Jeremy was the next to laugh. “Serving up burgers at McDonald’s? Really?”
Unable to contain himself any longer, Rob burst into laughter. “Patrick’s right. You really are a jackass.”
As their roaring laughter echoed through the trees, Neil wondered if Patrick could hear it. Most assuredly, it wouldn’t help the situation, only serving to anger Patrick even more. But he didn’t care. He was having a good time with some old friends, and he wasn’t about to stop. Maybe it was the alcohol or just the lateness of the night, but, whatever it was, Neil laughed until his sides hurt. Their raucous chorus rang out from the campfire.
After a few minutes, he caught his breath and said, “Give me one more beer, then I’m off to bed.”
As Rob handed across a fresh bottle, he said, “What happened to Harrison? You never said.”
Neil twisted the top from the bottle. “That reprobate? I got him off on a technicality.”
Chapter Eleven
Neil’s headache paled in comparison to his shock when he awoke. The first thing he noticed was the resounding noise of nature. The birds chirping and the din of small animals foraging through the underbrush roared in his ears, making him wonder if someone had left the cabin door open. It’d been a long time since Neil had suffered from a hangover this bad. The biting morning chill made him reach over to pull the sleeping bag over himself for warmth. When his fingers touched sand, he knew something wasn’t right.
Opening his eyes, Neil first saw above him a canopy of interlocking pine and cedar branches. Glancing around, he found himself laying on the cold ground in a small clearing somewhere in the forest. His white t-shirt and gray shorts were damp with the early morning dew. Sitting up, he startled a trio of small birds that had been standing on a nearby branch. Brown, dried pine needles coated the ground and clung to his clothes when he rose to his feet. Shaking his head, sand and the remains of last autumn’s decaying leaves fell from his hair. How had he gotten there?
Despite his proclamation the night before, he remembered not going to bed after one last bottle. It had been his last Corona for the night but far from his last drink. He’d had every intention of calling it a night when his bottle was empty. Before he could make good on his intention, Rob had produced a bottle of eighteen-year-old Highland Park single malt scotch, a brand of which Neil had heard great things but never had the pleasure to try. It had been an opportunity too good for him to pass up. To his pleasure, the scotch went down smoothly with the very first glass, making it impossible to turn down a second. Or a third.
As the campfire dwindled away to ash, they finished the bottle, leaving Neil’s head addled and his eyes quickly losing the battle against his need for slumber.
Making his excuses, he headed into Sequoia Lodge with Jeremy and Steve following shortly after, leaving Rob alone to aimlessly poke a stick into the smoldering campfire. The single-room cabin was furnished with four bunkbeds flanking the door along both walls. Streaked with grime, the opaque glass in the square window opposite the door revealed nothing but faint shadows.
Neil barely remembered undressing or climbing into the top bunk. The last thing he recalled was a brief conversation between Steve and Jeremy, debating if someone should wait up for Patrick to return.
“Pat’ll be back once he’s calmed down,” Steve had said.
“He’ll be pissed when he finds we drank the scotch without him,” said Jeremy.
As his eyes gave in to their heaviness, Neil heard Steve reply, “He’ll get over it.”
Shivering in the brisk morning air, he stumbled when his heel came down upon a sharp stone. It dug in deep, causing him to yelp and curse. He checked his foot. No blood. Brushing the dirt and pine needles from his arms and legs, he glanced around to get his bearings. The clearing was surrounded by the dense forest of pine and cedar trees. A narrow path covered with white sand was the only safe passage that Neil could find out of the clearing.
He spun around to survey the opposite side of the clearing. Reeling backward suddenly, he stumbled into the underbrush, landing hard among the thick brambles. The thorns of the barbed undergrowth ripped at his skin. Struggling to extricate himself, he rose to his feet, gawking at the tall pine tree before him.
Hanging from the trunk—about five feet from the ground—was a pale blue t-shirt, the Camp Tenskwatawa logo emblazoned across the front. Two black-handled hunting knives impaled the t-shirt and stuck it to the tree. Spray-painted across the front of the shirt was a single word, KILLER. The paint was a deep red, almost the shade of dried blood.
He took a cautious step forward, reaching out to touch the hilt of one of the knives. The handle vibrated under his touch. At least he wasn’t suffering a hallucination brought on by his hangover. He ran his fingers along the t-shirt’s hem, the soft cotton felt smooth between his finger and thumb. Was this some kind of sick joke? Neil caught a slight trembling in his hand and, pulling away from the t-shirt, flexed his fingers. The trembling didn’t stop. Get control of yourself, he thought. This has got to be a joke.
He examined the spray-painted word, tracing the letters with his eyes. It must have been sprayed while it hung from the tree. Narrow streaks of paint had been drawn down the shirt by gravity, drying before reaching the hem, creating drip lines off of each letter. What the hell is this all about? he thought.
He gripped one of the knife handles, giving it a quick tug. It held fast in the tree. Reaching up, he wrapped both hands around the handle to give it another pull, but he was interrupted by a distant voice echoing through the forest.
“Neil!”
Steve’s call was quickly followed by the deeper baritone voice of Jeremy. “Brewster! Where the hell are you?”
Neil turned around, unsure from which way the voices came. “Over here!”
There was silence for a moment, and then came an echoing response. “Where?”
He sighed, took one more look at the macabre display hanging from the tree, and turned toward the narrow trail leading out of the clearing. He had no idea where he was. He and his friends could spend hours shouting at each other before they would find him. He’d have to find his own way out. Neil took a step forward but paused as something else echoed through the trees. It was so faint that, at first, he wasn’t even sure he’d heard it.
“Leave me alone, Neil!”
The distant voice was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He was certain it wasn’t any of his friends. None of them sounded that timid and whiny. He listened for it again but heard nothing. Deciding that he must have been mistaken, Neil gave an uneasy shrug of his shoulders and moved forward onto the path out of the clearing.
Treading carefully on his bare feet, he sidestepped twigs and stones as his toes sank into the white sands of the trail. Pausing to shout again, he received the same inquiry in response, this time from Rob. The path twisted and turned through the forest, beginning to slowly widen. Neil called out again, “I’m over here!”
“Over where?” came Steve’s reply, this time sounding closer than before.
He pressed on along the widening path until it opened onto a sand-covered road. He knew where he was, or at least had a good idea. Ahead, off to the left, Neil saw the camp’s old archery range. That meant that he was on the south side of the lake. If he continued toward the archery range, that would put him in the right direction, eventually ending up back at Sequoia Lodge. He could wait for his friends there.
Neil had only taken a few steps in the direction of the archery range when he heard Steve call out from behind him. “There you are!”
Approaching at a rapid pace along the sandy road, Steve, Rob, and Jeremy quickly closed the distance between them. As Neil watched his friends approach, he thought about the t-shirt and the word scrawled across it. He wanted to believe that the t-shirt was there by coincidence, perhaps left behind by the camp’s final group of counselors. But the fabric
had been clean and fresh, as if it had just been hung hours before he’d awoken. He wondered what it meant. Was it an accusation? Neil had been called a lot of things in his life, but “killer” had never been one of them.
Giving Neil’s appearance a quick appraisal, Jeremy asked, “What happened to you?”
“Fell into some brambles. Did you guys do this?”
His friends shared a perplexed look between themselves, and Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Do what?”
“Dump me out here in the middle of the night.”
Rob shook his head in denial. “We thought you got lost coming back from the bathhouse.”
Neil peered back at the narrow path from which he’d just emerged, now realizing how secluded it really was. His friends could have spent days searching and may have never stumbled upon it. He gestured toward the path’s entrance. “And what’s up with that t-shirt back there?”
Another perplexed look passed between his friends. “What t-shirt?” asked Jeremy.
“The one hanging from the tree.”
“What are you on about?” asked Rob.
Neil turned, preparing to lead them back down the path. “It’s down here.” He was about to push through the foliage that obscured the path’s entrance when he paused. “Where’s Patrick?”
Jeremy nodded in the direction from which they’d come. “He’s coming now.”
With his gray canvas Nikes flinging sand out behind him, Patrick jogged up, perspiration coating his forehead and his dark hair damp and disheveled.
“You found him!” Patrick said. “Where’ve you been?”
Rob replied, “He was about to show us.”
Neil gestured for his friends to follow. “Come on. This way.”
Leading them back down the narrow path, he once again tread cautiously, steering his bare feet clear of stones and twigs strewn across the ground. The gritty white sand, having worked its way between his toes, was rubbing the skin raw. Once or twice, Neil’s foot came to rest on the sharp edge of an unseen piece of gravel, causing him to suddenly jerk back in pain. His four companions showed no sympathy for his situation, laughing aloud every time. Perturbed by their jesting, he knew it only served him right. He would’ve done the same if he’d been in their shoes.
As they entered the clearing where Neil had awoken earlier, he glanced from tree to tree, looking for the one with the spray-painted t-shirt. He felt his friends’ eyes watching him curiously as he spun around in the center of the clearing. The longer his search, the more frantic he became. What must they be thinking of him? He examined every tree bordering the clearing, but found no evidence of the t-shirt or the knives.
“It was on one of these trees. But . . .” he started to say.
“What was?” asked Rob.
Neil darted again from tree to tree, running his hands down the bark, searching for even the slightest indentation as proof of the embedded knives. “I told you, a t-shirt. An old Camp Tenskwatawa t-shirt. You remember, the pale blue ones? It was stuck to the tree with two knives.”
Steve tried to suppress a laugh. “Knives?”
“Hunting knives. Black handles and serrated blades,” Neil replied, finally realizing the futility of his search. “At least I thought . . .”
“There’s nothing here now,” said Jeremy.
Neil scowled at his friend. “I can see that.”
“What the hell were you doing out here anyway?” Rob asked.
“I don’t know. I just woke up out here.” His gaze returned to scanning the clearing. “I thought you guys must have . . .” His words trailed off as his eyes caught sight of something. He rushed toward a nearby tree, running his fingers over the trunk. “Here! There’s a puncture here on this tree.”
Steve stepped forward, examining the bark closely. “It’s something, but . . .”
“But what?” said Neil.
“It looks more like the trunk has split with age. Look, it runs down the tree for a couple feet.” Steve paused, peeling bark from the tree. “Sorry, Neil. I doubt this is from a knife.”
“Come on, let’s go back to the cabin,” Patrick said. “I want breakfast.”
Neil noted the barely disguised condescension in Patrick’s voice. His friends began to make their way back down the narrow path, leaving him to give the small clearing one last look. He could’ve sworn there was something here. He could’ve sworn.
Summer, 1995
As the sun set over Camp Tenskwatawa, Neil lounged on the small porch of Redwood Lodge, staring across at the bathhouse. Every so often, he’d snicker, recalling again the image of Stinky Bateman’s mad dash from the bathhouse to his cabin. Throughout the day, the hushed undertones between the teenage camp counselors had been about the morning’s incident with the snake, so much so that Stinky had remained in his cabin for most of the day to avoid further embarrassment.
The first few hours of the morning, Neil had watched with interest as Charlie Wilcox and Harvey Brennan, one of the camp supervisors, searched the bathhouse as well as the surrounding area. Presumably looking for snakes. By noon, they’d come up emptyhanded and seemed to chalk the whole event up to nothing more than a freak accident of nature.
Neil hadn’t been around when Stinky finally emerged from Oak Lodge, but he’d heard every detail from Steve. “You should’ve seen him. Head down, pouting like a baby. He couldn’t walk more than a few feet without someone whistling at him.”
Now, as the evening shadows fell across the camp, Neil found himself wondering why he was still there. He’d been expecting camp management to call him to account for his actions. He figured that he and his friends would be immediately sent packing with their final paycheck in hand. The morning’s escapade couldn’t possibly be behavior deemed acceptable in the “finest Camp Tenskwatawa tradition.” He laughed as he recalled the lecture about being respectful to fellow counselors from camp orientation. Neil didn’t do respectful.
Tossing a snake into the bathhouse while Stinky showered, he knew, would put his job at the camp in jeopardy. Despite the fact that it was only his first summer at camp, he’d decided that the prank was worth risking his job for. Neil had been right. But thus far, there had been no rebuke, no expulsion from camp, not even a slap on the wrist. It left him puzzled.
Jeremy was leaning against the porch railing, rolling a joint between his fingers. Occasionally, he’d glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was looking.
Neil said, “You’re gonna get caught.”
“What’s it matter anyway? We’ll probably be out of here before the night’s over.” Jeremy ran his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper. “They’ll figure out it was us before too long.”
The flare of a match made Neil glance at his friend. Jeremy drew hard on the joint hanging between his lips. Neil sighed loudly. “Seriously? You’re just asking for trouble.”
Jeremy shrugged his shoulders, taking another obstinate hit from the joint. “Got to get a couple hits in before more brats arrive.”
Folding his arms, Neil frowned and nodded his head. New campers would be arriving early the next afternoon. If he and his friends were getting fired, the supervisors would have to work fast to accommodate the next influx of kids.
The sudden approach of footsteps piqued Neil’s attention, and he gave Jeremy a firm stare. “Someone’s coming.”
“Shit!”
The joint fell to the floor of the porch, and Jeremy pressed firmly on it with his foot. Then he shuffled it forward until it dropped through a crack between the floorboards, disappearing from sight. Neil and Jeremy waved their hands frantically, trying to clear the sweet aroma that lingered in the air.
When Patrick rounded the corner of the cabin and stepped onto the porch, Jeremy cursed loudly. “A waste of a perfectly good joint,” he said.
Patrick hiked himself up onto the porch railing, leaning his sh
oulder against one of the corner porch posts. “I’ve got news.”
Jeremy scowled at Patrick. “You owe me for that joint.”
Neil said, “Shut up, Jeremy.” He turned toward Patrick. “What d’ya know?”
“I think we’re off the hook.”
Neil folded his arms. “Go on.”
Patrick’s grin broadened. “I overheard Brennan and Wilcox talking a few minutes ago. Stinky claimed that he didn’t know how the snake got into the shower. Better yet, it doesn’t sound like he said anything about us stealing his clothes. I think we’re in the clear!”
Neil’s eyes narrowed and he turned his back on his friends to stare out into the forest. “Good. We live for another day. We’ll have to make sure to repay Stinky’s courteousness.” He tilted his head back and laughed.
Chapter Twelve
While Jeremy hovered over the Coleman camp stove on the picnic table, Neil sat near the charred remains of the previous evening’s campfire. He’d just returned from the bathhouse, his hair still damp from the cold shower he’d taken. His head felt far clearer than it had earlier that morning. The aroma of frying bacon drifted through the air accompanying the sound of it sizzling in the pan, tempting and inciting within him a rampant hunger. He took a sip from the styrofoam cup he was holding, grimaced at the taste, and tossed the cup and its contents into the fire pit. It’d be no coffee for the rest of the weekend. He wasn’t about to drink that instant crap.
While Steve and Patrick grabbed their towels and headed off to the bathhouse, Rob lounged with his feet resting on one of the blackened rocks that made up the fire ring. Neil wondered how long it’d be before the chair collapsed under the strain of his friend’s attempts to slouch in an almost recumbent position.
“It said ‘Killer’?” Rob asked.
Neil nodded. “Yeah, in red spray paint.” He’d given his friends a description of what he’d seen hanging from the tree, receiving skeptical glances in return. He couldn’t blame them for being dubious. There’d been no trace of the t-shirt or the knives, and the topic was quickly dropped as they returned to Sequoia Lodge.
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