back in his chair, Neil seethed, more at himself than his friends. After all, they weren’t hearing voices and seeing ghosts. It was all on him. He eyeballed Patrick for a moment, still wondering if there would have been any way that his friend could have been responsible for the previous night. Steve was adamant that Patrick hadn’t left the cabin except to use the bathroom. Besides, Patrick didn’t know that Sammy was in her father’s cabin. How could he possibly plan for such an elaborate hoax on the fly?
Bringing a plate of Bison burgers to the picnic table, Rob announced that lunch was ready. Neil stopped at the cooler to grab a Corona, and then crossed to the table, taking a seat across from Jeremy.
Steve reached into the cooler. “Patrick, what do ya wanna drink?”
“Gimme a Dr. Pepper.”
“Grab me a Coke,” said Jeremy.
Steve passed the drinks around the table. “What’re we doing this afternoon?”
“Wouldn’t mind giving the zipline another go, but I’m not sure Brewster is up to it,” said Patrick.
“Patrick,” said Steve sharply.
“I was just joking for Christ’s sake.”
“What about the archery range?” said Jeremy. “We haven’t done that yet.”
Rob nodded. “Now that sounds like a plan.”
Steve glanced at Neil. “You up for that?”
Returning Steve’s gaze with a hard stare, Neil found a warm enough smile on his friend’s face, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something seemed to be hiding behind the brown eyes. “Don’t patronize me.”
“The archery range it is then.”
The equipment shed, located behind the archery range, was secured with a rusted latch and an equally rusted Masterlock. Steve had explained that there wasn’t a key and produced a claw hammer from the gray rucksack he’d brought with him from Sequoia Lodge. Taking the hammer from his friend, Neil delivered four hard blows before the hinged strap separated from the rotting door. The twisted metal was ripped from the wood, leaving splintered screw holes, and clattered to the ground. Yanking the door open, Neil peered into the darkened interior. Thick cobwebs stretched from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Leaning against the wall to the right were a dozen canoe paddles, their blades vanishing into the darkness of an old wooden crate on the floor. A pile of faded orange life jackets rested on the floor behind the paddles. Neil smiled, recalling how uncomfortable and awkward the flotation devices were to wear with their bulky collar, single nylon strap, and foam-filled side chambers.
Rob pushed his way past Neil, stepping across the threshold. “Outta my way.”
Crossing to the shed’s back corner, Rob pulled open the doors of a tall metal cabinet, revealing six plastic longbows hanging from a row of hooks. Six nylon quivers filled with arrows stood inside the cabinet.
Lifting one of the longbows from its hook, Rob said, “These bring back memories.” Wrapping his fingers around the nocking point, he drew back on the string, watching the upper and lower limb bend under the pressure. When the string was released, it twanged loudly. “I haven’t shot one of these in years.”
Neil reached for an arrow. The fletching had deteriorated with time, and there were gaps between the faux feathers. He fingered the bullet tip, trying to wipe away the faint layer of rust with little success. “These have seen better days.”
“They’ll do,” said Jeremy. “I doubt any of us are good enough to notice.”
Sammy crept forward through the underbrush, positioning herself within view of Camp Tenskwatawa’s archery range. Concealed among the brambles, she waited quietly for them to arrive. She knew it wouldn’t be long.
After Neil had left her father’s cabin, she’d returned to the kitchen. His note from the previous night rested on the kitchen table where she picked it up and carried it to the sink. She had read the note once more, her eyes hovering on the last three words. Love. What did that bastard know about love? She lit the bottom corner of
the letter with a match from a nearby drawer. As the flames raced up the paper, she took joy in watching the words blacken and burn to ash.
The sound of Neil and his friends approaching the archery range drew Sammy back to the present. The silence between them was instantly apparent. Where she’d observed a tight camaraderie between them earlier, a distinct distance now existed. From her vantage point, she saw the six circular targets attached to a tall, moss-covered log wall. The white vinyl covering for a few of the targets was torn or missing, but a couple were still intact enough to see the outer blue ring and the red circle of the bull’s-eye. Her father hadn’t seen much reason to replace the covers after the camp had closed. “What’s the point?” he had once asked her. At the near end of the range, each lane was marked by a waist-high log post rising from the ground.
“You’re up first, Brewster,” she heard Patrick say.
Neil stepped forward, resting the quiver of arrows against a nearby post. “If I remember, I was a damn good shot back then. I doubt that I’ve lost my touch.”
Steve laughed. “Arrogant as ever. Show us what you’ve got.”
Sammy watched Neil pull an arrow from the quiver, placing the shaft on the arrow rest just above the handle. With the bowstring in the nock of the arrow, he drew back and sighted his target. When he released the bowstring, the arrow flipped up into the air above him. Neil yelped, dropped the longbow, and rubbed his forearm. She clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling her laugh.
“Dammit!” Neil shouted.
His friends burst into laughter, and their jibes about Neil’s archery abilities echoed through the forest. Sammy studied his face, noticing his narrowed eyes and furrowed brow. He must be trying to accept their ridicule in good humor, but she knew he must be fuming inside.
Neil picked up the longbow and arrow. “I’ve got it this time.”
“Everyone stand back,” said Patrick. “Brewster’s going to have another go!” They erupted in laughter. Neil didn’t appear to be amused at all by their jesting. She wondered if any of them had noticed his rising irritation.
As Neil emptied the quiver of the nine remaining arrows, his next attempts managed to find the bull’s-eye twice, the blue ring five times, and the outer white of the target twice, and only missed the target once.
Not too bad, Sammy thought. I could’ve done better.
“You’ve redeemed yourself,” said Rob.
“Let’s see if any of you can do better,” Neil said.
Jeremy gestured toward the target. “Go grab your arrows, I’ll give it a try.”
Sammy watched Neil walk toward the target. His shoulders were held high. She figured he was feeling pretty good about himself at the moment. If only he knew . . .
As she watched him pull his arrows from the target, Sammy closed her eyes and listened to the forest around her. The voice drifted across the breeze, like an echo from the past. She couldn’t stop the tears from forming in her eyes.
“Leave me alone, Neil!”
She was startled when the loud crack roared through the trees. Opening her eyes, she saw part of the log wall behind the targets erupt into splinters. Neil fell backward, his hands raised to protect his face from the flying shrapnel. The arrows he was holding scattered across the ground. Scrambling to his feet, his eyes were wide and his mouth gaping. She followed his gaze to the other end of the archery range. Rob, with his arm outstretched, was holding a long-barreled revolver. Jeremy and Steve, arms folded and smiling, stood next to Rob. Patrick was behind them, holding a small voice recorder in the air. Wiping a tear away from her cheek, Sammy closed her eyes again as the voice looped the same four words over and over.
“You like the voice?” Rob said. His question startled her, and she opened her eyes to make sure it hadn’t been directed at her.
Patrick was glaring at Neil. “It’s his, you know. Came off one of those old videos I shot. I never imagined that those old VHS tapes would come in handy someday.”
Neil glanced back at the target behind him, and then at his friends. His face was red with fury. “What the hell are you doing? You could’ve killed me!”
“Perhaps that’s the point,” said Steve.
Neil’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”
“Time to make amends, Neil,” said Jeremy.
Sammy drew in a deep breath. Jeremy’s words cut her deep. Making amends, isn’t that what she’d always wanted? For Neil to make amends for what he’d done? To take responsibility and face the consequences of his actions? Her life had been driven for so long by the desire to see Neil suffer. She’d always hoped that she’d be the one to say those words to him, but, to her disappointment, it wasn’t to be.
She watched Neil begin to move up the archery range toward his friends, but Rob twitched the revolver. “Stay right where you are.”
Neil held out his hands, his narrowed eyes glaring back at his friends. From where she was hidden, Sammy could only see Patrick’s face. The glint in his eyes held a dark, foreboding sense of evil, causing a chill to race down her spine. A malicious sneer crossed his lips.
Neil shrugged his shoulders. “Amends?”
“It’s time you paid for what you did eighteen years ago,” replied Rob.
There was confusion in Neil’s face. She knew he wasn’t lying when he said, “I don’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got blood on your hands, and we’re here to make sure you pay for your crime,” Steve said.
“Quit with the cryptic bullshit, and just tell me what this is all about!”
As Sammy watched, Patrick stepped forward, taking the revolver from Rob. He inched forward, keeping the firearm trained on Neil’s chest. “The four of us have judged you to be responsible for the death of Chris Bateman.” His slow strides seemed almost lackadaisical, but his lifted chin and the tightness around his eyes showed his contempt. “As such, we’ve taken it upon ourselves to ensure that you’re held accountable for your actions.”
Neil’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut, and his face turned ashen. When Sammy heard him finally reply, his voice was raspy, fluttering with fear. “You said he committed suicide! I wasn’t even in camp when it happened! How am I responsible for that?”
Rob stepped up beside Patrick. “It was your actions the last few weeks that lead to his suicide—all the things you did to him, all the things you said. It all contributed to his death.”
Steve, who had circled to Neil’s left, added, “Especially what you did that last night. That announcement you made over the PA. It was the last straw. He was never the same those last few days between your departure and his death.”
With his arms waving wildly, Neil said, “All this . . . this whole weekend was to get me back for Bateman’s death? All that stuff that I heard and saw . . . it was all you?”
Jeremy, now standing to Neil’s right, replied, “It’s amazing what you can do with a fog machine, some speakers, and lots of strobe lights. Rob’s a whiz with technology and special effects. He even hooked us up with that corpse.” He laughed. “It wasn’t real, in case you were wondering.”
Sammy’s leg began to cramp, but she didn’t dare shift her position for fear that they would spot her. Gritting her teeth, she stifled a low moan of anguish and continued to observe the confrontation. She noticed a slight fidgeting in Neil’s movements—erratic like a trapped animal. His eyes twitched rapidly, never seeming to stay on any of his friends long enough to focus for more than a moment. She realized that this was probably a new experience for him—being cornered like prey. For once, he wasn’t the predator.
“This is bullshit! Every one of you was just as responsible! You were all involved!” Neil said.
“And we’ve each suffered because of it,” said Steve.
“You can’t blame me for his death,” said Neil. “I wasn’t even here.”
&
nbsp; “You didn’t have to be, Brewster,” said Jeremy, inching closer to Neil. “You’d done more than enough damage when you were here.”
Steve said, “After you left, Chris refused to leave his cabin. Claimed he was ill. The owners told him to go home until he felt better. So that’s where he went, locking himself away in his room for three days. He didn’t speak to anyone, not even his stepfather. None of us saw him again until he was found hanging from a tree down by the lake.”
“Patrick found him the following Tuesday morning,” added Jeremy, his fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists. “They figured Chris must have returned to camp in the middle of the night. He’d been dead four or five hours. They called Charlie Wilcox, but he was too broken up to do anything. The camp staff were in no shape to go near the body. We were the oldest counselors in the camp, so they asked us to cut him down, and cover him up—the camp owners didn’t want the campers to see it.”
Rob folded his arms across his chest. “You were the lucky one. You missed out on having to see those eyes—blank and staring into nothing—and his face, his gray, dead face. I can’t sleep at night without medication for fear of seeing it in my nightmares.”
“And you didn’t have to touch his cold skin. You were lucky,” said Patrick, holding the revolver with a steady grip. “I’d close my eyes and see him hanging from that tree. Five years of therapy and a dozen broken relationships. That’s what I’ve endured because of his death, because of what you did.”
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