Page 131 of The Last Close Call

The fence went from wire to wooden, and she tapped the brakes as she spotted the private drive up ahead. Joy checked her mirror for traffic and pulled over. She bumped along the shoulder and rolled to a halt.

ANGELHEART RANCH read the wrought iron sign above the gate. No more Camp Angelheart, and changing the name was a smart move. A ranch was more versatile, not to mention profitable. It could be used during the non-summer months for corporate off-sites, weekend retreats, weddings. The venue had been written up in articles—no doubt the result of someone’s PR efforts.

Joy got out. Her suede Uggs sank into the sodden ground as she trekked to the gate. It was locked, of course. She stepped onto the wooden fence slat and slung her leg over, then hopped down.

A chill darted down her spine as she looked around.

The road through the trees was familiar. She remembered the giant boulder on the left, then the gray windmill on the right as the road curved around. She walked briskly, keeping her cold hands buried inside her jacket pockets as she neared the main campus, which consisted of half a dozen buildings around an athletic field. The grass was yellow here, too, and the archery targets at the end of the field were shrouded with canvas covers.

Joy’s pulse picked up as she recognized the low limestone buildings. There was the dining hall, the craft hut, the main office with the flagpole out front. On the hill behind the office was a row of wooden cabins. Even though she hadn’t been here in years, she could still name all the cabins on the girls’ side, from Guppy Gulch all the way to Robins’ Ridge, where the sixteen-year-olds stayed.

Joy trekked past the craft hut and stopped at a wooden sign pointing to Campfire Hill. She gazed up the slope, interested to see that the steep, rocky path she remembered had been replaced by concrete steps—probably so kids like her wouldn’t sprain an ankle and end up in the infirmary.

Joy walked past the dining hall and then the outdoor chapel, which consisted of cedar-plank benches arranged in a half circle under a canopy of trees. Joy paused to look as the cypress limbs swayed gently in the breeze. Once upon a time, Joy had sat there under the dappled sunlight and felt close to God. She hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.

She kept walking and came to the office, where the camp director spent his time when he wasn’t teaching archery or giving campfire talks. Reverend Brett didn’t work here anymore. He was Reverend Leary now, and he’d moved up in the world. She stopped in front of the steps for a moment and then circled around to the back, passing the post office window where kids would line up for mail. At the back of the building, she found the screened-in porch that served as the infirmary. There was still a wooden sign above the door showing a little red cross.

Joy’s chest tightened. It looked different now. The mesh screens had been replaced by glass. Heart thudding, she approached the door. She tried the handle, but it was locked securely, and she felt a jab of bitter irony. She cupped her hand against the window and peered inside.

The screened-in porch was a sitting room now, furnished with sofas and rocking chairs. Joy remembered a row of gray cots covered in soft blue blankets. She remembered the rotating fan in the corner, the counter filled with glass jars containing cotton balls and tongue depressors. She remembered the smell of rubbing alcohol and the minifridge where Nurse Amy kept cans of ginger ale for homesick campers with queasy stomachs.

Joy remembered the cot on the end, where she’d spent the night—or most of it—beside Becca Foster, who had gotten sick after the Saturday picnic.

A silent, useless rage welled inside her as she thought about it now. A sprained ankle. What the hell? Joy should have been back at her cabin with an ice pack, not stuck in here for two full days. It was all a setup, a manipulation, and she’d been too naive to see it. She remembered Brett coming in, smiling as he paid Joy and Becca what he called a “house call.” He’d brought a deck of blue Bicycle cards, and he’d sat on the end of Joy’s cot and teed up a game of gin rummy.

You’re good, Joy.

She remembered the dark room that night and listening to the chirp of crickets over the rotating fan. She remembered the low squeak of the screen door and a whispered voice.

Joy, are you sleeping?

Joy, wake up.

Joy, come walk with me.

Joy, Joy, Joy...

“Hey.”

She jumped, startled, and glanced up. She was seated on the ground, staring up into a leathery brown face. The man wore green coveralls and work gloves and held a rake in his hand.

“That your Mercedes?”

She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry?”

“The car at the gate.” He looked her over with a combination of interest and disapproval.

“Oh.” She stood up and swayed slightly as the blood rushed to her feet. When had she sat down? And her cheeks were wet. She wiped them dry. “Yes, that’s me.”

“This is private property,” he said gruffly. “No visitors allowed.”

“Oh. Well, I was just leaving.”

She gave a brisk nod and walked past him, folding her arms in front of her as she started down the path.

“You a camper?”

She turned around.

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