Frenzy Page 2

  The game wasn’t totally lopsided. At one point Heath caught Will’s bishop napping and for a moment he unbalanced him, almost putting him in check. He had the feeling that it wasn’t something that happened to Will often. But in the end, Heath never had a chance.

  “Checkmate in three moves,” Will declared. “Do you want to keep playing?”

  Heath studied the board but couldn’t foresee the series of moves that would lead to his defeat. Still, he was fairly sure Will was telling the truth. “No, I believe you. Good game.”

  “You too,” Will said. Then, shutting the door on a rematch, he added, “See ya.”

  Heath started to get up from the table but was shoved back down roughly by two heavy hands on his shoulders. He craned his neck around and found an enormous teenager looking down at him. The kid dug his fingers into the cluster of nerves above Heath’s collarbone to show he meant business.

  An even bigger camper shimmied onto the bench alongside Will and introduced himself. “Hey, boys. We haven’t met yet. I’m Thumper. I’m just goin’ ’round gettin’ to know the newbies.” He sounded pleasant, but there was a look in his eyes that promised this wasn’t a social visit. Thumper, a hulking brute with long, greasy hair and the shadow of a goatee that framed a smirking mouth, probably weighed as much as Heath and Will combined. Heath thought that with the addition of a whistle around his neck it’d be easy to confuse Thumper for a camp counselor.

  “I know who you are, Thumper,” Will said, calmly transferring his chess pieces into the wooden case. “Your real name is Renny Thomas. You and your friend stay in the Oriole Cabin.”

  “That’s right. But call me Thumper. Or just Yes, Sir. Here’s the deal, Snow White—”

  “Snow White.” Will grinned. “That’s clever.”

  “Shut your cake hole,” Thumper ordered, but Will continued to smile. “This summer you and Goldilocks there”—he nodded at Heath—“are gonna be our runners. That means if one of us tells you to go get something, you get it. If you don’t, I’ll thump you, and then you’ll get it. We understand each other?”

  “Sure,” Will said without a trace of stress in his voice. “We understand what you’re saying, right, Heath?”

  Heath scowled. Inside he was furious. This was not the way he wanted to spend his summer, playing fetch for ­Neanderthals, but he couldn’t see any way out that didn’t end with a visit to the hospital. If it was one-on-one, he could fight back, but that’s not how bullies worked. They were cowardly. Cowardly, but effective. “Sure….” he muttered.

  Thumper said, “Great,” and started to rise from the table.

  Will, however, had more to discuss. “Hey, Renny, your dad is Carl Thomas, right?”

  Thumper’s smirk vanished. “You—you know my father?” He sunk back down to the bench.

  “Not personally,” Will replied. “But when I first arrived at camp, some of the kids told me all about you, Renny. They said some unflattering things, especially the ones who’ve been coming to Camp Harmony for a while. They really don’t like you at all. No surprise there—you’ve been ‘thumping’ on them since your ridiculous growth spurt three years ago.” Will was still packing his chess pieces as he spoke.

  Heath wanted to tell him to shut up before he got them both killed, but Will’s superhuman gall had rendered him speechless.

  His cabinmate continued. “I wanted to give you the ­benefit of the doubt, Thumper, so I did a little research on you. It’s amazing what you can find out about a person on the Internet. Did you know if you ask the camp director nicely, he’ll let you use his office computer? Great guy, that Uncle Bill. Not like your dad, who, from what I read about him online, doesn’t seem very nice at all. Your mom dropped you off at camp, didn’t she? I saw her in the parking lot helping you with your bags. I guess your dad was…detained.”

  Thumper slammed a fist down onto the picnic table, and a few of the unboxed chess pieces jumped, then clattered over onto their sides. “You’re going to keep your mouth shut about my dad, you understand me?” he roared. “You’re not going to say a word about him to anyone or I’ll—”

  “Here’s the thing, Renny,” Will interrupted, the temperature of his voice dropping abruptly from confident cool to ruthless subzero. The change was startling. “My friend Heath and I expect to enjoy a Thumper-free summer. You’re going to pick someone else to be your runners. I don’t care who, although I reserve the right to veto your choice. So you and your pal Floaties are going to leave us alone or the entire camp will know exactly what your father did. Do you understand me?”

  The kid behind Heath—Floaties, presumably—let go of his shoulders and lunged across the picnic table toward Will, but Thumper intervened and pushed his crony back. Floaties had a murderous look in his eyes, but he didn’t try for Will again.

  “Yeah, I get you.” Thumper’s fists were clenched and trembling on the tabletop. His knuckles were grinding against the weathered wood.

  “And see those two losers over there?” Will asked, pointing at—

  “Cricket and Dunbar,” Heath identified his friends. They were still arguing about the Ems, oblivious to his plight.

  “Yeah. I see the dweebs.” Thumper eyeballed the boys. “What about them?”

  “You’re going to leave them alone, too.”

  Thumper snarled like a dog that’d been teased just enough. “Fine.” He slapped the black knight off the table. “Just—just stay away from me.”

  Heath was dumbstruck at how easily Will had taken control from Thumper.

  “You got it, Renny,” Will said amicably. “Do what I said, and you and Floaties can expect a Will-free summer.” He smiled sweetly, but Heath caught a flash of something wicked flickering in Will’s pale eyes. It gave him the creeps, and for a moment he was more afraid of his cabinmate than he was of Thumper.

  The tamed teenagers left the pavilion quickly. Heath was fairly certain Thumper would leave them alone, but he could tell by the dark glare Floaties shot them as he glanced back from the trail that he might be trouble down the road.

  “That was something,” Heath said, exhaling in relief.

  “That…was chess.”

  “Why’d you call Thumper’s friend Floaties?”

  Will smirked. “Didn’t you notice the pale stripes on his biceps? Those are tan lines. The big idiot can’t swim, so he wears children’s water wings—inflatable floaties—on his arms whenever he goes to the lake. He’ll get in the water, but only up to his knees, even with them on. That’s how he earned the nickname.”

  “I’ve never heard the other campers call him Floaties,” Heath said.

  “Not to his face. Did you see the size of that gorilla? He’d kill them if they did.”

  “But you called him Floaties,” Heath pointed out.

  “That’s different.” Will grinned. His smugness was grating.

  “Please tell me you dug up some dirt on him, too?”

  “No, but Thumper will keep him in check. Renny won’t risk the other campers finding out his little family secret. He’s the alpha male of his cabin. Floaties won’t cross him.”

  Heath didn’t think that was necessarily true, but he was in a grateful mood, so he dropped the subject. “I know Dunbar and Cricket will appreciate what you did, so thanks for that. I bet they’ll—”

  “Let them know they owe me a favor.” Will stood abruptly, picked the knight off the ground, flicked off a bit of dirt, and placed it in the box. He gathered up the rest of the set, then slipped the compass into his pocket. “I’ll ­collect the book you owe me when I see you back at the cabin.”

  “Yeah, sure. No problem.” Heath watched Will stride away.

  After a moment Heath rejoined Dunbar and Cricket who’d come to a mutual consensus on which of the Ems had the cuter smile—Emily. Finally, there was peace in the Land of the Lovesick.

  Out of the cor
ner of his eye Heath saw something move. A bushy-tailed Douglas squirrel was inching its way across the ground toward an acorn that had fallen from a nearby tree. Heath took the sandwich out of his pocket, broke off a bit of crust, and tossed it in front of the squirrel. The squirrel considered it for a moment, its eyes shining wetly like little bits of black glass set into its sweet face. It crouched low to the ground, stretched out as far as it could, and grasped at the bread with one tiny paw. In the end it was too afraid to take it. The squirrel scampered empty-handed from the pavilion and raced up a tree, disappearing into the high branches. Heath put the rest of the sandwich in his pocket and forgot about it.

  Heath realized there was a small, metal plaque that had been screwed to one of the pavilion’s rafters. It was old and corroded to such a condition that it appeared camouflaged against the wood. On the plaque was a quote from Dr. Seuss: Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. Maybe that was true for most kids, but Heath was different. The things he’d been through in his short life had taught him that every second was a gift of priceless value. He thought of Will and wondered what kind of life he’d had. The boy was so observably different, and not in any way he’d seen before. What happened in Will’s past to turn him into such a cold, calculated thinker? Then again, maybe he didn’t want to know. Will’s mysterious threat against Thumper had worked, but it made Heath feel germy. Like he’d gotten too close to someone with an infectious disease. He’d keep an eye on Will. The thing that made him uneasy was he knew without a doubt that Will would be looking back.

  A faint, mournful howl split the air far off in the distance. It went on and on. At first Heath tensed—it sounded like a wolf—but then he decided it was probably just a dog. Hikers were always bringing their dogs on the trails, and if one became separated from its owner, that’d be a scary thing for a pet. Heath thought if he got lost in hundreds of acres of forest, he’d probably howl, too. There were wolves in the mountains, he knew that. Washington had a small population of twenty to thirty gray wolves, divided into five packs, and the Cascades were home to at least three of those packs. But wolves usually howled at dawn or dusk, rarely during the day.

  It wasn’t their nature to howl nonstop at the bright noon sun.

  Unless there was something horribly wrong.

  We are the Cootie Patrol!

  Avoiding all girls is our goal!

  If they get in your head, then eggs will they lay.

  As soon as they hatch, you just better pray…

  We are the Cootie Patrol!

  Avoiding all girls is our goal!

  AFTER LUNCH, Heath, Dunbar, and Cricket cooled off with a quick dip in the Dray River. They were in the middle of a record hot summer, and the water was warmer than a river stemming from the Canadian mountains had a right to be. But the Dray was shallow and slow, heated at a gradual pace each summer, like an earthworm basking on a sunlit sidewalk. When Heath and his friends were sufficiently cooled off, they started on the short hike to the horse stables, letting the sun dry them on the way. It was Tuesday, so, according to the schedule, activities at Camp Harmony were limited to riding lessons, archery, baseball, or ­making bleach-­bottle pigs and dream catchers in the craft hut. Heath would have preferred archery, but he was outvoted two-to-one for a simple reason: where there were horses, there were Ems. The twins, Emma and Emily Barnes, were budding ­equestrians who spent most of their time riding or grooming the camp’s six horses. Dunbar and Cricket were practically skipping as the trio followed the dirt path that wound through the camp’s center and ended at the gate to the riding arena where they were sure to find the twins.

  Heath took a deep breath of clean, pine-scented air and admired the majestic fir trees that rose mast-like toward the cerulean blue sky. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud to be spied, not even at the summit of the Cascades where they tended to flock like woolly sheep against the peaks. They’d had a run of great weather since the session started—­mornings cooled by the mist coming off the mountains; hot, sunny days, perfect for swimming; and chilly campfire evenings where on more nights than not, a fleeting rain shower would snuff the glowing embers long after the last overcooked marshmallow had slid off its stick and sizzled in the flames.

  The boys passed by the main lodge. The residents of the Blue Jay Cabin were practicing a play on the building’s wraparound porch. Judging from the cardboard whale and the boy with the fake beard and the umbrella harpoon, it was Moby-Dick. The campers were required to meet at the lodge every morning for the daily affirmation and announcements. It was also where they gathered for sing-alongs, talent shows, and cover during rainstorms. It was the heart of the camp and the only building that could fit all one hundred and thirty campers and twelve staff members comfortably inside. The other buildings on the grounds, including the resident cabins, spiraled in the clearing like a giant question mark, with the lodge in the center of the hook and the tail of the question mark pointing toward the Dray River. Farther out, fanning around the buildings, were the ball field, the teepees, an obstacle course, the health center, and the bonfire pit. The camp’s trails were well-maintained, and the layout was easy to navigate, designed to keep new campers from straying into the surrounding woods, where it was ridiculously easy to get lost. If there were two points the counselors liked to drill into the campers’ heads, it was stay on the trails and don’t go into the woods.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Cricket said, staring off at the green blanket of trees that covered the valley and mountain range except where the barren peaks poked through like great gray spearheads. “The woods don’t scare me a bit.”

  “They should,” Dunbar said, his tone foreboding. “This is Bigfoot country.”

  “Don’t listen to Dunbar. Bigfoot is just a myth.” Heath was worried Cricket might just be citified enough to believe Dunbar’s nonsense. Unfortunately, all he managed to do was set Dunbar loose on the topic.

  “A myth, huh? I bet neither of you has a clue that Washington is famous for having the highest rate of reported Bigfoot sightings in the country. Five hundred and thirty-­four to date. That’s a hundred more than the runner-up, California. And that doesn’t include the people who’ve seen Bigfoot but are afraid they’ll look stupid if they go public.”

  “Now why would they be afraid of looking stupid, Dunbar?” Heath said mockingly. “Could it be because the whole idea is crazy? A ten foot tall half-man, half-ape strolling through the forest, carelessly allowing himself to be seen by hundreds of people. Yet isn’t it strange that not one of those so-called eyewitnesses can produce a single shred of concrete evidence? No video? No photos? I could see that being the case maybe ten years ago, but not now when everybody’s got a camera on their phone.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Cricket, who seemed officially weirded out. “If there’s no such thing as Bigfoot, then what exactly are all those people seeing? Has to be something, right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Heath. “Some goofball in a Bigfoot costume, maybe? But it’s more likely they’re crossing paths with bears. Bears are big and shaggy—they fit the profile.”

  “Watch the news sometime, Heath,” Dunbar shot back. “Remember that hiker who got mauled last year? He was killed not too far north of here.”

  “I do watch the news,” Heath rebutted. “The reporter said it was a grizzly bear.”

  Cricket interrupted the discussion to point out a flash of red and yellow up in the boughs of a hemlock tree. It was a western tanager. A male, judging from the brilliance of his plumage. Heath thought it was ironic that something so luminous and delicate could flit so fearlessly through the big, bad forest. Then he remembered that even the songbirds had to be constantly vigilant or risk being shredded apart by an owl or hawk. Just because they made forest survival look easy didn’t mean that it was.

  “Grizzly, huh?” Dunbar scoffed as if the idea were preposterous. “So if it
was a bear, then how come they found the hiker’s guts spread out around the forest, his intestines decorating high branches like Christmas garland? Does that sound like something a bear would do?”

  Heath found the conversation more tiring than the walk. “Maybe the sparkly vampires did it. I’ve read Washington is crawling with them. Then they framed Bigfoot and let him take the bad press.”

  “Sure, make jokes, Heath. But think about this. Those woods run all the way to Canada,” Dunbar said. “That’s a lot of wilderness for a creature to hide in, even a big, murderous hominoid like Sasquatch. If you want to traipse around in there, go ahead. Be my guest.”

  Their conversation reminded Heath of the drama that had occurred back at the pavilion. “Speaking of aggressive man-monkeys…”

  Along the way, Heath let his friends in on what happened between Will and Thumper. “Good for him,” Cricket said. “It’s about time someone put that gorilla back into his cage.” Heath didn’t go into too much detail about the disturbing way in which Will dominated Thumper or that he suspected Floaties would be trouble down the line. There was no point in ruining such a perfect day.

  The trio cut through the tight alley between the boys’ bathhouses, brushing aside a spiderweb in their way (only after Cricket checked to make sure its architect had safely abandoned the web beforehand). They took a short march through a copse of Douglas fir trees and funneled out onto the archery range. Two dozen kids were trying their best to hit round targets mounted on bales of hay at the far end of the clearing. Another dozen campers had gathered around a tall, athletically built black boy named Sylvester, whose target was so loaded with feather fletchings that it looked like the rump of a turkey.

  Sylvester was one of those kids that had it all. His dad was the CEO of a major company, and Sylvester was being groomed to follow in his footsteps. Besides being rich and good looking, he was also an incredible archer with a slot in the Junior Olympics next year. He was putting on quite a performance; every bull’s-eye brought on a shower of praise and back pats.