“Nah, looks like Jeremy,” came Patrick’s reply.
“Looks like Rob’s with him.”
Closing his eyes, Neil realized that things couldn’t get any worse. He was trapped. All four of them would be within feet of him. He wondered if throwing himself at their mercy would help. Perhaps if he begged for forgiveness. Maybe they’d let him go. The thought of begging repulsed him, but what else could he do?
He heard footsteps approach, slow steady strides in the sand. “Damn, you’ve got a bad limp. How’s the leg?” he heard Patrick ask.
“It’ll heal,” Rob said.
“You sure?” asked Steve. “That bandage is soaked in blood.”
Rob said, “I’m fine. We’ve got to find him. I’ve got a score to settle. Any luck?”
The response must have been non-verbal because Rob added, “Which way do you think he’ll go?”
“Probably out to the main road,” Steve said. “He’s got nowhere else to run.”
“It’s miles from the nearest town. He’d be walking for hours,” said Patrick.
“Neil’s got no other options,” Steve said. “He can’t drive out of here. That cell phone blocker we installed is working, so he can’t call for help. He’d be an idiot to remain in camp. Where else can he go?”
“He’ll tackle the road back toward Tabernacle,” said Jeremy.
“Makes sense,” said Rob.
“I don’t know. What if he’s still out in the forest?” said Patrick. “We could waste a lot of time searching for him on the road, and, for all we know, he could be laying low right here in camp.”
Rob replied, “He’s got a point. There’s plenty of places to hide around here. He’s got to be hurting. It’s a long hike. He might not think he can make it.”
Neil only half-listened as they debated the best way to track him down. Everything they said was right. He had very few options available to him. His ribs still ached from the beating they’d given him. The pain alone would slow him down. Worse yet, he had no idea which way to go. It’d been eighteen years since he’d been in this area. He couldn’t remember much beyond the camp.
His hands trembled as a wave of hopelessness swept over him. What would they do if they caught him? Another beating? Or worse? Was this where he was going to die? Far in the forest where no one knew who Neil Brewster was? No grand epithets. No long funeral procession. Just a shallow hole in the sandy ground.
The truck suddenly rocked, snapping his attention back to the conversation going on just a few feet away. Steve and Patrick had been sitting on the tailgate. Neil figured that one of them must have stood up.
Steve said, “Rob, you and Patrick continue to search the camp. Jeremy and I will walk out toward Tabernacle. If he’s out along the road, we should catch him. But in case he’s still hiding in the camp, you can work on flushing him out.”
The truck shook once more. Patrick said, “He won’t last long out here. The city’s made that bastard soft.”
“Let’s meet back here in two hours,” said Steve.
Their footsteps faded into the distance. The silence that followed their departure seemed unreal, almost too silent. Neil wondered if they had known that he was there the entire time. Maybe this was all just a game to lull him into a false sense of security, to make him give away his hiding place. What if they were standing around the truck right now, waiting for him to emerge from under the tarp? He decided to wait. If nothing else, he needed a moment to rest, to think.
Maintaining a vigilant ear for any sound, Neil’s thoughts turned inward for a moment. He knew there was no denying that he was exactly what he’d been accused of—a cold-hearted bastard. In fact, he’d be the first to admit it. His contemptuous attitude toward his fellow human beings had been his modus operandi for most of his life. Almost as if it were ingrained in his DNA. But did that make him responsible for Chris Bateman’s death?
Considering things from a legal point of view was what he knew best. Neil scoured his memory for some legal precedent that may have been set by other cases. There was little chance that he’d ever be held criminally responsible for Bateman’s death. But what about a civil case? Wasn’t there a Maryland appeals court case in 1991 that held a county school liable for not preventing a girl’s suicide? He recalled reading of a 2015 case in Connecticut as well. But those were both focused on the defendant’s inaction to stop the suicide. He was being accused of directly contributing to Bateman’s death through his own actions.
How would he have approached the case? Neil knew that the difficulty for any attorney would be proving that the suicide was directly caused by his actions. Just because he treated Chris Bateman harshly wasn’t proof enough that Neil was the cause of the boy’s suicide. Any judge or jury would see that, wouldn’t they? The prosecution would have to prove the direct relationship between his actions and Chris Bateman’s death. Even as brilliant as he was, Neil would’ve avoided taking on a case like this. It would be near to impossible to win.
He continued to wait—it felt like it must have been an hour or more but he could be mistaken—until he finally convinced himself that they were really gone. There had been no noise, no footsteps, no voices, nothing. What did he have to lose?
Gently, Neil pulled the tarp back, just enough to peer down the length of the truck bed. The tailgate was still down, but no one was in sight. He paused to listen for any sign that someone was nearby, but he heard nothing. Sliding the tarp off, he sat up, cautious and slow. Peeking over the side of the truck, he saw the shadows of evening begin to fall over the clearing. It wouldn’t be long before the forest was covered in darkness. He had no flashlight, matches, or anything with which to light his way. Wandering through the black forest was the last thing that he wanted to do.
Neil figured that he had about an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before they returned. He needed to move fast. The sooner he got away the better. He thought about the cars again. His car was disabled, but maybe if he broke a window . . . He shook the idea away. He didn’t know enough about cars to try and hotwire one of the other vehicles. Whatever he did, it had to be on foot. All he needed was a safe place with a phone. Just contact the police and hide until they arrive. There was only one place where he could go.
Neil climbed out of the truck and crept quickly across the sandy parking lot. He threw furtive glances in all directions, watching for any movement, listening for any sound. His legs felt weak and unstable, his breathing labored and painful. If they found him, he wasn’t sure how long he could continue to run. He knew he was fighting a losing battle.
As he reached the edge of the clearing, Neil heard a branch snap somewhere to his left. He froze, afraid to move. There was a rustle of branches nearby, and an arrow buried itself into the sand inches from his feet. Without a second thought, he charged into the forest.
A shout echoed through the forest behind. “Run, Brewster! Run!”
The sinister laugh that punctuated the shout impelled Neil to run faster.
Summer, 1997
The light from the full moon was blocked by the tree tops, shrouding the camp in darkness as Neil crept along the back of the cabins, remaining in the shadows as he went. He picked his way cautiously through the underbrush, trying to remain as quiet as possible. A small penlight was shoved in his back pocket, but Neil didn’t dare turn it on until he reached his destination. Pausing behind Sequoia Lodge, he glanced at his watch. Twenty-five past one. If they were on time, his friends would be arriving any moment. Crouching down beside the cabin wall, he waited, listening to the incessant chirping of crickets in the dark.
Neil had packed his bag earlier that evening, shortly after the kids had been handed back to the care of their parents. In the morning, his father would be arriving to pick him up, ending his final summer at Camp Tenskwatawa. He’d be skipping out on his duties as a camp counselor two weeks early, but there hadn’t been any objecti
ons from camp management. With three weeks left before he would be heading off to Harvard, Neil’s parents surprised him with a two-week whirlwind tour of Europe, the best part being that they weren’t going. They’d planned a full itinerary, which Neil had no intention of following, and were filling his pockets with plenty of cash for the trip.
With this being his last night in camp, Neil decided to go out in style. One more opportunity to lambaste Stinky Bateman was a temptation he couldn’t pass up. He saw it as his final curtain call, and he wanted it to be a good one. The discovery of Bateman’s diary earlier in the week provided Neil with everything he needed to make his last hurrah one that no one would soon forget.
A rustling in the underbrush behind him announced the arrival of Jeremy, followed moments later by Steve and Rob. Pressing his back to the rough wood of the cabin wall, Jeremy remained standing, looking down at Neil.
“Where’s Patrick?” Neil asked.
“Said he had something to else to do,” said Rob.
“You wanna let us in on why you got us out here in the middle of the night?” Jeremy whispered.
Placing his finger to his lips, Neil gestured for them to follow him. After peeking around the corner of the cabin to ensure that no one was around, he made his way down the sandy path leading to the large clearing that served as a parking lot. Bright floodlights, poised high upon posts erected around the clearing, shone with intensity over the sand but cast the forest into deep shadows. Skirting along the edge of the clearing, he kept to the shadows, leading his friends toward the recreation hall on the opposite side.
All the lights were out in the hall, and only a single floodlight over the main entrance provided any illumination to the area. Neil and his friends worked their way to the back wall, stopping below a high dark window.
“Here’s the plan,” he whispered to his companions. “Boost me up to that window. I’ll pry it open, and you help me climb in.”
“That’s the camp office.” Steve said.
Neil nodded. “Stinky Bateman’s getting a little farewell gift from me.”
Jeremy snickered. “What’re you gonna do to the little shit this time?”
Neil smiled, but he didn’t know if they saw it in the dark. “I’m gonna let the whole camp in on a little secret.”
It didn’t take much to pry the window open, and Neil was inside the camp office in no time. He leaned out the window and said, “Okay, I’m good.”
“Whatcha gonna do?” asked Rob.
He laughed. “I’ve got the announcement to end all announcements. Get back to your cabins, I’ve got it from here.”
He watched them scurry off into the darkness, remaining near the window for a few moments. The cool evening breeze wafted into the dim office, rustling papers that must have been laying loose on the desk. Pulling the thin penlight from his pocket, Neil shone the beam around the room, picking out the lay of the land before making his move. An old utilitarian type desk sat before him, stacks of paper in neat piles occupied three wire baskets. A Macintosh computer stood in the center of the desk—its pale beige body and dark monochrome screen standing erect, as if guarding the office from intruders. The curled cable extended from the back around to the keyboard sitting before the monolithic box.
To his right, three file cabinets lined the wall. Camp records, probably about every kid that had ever stayed at the camp. He was tempted to search for Bateman’s file, but it’d take too much time. Besides, he was there for another purpose. That purpose he found on the opposite wall.
The owners of the camp had planned for almost every situation, including the need to broadcast announcements throughout the entire camp. Hanging from a light post near every cluster of cabins was a cone-shaped loudspeaker. The amplifier and microphone sat across from Neil on a table against the opposite wall. Making his way to it, he shone the penlight across the McGhohan amplifier. It was old, looking like something from the seventies. The gray metallic case was dented and scratched, and the large dials, four for microphones and one each for treble and bass, were marked with faded numbers from zero to ten. A silver toggle switch labeled “Power” was to the left of the dials and sat beside a small round light.
Flipping the switch, Neil heard the hum of the amp as it powered on. The red light glowed brightly, bathing the room in shades of crimson. The old gray Shure microphone sat on the table beside the amplifier, its round screened head rested atop the long neck and square base. He’d already worked out what he was planning to say and stood gazing down at the microphone.
Neil felt a tingle, not unlike what he often felt before pulling a prank on someone. It was a kind of rush, a physical manifestation of pleasure to which he’d become addicted. The euphoric sense of excitement could be overwhelming, and he closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a long deep breath. “This is going to be good.”
Pressing down the button on the base of the microphone, he said, “Attention Camp Tenskwatawa counselors, I’d like to let you all in on a little secret about our very own Chris Bateman.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Neil was breathless when he reached the caretaker’s cabin. He stumbled onto the porch and pounded on the door with his fist. He’d been running for more than an hour, darting down narrow trails, or sometimes crashing blindly through the underbrush with no thought for where he was headed. A quick glance over his shoulder reassured him that they hadn’t followed, at least that’s what he was hoping. He saw no one. He pounded again on the door, praying that Sammy would answer. The Ford Focus was still parked beside the cabin, so he figured she must be around somewhere. A quick jerk on the door knob told him the door was locked. Leaning his shoulder against the door jamb, he rapped on the wood door until his knuckles hurt.
It seemed liked hours before he heard Sammy yell from within the cabin, “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
She yanked the door open, her narrowed eyes and deep frown revealed her irritation. Her eyes opened and the frown vanished, to be replaced with a smile.
“Neil.” She glanced down at his mud-covered shirt, torn shorts, and bloodied arms and legs. “What happened to you?”
He pushed past her into the cabin and shoved the door closed behind him. Leaning back against the wall, he took a long, deep breath. He was safe, at least for the moment. He still had to figure out how to get the hell out of there. But at least he had reached some sanctuary. He could rest while thinking through his strategy.
Sammy took hold of his hand, led him to the sofa, and sat down next to him. Resting her hand on his knee, she said, “Tell me. What’s going on?”
Neil rubbed his temples with his fingers and closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them again, she was staring at him, eyes overflowing with concern. She rubbed his knee with a loving touch and leaned forward to kiss him. As their lips parted, he took another deep breath and fell back into the cushions of the sofa.
“They’re trying to kill me,” he said.
Her eyes opened wide. “Who?”
“Spent the past couple hours—maybe longer—running from them through the forest,” he said. “They’ve been chasing me. With bows and arrows, and a gun . . . Patrick has a gun.”
“A gun!”
He balled his trembling hands together, nodding his reply.
“Let me get you something to drink.”
She rose from the sofa and crossed to the kitchen. Neil heard the familiar sound of the whiskey bottle opening and a tumbler being filled. He felt safe. They might still be out there somewhere, but he was in here with her. As long as he was with her, he would be safe.
When Sammy returned, she handed him the glass. Neil gulped it down in one swallow. His hands still trembled, making the ice bang against the side of the glass. The adrenaline that fueled his flight had burned off long ago. He felt the moisture welling up in his eyes. Sammy took the empty glass from him and set it on the coffee table.
Sammy said, “Why are they chasing you? I thought you were friends!”
Neil looked away from her, ashamed of the tear that had worked its way out of his eye. “Bateman . . .” He paused to wipe the tear off his cheek. “It’s about Chris Bateman.”
Her face was blank, no sign of comprehension. She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What’ve you got to do with—”
Neil turned abruptly toward her, cutting her off in mid-sentence. “They’re holding me responsible for his death.”
She touched his cheek, wiping away another tear that surfaced. “Why? You weren’t even here when he killed himself.”
Neil rose from the sofa and moved toward the window. Glancing out, he scanned the area in front of the house, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. The sun was setting, but there was still enough light for him to see clearly around the immediate area. When he turned back around, Sammy was gazing up at him, her hazel eyes bright as ever, seeming to watch his every move with tenderness and concern.
Neil paced back and forth in front of the sofa. “For three years . . . I was his worst nightmare. I teased him. Mocked him. Played the cruelest pranks on him that I could think of. Hell, I’m the one who gave him his goddamn nickname! There wasn’t a week where I didn’t embarrass him in front of the camp—kids and counselors alike.” He felt another tear roll down his cheek, but this time Neil just let it fall. “They think I drove him to kill himself.”
Sammy shook her head in disbelief. “How can they think that? It’s not like you put the noose around his neck.”
“That what I said! I told them that, but they wouldn’t listen! They . . . they said it was time to make amends. A life for a life.”
Neil wanted to break down. He wanted to fall to his knees and cry like a baby until he could cry no more. “Look at me,” he said, holding out his trembling hands. “Top of my class at Harvard. The greatest defense attorney New York City has ever seen. I’m months away from a goddamn senior partnership.” He paused to wipe his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’m scared. Frightened. Exhausted. What’ve I done, Sammy? What’ve I done?”
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