Christie started running.
Not sensing anyone else with her. Though surely the parents had looked up, had seen the girl bobbing, her long hair held with a scrunchie that made it look like seaweed on the surface as her head went down.
The girl’s hands were above the water.
Then they weren’t.
Christie stormed past her son. She didn’t remove her sunglasses, her beach coverup.
The sprint—the fastest she had ever run.
Water churning under her legs, slowing her as it got calf high, then a dive, to find the exact spot the girl had disappeared.
A hunt because by now, the girl had indeed vanished.
Christie under the water.
Trying to open her eyes. But the silt, the sediment, made it impossible to see.
She didn’t surface. How long can someone be under? How much water could someone gulp before they’d die?
Kicking madly in the four feet of water until she felt something. The feel of skin, and Christie locked her arms around the girl’s body. She used her legs to shoot to the surface.
She held the girl like a sack of groceries, racing back to the shore.
The lifeguard was finally there, taking the girl from Christie, who for a second didn’t want to release the girl to such an idiot.
But she let the girl go, and the lifeguard moved fast, getting the girl to the shore, pumping her chest with his hands.
Christie’s joined the other onlookers.
The girl coughed. She spit out water. Her eyes opened wide as if waking up from a nightmare.
A few in the crowd applauded.
Applauded.
A woman that Christie hadn’t seen before. Nondescript, with a doughy belly that matched the roundness of her face.
“Thank you,” the woman said.
Christie squinted in the sun.
Lost my sunglasses, she thought.
“Er, it’s okay. I was glad… um…”
She wanted to say:
Where the hell were you? Why the hell weren’t you watching?
Instead, she said nothing.
She turned back to the girl, to the circle of people around her. The lifeguard grinning as if he had pulled her out of the water.
Even the girl was smiling. So much attention. Such a big adventure.
Eventually, she walked over to her dour-faced mother.
The lifeguard started back to his stand.
“Stay here,” she said to Simon. “Out of the water.”
She hurried to catch up to the lifeguard, still trailing the two teenagers.
“You weren’t watching,” she said at his back.
The boy stopped and turned to her.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. But he no longer smiled. Then:
“I was watching. I went into the water to save her.”
Christie stood her ground. “No. I went into the water. I was watching. I pulled her out.”
Then the smile returned.
And the lifeguard, shooting an extra display of grin and teeth at the girls, said, “Whatever.”
He turned and walked away.
Christie had only one very clear thought: the lifeguard wasn’t intimidated or scared at all.
As if he knew that what just happened didn’t affect him at all.
She turned and headed back to her beach towel, to Simon.
And felt—without really knowing—that people were now watching her.
* * *
Christie stood outside the small beachside shower, a wooden cabinet.
“Simon—you okay in there?”
She could hear him humming, playing in the streams of water.
“Si?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.”
From here, she could still see the beach. Now nearly empty, everyone hurrying to the dining room. The few people who remained must be on a diet, Christie thought.
A diet. Does anyone diet anymore?
But then, some people here did seem well-fed. Almost fat. Guess if you ate enough of the soy hybrids it would add some pounds.
A voice from behind startled her.
“Your son in there, Mrs. Murphy?”
She turned to see Ed Lowe, smiling, sunglasses hiding his eyes, dressed in khakis and a plaid collared shirt with his name plate and the Paterville logo.
“Yes. He got so sandy.”
Lowe’s head bobbed, looking like a blind man behind such dark shades.
“I heard what happened down at the beach.’
“Yes.”
Christie expected Lowe to thank her for helping the girl. Already she was summoning an appropriately dismissive reply.
But that’s not what he said.
“My lifeguard said you were upset.”
For a moment, she didn’t know what to say.
“I was. I mean, he—”
She heard the shower turn off.
“Jim saved that girl. I just wanted to see what was wrong.”
She took a breath. “I saved that girl, Mr. Lowe. I—”
“Mom! Mom, I have soap in my eyes!”
She turned away from Lowe. “Turn the water on again, honey. Get your face under there.”
“Owww. Okay!”
Back to Lowe.
The smile remained on his face.
“You were saying?”
“I pulled that girl out. Your lifeguard was too busy flirting.”
A nod from Lowe, but no loss of his smile.
“Boys. They do like to flirt. Still, he did the resuscitation pretty well, no?”
The conversation seemed surreal. Christie didn’t know what to say. No apologies? Nothing about getting the lifeguard to look at the water and not the babes?
The shower door opened.
“Thanks, though, for what you did down there. Just wanted to tell you that personally.”
Lowe feigned a look down to his watch.
“Whoa—got to do the midday announcements soon. Best get ready.”
A look from him down to Simon. A hand patting her son’s head. “You, too—don’t want to miss lunch.”
“Yes,” she said, then put her own arm around her son. “C’mon, Simon, let’s go get dressed.”
“See you there,” Lowe said.
Christie nodded, and amid the blazing splotches of sunlight and shade she walked steadily back to the cottage.
24. Dinner
In the afternoon, sitting in the golden sun with Jack, Christie didn’t mention anything about her talk with Lowe, about what happened.
It was just good to see him begin to enjoy this.
But later, on the way to dinner, she did tell him about the girl, the rescue—but she cut off any questions, looking at their kids as they walked to the Great Lodge.
“It was just a little strange,” she said quietly.
“You saved the girl. What was with her mother?”
“Don’t know.”
When they got to the same table they sat at the night before, the Blairs were already there.
“Hey, guys,” Tom said. “Good day at the beach?”
Christie shot a quick glance at Jack, then: “It was beautiful.”
“And tonight…” Tom looked at his wife as if this was his gift to her, to the kids. “Fireworks! When was the last time you saw fireworks?”
Simon, holding his knife and fork as though the food couldn’t get here fast enough, spoke. “I’ve never seen fireworks.”
Tom laughed. “Then you are in for a treat.”
Which is when Christie noticed something. Tom all excited, thrilled. Smiling, happy. His wife, this woman who took over the family, the kids… so quiet. Had they had a fight, a disagreement over something?
Not on the same page.
But then, are Jack and I?
Hope we don’t look like those two.
“Meet you down there after eats? Get a good spot up close?”
“Sure,” Jack said.
Tom leaned across the table, low
ering his voice. “And I’ll bring… y’know.”
The servers arrived with oversized plates of what looked like a stew. And then actual bread. Small brown rolls. A real rarity these days.
Simon grabbed one off the platter before it even touched down. He opened the roll, and spooned some of the stew in.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to, um, put the stew in the roll,” Christie said.
Jack laughed. “Let him eat it the way he wants to.” He picked up a roll. “They must grow their own wheat somehow. Or something like wheat. Amazing.”
Another family, with a pimply-faced boy, came and sat down at their table with them. Christie said hi, smiled at them.
They nodded and said hi back, but didn’t seem interested in any getting-to-know-you chat.
Fine with Christie.
Soon, the whole hall quieted as everyone dug into the food.
Between bites, she looked around. Then to Jack. The room so quiet as everyone ate.
Hungry people.
Her back to the podium, she didn’t see Lowe arrive, and then was surprised by his booming voice.
“Good evening, Paterville families!”
Like a Sunday congregation, they chanted back. “Good evening!”
“Hope all of you enjoyed this amazing day, and now some great camp food. Got a few special announcements for you…”
Christie looked across the table. Kate picked at the stew, studying it.
The examination over, she took a big forkful of it.
“Any families leaving us tonight, be sure to check out with us at registration. We’ll make sure all your charges are correct and we even”—he looked over Shana—“have a special good-bye present from all of us at Paterville.”
Shana seemed less formidable tonight. Her midsection covered, though the shirt’s buttons strained against her breasts.
That is one mighty… distraction for an assistant, Christie thought.
She resisted the temptation to look over and see if Jack was watching the battle of buttons and boobs.
“Tonight’s the big fireworks…”
Ed paused for the whistles and clapping.
“Now, enjoy the rest of your meal and we’ll see you down at the lakeshore for the big show!”
She and Jack turned back to the table.
The kids had finished their meals. Servers appeared with what looked like an icy sherbet. No ice cream, with dairy being so rare, but ice probably, some sugary flavoring.
Simon grabbed a cherry-red bowl, Kate a lime-colored one.
Christie took a few more bites of the stew.
When the sherbets had also vanished, she smiled at the Blairs and the other family sitting grimly near them. She looked at Jack. “All done?”
Jack nodded, and they got up and headed out of the dining hall.
SIEGE
25. 8:46 P.M.
Night.
Everyone had gathered down at the lakeshore, all the Paterville families waiting for the fireworks to begin.
A guard, Jay Fergus, walked along the perimeter of the fence.
He thought of the kid he had chased the night before. Kids don’t get the danger that’s out there, he thought.
Fergus had seen that danger up close. Like the night the Can Heads attacked his house where he and his family used to live. Good thing he had stocked up on weapons and ammo.
Still, all that firing, the kids, his wife screaming like a crazy person behind him.
Enough to make anyone a little insane.
The bodies of the Can Heads piling up around the house, as Fergus ran from front to back, holding them off.
Like the fucking Alamo.
A few, he recognized. The old police chief, nearly unrecognizable but still with that jowly face, only with more skin sagging from his neck. His clothes tattered, spattered with red.
Fergus had initially turned down Ed Lowe’s offer.
To be penned up in here.
Taking care of guests.
But that night…
That night convinced him.
In the end, they got so close that he could barely get rounds off. A few times he had to smash the butt of his gun into their heads, sending teeth and bloody drool flying.
When it was over, Fergus stood on his porch and sobbed.
He walked back into his house a changed man.
His wife said nothing. The two little kids kept crying.
But no one said a fucking thing.
Because he was a changed man.
Now Fergus walked the well-worn trail around the perimeter of the camp. Each night the same damn thing. Soon he’d pass Billy Kemp, another guard moving in the other direction.
Billy usually with the stench of cook’s moonshine. The stuff burned like gasoline in your gullet.
The stuff worked for Billy. Cook’s booze got the job done.
Cook.
To call that fat load, the guy who used to work at—
“’Sup, dude?”
Billy appeared early. Hustling too fast along the perimeter. What good was doing this walk if you didn’t actually take the goddamn time to look at the fence?
“Nice and quiet, Billy. You?”
Same routine every night.
Billy burped. A full belly, and a good pint or so of white lightning in his gut.
He slurred the words. “Same here.”
Careful, Billy, Fergus thought. How long would Lowe let him go on like this? He might be under the radar now. Couldn’t last forever, though.
Drunk guard. Puts us all at risk.
Billy walked past him, his automatic rifle dangling loosely when Fergus knew it should be held at a 45-degree angle. Didn’t the asshole ever take any gun safety courses?
Good thing it wasn’t Billy who had stumbled upon the kid. Probably would have blown the little shit’s head off.
Then he would have made a joke.
Look, roadkill!
Fergus kept walking, looking the fence up and down. Unlikely anything would even come close. The outer fence electric, the inner fence taller, with two feet of razor ribbon at its top.
This camp is a fucking fortress.
Nobody gets in, he thought.
He heard a blast, the fireworks about to begin.
* * *
Tom Blair gave Jack a nudge. Everyone’s eyes turned upward, waiting.
“Want a swig?”
“My head’s still ringing from last night.”
“I hear you—stuff can be painful.”
Tom took a gulp, then nodded at the beach full of people. “It’s like the world is still the same, hm? Families, fireworks…”
Jack nodded in the dark. “Yeah. But it isn’t.”
Christie stood near Sharon, the kids close to the water’s edge. Jack enjoyed talking with Tom. Nothing about work. But he didn’t think Christie enjoyed the quiet company of his wife, Sharon.
Then, as if reading Jack’s mind, as if he had to spoil things…
“You check out the security here? I mean, being a cop and all.”
“I’ve looked around. Fence looks secure. Lots of armed guards.”
“Seen the cameras?”
“Hm?”
“They’re in the trees. All over the camp. I just happened to spot one. Then I saw others. Way up.”
That was something Jack should have spotted.
“Guess they’re useful.”
Another swig for Tom. When he extended the bottle again, Jack took it. Changing his mind, and wanting that burn.
“Sure. They take their security seriously here.”
“Looks that way.”
Each took another swig.
A few silent moments.
“Come on,” Tom said. “Let’s get this show started.”
And then a single rocketing yellow-white streak flew into the sky and exploded into a dazzling explosion of sparks.
The crowd cheered.
* * *
Jay Fergus came to his turnaround point, just
in time to see another guard, Jackie Weeks, hitting his. A casual wave in the shadows, as they both turned and started their slow, gradual walk back along the perimeter.
Tedious work. No wonder so many guards drank. Nothing but the bug sounds, the occasional creaking of a tree limb bending if there was a wind.
You had to force yourself to keep your pace slow.
Billy Kemp would be coming back this way as well. The jet fuel in his gut making his walk a snaky thing on the straight path that ran beside the fence.
Fergus looked up.
Fireworks starting for real.
In their glare, he could see Billy stumbling along.
Christ, what a freakin’ mess. Ed Lowe should can his ass.
Put him outside. See how he likes it out there.
And now—closer to Fergus.
A big explosion boomed from the lake.
Then, in the quiet, something new.
A rattling.
From real close.
A rattling. From the fence.
Fergus looked up.
Nothing at first. Not without a flashlight. Flashlight killed your night vision.
Best not to use it.
But on a moonless night it was hard to see anything except when the skies lit up.
His eyes moved up the fence—a big flash of light—and he did see something. A dark shape at the top. Like a sack or a bag? Resting right on top of the tight coiled of razor ribbon.
Thoughts came quickly to Fergus.
Whatever it was should have shorted the outer fence. Made a connection. Shorted the fence out, triggered an alarm.
What the hell was it? He started to reach for his flashlight.
Kemp came stumbling toward Fergus, oblivious. Fucking oblivious.
Hand on the flashlight.
But there would be no time to get it out, unclip it from the belt, turn it on, aim it.
A bunch of smaller explosions echoed in the woods. No light from them.
So many things had to happen to get the flashlight on.
None of which could happen. Now. When there simply was no time.
* * *
A big ooooh! erupted from the families.
Jack saw the light of the fireworks reflected in all the faces looking upward.
A breeze blew off the water. Chilling. Gooseflesh rose on Jack’s arm. Christie leaned into him. He put his arm around her.
The kids nearby, heads tilted up.
For the next few seconds, Jack just enjoyed the show.
Vacation Page 13
