by Lisa Jackson
“God sees all, Caleb,” she’d said, forking the trout in the frying pan. Oil bubbled noisily and the fish’s scales glittered as the flesh seared. “And he forgives most, the little things, y’know? He don’t care when your pa bags a deer out of season or takes down an elk to feed the family. No siree. That’s not the good Lord’s concern. But when you lie, or you cheat, or you break one of the commandments?” She would turn her head just a bit, to glance over her shoulder, the short curls that had escaped the pins holding her hair onto her head wet with sweat. “Then He gets interested. Real interested.” He could see her lift her fork and shake it. “And He don’t forget. So mind yerself. Do what’s right in yer heart and you’ll be okay.” As the fish fried, she would pick up the cigarette that had been burning in the ashtray on the counter and suck hard on her Pall Mall 100. “He’s watchin’, Caleb. He’s always watchin’, so you do what’s right. Y’hear?”
And he had. Okay, so he’d bent a few rules here and there, and maybe hadn’t been on the straight and narrow with all of the commandments all of the time, but today, he figured, he’d better not mess around. Do the right thing.
Even though he hated Lucas fuckin’ Dalton.
* * *
Twelve hours?
The son of a bitch had waited twelve hours before reporting that he’d found the remains of a human at the cove? If that’s what Caleb had actually stumbled across. Who knew?
Lucas Dalton’s fingers curled around the steering wheel of his Jeep Renegade in a death grip, his knuckles showing white, his mind spinning faster than the blur of landscape flying by as he trod on the accelerator. There was more at stake here than what met the eye. If Caleb wasn’t lying, if he’d actually found human remains down at the cove, then life for Lucas was about to take a sharp turn and veer off his carefully planned path.
Was it possible? Had that damned poacher actually discovered a well-hidden secret, one the sea had kept to itself for twenty years? He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror of his county-owned vehicle.
Accusing hazel eyes glared back at him.
You knew this day was coming, Dalton, didn’t you? The day of reckoning? The intricate fabrication that you planned and created about to be destroyed? But you just didn’t expect it would come in the form of some bad cell phone connection from a moron like Carter, right? You should have been prepared, should have realized that God is known to have a wicked sense of humor.
His jaw tightened and he turned his attention to the strip of asphalt that was the county road, then eased up on the accelerator as he realized how fast he was traveling, how quickly the faded and broken center line was blurring past, the wet leaves and standing water flying from beneath his tires. No reason to panic.
At least not yet.
Not until he knew exactly what Carter had found, if he’d found anything. More times than he could count he’d walked into the local jailhouse and found Carter sleeping it off in the drunk tank with reports from the officer on duty that the man had tied a fierce one on, so much so that he’d been talking nonsense. Ranting and raving and completely out of it.
Maybe . . . but nah, the phone call from Caleb had been indistinct and broken, but from what Dalton could tell, he’d sounded sober. And scared.
“Hell,” Dalton muttered, slowing the Renegade, his gaze focused on the familiar terrain as he discovered the barely visible lane that cut from the county road to the campground situated near the cape. A real-estate sign marked the entrance, a reminder that his father was selling the place, which was odd, Lucas reflected. He remembered how once, a long time ago, when Jeremiah had first married Naomi, how excited he’d been. Finally, the reverend had told his son, he would be able to rebuild this old camp into a new, vibrant source of worship for the Lord, a refuge for the lost, a school for those who wanted to be educated in the ways of Jesus, a place where Jeremiah and Naomi could nestle in with their blended family and be a beacon for those in need.
And now, years later, after an ugly divorce, the place was up for sale.
Lucas turned into the old lane and pushed aside thoughts of the past to concentrate on the here and now and Caleb Carter’s story. Even sober, Carter wasn’t exactly reliable. Lucas had known the man since the second grade when Caleb, who’d had ten pounds and five inches on Lucas, had clocked Lucas with a hardball at recess. Knocked him out. Laughed at Lucas’s stunned expression as he’d come to on the hardpan of the school’s baseball field, which at that time had been little more than a dusty, diamond-shaped track cut out of the dry, weed-choked grass. Lucas hadn’t liked him at seven, and over the past thirty years that feeling hadn’t altered much.
Still, he had to check it out.
For a lot of reasons. Some of them very personal.
Shifting down, he nosed his Jeep down the twin ruts of this long-forgotten roadway that cut through stands of old-growth timber. Shafts of weak sunlight pierced the canopy of fir boughs to dapple the forest floor and a curious doe, neck stretched around the bole of a tree, ears flickering, stared at him with wide eyes.
How many times had he walked or run along this twisted lane? As a child and into his teenage years, he’d spent most of his summers on these acres strung along the sea. A familiar sign still nailed to the rough bark of an ancient Douglas fir tree greeted him. Once gleaming white, the background was now gray and the bright blue letters had faded, though he could still read:
WELCOME TO CAMP HORSESHOE
ESTABLISHED 1947
And then tacked on many years later, when his father had begun his own, ill-fated religious camp:
J. B. DALTON, TH.D., PASTOR
Jeremiah Bernard Dalton. No, wait. Dr. Jeremiah Bernard Dalton. His old man. Dedicated man of God and a colossal dick. At least in Lucas’s opinion. Even though he and the Good Lord were at odds often enough, this time Lucas figured God just might agree.
And yet another sign, newer and nailed beneath the first, was a warning in bold orange letters cast upon a black background:
NO TRESPASSING
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
Prosecuted? Oh, sure. By whom? And what about prospective buyers and their real-estate agents? He snorted.
Ignoring the warning, he drove another three hundred yards through the woods to a wide clearing rimmed by several log buildings where a dented pickup was taking up space. He glanced at Columbia Hall, the largest of the structures, its windows boarded, the long porch surrounding it covered with sand and fir needles.
Here, in this building, the campers and counselors had gathered for meals, or crafts or games, the loft above used for private counseling and classes. He remembered his father preaching so fervently, tears running from his eyes as he clasped the Bible in his large hands. He also recalled how easily his old man had lied, with the elegance and shamelessness of a silver-tongued orator. A captivating speaker, Jeremiah Dalton could enthrall as he stood at the pulpit, his tie loosened, sweat beading in his jet-black hair, his body lean and athletic, his eyes turned heavenward. Through his devotion to Jesus, the love and power of the Lord seemed to course through his veins, and he could make everyone in the congregation believe it, everyone but his son.
Because Lucas knew the truth about his old man.
What was the verse? From 1 John 2:4? “Whoever says ‘I know him,’ but does not do what he commands is a liar, and the truth is not in that person.” Yeah, something like that. Close enough.
Jeremiah Dalton sermonized about the Good Lord as if he truly believed, yet lied with the silver tongue of a snake oil salesman.
In his mind’s eye Lucas could see Jeremiah standing in Columbia Hall, the campers gathered around him on the floor or the built-in benches of the large, recessed area that had been a cross between a college lecture hall and a conversation pit. His father reigned in the center, a striking man, his voice grim, his gaze touching each and every camper in turn. Naomi had been at his side, her makeup perfect, her red hair caught behind her nape with a clip, her eyes, too, sear
ching those of the campers and staff and lingering just a second too long on Lucas.
“We’ve had some unsettling news,” Reverend Dalton was saying, his eyes dark, his jaw set, his expression grim. All in black, his clerical collar visible, a Bible, as ever, in one hand, he’d been nodding. “You may have heard that a prisoner has escaped. He was being transported from one prison to another.”
A murmur had slithered through the campers, but Naomi had started shaking her head and Dr. Dalton had raised his free hand.
“Now, now,” he’d said, “there’s no cause for concern. To the contrary, I want to assure you all that we are safe. As to the man who was incarcerated, his name is Waldo Grimes and he’s been convicted of the heinous crime of slaying his girlfriend.”
More concerned whispers had erupted and Naomi had held a finger to her lips and given off a sharp, “Shhh!”
As the hall had quieted again the reverend had offered a serious smile, meant to assure everyone that he and the Good Lord were very much in control. “This all happened almost twenty miles from here and I believe we are safe, but I wanted to squelch any rumors that he is in the immediate area. His escape was three days ago and as yet, despite a manhunt by the authorities, he hasn’t been found, but we all must have faith that God, in His divine benevolence, will keep us safe. It’s extremely unlikely that he would end up anywhere near Camp Horseshoe. Of course there have been calls from your parents, but I’ve assured them, as I’ve assured you, that we are all fine.”
That much of the talk was a lie. Lucas had seen the newspaper before Naomi had scooped it up and burned it. The escape had happened less than two miles to the south, not twenty, and his father had been in contact with the police, who were providing extra patrols on the nearby county road. The prisoner was still on the loose, though, and the working theory was that he was headed to meet friends north of the camp in Astoria, where he would hop a boat and slip through the mouth of the Columbia to the open sea and disappear.
The story his father had been spinning to the campers was pure fabrication. Meanwhile the reverend’s grin had broadened and Naomi, as if taking her cue, had let the corners of her mouth curve into a smile as well. Lucas hadn’t let his gaze land on her too long, nor think about what that mouth could do.
The reverend had added, “We need to ask for His guidance and safety, as well as pray for the souls of all who are involved in this tragedy.”
Before any questions could be asked, he’d lowered his head and begun, “Dear Lord, we come humbly before you . . .”
Now, glancing at the old hall, Lucas felt a sour taste in the back of his throat. His father was such a prick, then and now, despite the clerical collar he hid behind. Running his hand around the back of his neck, he noticed an old bench beneath the sagging boughs of a fir, a spot where he’d sat for long hours as the sky had turned dark and summer stars had peeked from behind a thin shroud of clouds. He’d heard frogs and crickets, and felt the warmth of a summer breeze caress his bare skin. There had been good times here, as well as some very bad.
A twinge of nostalgia crept through him, but he quickly tamped it down. In his youth he’d spent his summers here, and there were fleeting memories he savored: skinny-dipping in the cove, the foul taste of his first cigarette, the warmth of his first kiss during a junior-high game of spin the bottle. He remembered the taste of a shot of Jack Daniels and the starry night he’d lost his virginity. Again, down at the cove. Images of innocence. Images of guilt. Of purity and treachery, of courage and cowardice.
He drew a breath. He wouldn’t go there. Not now, though it seemed he would have to face the past sooner than he’d hoped.
Stepping out of his Renegade and onto the sparse gravel, he threw open the back of the SUV and pulled out a shovel and a spade.
How long had it been since he’d set foot in this place? Fifteen years? Eighteen? Half his lifetime?
It still felt as if he’d come back too soon.
“Carter?” he yelled, and the man appeared, rounding the corner of the hall and adjusting his zipper, as if he’d just taken a leak. Great. Dressed head-to-foot in camo, Carter hitched his chin toward the path on the north side of the clearing, the one that angled down to the private stretch of beach that butted up to the cape.
“This way.”
Dalton fell into step with his old nemesis and together they worked their way through the shadowy forest, branches of firs green with moss, the cloudy sky nearly blocked from the boughs. As they crossed a ridge to the sea, the sound of the ocean became a roar and the trees grew more sparse. The path narrowed and began switching crookedly back and forth down the side of the cliff to the stretch of sand that curved from one rocky tor of the point of the cape to the cavern beneath it. No footsteps were visible in the sand as the tide had washed in and was now out again.
The sun was hanging low on the horizon, seeming to rest above a bank of clouds that stretched as far as the eye could see.
“Explain to me again why you didn’t call this in earlier,” Lucas suggested.
“No reason. The tide was coming in.”
“And you were here, why?”
“Just pokin’ around. Beach combin’,” Carter said, but they both knew it was a lie. The man was a known poacher and a petty thief.
“And that’s when you found the jawbone.”
“Yeah, right in here.” As they reached the cavern, he ducked slightly, as did Lucas, then made their way deeper into the darkened recess. A small stream split the smooth, unbroken sand, starfish visible in the tide pool, a rock jutting from the cold water. No bones. “It was . . . just about here,” he said, and pointed to an area in the middle of the cavern. “I thought I saw somethin’, reached down, and pulled it out. Turned out to be a jawbone.” He looked around then, as if he were telling a lie and expected God to strike him down.
“And you just left it here?” Dalton eyed the floor of the cavern. Nothing.
“Yeah, didn’t want to mess with the scene or whatever. I seen those crime shows on TV.”
“But the tide could have washed it away and if, as you said, there was dental work on the teeth, then that might be our only way of ID’ing the body. If there is one.”
“Hey.” Carter lifted both hands up, as if surrendering. “I did what I thought I should. I wasn’t under any obligation to let you know.”
“Yeah, I think you were. If you found a body.” He glanced at his watch. The tide would be turning soon, refilling this grotto, making excavation impossible. “Show me where.”
“Around there,” Carter said, indicating a spot not far from the creek.
“You sure?”
A lift of one massive shoulder.
Dalton cast the spade aside and pushed in the blade of his shovel, digging deep, tossing out a pile of wet sand, then sifting through it with the shovel. Nothing. Water began to fill the hole. He dug another scoopful, and another. Still nothing. He widened the area while the sound of the sea crashed and echoed through the cavern. Still nothing. Whatever Carter had discovered was gone, washed away. Or never existed. Though why the big man now smoking a cigarette would want to mess with him, Dalton didn’t understand.
He slammed his shovel into the sand again as the tide, in foamy fingers, began to trickle into the shadowed space. Not much time left. Another shovelful of wet sand, then another.
He glanced up at Carter.
“I’m tellin’ ya, it was here!” Between his lips Carter’s cigarette bobbed.
“Well, it’s not any longer.”
“That jaw came from a body!” He took a long drag. “Or at least a head.” Smoke curled from his nostrils.
A head. Great. He forced the blade of his shovel deep into the soft, soupy sand. Would finding one part of a body be any worse than—
Clunk! The tip of the blade struck something hard. It could be anything, he told himself. A buried rock, or shell or whatever, but he dug more furiously in the hole, tossing back globs of sand as saltwater refilled it. Damn it.
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“Told ya,” Carter said. While he looked on, Dalton worked up a sweat, clearing the sand away and seeing a bit of white, then another piece, until as the frigid tide started swirling at his feet, he found himself staring at the upturned face of a very human skull.
“Oh, shit,” he said under his breath.
All hell had just broken loose.
CHAPTER 5
Camp Horseshoe
Then
Bernadette
“I’m pregnant,” Monica had admitted to Bernadette a week earlier. They’d been alone, the two counselors who’d been given the task of banking the campfire. All of the other counselors and the campers had returned to their cabins.
“What?” Bernadette gasped, thinking she hadn’t heard right. She hadn’t even known that Monica had a boyfriend.
“You heard me.” Monica, who had been leaning over the stone-lined pit, stood and dusted the ash from her gloves. Around five seven or so, she was thin but curvy, and there wasn’t the tiniest hint of a baby bump showing beneath her jacket. Monica’s abdomen was perfectly flat. “About six weeks, I think, maybe more like eight. I’m not sure exactly.” She was blinking, biting her lip, and looking past the ring of cabins to the trees beyond. Without makeup, her hair scraped back into a curly ponytail, her face illuminated by the reddish coals, Monica had looked younger than her nineteen years. Pregnant? Really? It seemed wrong to think she might soon be a mother.
