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They leave the clearing, taking a path through the redwoods. The massive, ancient trees never cease to amaze the manager—one of the reasons why he took the job, even though it pays so little. Today, however, he’s confident his fortunes will change.
He knows the path by heart and takes it only as far as the nearest campsite that’s not occupied by Red Herons. A large family with lots of toddlers running around in diapers. He makes sure to keep the campsite, and the people there, in sight, because he suspects it’s not a good idea to go any deeper into the woods alone with this young man.
“If you’re worried about us cleaning up the campsite,” the kid says, “I promise it will be done.”
“I didn’t get your name,” the manager says.
He smirks. “Anson.” The smirk is so blatant and broad, it’s clear that this isn’t his real name.
“Awfully young to be in charge of all these kids, aren’t you?”
“Looks are deceiving,” he says. “I got the job because I look closer to their age.”
“I see.” He looks down at the young man’s left hand. “What’s with the glove?”
The kid holds up his hand. “What’s the matter? You have a problem with Louis Vuitton?”
The manager notes that the fingers of that hand don’t seem to move. “Not at all. It just seems like an odd accessory for a camping trip.”
The kid puts down his hand. “I’m a busy man, Mr. Proctor. It is Proctor, isn’t it? Mark Proctor?”
The manager is caught off guard that this kid knows his name. Most people who book campsites at Redwood Bluff barely know he exists, much less know his name.
“If it’s about payment,” the young man says, “we already paid in full, and we paid in cash. I’m sure that’s better than most people.”
The manager decides to get to the point, because he’s beginning to feel that the longer he draws this out, the more likely this kid will find a way to squirm off the hook.
“Yes, you did. One problem, though: I did some checking, and there is no Camp Red Heron. Not in this state or any other.”
“Well,” says the kid in a slick, condescending tone, “you obviously haven’t been looking in the right place.”
Mark Proctor will not be mocked. “As I said, there is no Camp Red Heron. What there are, however, are reports of a gang of renegade Unwinds. And one of them is an AWOL cop killer named Mason Michael Starkey. The picture looks an awful lot like you, ‘Anson.’ Without the red hair, of course.”
The boy only smiles. “How can I help you, Mr. Proctor?”
Proctor knows he’s in the driver’s seat now. He’s got this Starkey kid by the short hairs. He gives the kid back his mocking, condescending tone. “I would be shirking my civic responsibility if I didn’t turn you and your little menagerie over to the Juvenile Authority.”
“But you haven’t done it yet.”
Proctor takes a deep breath. “Maybe I could be persuaded not to.”
He has no idea how much money these kids have, or where it comes from, but clearly they have enough to keep their little charade going. Proctor doesn’t mind relieving them of some of that cash.
“All right,” says Starkey. “Let me see if I can persuade you, then.” He reaches into his pocket, but instead of producing a billfold, he produces a photograph. He deftly flips it in the fingers of his ungloved hand like a magician presenting a playing card.
The picture is of Proctor’s teenaged daughter. It appears to have been taken recently, from right outside of her bedroom window. She’s in the middle of doing her evening aerobic exercises.
“Her name is Victoria,” Starkey says, “but she goes by Vicki—did I get that right? She seems like a nice girl. I sincerely hope nothing bad ever happens to her.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No, not at all.” The picture seems to vanish before Proctor’s eyes as Starkey moves his fingers. “We also know where your son goes to college—he’s there on a swimming scholarship, because you certainly can’t afford Stanford on your salary, can you? It’s sad, but sometimes the best of swimmers have been known to drown. They get a little too sure of themselves, from what I understand.” Starkey says nothing more. He just smiles with false pleasantness. A bird high above in the redwoods squawks as if amused, and a toddler in the nearby campsite begins to cry, as if mourning the loss of Mark Proctor’s dignity.
“What do you want?” Proctor asks coldly.
Starkey’s smile never loses any of its warmth. He puts his arm around Proctor’s shoulder and walks them back the way they came. “All I want is to persuade you not to turn us in—just as you suggested. As long as you say nothing about us—either now or after we’ve left—I can personally guarantee that your lovely family will remain just as lovely as ever.”
Proctor swallows, realizing that the sense of power he had only a few moments ago was nothing but an illusion.
