Drifting about a foot or two from the lake’s edge, the cap was too far for him to reach. He glanced around, searching for a long stick. Finding one laying along the opposite side of the path, he scrambled over to grab it.
“Dammit!”
The shout was followed by a loud crash of branches and underbrush. It came from somewhere behind him. So preoccupied with the ball cap, Neil had forgotten that Patrick had been following him. He dropped the stick. “Patrick?”
He waited for a reply but received none. “Patrick! You okay?”
Still no reply. He glanced back at the ball cap. There’s no chance of winning the race now, he decided. Might as well go back and check on Patrick.
As Neil dropped down into one of the gullies, he heard someone thrashing about in the underbrush just ahead. Coming up the other side, he found Patrick ensnared in the brambles along the path’s edge. His arms were tangled in the thickets, and Patrick struggled to get back to his feet. Neil laughed, being reminded of a turtle laying on its back trying to right itself.
Patrick’s arms and legs flailed in the air. “Stop laughing and help me outta here!”
A few moments later, Patrick stood beside Neil, brushing dirt from his legs. His arms were marred with tiny scratches, and a trickle of blood flowed from his right cheek.
Neil gave his friend a quick appraisal. “What happened?”
“Tripped. Must have caught my foot on a root or something.” He gave Neil a playful shove in the shoulder. “I was trying to keep up with you, you bastard.”
“You all right?”
Patrick shrugged. “I’ll live.”
“Good. Come on.”
Jogging back down the path, Neil was certain that he’d lost the race. There was no getting back the time he’d lost. The stick he’d held earlier was still laying in the path as he approached. Pausing, he glanced out across the lake, his eyes searching the water’s surface.
Patrick glanced over his shoulder. “Whatcha looking at?”
He didn’t want to tell his friend what he’d seen earlier. Like the t-shirt, the figure in the forest, and the voices, this would just be another thing he couldn’t prove existed. Just another figment of his imagination. Just another reason for his friend to wonder about his state of mind. But he knew Patrick wouldn’t let it drop without an answer. Neil shrugged. “There was . . .”
“What?”
He shook his head, and then turned to face Patrick. “I could’ve sworn . . . I was certain . . .”
Patrick smiled. “Come on, Brewster. What is it?”
“Remember that damn red cap—the one Stinky Bateman always wore?”
Patrick’s eyes narrow for just a moment, followed by a brief flinch of anger around the corners of his mouth. Then it was gone. “Yeah. Bright red, wasn’t it?”
Neil nodded and gestured over his shoulder. “I saw one floating in the lake just a minute ago.”
“Really?” Patrick pushed forward as if trying to get a better look. “Where?”
“It’s not there now.”
Patrick folded his arms, giving him a long stare. “Then where is it?”
Neil shrugged his shoulders again. “I don’t know. Must have sank? I saw it just before you fell.” He leaned down and picked up the stick, showing it to Patrick. “I was going to drag it to shore with this.”
Patrick was quiet for a moment, and then frowned. “It’s not there now.”
“I can see that.” The irritation in his voice must have been evident.
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Look, Brewster, it’s understandable if you’re a little bothered by Chris Bateman’s suicide.”
“What? You think I imagined it?”
Patrick shrugged. “You thought you heard his voice earlier—”
“Get this through your thick skull. I do not give a damn about Stinky. I’m not bothered in the least by the fact that the miserable little bastard hung himself.” He turned to walk away, then looked back at Patrick. “There was a goddamn cap out there. It sank.”
With that he strode off down the path, leaving Patrick in his wake.
Chapter Eighteen
Neil sat next to Jeremy on the porch of Sequoia Lodge, watching Steve empty a bag of charcoal into the grill by the picnic table. The grill was nothing more than a black bowl standing on three wobbly aluminum legs, threatening to tip over on the sandy ground. The black rocks clanged into the bowl, kicking up a faint cloud of gray dust. When Steve tossed the empty bag on the ground, Neil watched his friend reach for the bottle of charcoal lighter fluid, flip open the red cap, and then squeeze hard, spewing fluid onto the black briquettes.
“Aren’t they self-lighting?” asked Jeremy.
Steve nodded his head, continuing to saturate the charcoal. “That’s what it says on the bag. Never works though.”
Rob, sitting on the edge of the picnic table, laughed. “You planning to send our steaks to the moon?”
Steve stopped spraying the clear fluid into the grill for a moment. Neil saw the irritation in his friend’s eyes. Steve had never been good at accepting criticism, no matter how lighthearted it seemed to be.
“Who’s cooking tonight? I am.” Steve said, and then resumed pouring the lighter fluid onto the charcoal. “Now shut up and let me get on with it.”
Lowering himself into one of the chairs around the campfire, Patrick locked his hands behind his head and leaned back to stare into the sky. “He’s gonna set fire to half the goddamn camp.”
Neil elbowed Jeremy in the ribs as the pungent fumes reached the porch of the cabin. “This ought to be good.”
When Steve had emptied the bottle, he tossed it on the ground by his feet. Knowing what was about to come, Neil was unable to contain himself any longer. He started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” snapped Steve.
Neil said, “Nothing.”
Placing the grate on the grill, Steve grabbed a box of matches. Sliding the box open, he pulled out a small wooden match. He struck it against the side of the box and tossed it into the grill.
Neil raised his arms to protect his face from the momentary blast of heat. The fireball roared up into the tree branches overhead. Black smoke trailed behind the fireball, lingering in the air long after the flames had dissipated.
Rob cursed as he leapt from his place on the picnic table. Neil and Jeremy howled as Steve lifted himself up off the ground. Seeing him brushing pine needles and sand from his clothing sent them into more fits of laughter. As the flames in the grill died down, Steve touched his eyebrows, checking to see if they were still there, which only caused the others to laugh even harder.
“Lucky that wasn’t Rob. His whole head would’ve caught fire,” said Jeremy.
Rob reached behind his head and ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “Hence the ponytail.”
Patrick, looking up into the trees once again, added, “Enough talking, more cooking. I’m hungry.”
Neil thought the steaks, although delicious, had a mild hint of a lighter-fluid-induced aftertaste. On further reflection, he was certain that mild wasn’t the right word to use. When Jeremy pulled out a box of Cuban cigars, Neil was the first to point out the safety concerns. “Are you insane? After those steaks, one belch could turn any of us into a walking flamethrower.” Steve seemed to take the teasing all in stride, but Neil knew his old friend wasn’t happy.
“None of you could’ve done any better,” Steve was quick to declare.
As the sun began to set, the orange glow cast fiery streaks across the sky, throwing shadows into the tree limbs and the forest below. Nocturnal insects began their serenade. With a crackling campfire before him and a third beer in his hand, Neil glanced at his watch, counting the hours until he would have to make excuses and slip away for his rendezvous with Sammy. Despite the activity earlier in the day, she had never
been far from his thoughts. With two more hours to go, the thought of once again touching her supple skin sent his mind into a frenzy of distraction. The memories of their one night together seemed as clear to him as if they had made love just yesterday. He remembered the perspiration glistening on her body as their arms and legs intertwined and the way she bit her bottom lip as they climaxed together . . .
“Brewster!” Rob shouted.
“What?”
“I asked you a question.”
Glancing at his friends, Neil struggled to recall what Rob had asked. It was no use. He’d completely blanked out for the past few minutes. He stared back, bewildered, across the fire at his friend.
Rob leaned forward, peering back at him. “I asked what your fiancée was like.”
Still a little lost in his thoughts of Sammy, Neil struggled, for a moment, to comprehend the question. “My fiancée?”
“Yeah. I’m assuming you have one,” said Rob. “Since you said you’re engaged.”
“Right! Yes,” he said. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
“Must have been a woman,” said Jeremy.
Steve laughed. “Probably not his fiancée.”
Neil gave him the finger and said, “Her name’s Sheila Waldstein.”
Steve smiled. “Wait a minute! Waldstein? I know that name. She wouldn’t be related to one of the senior partners in your firm, would she?”
He grinned. “Well . . .”
“Brewster’s dipping his pen in the old company ink,” Jeremy said, laughing. “What’s the deal? Is Daddy Waldstein giving you a partnership in exchange for marrying his ugly daughter?”
Rob added, “It’s got to be something like that. There’s always an angle with Brewster!”
While his friends chuckled, Neil turned his head away and bristled at their comments. He knew they were just joking, but their wisecracks were hitting too close to home. Yet truer words had never been spoken. He never did anything without there being some angle, without there being some benefit for him, even if it was just for his own personal entertainment.
“It’s not like that,” Neil said. “She’s pretty damn hot. You know me—”
Steve interrupted, “Yeah, yeah. Only the best for Brewster.”
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me,” said Rob.
Neil was quick to respond in the only way he knew how—a lie. “Hey, we’re in love!”
Jeremy snorted loudly. “Now that really is bullshit.”
“This coming from the man whose only goal in life was to part the legs of every cheerleader in high school,” Steve said.
Tossing an empty beer bottle into the fire, Patrick said, “What the hell would you know about love?” He smiled when he said it, but Neil picked up a sharp edge to his voice.
Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his head. “People change. I’ve grown up. Matured. My priorities are different. Sheila and I have a good thing going.”
“And when do you become a senior partner?” asked Rob.
“Right after the wedding.”
Patrick pointed at him across the campfire. “Dammit, I knew it!”
Even Neil couldn’t help but join in when his friends laughed. Yeah, they were having a good time at his expense, but what the hell? There was something in the atmosphere that made it okay. Besides, he figured they’d each get theirs before the weekend was over.
“Seriously . . . just to be serious for a second,” he said. “We really do love each other.” He didn’t know why, but Neil felt like he had to justify himself, even if it was with another lie. “Yeah, I’m going to be a senior partner, but I do love Sheila.”
Jeremy feigned a southern accent, sounding like someone straight out of Gone with the Wind. “Gentlemen, I do declare. I believe our friend is serious. Could it be that Brewster is truly in love?”
“I’ll be damned,” said Rob.
Patrick was quick to add, “I still don’t believe a word of it.”
Steve rose from his chair, crossing to the campfire to place another log on the dwindling flames. Glowing fireflies of hot orange ash shot upward, blinking out of existence as they ascended.
Neil glanced at his watch, calculating that he had time for one more beer. “Pass me another Corona.” With a freshly opened bottle in his hand, he looked at Jeremy, asking, “What about you? Tell us about your wife.”
“Jamie? She’s a competition bodybuilder. Met her five years ago,” Jeremy said. “The woman’s got six-pack abs like you’ve never seen.” He tapped his stomach as he spoke. “Even better than mine.”
“She can probably beat the crap out of you, too,” remarked Steve.
Jeremy said, “That she can.”
Nursing the ice-cold beer, Neil only half-listened as his friends talked and joked around the campfire. He was more concerned about his upcoming rendezvous. It had been a long time since he’d made the trek from the camp over to the caretaker’s cabin. He wondered if he’d be able to find his way. There had once been an open path between the camp and the cabin, but he didn’t know if it would still be there. Without Chucky Wilcox running up and down the path in his golf cart each day, it might have become overgrown. He hoped there was at least enough of the trail left to guide him along his way. He’d make it, he was certain of it. Nothing was going to stop him from sleeping with Sammy again.
Tossing the empty bottle into the fire, Neil rose from his seat, drawing the eyes of his friends toward him. Stretching his back for a moment, he took a few steps away from the campfire. He felt their eyes follow him to the picnic table.
“Where the hell are you going?” asked Patrick.
Neil tried to be nonchalant. “Just for a walk.”
“In the dark?” asked Rob.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not in the city.” Rob gestured, making a wide arc with his arms. “No streetlights out here.”
Rob’s remark wasn’t lost on Neil. Even the light from a full moon often had trouble penetrating the dense ceiling of interlaced pine and cedar branches hanging above them. Any counselor who had ventured out at night without a flashlight often ended up lost, or worse, in the lake. There had been more than a few late-night rescues from Lake Friendship. One misstep near the spillway sometimes meant getting very wet, as well as very hurt.
“I’ll take a flashlight,” he said, grabbing one from the picnic table, switching the light on and off to make sure it worked. Then, turning it on again, he shone the beam around the campfire, stopping the circle of light momentarily on each of his friends. Steve was grinning. He must have figured it out, Neil thought.
“Have fun, Neil,” Steve said, still smiling.
Jeremy looked at Steve, then at Neil, and back at Steve again. “What’d ya mean? Where’s he going?”
“I don’t know nothing,” said Steve. “I’m just hoping he has a good time.”
“Don’t feel like you have to wait up,” Neil said.
Puzzled, Rob said, “Where’s he going?”
Jeremy looked toward Steve. “Steve, where the fuck’s he going?”
As he walked away into the darkness, Neil heard Steve reply, “He’s going for a walk.”
Summer, 1996
Gripping Stinky Bateman’s arms and legs, Jeremy, Rob, and Steve carried the struggling teenager toward the beach of Lake Friendship. The duct tape over the boy’s mouth kept his screams to nothing more than muffled groans. Despite his confidence that no one would hear the young boy’s cries, Neil kept himself and his friends to the shadows, maintaining a safe distance between them and the other cabins. Patrick followed behind, capturing everything on video with his HandyCam.
Three canoes rested on the beach, having been commandeered earlier from the camp’s dock. Neil directed his friends to drop Bate
man, still gagged and bound, into the center of one of the canoes. Then, quickly stepping in themselves, Jeremy grasped Bateman’s forearms, and Steve clutched his feet, holding him down against the cold metallic bottom of the canoe. Rob grabbed a paddle, pushed the canoe off from the shore, and leapt into the back. With a couple hard strokes, the boat moved off toward the center of the lake. Neil clambered into one of the remaining canoes while Patrick climbed into the other, following along behind the first, paddling silently through the moonlit waters.
When they’d reached the center of the lake, Neil drifted his canoe alongside the other two, being sure to place the one holding Stinky Bateman between his and Patrick’s canoe. The red light on Patrick’s HandyCam began to flash. Leaning over just enough to allow Bateman to see him, Neil said, “Listen, you little shit. You’re gagged and tied. If we were to roll this canoe, you’d sink to the bottom like a rock. Don’t squirm when we let you go, or you’ll be sleeping with the fish.”
Neil caught the fear in Bateman’s eyes. They darted around, looking from him to his friends and back to him. The teenage boy must have taken Neil’s meaning because he became docile, remaining still as the firm grip on his arms and legs was released. Rob stepped cautiously into Neil’s canoe, followed moments later by Steve. Jeremy paused to snarl at Bateman before he crossed into Patrick’s canoe.
Leaning over once more, Neil noticed that Stinky Bateman had begun to cry, the duct tape muffling his sobs. It was the most pathetic sight he’d ever seen. Watching the tears streaming down the boy’s face made Neil laugh. “Bon voyage,” he said, pushing his canoe away and beginning to paddle back toward shore.
Chapter Nineteen
Sammy positioned the last stuffed animal on the bed, placing it in front of all the others. It was a beige teddy bear, one that had been given to her eighteen years ago. She stepped back from the bed, surveying her handiwork. He probably wouldn’t notice the detail to which she’d gone to get everything exactly as it had been. If everything went as she’d planned, his mind would be too preoccupied with her to notice much of anything. She’d placed the teddy bear in front more for herself than him. It would act as a reminder why she was going through with this.
Follow You Down Page 12
