Chapter 1

Barry Jameson sat with his knees drawn up under his chin atop the roof of the maintenance shed, watching the road that wound down into the camp. His eyes were filled with worry and anticipation, and he chewed his lower lip from anxiety. His mind was half on the car he expected to see any minute driving down the road, and half on the remains of the car shrouded by a paint-splattered sheet in a dark corner of the shed beneath him.

His heart skipped a beat as he saw the car for which he was waiting turn the corner and burst into view, kicking up great clouds of brown dust in its wake. It passed the sign that read CAMP BERNHARDT and disappeared behind a cluster of trees, then emerged again, closer and larger. Barry closed his eyes and uttered a futile prayer that it had never happened, but when he opened his eyes again, the car was pulling to a stop in front of the camp director's cabin, and the wreck was still in the shed beneath him.

He suddenly wished he were hiding someplace, that he had never signed up to be the handicraft director at this godforsaken summer camp, that he was back in the city and had never heard of Gary Kemper or his damned dune buggy. But none of that was possible. Gary had already stepped out of his sedan, gone around to the other side and opened the door for his wife of three days, Lorraine. She stepped out, and Barry momentarily forgot his worries. She was stunning, long blonde hair flowing down to the small of her back, forming curls in the front that framed an expressive, tanned face. She wore a t-shirt, and her breasts pushed against the material, hard enough to show their outline clearly. Her short pants hugged her thighs, and directed one's attention to the long, tapering smoothness of her richly tanned legs.

So that's Gary's new wife, Barry thought, then his mind returned to Gary. He and his new wife were breathing deeply of the fresh, clean mountain air, scented of pine and ice. Then Gary saw Barry, and waved. Feebly, Barry waved back. Well, he thought, his heart hammering in his chest. It's now or never.

He stood and walked gingerly along the sloping roof of the maintenance shed, found the storm drain and shimmied down it. When he hit the ground, he turned to walk up the dirt path to the camp director's cabin, but stopped when he saw Bob Shuster standing in front of him, blocking his path.

"You must be scared shitless," Shuster said.

Barry laughed nervously. "You could say that. It's not every day you get to confront an old friend and tell him you've totaled his favorite car."

But Shuster didn't seem interested in Barry's problems. His eyes were locked in the direction of Kemper's cabin, and Barry noticed it after a minute. "Cute, isn't she?" he asked Shuster.

"Cute isn't the word I had in mind. How does a jerk like Kemper rate a fox like that?"

"Gary's no jerk," Barry said defensively. "But I did hear that they only met two weeks ago. It was a whirlwind romance, and all that. That's why he's three days late for the opening of camp. They needed some time for a honeymoon."

Shuster continued to drink in the sight of Mrs. Lorraine Kemper with lascivious eyes. "I'm sure it wasn't enough time. How the hell does he expect to keep her here all summer, one gorgeous woman with all these horny men?"

"You're exaggerating," Barry scoffed. "Most of the guys up here aren't old enough to even think about it. I mean, consider that I'm one of the oldest members of the staff this year, and I'm only seventeen."

"I'm thirty," Shuster said, his tongue flicking over his lips. "And I'm old enough to do more than think about it."

Barry had had enough of Bob Shuster. The husky maintenance director of Camp Bernhardt had always had a one-track mind, locked permanently on sex. Barry didn't mind the dirty jokes and the stories Shuster told, but when it came to slurring Gary Kemper and his new wife, Barry did take exception. Gary was one of the nicest people he'd ever known, and any woman he married was probably equally saint-like.

He hoped Gary would be saint-like when he learned about the fate of his dune buggy.

He passed several people on the way to the camp director's cabin, a route that took him down into a wide gully, through the camp parking lot and into the staff section of the camp. Most of them wore their official khaki uniforms, with short pants and boots made for mountain work. He knew several of them from summers spent at the camp in years gone by; others were there for their first summer, and he either didn't know them at all or had just met them recently. It was only the fourth day of camp, and only the staff was there, readying the place for the onslaught of young boys who would be there in another three days. They would stay a week, turning the place upside down, and then leave, making room for another round of campers. It would go on for twelve weeks, and Barry and the rest of them would be there for the whole experience.

He passed Stewart Roberts, a tall, muscular veteran staffer, the same age as Barry. He wore swim trunks and unlaced tennis shoes; but his uniform was appropriate, since he was one of the waterfront crew. He was on his way from the staffs tent city to the lake, about a quarter of a mile away. "Hey, Barry," he said. "Attitude adjustment at Royce Creek, nine o'clock."

Barry acknowledged the invitation. He was glad there was something happening today. After confronting Gary about the car, he'd probably need it.

He climbed out of the gully, and was about twenty feet from the back of the camp director's cabin. Lorraine Kemper was stretching, taking in the mountain air, and Barry had to look away to keep from staring at the perfect roundness of her firm breasts. Gary had done all right, he thought.

Gary noticed him then, and waved again. "Just like you, Barry," he said, his clean, even teeth shining in the clear sunlight of the flawless afternoon. "Perched on top of the shed." Gary turned to his wife, who had dazzling green eyes. "Barry likes to perch. During staff meetings in the rec hall, he sits on top of the rafters, above everybody else. I think he should have been a bird."

Barry turned slightly red and looked down. "I'm sorry," Gary said. "I ought to introduce you. Barry Jameson, an old friend of mine. This is my wife, Lorraine."

Barry thrust his hand out, and Lorraine accepted it. Her cool, dry touch made him shiver, and he did not hold her hand very long. "Gary exaggerates," Barry said. "We're good friends, but I'm only seventeen. He used to be one of my assistant scoutmasters."

"If Gary says you're a friend, then you're a friend. That's good enough for me," Lorraine said, and her slightly high, soft voice raised goose pimples on his back. Christ, he thought, it's going to be a long summer.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm sure you're going to like it here, although I don't imagine when you got married you knew you'd be spending your first few months together with a bunch of boys in the mountains."

"I love the mountains," she said throatily, and Barry felt something inside of him stir.

But he pushed it aside and turned to face Gary. "I've got some bad news," he said.

Gary's face fell. He knew instantly what it was. "My buggy---"

"I'm real sorry, Gary. I was coming around Brush Creek when some asshole was coming the other way, taking up two lanes. I didn't have any choice but to go off the road."

"Are you all right?" Gary asked. Just like him, Barry thought. I've ruined his car, and his first concern is for my welfare.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "But your car.. . I rolled it, all the way down to the river. They had to use a crane to get it out."

Now Gary's face looked ashen. "How bad is it?" Barry shrugged without meaning to. It was a bad habit of his, and it made him look like he didn't care when in fact he cared a lot. "Totaled," he said. "A complete loss. Jesus, Gary, I'm real sorry."

But Gary wasn't listening. He was running his hand through his fine, sandy hair, mussing it from his consternation. He exhaled through thinly pursed lips, and the air sounded like a whistle. His pale blue eyes had glazed over, and his tall frame sagged a little.

"It wasn't even insured," he whispered, his voice cracking. Lorraine put a hand on his arm to comfort him, and it succeeded a little. He looked at her and she smiled.

"Why don't we go look at it?" she said. "Maybe it isn't all that bad."

The sight and sound of her lifted his spirits, and for a moment he didn't even care if it was all that bad. "Where is it?" he asked.

Barry pointed across the gully that separated the staff area from the rest of the camp. "In the maintenance shed," he said." God, Gary, I knew I shouldn't have driven it up here for you."

"It was my offer," Gary said. "Just as long as you're all right."

Arm in arm, Gary and Lorraine began the brief trek to the shed, and Barry followed about ten paces behind. He wanted to be away from Gary, away from the torrent of shouting he knew would have to come, but the distance also gave him the advantage of viewing Lorraine's sexily swiveling hips, wiggling through the short pants and above her creamy thighs and sloping legs. The faintest hint of her cheek bottoms peeked through the tight legs of the shorts, and again Barry felt himself getting excited.

Oh Lord, he thought suddenly. They're headed for the maintenance shed, and Bob Shuster's there. Then he shrugged, meaning it this time. Oh well, he thought. They have to meet sometime so it might as well be now.

The path was fairly well deserted now, most of the staff having gone to their assigned areas. Barry's domain, handicraft, was set up on a concrete slab beside the long, modern commissary, and he had already covered it with tarps, moved out all the tables and equipment and put things in order. He had a lot of free time on his hands, most of which he spent helping other staffers in their areas, but today he spent waiting for Gary to arrive. He followed his camp director up the other side of the gully, and to the maintenance shed.

When they arrived, Barry continued to hang back until Gary crooked a finger at him, indicating he should come along. He moved up beside him, and felt strangely calm under Lorraine's innocent, beautiful gaze. 'There's nothing to be afraid of, Barry," she said. "An accident is an accident, that's all."

Gary peered into the darkness of the maintenance shed. "Bob?" he called.

Shuster's voice rang out of the pitch. "Yo!"

"Mind if we come in?" Gary shouted.

"You're the boss," Bob called back, and Barry recognized the cynicism in his words and the innocence in his voice. A crafty bastard, he thought.

Gary entered, followed by Lorraine, and then Barry. Gary fumbled in the darkness for a light switch, but nine months had elapsed since he had been here last, and the maintenance shed had never been part of his domain. The camp was dissected into two distinct functions; program, which Gary was responsible for, and maintenance, which was Bob Shuster's job.

In the darkness, Barry could smell Lorraine. She was soft and sweet, without perfume-just her natural body scents wafted to his nostrils and sent his senses reeling.

Finally Gary found the light and flipped it on, flooding the cavernous shed with light cast from naked, dangling light bulbs. It was a dirty place, coils of rope piled here and there, machinery, tools, old pieces of stoves, wheels, tires, anything that might possibly fit in a maintenance shed was there.

And in one corner, under a paint-smeared tarp, was a looming shape that was once a dune buggy.

Bob Shuster was in the opposite corner, rocking back in an office-type chair, his feet in cowboy boots resting on top of a sawhorse. An unlit, hand-rolled cigarette was resting carelessly in a corner of his mouth, and a straw cowboy hat was pulled over his eyes. "Something I can help you with?" he said.

"Just want to see what's left of my buggy," Gary said, and flipped back the tarp. If he had held out any hope for his vehicle, it fled him now. The dune buggy was a complete wreck. It's smooth fiberglass sides which had been finished with candy colored flake paint were mashed in and crumpled like paper bound for the waste basket. The engine was a heap of twisted metal, and all the glass was shattered and smashed out of its framing. The steering wheel was bent, squishing down into the driver's seat. The passenger seat rose a full two feet above the driver's seat, bent completely backwards. The rear of the car virtually did not exist.

Gary studied the car, then whirled and walked briskly from the shed. From beneath the brim of his hat, Bob Shuster watched him, and after he left a faint smile crossed his lips.

Garry started to go after his friend, but Lorraine held his arm and pulled it at, keeping him from moving. Her grip made his throat go dry.

"Let him go," she said. "He spent two years building that thing from scratch; he told me all about it. You've got to allow him to be upset and disappointed. But he won't blame you. He won't even get mad. I've only known him a couple of weeks, but I know he's a wonderful man, and he's very fair."

"I know that," Barry said, shaking her grip off. He didn't care for the sensations he was feeling from her touch. Gary was one of the men in the world he admired most, and the last thing in the world he wanted was to long for his wife.

Wife! It sounded funny, the word wife in association with Gary Kemper. But here she was, and.. . .

. . .and he felt Shuster's gaze on them, and he turned to face it. He was just scratching a match across the rough surface of a pack of matches, watching it flare up and then touching it to the end of his cigarette. His eyes watched the flame.

Lorraine turned to look at whatever Barry was watching, and for the first time she paid attention to the presence of Bob Shuster.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Lorraine Kemper."

Bob tipped his hat and said his name. "I'm sorta your husband's equal around here," he said, and drew deeply on his cigarette. "He's the top honcho officially, but we share pretty much down the line." As he spoke, his gaze wandered to Lorraine's legs, where her delicate, creamy thighs were pressed together. He stared hard at the hem of her shorts, hoping for a glimpse of something more than the flesh he saw; perhaps a single strand of blonde, velvety pubic hair. But there was none.

Lorraine began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "Well, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other then," she said.

"I'm sure," Shuster said, and smiled, looking deeply into her eyes. They were green, and Shuster knew about women with green eyes. Perhaps they were innocent and naive, perhaps they had little experience with men of his sort, but they could be trained. Green-eyed women always wound up loving excesses, particularly sexual excesses. The summer is young, he thought.

Barry noticed Shuster's wicked, lustful look, and he dared to touch Lorraine's arm. She looked at him with a start, then remembered he was there. "Come on," he said. "I'll bet we can find Gary at the camp store, in the commissary."

"You lead the way," she said merrily, and gratefully followed him out of the shed. The daylight was bright, and their eyes closed to narrow slits and their hands went over their foreheads to shield them from the brightness. Across a vast expanse of gravel and dirt was the commissary, all gray brick and red tile roof, to withstand the weight of winter snows.

"I know I've only been here a short while," Lorraine said, "but somehow that Bob Shuster doesn't seem to fit in."

"He does and he doesn't," Barry said, choosing his words carefully. "He's been up here ever since he was a kid, younger than me. He came up for a week to swim and fish and hike, like all the kids that come up here. When he was old enough, he joined the staff. First he was a counselor, and when he was old enough, he took over as maintenance manager. I guess he's been coming up here on staff for six, seven years now."

"But why?" Lorraine pressed. "He just doesn't seem the type."

Barry shrugged and said, "Beats me," but he frankly did know at least one of the reasons Bob Shuster was a regular summer inhabitant at Camp Bernhardt. It was due to Lake Mildred, named after Mildred Bernhardt, wife of Eric Bernhardt, whose generous endoument had made Camp Bernhardt a reality. Across the lake, about a mile of icy blue water, was a narrow dirt path. It you followed it for a mile, it led to Camp Sorenson, which was the property of Our Lady of Smithtown, a church located about eighty miles south, in a cradle of trees and hills at the very foot of the mountains. It was an all-girl camp, and Shuster had an arrangement with the camp's senior counselor, Joanne Halter.

'That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of," Barry had said to Shuster when he first heard of the arrangement. "You come up here to get paid half of what you make in the city so you can get laid? Can't you get laid in the city?"

"It's not just that," Shuster had said candidly. "There's nothing like sex under the stars, in the mountain air, at night. There's something cleaner and more exciting about it." Then he winked. "Besides, there's no authority of any kind up here."

"Why are you afraid of authority?" Barry wanted to know.

"Afraid? I'm not afraid," Shuster scowled. "You just got to be careful is all. Especially when you're messin' with girls who aren't of age yet."

"Jail bait?" Barry asked, a little shocked.

"Hey, bud, if you were a girl, you'd be jail bait. Ain't you ever been laid?"

"Sure, but.. . . "

"But nothing," Shuster said. "Those little girls are about the best time in the world, and as long as they're there for the taking, I'm here to help myself. This is our little secret, right?"

Barry had said right, but he knew he wasn't the only staffer who had shared Shuster's secret. Any of the guys who had been up at Bernhardt continuously were let in on his reasons for returning. And alone in his tent at night, Barry had to admit a certain thrill at knowing Shuster was rowing a canoe stealthily across the shiny, glasslike surface of Lake Mildred so he could enjoy the tender charms of the under-aged, fresh women on the other side.

But he was too nervous, too childlike in the presence of an angel like Lorraine Kemper to mention any of this. It seemed corrupt and dirty, and the ears of such a beautiful woman should never be scorched with such knowledge. So he said nothing, except, "Beats me."

Then he saw Gary coming out of the trading post, three ice creams dripping from his hands. He saw them and smiled.

"See?" Lorraine said cheerily. "He's not mad."

Gary handed one of the dripping bars to Barry, the other to his wife. Barry noted the tender, loving expression in the new husband's eyes and felt warm and happy for the couple. "C'mon," Gary said. "Let's take a walk. Between the two of us, we ought to be able to show Lorraine what Camp Bernhardt is all about."

"Sure," Barry said. "And I know just where to start." He led them around the side of the commissary building to his handicraft area. "This is where I hang out," he said proudly. "Kids do all kinds of crafts here.

They make lanyards and neckerchief slides, easy stuff like that. Or," and here he opened a large display case, "they can try their hand at the rough stuff." Gingerly, he lifted out a scale model of a paddle wheel river boat that he had constructed over the course of a year from odds and ends.

Lorraine was earnestly impressed. "That's a marvelous piece of work," she said. "You're certainly in the right department here."

Barry's chest swelled with pride at her words. He showed them the rest of his area, and was happy when Gary gave it his seal of approval. Then they moved down the dirt path toward the lake, passing several camping grounds and counselor areas along the way.

And Barry felt Shuster's gaze following them until they disappeared over a knoll, and the lake shimmered in front of them.

"It's beautiful," Lorraine said, her breath taken away by the sight of the sky-blue lake. Several older boys, including Stewart Roberts, were stripped of all but their tight-fitting swim trunks, and worked feverishly on the docks and the change area on shore. Some were hauling heavy rowboats and canoes off a truck, and settling them in place-canoes on racks onshore, rowboats tied to the dock. Their tanned bodies glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. Lorraine watched as Stewart, acting on an impulse, dove from the dock into the water, a smooth, knifelike dive that raised barely a ripple or a splash.

Gary pointed along the length of the lake, to the tall concrete dam that kept it filled with water. 'The camp goes about a mile beyond the dam," he said. He turned and pointed the opposite direction. "About two miles up that side of the lake-altogether about 120 acres. And this time next week, it'll be swarming with kids from eleven to fifteen years old."

"And you're in charge," she said, admiring him. She also admired his job during the non-summer months-science and physical education teacher at a junior high school in the city.

She squinted into the sinking sun across the lake, and pointed. "What's that?" she asked.

Gary and Barry both looked in the direction of her outstretched finger. Through the glare that reflected menacingly off the water, they saw a canoe skimming across the surface. Three girls were in it, stroking fiercely at the water with their paddles.

"Church girls," Barry said finally. "From the church camp inland. We don't have much . . . much to do with them," he said.

But Lorraine did not answer. Gary's arm had slipped around her and he had pulled her close, and their lips brushed just a hint of a kiss. "I want you," Gary whispered in her ear, "Now."

She felt a chill pass over almost all of her-all of her except the dark, moist cavern of her pussy, which flooded with heat at his whispered voice in her ear.

She nodded, and Gary smiled. He turned to Barry, who was holding the dripping remnants of his ice cream bar. "We'll see you at dinner," Gary said.

"We've got a lot of unpacking to do."

Barry nodded and muttered an okay, and watched the girls in the canoe as Gary and Lorraine walked arm in arm back toward the camp director's cabin.

Bob Shuster watched them pass, too, and smiled knowingly as they disappeared inside the cabin.