That was enough to get her to drop her bags at the door and rub the jamb in contemplation. Going home empty-handed would be a mistake. Skulking back to campus, tail between her legs, would signal the complete and utter destruction of her professional life. And it wasn’t like she had a personal one to fall back on. She would be a teacher that couldn’t see a developed curriculum to fruition any more than she could move beyond the widespread shadow of Cyrus Hoyt. At forty-two, how much time was left to make a professional mark before she became just another purveyor of broad and boring syllabi?
No. This has to work.
So she stayed.
Tired of today’s fruitless keyboard daydreaming, she took a quick shower and dressed. It was just past nine, and what better time to get out and see the old campground? There was plenty of daylight hanging in the sky to expose every nook and cranny of that awful place, enough for a quick walk around, and then she’d be gone before the sun even thought about setting.
Desiree was sweeping up around the front desk when she got down to the lobby. “You don’t want breakfast, dear? Was just about to climb up there and give your door a knock. How do blueberry pancakes and Belgian Waffles sound?”
“Like extra calories I don’t need,” Melanie patted her flat but rumbling stomach. There was another reason though. An encroaching unease that gnawed at her innards. “I’ve got to be somewhere this morning, anyway.”
The ride to camp would’ve been pleasant under normal circumstances. Endless rows of trees lined the roadside as she got past the downtown area. Birch trees towered high and stretched toward the bright blue overhead, while branches swayed in the late spring breeze.
She passed an old run down gas station and market on her right and remembered the camp wasn’t much further. When the turnoff arrived, marked by a totem pole on each side and an arched CAMP FOREST GROVE sign above, it was now or never.
The road kicked up drizzles of haze along with a glut of long-forgotten memories. Melanie reached for her phone and talked quickly into its voice recorder, desperate to capture the estranged thoughts as they wandered back home: Jennifer jogging this cow path every morning, no matter what she drank the night before. Lindsey’s drunken effort to chop down a hemlock at 3 AM with nothing more than a hatchet. “We need the firewood!” she screamed (and they didn’t). Mr. Dugan’s inexplicable mishandling of the camp tractor, driving it into a ditch while offloading uprooted shrubbery. Bill and Tyler having to pry it back onto the road with a wench from Bill’s pickup.
Melanie felt tears forming, spilling onto her tract of minor crow’s feet. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and everything about Camp Forest Grove, save for the memories, seemed innocuous.
I. Never. Saw. Him. Die.
On her most rational days, she knew that Cyrus Hoyt was dead and buried. Things had been quiet for far too long for him still to be out there. But even on those days, she went to bed scared and uncertain.
Maybe I should’ve done this years ago.
Once, her psychiatrist had instructed her to do exactly that: “Go there and you’ll see that everything you’re afraid of stems from that one tragic evening. Doesn’t mean Camp Forest Grove is still a malevolent place. Face it down. See how it can’t hurt you. And then you’ll be surprised by how free you feel.”
Hackneyed advice, she thought at the time. Instead of heeding it, she’d changed doctors.
The trees fell away from the road as the turnoff widened into a clearing that overlooked placid lake waters. No canoes in sight as she drove to the edge of grass where the campground began.
There she parked and steadied her nerves with a row of deep breaths. This was a perfectly safe thing to do, and she repeated that thought until she supposed she believed it. When it failed to motivate her enough to get out of her car, she imagined Dennis Morton and Jill Woreley having a good laugh at her expense over a box of cheap wine.
That did the trick.
The cabins still stood, suffering smashed windows, crooked shutters, and broken drainage ruts over the last twenty-five years. The grounds looked to be more reasonably kept. Cut grass, trimmed hedges, and tidy trails. From what she’d read about Forest Grove in the last few days, no one had ever tried reopening the place after Mr. Dugan was killed.
Numerous broken beer bottles and crushed cans of Coors Light lined the cabin interiors as she peered through jagged windows. Stubbed cigarette butts were crushed out everywhere she went. How many kids had been out here in years following the incident? Seclusion like this was a powerful lure for kids looking to drink and screw. An oddly reassuring perspective, meaning that if this place had become a haven for teenage promiscuity, then Cyrus Hoyt probably wasn’t still alive.
She relaxed as she considered this.
What used to be the counselor’s cabin loomed ahead. It had seen better days. The roof’s shingles were noticeably frayed and torn, and the runoff drain was broken apart in several spots. Splintered wood stretched across all four walls and where it wasn’t fractured, it was warped. The sun-beaten front door had been dark brown, but it was lighter now, and discolored in several spots. Almost completely rotted and soft to the touch.
She twisted the knob, pulling it open and stepping inside onto creaking wood. The cabin smelled of must and her eyes watered after mere seconds of being in it. Her breaths grew more restricted with every step forward. The bay window that Bill had shattered remained busted. Broken glass bordered the frame and several 2x4s had been hammered across its length. Twenty-five years later, and it still hadn’t been fixed. Or condemned.
The floor was stained with what looked to be dried blood.
Bill.
She knelt and patted a hand over the darkest crimson splotch.
In 1988, she had known better than to put too much faith in a serious relationship. She was still in high school and he was a year graduated—two very different life stations. They were both sharp enough to recognize this challenge, though neither of them seemed to care. Things were simpler then.
The night before Cyrus Hoyt descended had been one of the simplest. She snuck into the boy’s bunk while Tyler was off screwing Lindsey. The place was theirs for a while and Bill had been nothing if not the perfect gentleman. Didn’t so much as cop a feel. Instead, they lay so close that she could smell that night’s dinner—roasted wieners and baked beans—on his breath. They spoke in whispers, and the future they discussed was laughably optimistic in hindsight.
Bill wasn’t the college type and swore that he could instead land a job in the hardware store of whatever town academia took her to. The plan was to find a little off-campus apartment for the two of them and start their joined life as early as humanly possible.
Melanie wasn’t sure how that would’ve worked out, and wondered if their ambitious life plan wasn’t just an angst-y dream.
Because some sicko buried a hammer claw in his neck, I’ll never know.
The floorboard was rough on her fingertips as she traced the dark stain, hoping Bill might somehow feel it, wherever he was. She found it comforting to imagine that he could.
The shadow of a man passed by the boarded window.
Melanie saw the hulking outline creep by without a sound, and her jaw dropped low enough to scrape broken glass. She shook the paralysis off and got to her feet. Somewhere in the cabin’s gloom, floorboards creaked beneath shifting weight. She knew the sound well and dreamt of it often: someone was inside.
In a minute, there was a rattling sound that she recognized as the kitchen drawers.
He was opening them. Looking for a weapon.
The back door.
He’d come in that way and was fumbling for a knife. Had to be it. Across the way, the front door hung open, filling the decomposing building with natural light. Beyond it, a car door slammed.
Bats out of hell flew slower than she went for the exit, leaving shifting floorboards at her back.
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
She yelped and her t
eeth slammed into Chief Brady’s shoulder.
The policeman grabbed her and gave a gentle shake. “Ms. Holden. Why are you here?”
Melanie couldn’t organize her thoughts. They raced through her mind like fragmented images in a music video: Bill, bloodstains, creaking floorboards, Cyrus Hoyt, kitchen drawers, Morton, Woreley—
“What happened?”
“Someone was inside. They’re in there now!” Her voice was piercing as she pointed toward the cabin.
Brady looked more annoyed than concerned as he unholstered his weapon and headed for the door. “Stay here,” he said without looking back.
Melanie was groggy. Crawling back into bed and sleeping for the rest of the day felt like the only solution, provided her heart didn’t explode in panic before she could get there.
Brady reappeared less than a minute later, gun by his side. He shook his head and motioned toward their cars. “It’s clear,” he said as they walked.
“Then he must’ve gone out the back door as soon as he heard you.”
Brady kept walking forward, but his gait fanned outward so that he could see the other side of the cabin as they went. “If there was someone in there with you, my men are likely to pick him up.”
“How’s that?”
“Training exercise. They’re in those woods.” He lifted the two-way radio and ordered his guys to converge on the old campground. Gave specific instructions to watch for anyone who wasn’t supposed to be here. “Now, can I trust you to get back in your car and get out of here? I know you need to see this place and I’ll take you out myself once we’re finished.”
“Did I do something wrong, chief? I didn’t think I was breaking any laws.”
The chief looked distracted. His eyes were everywhere but on her. “Of course not. Like I said, I’m running an exercise right now that requires my attention.”
“More than chasing down a trespasser?”
She hadn’t been trying to get his attention but she had it. He looked at her the way she looked at her students when they tried sneaking into class once it was half way over.
“You know how often we’re chasing people off this eyesore? Horny kids, looking for a little alone time. Horny adults looking for a little thrill. Last month I caught a transient from New Haven living in that building there.” He pointed to one of the far off bunks. “Running people off this property is as common as a morning cup of coffee.”
“So that’s it, then? I’m crazy and I shouldn’t worry?”
“That someone was inside a cabin with you? No.”
She debated telling him about the watery footprint in her room as a means of justifying herself, but didn’t think that would work. This guy already had his mind made up, and in it she was crazy.
“And I never said you were crazy, ma’am.”
She didn’t know what to say so she just said, “terrific” and clapped her hands against her thighs.
“This place isn’t safe, is all I’m saying. By now, you’ve likely seen that for yourself. Been trying to have it condemned since I took this job, but it doesn’t belong to Forest Grove. No one wants to give it much thought because of that. Until, of course, it’s their kid who slices his hand open on broken glass. Then they’ll be asking me why I didn’t do anything about this demilitarized zone.”
“I had to come see it again. And someone walked right past that window while I was in there. I heard them fanning through the drawers.”
“Yeah.” The chief nodded. “And if it wasn’t one of my men, we’ll find whoever it was.”
“You’re a dedicated professional.” It was more sarcasm than was necessary, but the chief’s dismissiveness was insulting.
“Thank you, ma’am. As I was saying…I’m happy to be your personal escort on another day. After the way we, uh, met yesterday, I wanted to give you a little bit of space…which is why I didn’t drop by your place last night. Didn’t want you to think I was harassing you on your vacation.”
“This isn’t a vacation.”
“Right. Of course it’s not. I’m just extending a hospitable olive branch, Miss Holden. Wouldn’t take much to collapse these buildings, so I don’t want you creeping around on your own.”
“Creeping?”
“Figure of speech. There’s nothing creepy about you.” He gave her an awkward once-over that made her squirm. Once their eyes synched up, his widened like a kid caught cheating on his final.
“I did hear someone. And I don’t think it was a cop.”
“I’ll check it out,” Brady said and extended an arm in the direction of her car. “Now please…next time you want to come out here, I’ll take you myself. Day or night. Your choice.”
“But you’re making me leave now?”
“Yes, well, this is private property. And, again…training exercise.”
“Fair enough,” Melanie said. She had seen enough of this place to last the rest of her life.
“Thank you for understanding. I’ll swing by Desiree’s a little later on to see if there’s anything else I can help with.”
The idea of spending more time with Chief Brady wasn’t something to relish, but if he could help then it would be stupid to refuse him. The less time spent here, the better.
The chief watched her go as she headed back to the car.
He was lying about the training exercise—that much was obvious. First Desiree, now Brady. Was the whole town bullshitting her?
***
Brady watched the Holden woman drive off for the second time in as many days. Then he took his Glock out and pulled open the dilapidated cabin door while radioing his men.
“Maylam, Johnson, Donnelley, Galeberg,” he said into the handheld, “I thought I told you to get your asses to the campground. Double time it.”
A few crackling affirmations barked back as he belted the radio and swept the rooms for a second time. No way of knowing what the Holden woman had heard while she was poking around, but it wasn’t one of his men.
The jury was still out on her, anyway.
The cabin had been empty the first time he checked, and there still wasn’t so much as a hint that anyone else had been inside. Satisfied, Brady walked out into the morning air and glanced at his watch. Wasn’t even ten yet, and it had been one hell of a day. And it wasn’t getting better anytime soon.
After last night’s debacle with Trish, he’d gone for a drive. If she couldn’t be pleased, he could at least be of service to the residents he served. Show them that their new chief was a real Johnny on the Spot.
Like clockwork, the town lapsed into nightly catatonia around 11. Businesses closed and the streets cleared, leaving only cricket chirps and interrogative owls to fill the evening air. He drove to the outskirts, checking for parking kids, stranded motorists, or sleeping truckers.
That’s where he found the car.
An Audi. Completely abandoned. No sign of the driver. Traced it to one Vincent Robson of New Haven, Connecticut—70 miles southeast of here. It should’ve been an easy answer but, unfortunately for Forest Grove P.D., Robson’s parents were deceased and he was an only child. As much as Brady didn’t want to admit it, he had a missing college kid who withdrew two hundred dollars from the ATM at the store near his house yesterday afternoon. There were no signs of foul play around the vehicle, but it was strange enough to qualify as a suspicious circumstance.
He’d called New Haven P.D. to report one, but they weren’t so sure it qualified as an AT RISK case. All the same, he sent the information over to their office and hoped they might be able to connect him with any other people that might’ve gone missing over the same time frame.
He had yet to receive a response, though he hoped that meant they were conducting an investigation of their own: checking Robson’s apartment, reviewing ATM footage, and safeguarding his computer for a possible future analysis.
Textbook things.
He was going to have to check back with that office to make sure they were pulling their weight. In all probab
ility, the idiot came to take a peak at the infamous Camp Forest Grove and lost himself in the woods. That’s why his guys had been canvasing out here all night—Brady was certain they’d find some half-drunken dipshit shivering on a bed of pines.
While his men played forest rangers, Brady combed every square inch of the campground. Twice. There wasn’t as much as a used condom wrapper or fresh paraphernalia to confirm that Robson had been here.
He’d moved on to checking the woods when Melanie Holden pulled up. He should’ve been expecting her arrival and kicked himself for the oversight. A visit to this damn campground was the sole reason for her trip. He was batting a thousand when it came to her. It wasn’t enough that he’d made her feel uncomfortable twice, but he was certain he’d insulted her today with that creeping comment.
“Sometimes there’s no winning,” he mumbled.
Sergeant Maylam pushed his way out of the forest and called for Brady.
“You find something, chief?” he asked.
“Not sure. Just had a visit from that Holden woman. She thinks someone was skulking in there just before I pulled up. Let’s hit this place again.”
“Know what it could’ve been?” Johnson stepped heavy from the brush, rubbing brambles off his sleeve. “I ran into Henny Yurick while trawling our little piece of paradise. Old man had a handful of old and rusted cutlery.”
Brady laughed. Henny Yurick’s old three-room cabin sat right against the camp’s property line and the old coot had been caught pillaging the buildings for everything that wasn’t smashed beyond recognition. The guy found his way onto eBay about ten years back and started selling pieces of the camp as “Cyrus Hoyt memorabilia.”
Chief Sleighton had talked to him countless times, but it sounded like Yurick was trying his luck with the new management.
“You bring the knives back?”
Now it was Johnson’s turn to laugh. “I sure didn’t, chief. Told the old man to enjoy this one last plunder, ‘cause we are going to start cataloguing that shit.”
“No way. This is private property. Yurick can have as much of this junk as he wants. Sleighton tells me the owners haven’t been out here in over ten years. Tired of looking at this god-awful place. Anyway, coordinate with Maylam, I want all of you to give these cabins another look.”
Under The Blade Page 8
