The next morning, they met Raymond and Terry walking toward the lodge for breakfast.

  “We thought we’d get an early start,” Raymond told them. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand lukewarm waffles and coffee that’s been sitting out for more than twenty minutes. A happy stomach means a happy writing session, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t believe a word of that,” Terry cautioned them. “Raymond kept me up half the night chattering about all yesterday’s excitement. He’s wants to make sure we grab ringside seats in case more of the same happens today.”

  “Let’s hope not.” Darian grimaced. “Safe to say the workshop didn’t go the way any of us expected.”

  “We don’t blame you, Darian,” Terry hastened to assure him. “Your lesson was wonderful. I feel more motivated to write than ever. Still…I admit I thought about packing up and leaving. Raymond, here, talked me out of it.”

  “I told Terry we’d be crazy to run off less than halfway through the week,” Raymond confirmed. “And now that we know Argo is a cop, what is there to worry about? I, for one, feel much safer having you around.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Argo said. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t prevent what happened.”

  “How could you, though?” Terry asked. “Especially if it really was an accident, like the police chief said at dinner. Someone taking a prank too far.”

  “Surely you didn’t fall for that line of rubbish.” Raymond scoffed. “More like a hate crime, if you ask me. Of course the locals would want to cover that up.”

  Terry glanced around nervously. “At least whoever did it will be laying low. He won’t dare to come back up here for fear of getting caught this time. Don’t you think so, Darian?”

  “Terry, don’t be naïve,” Raymond continued before Darian could answer. “If we’re dealing with a hate crime, there’s no telling what could happen next. The killer could be hiding nearby, plotting another strike against this campground even now.” To Darian’s surprise, he didn’t seem at all dismayed by the prospect. If anything, he sounded a bit giddy.

  “Not too pleasant to think about,” Terry muttered, paling.

  “Darling, we’re writers. We have to face the unpleasantness in life so we can interpret it for the masses. That’s what great literature is all about it, isn’t it? Trying to make sense of the world and all the ugliness in it.”

  “How is your book coming?” Argo asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

  “Didn’t we tell you? We switched from fantasy back to science fiction,” Raymond told him proudly. “You know, like one of those flashy movies where the handsome captain flies off in his rocket shop with a sassy-tongued space babe. Well, in our version, the babes are all guys. We’re thinking it could be a major motion picture or even a cable series someday.”

  “Sounds great,” Darian said, amused.

  “Doesn’t it, though? We hope to finish the outline before we leave the workshop. I don’t suppose you have any show biz contacts, Darian?”

  “Not me. I teach at an isolated private school, a long way from Hollywood. You should ask Hammond.”

  “We tried,” Terry said with a theatrical sigh. “Guy is totally stuck up. He as much as rolled his eyes at us. He’s into the artsy side of things. All that angst and gloom! What’s wrong with good old-fashioned entertainment, though? That’s what I’d like to ask him if I could ever get a word in edgewise.”

  “Maybe Phillip has the right idea,” Raymond mused. “All this would be the perfect setup for a mystery novel. He still thinks the whole thing was faked, like some warped kind of dinner theater. Tasteless, true, but he has a point about murder being profitable. Not to mention Terry wouldn’t have to be anywhere near as scared.”

  Terry bit his lip. “Neither prospect is very comforting when you think about it.”

  Reaching over, Raymond took his hand and pulled him closer as they walked. “Don’t worry. We can still leave whenever we want to. And we will, if we have any reason to. Unless the police find a way to prevent us. And we’re both completely innocent, so why should they?”

  When they got to the lodge, they found Hammond waiting at the door to the buffet. Kaz stood beside him, trying to smile. His eyes still had a hollow, almost haunted expression.

  “Darian, glad you’re here,” Hammond said. “I want to talk to you and Kaz over breakfast. Aubrey’s set up a table for us in a back room, where the three of us can chat privately.” He directed a pointed glance at Argo, deliberately excluding him.

  “I’ll grab some breakfast with Terry and Raymond and catch you later,” Argo said with a wink. “I’ve got some stuff to do on my own anyway.”

  Smug and satisfied, Hammond waited until he’d walked away.

  “Come with me,” he said, beckoning to Darian and Kaz. “Both of you. Right now.”

  Chapter 11

  Hammond led Kaz and Darian to a back room that held a fold-out card table, three uncomfortable-looking metal chairs, and a few shelves stuffed with outdated office supplies. The table had already been set with the same disposable plates and plastic cutlery Aubrey used in the main dining area. As they settled down facing one another, Greg Hodge appeared pushing a wheeled cart.

  “If you want anything else, you’ll have to go out to the buffet and find it yourselves,” Greg muttered while he set out platters of toast and scrambled eggs, a pot of coffee, and a collection of fruit slices. “Aubrey’s sending me out to the sports shed as soon as I’m done here. Boarding the damn thing up once and for all. About time, too. Tried to tell him. People stomping in and out without supervision, someone was bound to get hurt.” He paused to glare at Kaz, who hastily averted his eyes.

  “I’m sure the police will be relieved to hear that.” Darian felt a stab of concern for Hammond. Did Greg need to allude to Cole’s unfortunate demise?

  Hammond, however, sounded more detached than traumatized. Darian wondered if the full impact of his loss had registered on him yet. Argo often talked about the deep shock affecting the victims of violent crime. “No doubt they’re doing all they can,” he said after clearing his throat. “And Aubrey is absolutely right to ensure the rest of the guests’ safety as well as preserve any possible evidence that might lead to the culprit.”

  “Oh, the cops searched in there all right.” Greg turned away without bothering to pour any coffee for them. “Didn’t find anything as far as I know. Not so much as a fingerprint.”

  “We have to be patient,” Kaz said. “They’ve got to uncover a clue eventually…right?”

  Greg didn’t respond, and Darian had no answer either. Hammond sat quietly, staring off into space. He waited until Greg had trudged off before he spoke again.

  “Safe to say the unfortunate events of yesterday left both of you shaken and uncertain,” he announced as he poured some coffee into a paper cup. His hand shook only a little as he passed the carafe to Kaz. “Obviously there’s no denying that the entire concept of the retreat has suffered a grave setback. However, I’m committed to moving forward with all the events we originally planned.”

  Kaz exhaled in relief. “So you’re not canceling the rest of the sessions.”

  “It’s not just a matter of economics, though of course that’s Aubrey’s fixation. It’s a matter of helping the writers who entrusted me with finding their voice. Their stories may not meet the standards of high art, but what they’re working on means a lot to them. That’s what I choose to focus on instead of the incalculable personal loss I have suffered. I hope I can count on both of you to support this ongoing endeavor.”

  “Of course you can,” Kaz said. “I’m sure Darian agrees that the show must go on.”

  The two of them gazed at Darian expectantly until he nodded. “Yes. I do.”

  “Great!” Kaz raised his cup. “Here’s to a fighting spirit. It’s not going to be easy for you, Prescott, and we can all see that. Still, you have so much to offer. Your example alone will teach them what it really means to be a writer.”

  “I see it the same way,” Hammond acknowledged sadly. “I’ve made mistakes in my life, but at least I can contribute to the world in some small, indirect way.”

  “Oh I think you’ve already accomplished much more than that,” Kaz said. “No one who’s read it will ever forget Highway to Him. You’ve made a mark that will outlast all of us.”

  Hammond fidgeted. “All my other novels bombed, though. In a way, my initial success proved a curse, as I’ve spent my whole life trying to recreate that happy accident. Can I tell you the truth? Being a famous writer didn’t work out the way I imagined it would. It was much lonelier than I expected, for one thing.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that.” Kaz smirked. “In the book, the main character seems content to be on his own. Sure, he finds love at the end, but I always felt he’d be okay even if that hadn’t happened.”

  “Well, that’s why he was a character. Not me. Not sure why I need to keep reminding people of that, especially my fellow writers.”

  Darian saw his chance to redirect the conversation onto a useful path and spoke up. “So the book really wasn’t autobiographical? I’ve definitely heard rumors to the contrary.”

  “Rumors? More like nonsense. I tried to make it exciting for readers. Maybe because my own life wasn’t terribly interesting, not even to me. That’s the whole purpose of fiction, isn’t it? You can retell your own story the way you wished it would be rather than the way it was.”

  “Well, I don’t write fiction.” Darian feigned chagrin. “I’m a scholar who’s expected to focus on literary criticism and history. As I mentioned, right now I’m working on the biography of an obscure author. I find value in it, but I have no illusions my work will change anyone’s life, much less many people’s perspectives, like yours did.”

  “Not every career leads to fame and glory,” Hammond said philosophically. “We need people like you, Darian, to document the continual struggles and occasional triumphs of the creative set. Anyhow, it makes sense you’d follow in your mother Ange’s footsteps. Wise choice, if you ask me. Teaching is a calling. Earn a steady salary with benefits. I could never do it, I’m afraid. Not a deskbound type.”

  “Thankfully, I do manage to wrench myself out of my chair every now and again,” Darian said. “What about you, Kaz? One could say you’ve found a way to do it all. You teach, research, and still find time to express yourself artistically. It can’t be easy, but it must be satisfying.”

  “Kaz doesn’t have much choice when it comes to pursuing an academic career,” Hammond said. “The only way to make a living as a poet is to be born into a trust fund.”

  Anger flashed in Kaz’s dark eyes. “And how do you know I wasn’t?”

  “Well, bully for you, if so.” Some of the humor faded from Hammond’s voice, and the muscles in his face tightened. “Some of us clawed our way up.”

  “If you had to live those early years over,” Darian jumped in, “writing the book and striving to replicate its success, even knowing the frustration that lay ahead, would you?”

  Hammond folded his arm over his chest and bowed his head. He went silent for a few moments while he considered the question. “Yeah, I guess I would. Highway to Him changed my life in a lot of ways, and not all of them were positive. Still, it’s something I’ll always be proud of. And like you said before, I’ll be remembered for it. That’s more than most people can say, even at the end of very long lives.”

  “Now you’re sounding like a poet,” Kaz said. “Do you believe we all experience one significant moment from which our future flows? That an entire life comes down to either a great mistake or a great triumph? Meaning if we could undo one or the other, we would all be in a different place right now?”

  Darian could imagine what Hammond was thinking. If he could relive the day before, perhaps he could have stayed with Cole and prevented him from meeting his death. Or maybe he would go further back and stopped himself from taking those early-morning drinks before the workshop started. Or further still, and walked away from his first taste of alcohol years before. Then again, would he ever have met and married Cole if he hadn’t lived out the sometimes unpleasant experiences that led him to write the book?

  “Well, that’s the tragedy of existence, isn’t it?” Hammond asked. “Once we recognize the mistakes we made, it’s too late to change a single one of them. Or, put a less elegant way, what’s done is done. Don’t bother feeling sorry for me. I’ve been through other losses. I’ll adjust to being widowed, too. And in any case, I didn’t ask you two here in order to throw a pity party for myself. I want to get this workshop rolling. Kaz, you never got to lead your session.”

  “True. Things got a little hectic, to say the least.”

  “All right, then, you’re on deck this morning. What were you planning to lecture about yesterday, before the curtain came down unexpectedly?”

  “I was going to talk about metaphor and description,” Kaz said. “We were going to analyze some samples from established poets, and a few prose authors as well, and then create and share our own attempts.”

  “Solid plan.” Hammond nodded. “Darian, you can take the first session off if you want to. Go back to your cabin and do some prep for the afternoon write-in. Safe to say we’ll all want to tweak our lecture notes, considering...you know.”

  “Prescott’s right. You went above and beyond yesterday, covering for both of us.” Kaz paused to dart Hammond an accusatory glance, but Hammond didn’t seem to notice. Darian thought it likely he’d forgotten most of his disastrous opening remarks, considering the altered state he’d been in. “Then you spent several more hours assisting the cops. You and Argo deserve some time to yourselves.”

  “Thanks,” Darian said. He didn’t bother to remind them that Argo had announced running some errands of his own, but in truth he had no objection to getting back to his long-neglected research. The printouts from Rory still sat in his luggage, the ghost of Wilfred Baine silently crying for his attention. “I don’t mind sitting in on your session, but if you really don’t need me…”

  “Everything’s under control,” Kaz assured him brightly. “Nothing at all to worry about.” With that, he turned to his breakfast.

  Hammond seemed content to do likewise. “Best to swallow our sorrows and carry on marching. At least, that’s what my grandpappy used to say.”

  Darian longed to inquire about the connection between Hammond’s real-life grandfather and the brutish zealot who tormented the youthful protagonist of Highway to Him. But he expected Hammond would only remind him again that the story was fiction, not autobiography, and decided not to shatter the peaceful mood finally settling over the table. Lapsing into an agreeable silence, he reached for a cantaloupe slice.

  For the rest of the morning, Darian immersed himself in reading, pondering, and taking notes. It took real effort to focus on Wilfred Baine’s nineteenth-century escapades and not drift off into speculations about Cole’s death and who might have caused it. Finally, he allowed himself a break from his studies. During those interludes he felt free to indulge his increasing curiosity about what happened while everyone—or almost everyone—at the retreat huddled together, writing in sync. He still couldn’t shake the image of Cole’s nude, impaled body and feared it would be burned into his consciousness forever. At the same time, the persistent vision raised questions he couldn’t answer. First and foremost, why was Cole naked? One obvious possibility was that he was going out to meet someone, either for another swim or for some other activity facilitated by nudity. If he’d been going to the lake, though, why not stay dressed until he got there? The path through the woods was strewn with stinging insects, scratchy twigs, and piercing brambles. He hadn’t worn shoes or sandals, either.

  The alternative was that he’d stripped down inside the cottage, maybe in preparation for a shower or a change of clothes, only to be lured outside and shot down accidentally or in an amazing feat of marksmanship. And though he hated to admit it to himself, Darian realized that almost all of those possible scenarios led to one main suspect—Kaz. After all, Kaz had been Cole’s skinny-dipping partner and maybe more. He was also comfortable with a bow and arrow and had no problem liberating archery equipment from the sports shed when the urge seized him.

  As for a motive, several sprang to mind. Jealousy would be the most obvious. Maybe Kaz suffered a humiliating rejection from Cole, or maybe he caught Cole enjoying a sky-clad tryst with someone else. Who, though? Greg Hodge seemed unlikely. That led him back to an interloper from town.

  Was it possible Chief Creed had stumbled onto the answer after all when he suggested a horrific prank taken too far? He wondered what Lanislaw’s take on the various theories might be. No doubt he was turning over the same ideas while he pretended to work on Kaz’s exercises in imagery and metaphor.

  Stymied and frustrated, he went back to the relative comforts of Baine family drama. From the articles Rory culled for him, he got the sense there had been plenty of spectacle a century earlier. It was a wonder Wilfred found any time to write, a quandary Darian could definitely relate to.

  An eventual glance at the wall clock told him lunch would be in progress back at the lodge. After the meal, it would be his turn to lead the workshop before turning the aspiring authors loose for the evening. Hopefully, Argo would be back from his mysterious errand as well. A quick text confirmed that he was on the road, five minutes away from the campground. Darian used a paperclip to mark his spot in the article he was reading, stacked up his notes and photocopies, and left the cabin.

  Instead of going to the lodge, he headed for the parking lot. He got there just in time to catch Argo pulling in. The tension building in his stomach and shoulders faded when he caught Argo’s smile through the windshield.

  “Missed you,” he said, wrapping his arms around Argo the moment he stepped out of the SUV.