“He’s there . . . ,” Brandy said, sounding sleepy and distant. “I put him back.”
Again, this made no sense. No time for questions. Susan and Magda continued on.
Eric was facedown in the dirt, like he was taking a nap. His shirt was mottled, ragged. There was something wrong with his hair—Eric was blond, but this hair was much too dark in places.
But the most telling thing? The flies. All the flies, buzzing around, landing in groups.
Magda made an odd noise, like a hissing tire, and broke into a run. She dropped down on the ground next to Eric and pressed her fingers to his wrist.
“He’s cold,” Magda said.
“I’ll call an ambulance . . .”
“No point. He’s gone.” Magda looked at her watch. “I’m putting it at 7:46. What do you have?”
Susan blinked once, then consulted her own watch. “I have 7:44.”
“I think we can call it 7:45.”
Magda turned Eric over just enough to look at the underside of his body. Shock spread across her face.
“Susan, you need to come here.”
Susan walked the few steps to what she already thought
of as “the body.” The sight she saw then would never leave her.
“There are stab wounds,” Magda said in a low voice. “And his head . . . Jesus, Susan.”
Susan raised the walkie to her mouth, which had gone dry.
“Lake house,” she said. “Pick up.”
“Lake house,” said a sleepy voice.
Shawn Greenvale. He was always reliable, and the lake house was one of the only other buildings with its own phone.
“I need you to call the police. Tell them to come right into the camp, to the path that leads to the theater. Say there’s been a serious accident. No ambulance.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just do it, Shawn.”
Behind them, campers were starting to congregate. They were getting louder, talking, crying, pointing. They didn’t know exactly what was going on, but it was clear to them, as it had been clear to Susan, that something terrible had happened.
“Everyone,” she said, “stay calm and back up.”
Everyone did not keep calm. She needed to establish order, now. She did what came most naturally to her—she blew the whistle that hung around her neck. This startled everyone enough to shock them into silence.
“Get to the dining pavilion,” she said. “Now.”
She marched over to Brandy and helped her to her feet.
“Come on,” she said. “Come on. Time to go.”
Brandy let herself be led, but she was almost deadweight,
stumbling through her shock. Patty Horne, who had been staying in the nurse’s cabin the last few nights as part of a house arrest, came running, breaking through the wall of campers who were reluctantly leaving the scene.
“Is that Eric?” she said.
“Patty, go get your campers and go to the dining pavilion.”
“What about the others?” Patty asked. “Are they okay?”
Susan froze.
“Others?” she repeated.
3
TRAINS RUN THROUGH COUNTLESS MURDER MYSTERY NOVELS. PEOPLE are pushed off them or vanish when they move between the cars. When trains pass through tunnels, at least one passenger will get an axe in the face in the dark. People who seem to be asleep on trains are dead, victims of strange poisons in their tea. If you’re not murdered on a train, you’ll probably end up as a witness, seeing something out the window as you speed by—a man with a gun creeping toward a house, a strangling in a window. Train times always mattered. Jasper couldn’t have been on the 7:14 from London because it doesn’t run on Sundays!