Nine #3
I let out a low moan. “Right. Just talk. And get me to incriminate myself, so he can destroy what little is left of my reputation.”
“It can’t hurt to talk to him. Or, if you’re really worried, get an attorney to talk to him,” Jude suggested, his gaze flicked to his speedometer and then back to the windshield.
“With what money? I left Chicago with barely the shirt on my back.”
Jude slowed to a crawl and then made an even slower turn down a narrow road.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m pretty sure this is where Dave is staying,” Jude said. “He mentioned on the last Zoom meeting that he’s renting a place at the old summer campground while his house is being renovated.”
“I never went to summer camp,” I said. Mom and Dad couldn’t afford to send us off to camp in the summer. Besides, during high season, everyone had to pitch in around Koi. Everyone except Oscar, because he was the favorite.
We seemed to be leaving civilization. Trees grew thicker, and the other homes grew sparse.
I glanced at my phone and saw one bar. It seemed all the traffic had disappeared as well down this narrow two-lane road with no shoulders.
The late afternoon sun dipped behind a cloud, casting a shadow on the road, and a breeze fluttered the golden leaves above us.
We slinked by an old wooden sign at the side of the road: CAMP LAKE SANGUIS. Its red paint had chipped long ago and was barely legible, the red arrow all but peeled away. Not creepy at all.
“Where is he staying again?” I asked, uneasy. “A murder cabin in the woods?”
“Maybe. Mama’s been trying to get the owners to sell for years, I think.
” Phylicia Julian owned one of the most successful real estate offices in the county.
Jude’s father, Brad, was as bookish as he was, and worked as Phylicia’s office manager and tax accountant.
But Phylicia was the engine of that office.
Her photo was on every yard sign, and her name was on the door.
“Even Phylicia would have trouble marketing this one, I think,” I said, eyeing the overgrown edges of the road and another camp sign, the CAMP part of CAMP LAKE SANGUIS barely legible. “Who names a place Camp Lake Blood?”
“Don’t ask me,” Jude said.
“This is giving Friday the 13th vibes. Is this the camp where Jason drowned? Should we be worried about a maniac in a hockey mask?”
“That was Camp Crystal Lake,” Jude offered unhelpfully.
“Okay then, this has to be where the woman in white drowned.” I shuddered, remembering the old ghost story we’d scare each other with at slumber parties, about the dripping wet woman in the white dress who wandered roads near the lake at night.
“What is your obsession with drowned ghosts?”
“Just, if you see any wet strangers, don’t give them a ride.”
“Duly noted,” Jude said, not at all bothered, because he did not believe in ghosts. He was a man of science. He only believed in magic if anime was involved.
“Didn’t a girl go missing here once?” I asked, remembering an old story. Camp counselor, I think.
Jude frowned at the windshield. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “I don’t think they ever found her.”
I felt a little unnerved. Maybe being out in the middle of nowhere wasn’t a good idea when I’ve got a maniac with a hard-on for playground games stalking me.
Meanwhile, Jude slowed his Volvo to a crawl as he peered over his steering wheel. He put on his parking lights as a precaution, but there was no other car around in either direction for what looked like miles. “Ah! There it is.”
“There what is?” I asked as Jude pulled off the road and into what looked like bramble. Then, as the car tires rolled over dried leaves, we hit a dirt trail barely a car-width wide.
“Please buy me dinner first if you’re going to murder me,” I said. “I want to die on a full stomach.”
“I’m not going to murder you,” he said. “You’d kick my ass if I even tried.”
“I definitely would,” I promised.
Unease flared in me though as the overgrown branches of the trees near the road slapped my passenger side mirror. He slowed his already grandpa-using-a-walker-level speed. “We could go faster.”
“There’s no pavement,” he said as his foot barely grazed the gas pedal.
“You’ve got an SUV,” I groaned. “Also, you know the gas pedal only works if you press it.”
“Can you let a man live?” he muttered.
“Only if that man hurries up and drives.” We rumbled along the uneven path, and I watched as a squirrel scurrying along the path actually overtook our car.
“Why is Dave Simpson staying out here? Why is he staying at a haunted campground?”
“It’s not haunted,” Jude said. “It’s abandoned.”
“Same difference.”
The thick brush with the gold and brown leaves parted then, revealing a small clearing with a semicircular drive, a firepit at its center, two rusted lawn chairs, and a dilapidated cabin that looked like its porch might slide off at any minute.
“This cannot be where an executive is staying. I know Allen Gordon is cheap, but surely he pays his president better than this.”