According to the GPS, the road didn't even exist. There was no sign, just a turn-off buried in the dense woodland that he'd have missed if he didn't have the route mapped out on a scrap of paper on the seat next to him. Jay had been skeptical when the proprietor told him on the telephone to pay attention, but the man's warning had proved correct.
"Take my word for it, Mr. Croft; you'll want to make a note of the directions."
The road was nothing more than a narrow gap in the endless wilderness that lined the two-lane, as thick and dense as an unscaleable wall. It looked a whole lot like the perimeter of a prison. One that he was attending of his own free will.
It was a long way from L.A., any way you chose to look at it.
He couldn't even tell where he was anymore. The only daylight filtered in dappled patches from the canopy of leaves overhead, and the highway had gradually inclined upward for several miles. He could have been at the top of the world for all he could see to confirm it. And for every mile he clocked up, he thought a dozen times about turning around and going home.
It wasn't going to help. It wasn't going to change anything. But the booking was non-refundable, and he might not have a whole lot of disposable income to throw around anymore. Going home would add insult to injury.
Even if it hadn't technically been his injury. That damn spoilt brat had it coming anyway...
No, damn it, he wasn't going to keep replaying that scene in his head. If he continued to dwell on the incident, it would defeat the expensive purpose of coming here. Bad enough he could still picture so clearly the expressions of his colleagues, of the brat's entourage, the catering staff. Half the damn studio must have witnessed him making the biggest mistake of his life.
There had been a commotion unlike any he'd seen before--and he'd been in this business long enough to see plenty--and he'd still been able to hear the brat's shrieking halfway across the building as he sat in his boss's office.
He hadn't cared much then. The office was calm and silent, just the whirr of a computer and the bubbling of a seven-foot long aquarium to disturb his thoughts.
It hadn't really occurred to him quite how disturbed his thoughts had been.
"Take a few weeks, yeah?" Perry Knight sighed when he eventually returned, slumping down into his leather desk chair with an expression that spoke in the dollars Jay had just cost him and the studio. "You've been working too hard. You need a break."
One that didn't involve breaking a top actor's nose. Perry didn't say as much, but the implication was clear in the steady gaze trained on Jay's every move. Probably Perry was worrying what would be next to incur Jay's anger. The aquarium? The secretary? Himself? There was still a smear of Cole Gray's blood on Perry's shirt cuff, and instead of wondering whether the actor's nose had stopped bleeding by now, Jay had found himself debating how much one could get for that shirt in an online auction.
"I need assholes like Gray to step into line and learn the world doesn't revolve around them and their goddamned--"
"Jay." Perry stared at him. "You need a break. There's this place Chuck Eisner went to last year when his doctor told him he either took a few weeks or bought a casket." He flipped through a chrome Rolodex, extracting a business card. "Made him a new man, seriously. Takes everything in his stride these days. You could do with a place like that."
He stared at the card. Sword River Retreat. "I don't need to be shipped off to somewhere like this--"
"Jay. This is you and me, okay? I'm being honest with you. If you don't agree to something, be it this, or a shrink, or tantric fricking yoga; if there's nothing I can show to the studio as proof you're doing something about this--" he waved a hand evasively, "--problem of yours, then you're gonna be shipped out permanently."
"I don't have a problem."
"Yeah, well, Cole Gray and his people beg to differ, kid."
"They can beg all they want." He set the card down on the desk and pushed it back towards Perry. "I'm not going anywhere."
Less than two weeks later, he was driving through the gates of Sword River Retreat, and wishing he was anywhere else. A shrink or yoga seemed like a good idea now. The sense that he was out of sight and out of mind here nagged at him like the spicy scent of the burger and fries he'd picked up at a drive-in last time he'd been back in civilization.
It might have made Chuck Eisner a new man, but Jay couldn't help feeling he'd be making better use of his time trying to find a new job.
He'd driven another mile along a pitted, glorified dirt track, his car--designed for no rougher terrain than a Wal-Mart parking lot--shuddering and protesting with every dip, when he wondered where the hell the retreat was. Last time he'd seen this much wildlife had been that ill-advised movie promo event at the zoo.
If there was nothing in another mile, he really was turning around and going home.
True to the form his luck took lately, he'd no sooner had the thought than a small rickety cabin showed up amid the trees on the left side of the road.
When the cabin door swung open, and an old guy shuffled out, dressed in hunting gear, he was transported back to last summer, when rehashed slasher movies were going to be the next big thing. After a week of nothing but pitch after mindlessly tedious pitch, Jay had been of a mind to stage a slasher movie of his own. Now that he thought about it, this setting would be perfect. He should ask them if they'd be interested in going on the locations list before he left.
Maybe the old guy was some kind of attendant. Maybe, he chuckled to himself, this guy was in charge of the valet parking. When the old man made no attempt to approach, Jay rolled the window down instead, turning on his most practised smile; commanding with just an edge of charm to soften the blow.
"Hi, I have a reservation for Jacob Croft?"
For a second, he wondered if the old guy had even heard him; no flicker of acknowledgement crossed his gnarled face. He regarded the car for a moment, before turning back into the cabin.
Jay stared, struggling to find his voice in the face of such appalling service. "Hey, wait--!"
The old guy glanced over his shoulder, disappearing into the cabin, and returning a few moments later with a key and a folded sheet of paper. The latter he held out to Jay as he approached the car.
"A copy of your reservation," he said gruffly as Jay shook off the surprise long enough to react. "Make sure it's accurate; if there's any discrepancies we can't fix 'em after."
Jay glanced disinterestedly at the booking form, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. "Yeah, it's fine."
"These are your keys. There's only one spare set, so don't go losin' em. Ain't gonna hike up there in a hurry to let you in if you do. You're in cabin four. Just keep on up this trail, it's the last one before you hit the lake." The old guy barely glanced at him as he dropped the keys in Jay's palm. "Any other information you need's on the back of your booking form. I'm Earl Dalton, I run this place. Any grievances come through me." He looked up then. "Welcome to Sword River."
Gee, thanks...
Jay summoned a vague smile and a nod, still reeling from customer service that would have gotten a busboy fired in L.A., let alone the proprietor of such a highly recommended retreat. Earl Dalton didn't even give him the courtesy of a backward glance as Jay floored the accelerator, forgetting that he wasn't even on level ground let alone a road. Cursing the car, Dalton, and himself in equal measure, he finally righted himself, pressing forward at a more restrained pace along the track.
It was a mystery why Cabin Four was so named, considering he didn't pass One through Three on the way. Maybe they were a further trek through the trees; maybe Cabin Four was the only one with off-road parking.
And despite the term 'cabin', he'd anticipated lodgings that were a little less rustic. It looked small from the outside, and appearances weren't deceptive. Inside it was nothing more than a bedroom, with a seating area next to the large picture window with an admittedly beautiful view of the lake. A thick wooden door led to an adequate bathroom.
His mother had sent him off to scout camp when he was eight, and, more than two decades later, he was having rather vivid flashbacks to that hellish week.
And just like that camp, he dropped his bag on the floor, sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at his surroundings with a mixture of bewilderment and disdain.
This is it?
)
