Chapter 6

She sat on her bunk, wondering why it had happened to her. Where did she go wrong? Where was she weak? Why had Candy Simms taken such a violent dislike to her?

With a sigh, she rose. It was almost time for lunch. Perhaps, just perhaps, Candy would be in a better mood when she had her belly full of the Treacher Camp food. All the counselors had told Sandra that the place was famous for its excellent table.

She took a step toward the door and halted. Someone was opening the screen, coming inside. It was Hester St. Claire, dressed in her T-shirt and shorts, and Sandra had to admit that she looked as young as a girl herself.

"There you are," Mrs. St. Claire said, the trace of a smile on her lips. "Your girls are milling about outside the dining hall, and you're in here. That's not following the rules, Sandra."

Sandra nodded. "I know. I ... Well, I wanted to talk privately with one of the girls."

"Trouble already?"

Sandra hated to complain, but there was no way out. "A little. Nothing serious."

"With whom."

"Well ... Candace Simms."

"I imagined as much." Mrs. St. Claire sat down on Sandra's bunk, crossing her legs. Her figure was full and young and Sandra was surprised at the almost latent strength which rippled across her shoulders. "They warned us she could be a bitch to handle. Well, that's no real problem. We'll just call the garage and send her..."

"No!" Sandra blurted, dropping to the cot by Mrs. St. Claire's side. "No, I'll work something out. We must give her another chance."

The woman looked at Sandra, her mouth strangely pursed. "Why must we?"

"The Foundation is willing to take a risk to save her. It seems we should give her a reasonable time to behave." Sandra looked into the supervisor's eyes. "I'm quite willing to bend over backward, Mrs. St. Claire. Please!"

The woman smiled, her eyes glittering with a different light. "Are you really?"

"I don't understand."

"Are you really willing to bend over backward?" She said the words as though the thought conjured up some secret joke.

"Oh, yes. Won't you say it's all right?"

She placed her hand lightly on Sandra's knee, and the redhead's warning flashed through her head. It was something Sandra had not yet figured out. "Well, perhaps, on one condition."

"Yes, Mrs. St. Claire?"

"That you accept the invitation I gave you in my office-the invitation to call me Hester when we're alone." Her fingers squeezed just above Sandra's knee.

"I'd be flattered to..."

The screen opened again and the young girl from San Diego, Nola, bounced in, her cap clutched in her hand. She stopped before them, her small breasts rising and falling from her speedy run from the dining hall. "Oh." She looked into each woman's eyes. "I thought you'd be alone, Miss Alt bright."

"That's all right," Sandra answered. "What is it?"

"I've been saving you a place next to me at lunch and, when you didn't come, I got kind of worried." She lowered her eyes. "Maybe you don't want to eat with me."

Sandra's heart softened, and she reached for the girl's hand. "Of course I do. You just keep saving that seat, and I'll be along in one minute."

Nola turned to leave, but Hester then caught her hand. "My, but you're a sweet, lovable little thing," she exclaimed, drawing Nola close and hugging her. "Tell me your name."

"Nola Franchetti," the dark little girl murmured, her eyes lowered with embarrassment.

"A pretty name for a pretty girl," Hester continued, squeezing her harder. Sandra saw the fingers pressing into the girl's spine and shoulders with an almost frightening intensity. "How I love pretty little girls!"

Perhaps Nola sensed something, too, for she squirmed a moment and then broke away, backing toward the door. Again she gazed at Sandra, her eyes imploring. "You promise you'll come real soon?"

Sandra nodded and crossed her heart on her T-shirt. The girl skipped outside, letting the door slam.

Sandra sat motionless by Hester's side, her discomfort increasing. Something was terribly wrong. Exactly what that something was remained a mystery, but she sensed undercurrents of strong emotion-and they seemed to swirl about whenever Hester was close.

"What a darling child!" the supervisor said at last, turning back to Sandra. Her lips smiled with sweetness, but her eyes remained hard. "Don't you agree, Sandra?"

"Yes, she seems very nice." She put her hands at her sides, ready to push herself up. "I suppose I'd better run along. She'll be waiting..."

"One moment," Hester said, grasping Sandra's wrist until she sat back again. "You do like little girls?"

Sandra shrugged and Hester's eyes dropped to the bobbing mounds under the T-shirt. "Of course."

"And big girls."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Hester seemed to reach some private decision, for she smiled more broadly and touched Sandra's knee once more. "That's all right. I was just trying to know you better." Her fingers traced a square on Sandra's knee and the nerves underneath the skin sent out tiny tingles. "Your card says you're a Dramatic Arts major at UCLA."

Sandra nodded, wishing the hand would go away. "Yes. I'm in my last year."

The fingers switched to the other knee, idly, not wanting to go anywhere, merely hopping about as though by chance. "Do you hope for a show business career?"

She laughed unnaturally high. "Of course. Doesn't every girl who comes to California?"

Hester smiled as though she knew all about it. "What do you do?"

"A bit of classical dancing and some writing." She looked into the older woman's face, seeing tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip. "I had the lead in the Junior Revue last spring, and the Drama Club did a one-act mystery which I wrote."

"Wonderful!" The fingers squeezed tighter. "I didn't realize we had a celebrity at the Treacher Camp."

Sandra pulled away. "I really must be going, Mrs. St. Claire..."

"Please-Hester."

" ... Hester. The girls will be finishing and getting into mischief." She began to stand, but Hester pulled her down again.

"You'll want to hear this." She cleared her throat. "I presume you're not acquainted with my professional work."

Sandra frowned. "Why, no."

"I own and operate the St. Claire Agency. Perhaps you've..."

"You mean the agent?" Sandra's mouth opened, and her lips made an O. "You represent Vinnie Daniels and Maria Lucca and those other people in the movies and TV and at Vegas? You're that St. Claire?"

Hester bowed her head. "At your service."

"Why...! I never imagined." Sandra's hands fluttered at her throat, but Hester's hand continued its journey from knee to knee. "Why, you're famous in Hollywood!"

The supervisor laughed deeply in her throat. "So I've been told, but not always in the manner I would wish." She cleared her throat. "The studios are always on the lookout for new, fresh talent. Have you been to see them?"

Sandra made a face. "Until I thought my legs would fall off at the hip."

"Oh, not those pretty legs!" Hester exclaimed, sliding her hand up and down a thigh. The tiny nerves jumped again, their messages of alarm growing stronger. "Perhaps ... just perhaps ... I could help you once you've finished school."

Sandra didn't dare breathe for a moment. She pressed her hands tightly to her lips, her eyes wide. At last she blurted, "I never dreamed I'd have such luck, Hester. Oh, I'd give anything for a chance!"

Hester leaned forward and brushed her lips across Sandra's cheek, her eyes closed. "I'll want to learn just how talented you are and exactly in what direction your taste lies. Perhaps you could drop by my cabin some evening soon, and we could discuss it privately?"

Sandra's cheek twitched where the older woman had touched her, and she rubbed the spot. Ambitious as she was for a stage career, the prospect of a nocturnal visit to Hester did not appeal to her. There was something...

The hand moved, sliding up her leg to grip the firm white flesh high on the inside of Sandra's thigh. The fingers squeezed, and Sandra leaped, , shoving herself away a few inches. She looked down at the hand. "Please!"

Hester shook her head. "You mustn't fret.

Everything's going to be all right, Sandra darling. It's going to be just fine, all summer."

She stood, looming over Sandra, her face turned down. Abruptly she grasped the younger girl's chin in both her hands and she leaned over, kissing her hard on the mouth, her lips sliding back until their teeth scraped.

Sandra was at last able to twist her face away. She rubbed her hands across her mouth ... hard! Hester went to the door and looked back, still smiling like the indulgent, overprotective supervisor.

"Don't forget," she said with a light laugh. "We have a date."

When she was gone, Sandra poured water from a canteen into a basin, taking a towel, dampening it and wiping her lips desperately. She wondered if she could stand the sight of lunch without being sick.

At any rate, she vowed, she'd be careful of Hester St. Claire for the rest of the summer. And she'd keep a close watch over Nola Francetti, as well.

The young girl would be an easy target. . .

Candy opened her eyes, keeping her body perfectly still. Then she rolled her eyes as much as she could, finally moving her head from one side to the other. The only noise was the heavy breathing of the girls.

She slid the sheet from her body and eased her feet to the floor, sitting up, waiting another full minute before she moved again. She reached under her pillow and unfolded her T-shirt and shorts, slipping the garments over her naked body. Barefoot, she stood, patting the package in her pocket.

She took a step ... a second, and a board creaked with an astoundingly loud racket, the noise filling the room. She froze for another full minute, hearing one or two girls roll restlessly, and then everything was quiet again.

She crept on, as slowly as before, until she reached Sandra's bed. She stood over the dark-haired counselor, looking down, hating her. How she would love to run a dinner knife into that white throat!

Instead she leaned down, close to Sandra's wrist, until she could read the luminous dial on her watch. One-thirty. Good! Even the old man who masqueraded as a night watchman would be snoring in his shed out by the gate.

At the door, she slid the locking lug and turned the handle. The screen, its tension eased, sprang open a few inches with a thwang. Candy's heart stopped for a moment, but no one stirred.

Outside, the moon was bright, and she looked down at herself. These damned white clothes! she thought furiously. She felt like a child ghost. Even her feet, still bare, seemed dead white against the pine needles.

She turned her back on the clearing and, passing cautiously through the double ring of tents, slipped into the denser trees and shrubbery, leaving the snores, sighs and occasional whistles of dozens of sleeping figures behind.

Ahead, through the streaming moonlight, she saw a large tree. Excellent! She could go to its far side and sit down, protected from view. What the hell, they wouldn't even be able to see a match.

She began to move around the tree, taking a final look over her shoulder as she did so.

"Evening, chum."

Candy froze, her heart pumping like a mad thing, her breath rattling.

"Well, are you going to stop wheezing and sit down?" the voice asked. "I hope you brought your own cigarettes. Mine may not last the summer."

Candy looked down, seeing a girl dressed exactly like herself. She was seated with her back against the tree. At that moment a tiny glow lighted her face, and she blew smoke into the night air.

Candy sat by her side, careful to stay out of sight of the camp. "You need a smoke that bad, too?" she whispered.

"You don't need to whisper," the girl, who had long dark hair and a pinched face, remarked. "They couldn't hear a bomb from this side of the tree. You bet I need my weeds! My counselor's that redhead, Hofstedder. She can smell cigarette smoke halfway to L.A."

Candy laughed, deep in her throat. Thank God, they weren't all forest fairy squares up here! "I know what you mean. Albright would have her monthly a week early if she took a bed-check about now."

She reached into her shorts and took out the package. It looked like a regular pack of a popular brand of cigarettes but the one Candy shook out was thin and seemed homemade. She placed the cigarette between her lips and tucked the pack back in her pocket.

"No use taking chances," the brunette muttered, holding the lighted end of her cigarette close to Candy. Candy touched the tip to the glowing end and sucked, feeling the heat immediately as it caught.

She pulled the smoke into her lungs and let it ride there for a few minutes, her eyes closed, a look of absolute peace on her face.

"Boy, you needed that drag like I need my boy friend," the other girl observed. "Amen!"

"How did you get roped into a cornball setup like this? You have parents who ship you away so they can swap partners around the neighborhood all summer?"

"Nope." Candy let her eyes roll up. The pot was heaven, and her imagination soared. "I have an apartment of my own in San Francisco, but it's a bore in the off-season. I thought a whiff of forest air might break the monotony."

"He-ha!" The laugh was measured.

"You don't believe me."

"Hell, no." The girl took a final drag on the cigarette and ground the butt into the forest floor. "There, now Smokey the Bear won't come around shaking his finger at me." She chuckled. "Come to think of it, I could use a man-sized bear about now."

Candy took another drag and offered her cigarette. "Here. Try something good."

"What is it?"

"What's wrong? You afraid?"

"In a pig's eye'. " She puffed while Candy watched. "Hey!" She held the cigarette away from her mouth, studying it. "This isn't my brand."

"You won't find it in the corner drug store vending machine."

"Agreed, chum. Agreed. Great stuff!"

Candy, loving the effects of the cigarette, feeling the itch in her loins, wiggled her toes in the pine needles. "You said something about being hot for a boy or a bear or something on two legs."

The brunette puffed on the cigarette until she dropped it, shaking her finger and then sucking its burned tip. "You have good ears, chum."

"What do you do about it?"

"Here?"

"Here!"

"Not a thing." The girl looked at Candy, and the moon threw sharp shadows across her face. Her skin was milky white. "I'm on probation. If my folks find out I'm horsing around once more, they'll ship me to a girls' school in Siberia." Her eyes glittered. "As it is, I've got a good thing going with a teacher at my school in Pennsylvania, and I wouldn't want any off-season play to mess things up. You understand?"

Candy was staggered by the girl's story. How rich her parents must be! They send her to school all year, and she seems to commute across the country between seasons. The thousands of dollars the arrangement would have to cost was almost beyond Candy's comprehension.

At last, she said, "I still got a hunch a dame like you knows the angles. Where did you go for it around here before you chickened out?"

The eyes blazed. "Who chickened out?"

"Stop yelling!" Candy whispered. "Cut the drama and tell me what a girl does here. And forget the old bastard who guards the gate."

The other girl gave a nasty little chuckle. "Last year, I got my kicks, all right, until they caught me." She frowned at Candy. "It's pretty damned dangerous, you know."

Candy was soaring with the pot. "To hell with danger. Just lay it on the line."

The brunette got to her hands and knees and peered dramatically around the tree trunk, back toward the camp. Then she sat back, her eyes wide. "The Archer Camp."

"What's that?" Candy leaned forward, he? hands clenched.

"Oh, a place."

"Come on, spill it."

The girl's face was even more pinched. "What's it worth to you?"

Candy smothered a harsh laugh. "What a joke! You're so loaded you got flat feet, and then you wonder what I can hand across."

"Got any more of those cigarettes?"

Candy tensed, putting her hand over her pocket. "They're private stock, strictly."

The girl dug in her shorts and produced a rumpled bill. "I'll tell you about the camp and throw in ten dollars. What do you say?"

Candy didn't need time to weigh the deal. She paid a dollar apiece for her cigarettes-when she didn't get them free from grateful boy friends. She stuck out her hand. "I say okay."

The money and a cigarette changed hands.

"It's a half mile along the road," the girl said, talking swiftly. "You can get by the gate by cutting through the woods, naturally. Then turn right and go the half mile. You'll see the sign:-'Archer Camp for Boys.' "

"Are they a bunch of snot-noses?" Candy asked.

"Heck, no. I think they go up through nineteen." The brunette made a kissing sound. "Then there's some pretty peachy counselors, too."

Candy got up, brushing the pine needles from her shorts. "I'm cutting out, old pal, but if I ever hear any chatter about this around camp, it'll be your fanny."

The other girl also got up, tucking the cigarette into the neck of her T-shirt. "You think I'm crazy? I wouldn't want to cut off my supply of weeds."

"It's already cut off, cookie. That's your first and last one poking down there between your boobs." Candy laughed as she turned away. "Take my advice and smoke it half at a time, or you'll be climbing all over the girl in the next bunk."

Then she crept off into the deeper woods, careful to cut around the camp gate in a wide arc.