Baby steps, he reminded himself as he grabbed two of the lighter bags and followed Argo out to the car. Less pessimism. That was the way forward. Hopefully, any problems that came up would melt away as easily as winter snow on a balmy summer day.

  An hour later, after a quick inventory of their luggage, they were off. Argo drove, coaxing the SUV slightly over the speed limit. Darian gazed out the window, enjoying the lush scenery that flashed past them. What a difference from the icy gray winter and the muddy spring they’d just lived through. All three seasons he’d spent at Birchwood so far had been further marred by Darian stumbling across several dead bodies. Today, rich green leaves fluffed thick rows of trees while the sun blazed white-hot in a clear robin’s-egg sky. Briefly, he thought about Florida, but not with the usual touch of homesickness or sense of loss. He realized that at last, the northern climate was beginning to feel like home.

  On the way, they discussed Hammond’s novel. Argo, slightly older than Darian, had bought it soon after its initial release, though the writing hadn’t impressed him enough to read it all the way through or to hang onto his first-edition copy.

  “What was so controversial?” Argo asked. “Maybe I stopped reading too soon. Was it really that hot?”

  “Not by today’s standards. But the main character went on one mind-blowing road trip. He really did it all.” Darian ticked off some of the more memorable scenes on his fingers. In the space of two hundred pages, Hammond’s protagonist had seduced a large number of men, including some who were supposedly straight and even married. He’d also scammed more than one of his conquests out of money in order to continue his quest for fulfillment.

  “I’ve never liked road trip stories,” Argo admitted. “Besides, I couldn’t get past the first couple of chapters, with that narrow-minded family of his.”

  “The beginning’s rough, for sure, but the story improves from there. You should dive in again. You might like it better now that you’re in a different place yourself.”

  “Nah. When I read a book, I want to escape, not revisit the kind of problems I see every day on domestic violence calls and stuff.”

  “Understandable. Just throwing the idea out there.” Darian could see how the first few scenes might prove unpleasant for Argo—and a lot of others—to read. After being outed and attacked by his intrusive, fanatical family, Hammond’s main character barely escaped his small Southern town alive. Seducing truckers and traveling salesmen in exchange for rides, he went on to hit all the gay hot spots of the era—Provincetown, Miami, New York City, and finally San Francisco, where he found lasting love. Along the way, he experienced every form of sexual experience available to two guys—or sometimes more—in every possible setting from bus stations to upscale art museums. Not until he moved in with a troubled ex-member of a tantric sex cult did he find peace in a simple, existential life.

  Aside from its notoriously explicit descriptions and the main character’s unapologetically antihero personality, the book stimulated outrage because of its title, which implied a religious dimension to his overtly carnal pilgrimage. Of course, that made sense, given the protagonist’s background. It also made sense for Hammond to play up that theme to increase outcry against his book and thus drive sales. The strategy worked. The book became a sensation. His two follow-up novels were milder romances, though still hot enough, but hadn’t sold nearly as well. Hammond had disappeared from public view some years earlier.

  “Do you think the book was autobiographical?” Argo asked. “I mean, Hammond must be one messed-up dude if he really did come from such a screwed up family.”

  “He’s always claimed the story was strictly fictional, at least in public. However, he also avoided interviews and didn’t reveal much about his past. So it’s anyone’s guess.”

  “Can’t blame him for laying low. From the parts I read, he’d be opening himself up to some lawsuits based on the way he depicted his family members and people in his hometown. Especially the preacher.”

  “Yeah, that character was some piece of work, wasn’t he?” In the book, the family’s minister had offered to cure the main character’s so-called deviancy with some methods that seemed unorthodox, to say the least. “That part seemed far-fetched, but life often does.”

  “Yeah,” Argo said, grinning. “Look at us, for example. One year teaching at Birchwood and you’ve already found more bodies on the campus than most people do at the county morgue. Couldn’t make that up and expect anyone to believe it.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Darian grumbled.

  “Well, life throws us some curveballs now and then, for sure. We’ve dodged them all so far.” Argo shrugged. “Getting back to the book, I wonder. You’d know more about it than I would, being an English teacher and all, but don’t most novels start with some kind of personal experience? I mean, a writer usually starts with something that happened to him, right? Trying to make sense of it?”

  “The story is told in the first person, but that doesn’t necessarily mean much. I always have a few students in my classes who demand to know why Edgar Allan Poe wasn’t thrown into prison for whacking his wife with an axe and walling up a dude in his wine cellar. They don’t always pay attention to my lecture about unreliable narrators. Still, with books like Highway to Him, it’s fuzzy. Anyone reading those passionate descriptions can see it’s based on genuine emotions, even if he took some liberties with the details and characters.”

  “Probably a safe bet,” Argo agreed. “Maybe you could ask him at the retreat.”

  “From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t like to answer questions about his real past. He’ll talk about writing technique, inspiration, and the future of publishing as we move into the 21st century. But that’s about it.”

  “Can’t blame him. Who’d give away their deepest secrets, even if people are paying you? They could even steal his ideas and use them to make money.”

  “I suppose, but contrary to popular belief, idea theft isn’t as big a problem as it sounds. We all interpret our life events differently. Two people could live through—or hear about—the same experience and get something totally different out of it. What one of them wrote would most likely not even resemble the other person’s interpretation.”

  Argo mulled that over. “I wonder if I should try my hand at writing my life story, like Lanislaw is doing. I could call it Confessions of a County Sheriff.”

  “Yeah? You have a red-hot road trip to reveal to the world? Should I be jealous?”

  “Nope. I told you, I’m not into travel stories. Or road-trip hookups. Going on a vacation with you…well, that’s a different story.” Argo took his right hand off the wheel long enough to squeeze Darian’s fingers. “Still, I don’t feel like I’ve done enough interesting stuff to write about just yet. Maybe when I’m old. You can help me edit.”

  Darian was touched that Argo envisioned them spending their old age together. “I’d be happy to,” he said.

  They both spotted the exit sign at the same time. “Last chance to stop until we get to the campground,” Argo observed. “We should probably get some gas before we head for the hills.”

  “Fine with me,” Darian said, checking his watch. “We have plenty of time.”

  Already, he was feeling more relaxed about life in general, and he sensed that Argo was too. This trip had been a good idea after all.

  Chapter 2

  They parallel-parked on a main street that was almost a clone of the one they’d left behind earlier. A mix of red-brick Victorian buildings and vintage glass-fronted shopfronts offered antiques, household goods, and hardware. Fortunately, the lone convenience store featured a row of reasonably modern gas pumps, though payment had to be made in person at the front counter instead of by swiping a credit card outside.

  “Probably a ploy to sell candy and lottery tickets,” Argo said as they walked inside. Darian nodded in agreement, but he couldn’t really blame the store’s proprietors. He doubted business was hopping in such a small, isolated berg.

  The store did in fact have a few customers. All of them were men. Two stood at the counter, buying assorted snacks and soda, while three others huddled by the coffee station. Darian noticed right away that something was off. The back of his neck prickled, much the way it had on that terrible night when Argo had been shot in a similar store during a botched hold-up. Beside him, Argo’s steps also slowed. He’d picked up on the tension, too.

  What they’d walked in wasn’t another robbery, he realized. It was something much more insidious but perhaps equally dangerous. The guys by the coffee machine, all of them in their mid to late twenties, were snickering and pointing at two older men who were checking out. When one of the group affected a limp-wristed pose and began to speak in an exaggerated, high-pitched voice, the others burst into nasty and vaguely threatening laughter. The customers, though they must have been aware of what was happening right behind them, kept their gazes rigidly focused on the transaction and the cashier as they collected their receipt and left. The mockery and coarse laughter continued for a few moments after the door closed with a jingle. Then the three thugs left, too.

  Darian saw the flush of rage on Argo’s jaw and neck as he strode up to the counter and handed over his credit card.

  “Thirty bucks on pump two. Is there a problem over there?” he asked, tilting his head toward the coffee machine, now deserted.

  The elderly clerk flashed a row of crooked teeth. “Nah. The guys are just having a little fun. We attract some undesirable tourist traffic, as you probably figured out when you spotted that pair.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “There’s this campground about half an hour north of here. Used to be family friendly. Scout troops, sleepovers for school kids, and so on. Then some guy from out of state bought it.” He screwed up his wrinkly face in distaste. “Now you could say it’s downright unnatural, what goes on up there.”

  “Yeah? What makes you say that?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish anyone harm, not even that looney bunch. We try to mind our own business down here, but we’d prefer they stay out of our town. They can just go up there in the woods, do their thing, and keep away from us normal people. Am I right? Live and let live, but from a distance.”

  Argo feigned an interested smile. “I assume your friends over there would act rough with them if they don’t respect those boundaries?”

  The clerk shrugged. “Well, just between us, it’s happened. Nothing too bad. Spray paint on their buildings. A little sugar in their gas tanks. We do sell packets right here in the store, but it’s not like you need to show ID to buy it. No one’s fault if a customer bought some, tripped, and spilled it in some nancy guy’s car, right? Accidents happen.”

  “You don’t say. Speaking of IDs, here, let me give you mine.” Argo reached into his pocket and tilted his badge. The clerk’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny throat.

  “Oh, so you’re a cop? Hope you don’t have any reason to think anything illegal’s going on here.”

  “Well, that’s the thing about law enforcement. You hear tips in the strangest places, but even so you’ve got to follow up on them. Including rumors about harassment and trespassing. You don’t know about anything like that, do you?”

  “Nothing I know of. In fact, most local people keep away from that place, except freaks who are into that kind of thing. Can you imagine? Guys running around naked together. Enjoying themselves out in the open, if you know what I mean. Frightening away the wildlife.” He handed Argo his gas receipt. This time he didn’t smile. For the first time he seemed to notice Darian standing behind Argo. “Have a nice day, fellas.”

  Darian tried to lighten the mood as they walked back to the car—or stomped, in Argo’s case. “I’m against scaring animals, but I gotta admit, the rest didn’t sound too bad to me.” He watched Argo slam the fuel nozzle into the SUV and pump the gas with a grimace.

  “Those creeps had better keep their distance from the campground,” Argo said. “I might be on vacation, but I can still put on my sheriff’s hat if I need to. If I find out anyone was denied service or pushed around in any way, I’ll be back and they won’t like it.”

  “It does suck,” Darian agreed. He’d seen much worse displays of homophobia in Florida, of course, but that didn’t make it any less galling. “People fear what they don’t understand. I’ll bet they take the guys’ tourist dollars just the same.”

  They didn’t talk much on the remainder of their drive, their carefree mood dampened. Eventually, Argo pulled the SUV past a green and gold sign that read “Welcome to Hidden Pines.” A narrow dirt road led into a wide gravel parking area surrounded by rustic wooden buildings in various sizes and styles. Theirs was one of four vehicles already there, including two compact cars and a gray pickup. Farther back, Darian could see several old-fashioned square cabins, each painted tidy white except for a small red porch. The cabins were arranged in rows, with just enough space and shrubbery between them to afford reasonable privacy.

  When he and Argo got out of the SUV, he inhaled a strong odor of pine trees and the earthy scent of dirt. Not much different from Birchwood, but somehow even the air tasted of isolation—as any retreat should.

  “Okay,” Argo said, surveying the land by turning in a slow circle. “This isn’t bad. A little nicer than I expected.” He was still on edge, Darian knew, after the unpleasant scene in town. Was he expecting vandals to leap out from behind one of the rustic structures and attack? Hopefully he was way off base. Sadly, Darian couldn’t entirely reject the possibility.

  “Looks like they’re in the process of building an outdoor hot tub.” Darian pointed to an unfinished project to the left of what appeared to be the campground’s central lodge. An unfortunate jumble of plastic pipes and fiberglass panels jutted out from under a canvas tarp. “Doesn’t seem like it will be ready in time for us to use it, though.”

  “No worries. You’re here to teach classes and write your book, remember?” To Darian’s relief, happy warmth flooded back into Argo’s eyes. “Not splash around with a bunch of guys who forgot to pack their Speedos, traumatizing the deer and bears.”

  “Bears?” Darian repeated uncertainly as the door to the nearest cabin opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with brick-colored hair and a scruffy beard to match. This, Darian thought, must be Aubrey Morris, the new owner of the campground. They had spoken briefly on the phone, just long enough to firm up the details of his teaching assignment for the week and to provide driving directions. These days, Aubrey had said, GPS would fill in the details of the drive and Prescott Hammond would do the same for the workshop. Aubrey himself, he made clear, was not a writer. He was only providing the space for the retreat.

  There would be one other instructor besides Hammond, Darian knew, though Aubrey hadn’t provided any names. If Hammond proved difficult, as famous and financially successful authors sometimes did, he hoped he and this other person could support one another and make sure things ran smoothly.

  “Hey,” Aubrey called by way of greeting, waving a broad, weathered palm as he came down the steps. He was in late middle age, Darian thought, huskily built with a gold hoop ring in his right earlobe. Despite the warmth of the day, he wore black jeans, heavy work boots, and a blue-checked flannel shirt. Pausing, he gave Darian the once-over, too. “You’re Darian Winter?”

  “That’s me,” Darian confirmed. “This is my partner, Argo.”

  Aubrey turned to Argo. “Found the place okay, I guess. You’re here a little earlier than I expected. Still, it’s not a problem. Grab your stuff and come with me. I’ll show you to your cabin and then you can meet Prescott Hammond and his husband.”

  “Oh? I didn’t realize he was married.” Hammond had never mentioned a partner of any sort in the articles and interviews Darian had read to prepare for his new gig, but that wasn’t too surprising considering how much he obviously valued his privacy. A little mystique didn’t hurt where his adoring fans were concerned, either, he supposed, though it was always nice when a public figure modeled a strong, committed same-sex relationship. Their example made things easier for those who came later, his moms always said.

  “Oh, yeah. He sure is.” Aubrey smirked. “You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

  “Looking forward to it.” Darian exchanged a glance with Argo. He knew they both wondered if Hammond’s husband was anything like the oddball New Age guy in the book with whom Hammond’s main character eventually found lasting love. That would be interesting, if so.

  They chose a few of their lighter bags, which Aubrey didn’t offer to assist with, and followed him to one of the last cabins in the farthest row back. “I thought you’d like to be back here,” Aubrey told them as he climbed the short set of steps, crossed the porch, and inserted the key into the front door. “Gives you a little extra privacy. Prescott and Cole are in the next cabin over.”

  “Great,” Darian said. “What about the other instructor? Is he staying back here, too?”

  “Not here yet, but his cabin’s on the other side. It’s a little smaller than yours, since he’s coming by himself.” Again Aubrey smirked. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if that changes before the end of the week. Things have a way of happening out here in the woods, and a number of unattached guys signed up. Not to mention some who aren’t single, but who don’t mind making room for more, if you catch my drift.”

  “Ah. Just to be completely up front, we’re not into anything like that,” Argo said, probably remembering the strange invitation they’d had from a Birchwood colleague in the spring.

  Aubrey snorted in amusement and motioned them inside. “No pressure either way. I mind my own business and expect my guests to do the same. This is a retreat, after all. The whole point is to hide away from the world and its ridiculous need to judge everyone and everything.”