The Wildman - By Rick Hautala Page 0,4

their former counselor, Mark Bloomberg—had both died. Mark had been a high school phys. ed teacher who had a heart attack at the age of twenty-nine, while Ralph, a life insurance salesman in Boston, had been stabbed to death a few years ago in a barroom brawl following a Red Sox game at Fenway Park where the Sox had lost to the Yankees.

As soon as he answered the first e-mail from Evan, he started getting several messages a day at his work account. It wasn’t long before it began to feel like an invasion of privacy, but the upshot of it all was this …

Evan Pike had become an entrepreneur of sorts. He had his fingers, if not his whole hand and arm, in a variety of deals—mostly real estate, but some manufacturing and industrial development as well as property management. He told Jeff about how a corporation called Willow Creek was in the process of buying and developing huge tracts of land in western Maine on the northern shore of Lake Onwego and the surrounding area, including Lookout Mountain. Their plans ultimately called for two eighteen hole golf courses, a ski slope, a huge marina, luxury homes for both summer and year-round residents, a shopping mall, and numerous outfitters for rustic activities such as hiking, camping, boating, fishing, and hunting.

Although the deal didn’t include Sheep’s Head Island, the small island in the southern part of the lake where Camp Tapiola was located, Evan had learned through some insider information that the camp property was up for sale as well. It had been abandoned for the last thirty-five years following the death of a camper, Jimmy Foster. Because of the lawsuit brought by the Foster family against the camp’s board of directors and the attendant bad publicity, Camp Tapiola had been forced to close. That was also the last summer Jeff and his buddies had been campers. It was also the last time all five of them—Jeff, Evan, Tyler, Mike and Fred—had been together … until now.

Because through the magic of the Internet, they had reconnected or were in the process of reconnecting.

And now that Evan had bought not just Camp Tapiola, but the whole island, he’d come up with what he thought was the fantastic idea of having all five surviving Tent 12 campers get together. The only hurdle was finding a weekend that worked with everyone’s schedules so they could meet at Camp Tapiola for a long weekend of drinking and reminiscing.

Maybe it’s the kind of thing that only looks good on paper, Jeff typed in response to the third e-mail he’d received from Tyler the day after that first phone call.

Jeff had a mountain of paperwork to do because—finally—the Howlands were closing on a house they’d been dithering about for the last two or three months. He wanted to make sure he had at least three estimates for the cellar wall repair the couple had requested—no, demanded before they would sign on the dotted line. The last thing he needed was to be wasting time IM-ing and e-mailing Tyler or anyone else he hadn’t seen or talked to in the last thirty-five years.

BING.

The computer flagged a new e-mail, and Jeff groaned when he saw that it was from Tyler, not the contractor who had promised he’d have his estimate done before lunch and here it was, almost three o’clock.

Reluctantly, mostly because he had nothing better to do, Jeff opened the e-mail and read it.

U always were the cautious one. Time 4 you 2 have a little fun. Com’on. It’ll be GR8, trust me.

Jeff sighed and shook his head. He winced when he took a sip of his coffee, which had gone cold more than half an hour ago. It was one thing for his son Matt and his college buddies to butcher the King’s English with their abbreviations and “emoticons,” but Tyler was a bit old for such juvenile shorthand.

He hit reply and quickly typed: I’m just saying late October’s probably not the best time for this. Why not wait until next spring or summer when it’s warmer? As it is, I’m swamped with work.

Without editing, he sent the e-mail, and moments later his computer signaled another new message. This was a reply from Tyler, not the contractor, so he closed the screen, got up from his desk, and wandered out into the front office. His time might be better spent flirting with Debbie Hendricks at the front desk, but then again—the way Debbie had been treating