But, besides the beauty, there was another obvious advantage to the locale. Anyone leaving would have to have transportation or wings. Even if a kid managed to traverse the length of the valley before being spotted, he'd never get through the forest surrounding it. And where would he go? The closest, and as far as I could tell by looking at the map, only civilization, was back the way I'd come, in Portsmith Grove.
I eased the Jeep down the steepening path toward the camp. As I neared, I studied the layout. Some of the buildings were rustic — probably the original miners' lodges — while others were much more modern. I stopped the Jeep and, using the binoculars on the seat beside me, studied them more closely. The brochure had listed the amenities, and it wasn't too difficult to sort the buildings out. I counted what appeared to be four large dormitories, an infirmary, a mess hall, a shiny modern factory, a small chapel, and an administration building, all set in a semi-circle around the large, well-manicured parade grounds. Behind these buildings were a smattering of small cabins, which I assumed were staff housing. A good quarter mile to the west were the stables, more outbuildings, cabins, and rows of corrals. Beyond the corrals was the lush meadow I'd seen from the ridge, with dozens of grazing horses. To the west side of the meadow was a pond, fed by a brook that snaked out of the mountain on the east, across the meadow, and into the woodlands on the west. Whatever else it might be, Camp Turnaround was indeed a hidden paradise.
At the base of the long drive into camp was an electronic gate, which opened automatically as I neared. Apparently, someone was watching for me. Before I could find a place to park in front of the administration building, I was greeted by a bustling, silver-haired woman wearing a starched white blouse tucked into a denim skirt that didn't quite reach the top of her calf-high cowboy boots. Her skirt was the wrap-around kind and billowed out each time a gust of wind caught it. She held the skirt in place with one hand, extending the other through my Jeep window in greeting.
"Ida Evans. You must be Cassidy James," she said. "Glad you could make it!" Her accent had even more Texas in it than over the phone, I thought. Her grip was enthusiastic enough to whiten my knuckles, and from the calloused palms, I knew she did more at the camp than answer phones and shuffle paperwork. She waved me over toward another electronic gate that surrounded a parking lot and punched in a code that caused the metal gate to slide open. I parked in the spot she indicated.
"This place is beautiful," I said, climbing out. I wasn't kidding.
"Oh, you're going to love it here. Heaven on Earth is what I call it. And once you get to know the kids and see how they blossom, well, you won't want to leave."
Which made me wonder why Miss Sisson had left so suddenly. If in fact she had.
"I'm surprised you have an opening. I can't imagine anyone wanting to leave here."
Ida glanced at me, then led me toward the cedar-sided building in front of us. The electronic gate slid shut behind us and locked itself. "Surprised all of us, to tell the truth. Miss Sisson was so well liked here. But she had some kind of family emergency, I understand. Anyway, here we are. If you want to freshen up, there's a lady's room first door on the right. The morning sessions won't be over for another half-hour, so, if you want, I can give you a brief tour before we get started."
"I'd like that. It'll be good to stretch my legs."
I stepped into the administration building and took a quick peek around. Ida's desk and filing cabinets took up most of the main office. There were other rooms off of the main office, the placards on their doors denoting their use. One read Testing, another Video Room. Another read Orientation. I slipped into the restroom, because I really did need to use it, then met Ida back outside.
"Classes are held over there," she said, pointing her chin at one of the newer looking buildings. "Besides the basics of math, science, and humanities, we offer intensive training in technology and practical arts."
"Practical arts?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Manual labor, actually," she said, gracing me with a wink. "Practical Arts sounds better in the brochure. We do extensive aptitude assessments here, and for those kids who show an inkling of ability or interest, we provide pretty advanced technology training, giving them hands-on experience as machinists in our computer-assisted machine shop. Even those who aren't technologically minded can learn to be machine operators, and all the kids participate in both the shop and the ranch operations."
"So, kids provide the labor and you provide the training?"
"Exactly. We have a wonderful work experience program, where, in addition to the machining skills, they learn animal husbandry, ranching, a bit of farming, you name it. They learn to build fences, dig trenches, install irrigation pipes, tend the gardens, feed and care for the horses, and so on. They also work shifts in the mess hall and laundry. They leave with more than their self-worth intact. They leave here with employable skills. Most of these kids, when they first get here, have never done a lick of work in their lives. When they graduate from here, they not only go on to graduate high school, but most of them get good jobs." Ida was getting wound up, her enthusiasm bubbling over.
"Sounds almost too good to be true," I said, wishing I could take it back the second I said it. Ida looked as if I'd spit on her.
"Well, I'm sure it does to an outsider. And don't get me wrong. It's not all a bed of roses. These kids come in hard and angry. Most of them want to run away at first, and quite a few of them try. We're not talking overnight success here. It takes a lot of work and a lot of love. Tough love. We teach them respect. First they learn to respect us, then they learn to respect themselves. Most of them, anyway. We can't save them all, but we come pretty darn close."
"What happens to the ones who run away? I can't imagine they get very far in these woods."
"We let them go. We keep an eye on them, of course. Coach could track a snake through a swamp if he had to. City kids in the forest aren't much of a challenge. Of course, he's on horseback. Sometimes, one of them gets brave enough to steal a horse, too, even though they all know the consequences. Doesn't matter though. Coach always brings 'em back before they're eaten alive out there. Not before they're scared witless, however. They usually don't try it twice."
"What are the consequences?" I asked.
Ida shot me a funny look. "Everything at Camp Turnaround has consequences," she explained. "Good behavior earns privileges; bad behavior takes privileges away. The severity of the bad behavior determines the severity of the loss of privileges. Dinner, for example is a privilege. Social interaction is a privilege. Showers, a good night's sleep, bathroom breaks, these are all privileges. It doesn't take kids long to begin to appreciate these little privileges. And to want to keep them."
She seemed both proud and slightly defensive on this topic, so I changed tack.
"Coach is one of the teachers here?"
"His official title is Physical Fitness Training Instructor, but he does a lot more than get these kids physically fit. He teaches discipline. He shows kids how to channel their anger into productive energy. He teaches team building, group responsibility, and self-worth. He's got a knack for working with the real problem-kids. They all call him 'Coach' behind his back. To his face, they call him 'Coach, Sir.' "
"I can't wait to meet him," I said.
"Oh, you won't have to wait long. He's on the Interview Committee. In fact, if we hurry, we might be able to catch the last few minutes of drill."
Ida marched me past the other buildings, pointing out the massive machine shop, where I could hear the buzz and hum of work in progress, the mess hall, where staff ate three squares a day, right along with the kids, the infirmary, which employed a certified RN, who also taught the science classes, and the bunkhouses where the kids slept. "Your cabin is back there," she explained, pointing toward the smattering of rustic cabins nestled in the trees behind the dormitories. "That is, if you take the job."
I noticed she didn't say get the job. Apparently, it was mine if I wanted it.
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As we rounded the bend, we came upon the parade grounds where a group of twenty or so blue-shirted teenagers were engaged in push-ups to the steady cadence of a deep throated teen belting out the commands, "Down, up! Again, down, up! Again, down, up!" As the acne-scarred exercise leader drove the sweating teens, a well-built, deeply tanned man in his thirties paced the rows, occasionally placing his foot on a youth's buttocks to encourage better form. He briefly removed a sweat-stained ball cap to run stubby fingers through his sandy brown crew cut, then replaced the cap and fingered the whistle that hung around his neck. His white T-shirt bulged with muscles. He held a two-foot-long prod in his right hand, which he tapped against his leg, sometimes tapping a kid's shoulder or butt, mumbling something too low for me to hear. Suddenly, he held his left hand up, gave three short blasts on the whistle, and the exercise leader brought the boys to their feet with a sharply shouted, "Attention!" As a unit, the boys sprang to their feet.
One overweight kid in the back wobbled awkwardly to a semi-standing position. Gasping for breath, he stumbled and muttered, "Shit!" It was just loud enough for almost everyone to hear. He looked to be about fifteen, with a recently shaved head that was pink from sunburn. None of the boys dared to glance at him, but it seemed they were all aware that an infraction had occurred. The exercise leader's voice sounded an octave higher than during the push-ups. "On your feet, Toad."
"I'll take care of this, Dobberteen. You can lead the unit to the showers."
"Yes, sir, Coach, sir. About face!" The boys pivoted in unison, then on command, began jogging toward the dormitory. The man they called Coach glanced in our direction, but if he was curious about my presence, he didn't show it. He stepped toward the chubby, bald kid who was now standing fully erect, though his knees were visibly wobbling. Coach said something softly to the kid, then raised the prod in his right hand and lifted the kid's chin with it so that the boy was looking him in the eye. His voice was low, but certainly not soothing, because whatever he said made the boy start to cry. The prod was no longer lifting the kid's chin, but was pressing into his Adam's apple, and I could tell the boy wanted to step away but didn't dare. Suddenly, Coach's voice rose and I could hear his words clearly.
"You want to hit me, don't you, Toad? But you're a chickenshit. A fat-ass, mama's boy, chickenshit. Otherwise, you'd do it!"
The boy's face was red, but not from the sun or the exertion. Rage was building inside him, and I felt Ida tense beside me.
"You got something on your mind, fat boy? You got something you wanna say?" The rod in Coach's hand was still pressed against the boy's throat.
"Fuck you," the boy finally spat, pushing the prod away with surprising strength. His face was mottled with fury. "Fuck you!" he shouted again. As swiftly and as calmly as a snake strikes its prey, Coach jabbed the prod into the boy's gut, sending an electrical jolt that lifted the kid off his feet and sent him sprawling backwards onto the asphalt.
Without thinking, I started toward him but Ida held me back, her nails digging into my wrist, her grip startlingly fierce. The boy lay motionless for a second, then his feet jerked a few times and a wet stain spread from his crotch down his pants leg.
Coach walked over to him and nudged him with his tennis shoe. "Did you want to say that again, Toad?"
The boy turned his tear-streaked face away.
"I know you're angry at me, boy. But I ain't the enemy. Not unless you want to make it that way. Up to you. Now I know you've never done no exercise like you did today and every muscle in your body's on fire. I understand that. But no matter how tired you get, when your House Leader says 'attention,' you gotta stand at attention. You understand?"
The boy nodded, though his face was still turned from Coach.
"Maybe what you need is a couple days to let them muscles loosen up a bit, give you a chance to get things clear in your head. Your House Leader tell you about Isolation?"
The kid nodded again, his lower lip trembling.
"Don't be afraid to look at me, son. What did he tell you?"
The kid turned his face toward Coach, and I could almost see the anger turn to fear.
"Speak up, son."
"He said it was something to be avoided at... at all costs. Please, sir. Don't make me go. I'll try harder."
Suddenly Coach laughed. "Yeah, I imagine you will. Tell you what. I'm gonna go easy on you this time." He twirled the prod in his right hand and deftly slipped it into a loop on the side of his belt. "Hell, boy. When I was your age, I was fatter than you are now. And twice as pissed off. I know you don't believe me right now, but someday you're going to look back on this moment as a turning point. Now, come on, I'll give you a lift to the showers myself. You could use some cleaning up." The Coach extended a hand, which the boy rejected. He rolled away and pushed himself off the ground, seeming to notice for the first time that he'd soiled himself.
"Ah, fuck," he said.
"Don't worry, kid. Everyone pisses himself sooner or later."
Coach led the boy toward a four-wheel ATV that was parked on the edge of the parade grounds. Attached to the back of the ATV was a rectangular metal wagon, which the boy climbed into awkwardly. I saw Coach shoot Ida a quick wink as he mounted the ATV and pulled away. The boy's pudgy white fingers gripped the sides of the wagon as it bounced along behind the ATV, his eyes looking mortally wounded.
"Like I told you," Ida said, "it ain't all a bed of roses. Come on. We don't want you to be late for your interview."
Chapter Four
Madeline
Six Weeks Earlier
Three days in this place and Maddie was ready to tear her hair out. Not that there was much left of it after that nurse from hell had hacked it all off. Right away she could tell which kids had been here the longest by the length of their hair. Her House Leader, a red-headed witch named Belinda Pitt, had a ponytail halfway down her back and wore it like a badge of honor. She was always tugging at it, wrapping it around her index finger, showing it off like it was some damn mink stole or something. And she had a way of smirking like Mother Superior, which just made Maddie want to punch her lights out. But Belinda was sixteen, and even if she hadn't been twice as big as Maddie, there was something in her blue eyes that made Maddie cringe a little whenever their eyes met. At the moment, Belinda was lecturing her on the quality of Maddie's bed-making.
"What part of hospital corners don't you get?" she said, tugging the top blanket off Maddie's upper bunk.
"I guess what I don't get," Maddie said, "is the point of them at all. I'm just going to get back in it tonight. It's not like someone else is going to sleep in my bed. I like the covers loose on the bottom." This was treading on dangerous ground, she knew. You weren't supposed to talk back to your House Leader. A couple of the girls making up nearby bunks stopped to listen.
"The point is, you were told to do it the right way. Not your way. No one gives a rat's ass how you prefer your covers. Get it? No one cares. I personally took the time to explain how you were to make the bunk, and you defied my authority. That's a loss of privileges, Toad. You don't put the blankets on right, you don't get the blankets." She tugged the next blanket off the top bunk, leaving only a thin white sheet on top. "Fold these properly and bring them to my bunk immediately." She dropped the second wool blanket on the floor next to the first and strode away, her long red ponytail swinging haughtily behind her.
Maddie swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry as she folded the scratchy blankets into neat square piles. She'd been cold the last three nights as it was. Now she'd probably freeze to death. Well, she thought. That's one way to get out of this place. She could feel eyes on her as she carried the blankets down the corridor toward Belinda's bunk. She didn't know if they were looking at her with compassion or glee, because she didn't look back. Eyes straight ahead, chin held high, she marched alone to the end of the bunkhouse and dropped the bundle on Belinda's bed. Belinda had already left, so at least she didn't have to endure another snotty remark.
Outside, a clanging bell announced morning roll call, and the girls inside the bunkhouse began to scramble into their exercise uniforms, racing each other for the door. To be late was not the way anyone wanted to start their day. Maddie hurriedly tucked her sheets using the correct method, then pulled on the yellow sweats she'd been issued, glad at least that they weren't forced to wear skirts or something. The sweats were too big for her, but at least they were comfortable. After morning workouts, they'd shower, then change into their yellow T-shirts and blue jeans, eat breakfast, and begin the long workday. The classes seemed like they were going to be okay, although so far she'd spent most of her time taking diagnostic-type tests and going through Orientation, a program designed, she decided, to scare the shit out of the inmates. You weren't supposed to call them inmates, of course, but, as far as she was concerned, that's exactly what they were. Mostly, she'd kept her mouth shut and her eyes open, trying to figure out the best way to make her break. Not that she had any intention of going home, but she damned well didn't intend to remain a prisoner in the camp either.
The last one out of the bunkhouse, she raced toward the parade grounds, where the others were already on their numbers, standing at attention. A few boys from the other houses were also straggling, so at least she wasn't the only one in danger of being late. Even so, Coach noticed her tardy arrival and headed straight for her, that idiotic prod thing tapping against his massive thigh. She hadn't seen the prod in action, but she knew instinctively that it wasn't something with which she wanted first-hand experience.
"Having a bad morning, Toad?" he muttered under his breath, so only a few people closest to her could hear. She hated the way they all insisted on calling her "Toad." It had taken her two days to realize it was because she was new and not because they thought she resembled a frog with her new haircut.
8th Day Page 4
