Vacation

“No. Need to check something in my car.”

Everyone asking if I need some goddamn help.

This time Jack didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. All the watching and monitoring made him feel penned in.

He kept walking, picking up speed. More guards ahead? he wondered. He guessed he’d find out soon enough.

The parking lot seemed almost intentionally poorly lit. The two scrawny yellow lights left most of the cars in darkness.

He could find his easily enough.

Except he wasn’t really going to his car.

Instead, he walked to the back of the lot. To the service road.

And through the trees, twinkling like stars hanging too low in the sky, lights.

Jack moved into the sea of dark cars. He’d probably be as invisible here as the cars were.

He moved slowly through the lot.

He stopped by the service road entrance. Even without any real light here, he could see a sign with large painted letters:

SERVICE ROAD—PATERVILLE CAMP EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Jack walked past the sign.

The dirt road curved up, rutted with big stones that, in the pitch black, made him lose footing, his ankle slipping left and right. One twist sent a spike of pain into his injured right leg.

Not what the doctor recommended, he thought.

Maybe I should go back.

But the lights ahead resolved from twinkling stars to big bright lights. Lots of lights.

Then, as he walked up, sounds. Voices talking in the darkness. Employees blowing off some steam?

Until he could make out through the wall of trees a large building. A steady stream of white smoke snaked its way from the roof into the crystal clear night sky.

Must be where they prepared the food.

The voices louder. Laughs. The sound of someone giving an order.

Pretty busy considering how late it was.

The road’s angle grew steeper. This service area actually sat on a hill above the main camp.

From up there, you could probably see the whole camp.

He took a deep breath, the effort of the climb made harder by now-steady pain from his leg.

Soon, he’d be on level ground, at this camp within the camp.

“You can stop right there.”

Two men came out from the side. Jack hadn’t seen them at all. How long had they been watching him? Did they know he was coming? Or did they just hide in the shadows, waiting for the stray visitor?

“Yeah. Right. I’m—”

“Lost? Yeah, you’re lost, all right. You’re not in the camp anymore, friend. This is a restricted area. Didn’t you see the sign?”

The polite “sirs” of the previous guards had vanished.

One of the men took a step onto the path, directly in Jack’s way. Big guy, burly arms that his shirt—even with sleeves rolled up tight—was barely able to contain.

“Sorry. Had—”

What? He fished for something that explained all about going places where one wasn’t supposed to go.

“—insomnia.”

“Restricted area,” the man repeated. “You have to leave. Now.”

“Okay. Thanks. I will.”

Thanks? Stupid thing to say. Thanks … for what?

The other guard had also stepped into the clearing of the path, picking up a bit of the scant light.

Jack saw that this guy held an automatic rifle.

So, Paterville never had problems with the Can Heads outside?

Then why the heavy firepower? All the guards?

To keep guests from wandering onto the service road?

How safe was this place?

The two men in front of him didn’t say anything more, which made the noises from behind them even more pronounced. Laughs, voices, an engine starting.

“G’night, guys. Thanks for watching out for us.”

They didn’t respond to that.

Jack turned around and started down the hill.

Downhill now—always harder on his leg.

All his exercises couldn’t make up for the damage and pain that he’d have to live with for the rest of his life.

To the parking lot.

His eyes better adjusted to the murky blackness, and it seemed brighter.

He’d have to pass more guards on the way back to the cottage. His night walk would probably be a big topic of conversation with Ed Lowe and his team.

What was that guy up to? Walking around like that?

The parking lot, an open dirt plain, was at least flat. He had no trouble spotting the path leading back to the center of the camp.

He didn’t worry about greeting any of those guards on his return.

But he did worry about Christie; he hoped that he could slip back into the bed, under the cool sheets, his body with its slight sheen of sweat, and fall asleep without her waking.

Without her asking any questions.

In minutes, he was there, back in the cabin as if he had never left. He got into the bed, slowly lowering his head onto the pillow.

And though he had questions—things that confused him, things that he wanted to know more about—he quickly fell asleep.

22

Morning

Christie looked at her watch. Nearly ten A.M.

Not like Jack to sleep in. Though at home, after a rough week, he could sleep well past ten. And after getting wounded, getting up didn’t seem as easy for him.

But there was something else …

Last night. She had heard him slide out of bed. Thinking he was getting a drink of water. Going to the bathroom. Instead, she heard him slip on clothes and step outside their cabin, so quietly.

She didn’t turn over. Didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to be asking him all the time, You okay? Everything all right?

She had drifted off again, only waking when she felt the mattress tilt as he slid in.