text: [Themes: modern, thriller]
  
  The night has already become surreal enough, so why not follow Charlei out that door? But you are worried about Gordy's reaction, even though he seems to be perfectly content over there with his beer. Charlei clucks her tongue when she sees you looking back at him and grabs you by the sleeve, gently tugging you toward the door.
  
  But when the door opens, you are startled by the ferocity of the storm outside. All this time the walls and the windows have been rattling away, but since the arrival of the Goodcheer-Fellows you've been so distracted that you nearly forgot about Bob. The relatively feeble light from the kerosene lamp illuminates only a small rectangle of the space behind the camp, but it is enough to show streaks of nearly horizontal rain and a yard that has become a shallow lake.
  
  Reflexively you back away from the door — you're not dressed for this, you don't have a coat and your feet are wearing nothing but slippers. On a normal summer night that would be enough, but this night is anything but normal.
  
  Charlei doesn't let you get away, though, and instead pulls you with her into the wind and rain. All you manage to take with you is the flashlight.
  
  The stoop is covered with a small roof, propped up with a pair of shaped wooden posts coated with an ancient layer of chipped white paint. This tiny shelter is enough to keep the snow from piling up against the door in winter, but it is inadequate to shield you from the indignities of Bob tonight. Charlei closes the door and then pushes you against the wall with a sense of urgency. Her face is lit up from below by the little red flashlight in your hands.
  
  "Gordy plans to kill you tonight."
  
  Blinking, you look at her in the glow of the flashlight, illuminated like some teenaged camp counselor telling ghost stories. You assume she's kidding — this must be some kind of a joke — even though she is delivering the news with utmost seriousness. You shrug your arms away from her grasp, but she only backs away by half a step.
  
  "I need to get you out of here," she continues. You scan her face for the slightest sign of a smirk, but there is none. "Do you still have your truck keys?"
  
  Of course you do; they're in your pockets, safe from the overly-enthusiastic curiosity of your guests. Is that what this is about then, a ploy to get a ride in the F150?
  
  "This is ridiculous!" you start to protest, already feeling the rain soak through to your skin. "I don't—"
  
  But Charlei reaches up to cover your mouth with her hand. She nods to the curtained window nearby, darkened by a human-shaped shadow on the other side, someone standing in the kitchen. Gordy's shadow.
  
  You have to admit, this is an unsettling situation, and the evidence is now convincing: not only do these two people not add up to the sum of their parts, but each one is an irrational number, impossible for you to resolve. But Gordy? A killer? It must be flattery on the part of Charlei to think that her husband could be so dangerous to anyone, what with those pencil-thin arms and slightly crooked glasses. Are you really going to let her con you into running around in this storm wearing nothing but your slippers?
  
  > follow Charlei and see what she has to tell you.
  On the other hand, you hardly know either of these people, so really, who are you to say Charlei is lying? How do you know Gordy isn't a killer? If you could read either one of them yourself, you wouldn't be feeling like you're two steps behind whatever game it is they are playing.
  
  The shadow in the window disappears, but not the seemingly sincere frown on Charlei's face. "You still don't believe me?" she says.
  
  "What if I do? What do you want me to do about it?"
  
  "I know a place where we can go."
  
  Really? And just where would that be? you think. But before this interrogation can continue, she grabs you by the sleeve again and pulls you off the stoop, into the full brunt of the rain. Your slippers, which were already starting to get damp, soak up the muddy water pooled up on the ground like a pair of sponges. The wind is so strong you need to lean into it to stand up straight, and you feel ridiculous being led by the hand around the corner of your own camp.
  
  When the pickup truck comes into view, Charlei lets go and steps to the side, pointing toward the driver's side door. The only light here is the weak glow of the Coleman lantern shining through the window from inside the camp, but it is enough for you to see that no branches have come down near the Ford yet. The windshield, though, is plastered with leaves that have been stripped from their twiggy perches by the wind.
  
  You step up into the driver's seat, and Charlei climbs into the passenger's side of the crew cab. She watches as you dig for the keychain in your pocket, then insert it into the ignition. When you reach for the headlight switch she gets alarmed.
  
  "No! Don't! No lights!"
  
  "Well hell, how am I supposed to drive in the dark?"
  
  "If you turn on the lights, he'll know we're leaving."
  
  She seems genuinely terrified. You examine the windows in the Bear's Den and see no shadowy figures peering out, although if indeed you are trying to evade a killer then you concede that headlights at this moment might not be a good idea. Not that it will make that much of a difference; even without the headlights, the running lights will come on anyway as soon as you shift into gear, and those are almost as bright.
  
  Thankfully, it's a short back-up job out of your driveway and onto the narrow road. "So which way are we going here?"
  
  "Ah, that way," she says, pointing in the direction of Griffin. "I think."
  
  "You think? I thought you said you knew a place." That feeling of ridiculousness returns to you, but you turn the truck in that direction anyway, and then shift into drive. You take a look back at the camp, though the rain is so thick that you can't get a clear look at any of the windows anymore; Gordy might be watching you drive away with his wife, or he might not be, but either way you can't tell.
  
  For that matter, your view of the road isn't much better. The windshield wipers struggle to clear away the leaves, let alone the rain thundering away at the glass. What little you can see of the road isn't encouraging: blanketed with leaves and sticks, hardly distinguishable from the floor of the surrounding wild forest. There is hardly any drainage here anyway, and so the excess rain water is beginning to pool up into small ponds. This will certainly not be a fast getaway; if Gordy wanted to track you down, he could do so with a leisurely jog.
  
  "So where are we going?" you ask.
  
  "I'll tell you where to turn." Her attention is focused on the truck's stereo system however.
  
  "I hope you don't expect me to drive all the way to Griffin! The road's probably washed out down by the river."
  
  "Al, settle down! It's not that far, just a little bit on the left. Ooh! You have Sirius!" She snaps on the satellite radio, and Jane's Addiction comes to life.
  
  "I've been caught stealing, once, when I was five," she sings along to Perry Farrell's yarl. "I enjoy stealing, it's just as simple as that! Well, it's just a simple fact, when I want something I don't want to pay for it!" But she grows bored with the song before the first verse is over. "I'm surprised at you, Al. Nineties grunge, bleh. I picture you more as a John Denver kind of guy — you know, 'country roads, take me home!'"
  
  She searches until she finds the classic country station, and you recognize Glen Campbell right away, singing about the nice guys getting washed away like the snow and the rain. "This is more your style, I think," she says, and then follows along to the melody, only singing out again when the song gets to the familiar chorus: "Like a rhinestone cowboy, riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo!"
  
  You turn the radio off. "Please, where are we going?"
  
  "Wow, Mr. Grumpy!" she says, sitting back against her seat. "Don't worry, it's just around the next corner."
  
  "The next corner?" you repeat, running through your mental map of the area. It sounds like she's describing one of the neighboring camps, a hunting club owned by a group of guys from the Gloversville area.
  
  "Yeah. There it is! See that reflection to the left? That's the driveway."
  
  Indeed, the driveway she's pointing to leads to the camp belonging to the Starbuck Mountain Gang, just as you suspected.
  
  "Here?" you say, braking the truck. "This is the place where you want to hide from your husband?"
  
  "Why not here? You got a problem with it?"
  
  Problem? Only that you've barely gone half a mile, that's all, apparently for the purpose of breaking into someone else's property. Once again the thought occurs to you that both Charlei and her husband are toying with you, that this is somehow a complicated game to which you barely understand the rules, let alone the objective. They want something from you, but rather than simply asking for it — or taking it — they want to see you run through their maze first. She had your attention back at the Bear's Den with her warning about Gordy's intent to kill you, but her attitude since then here in the truck, singing to the Jane's Addiction song and teasing you about your taste in music was... well, inconsistent might be a good word.
  
  So, are you being played the fool? Was their goal to get you alone with Charlei for some reason, and thereby leave Gordy alone in your camp? Or is she just as socially inept as her husband, trying to protect you in the best way she knows how? As the truck sits at the start of the hunting club's driveway, it seems you have two viable options: return to the Bear's Den and put an end to these pointless games, or take Charlei at her word and keep a healthy distance from her murderous husband.
  
  > return to the Bear's Den.
  Charlei at first doesn't recognize what you're doing when you pull partway into the driveway, stop, then back out again. But then she gets it. "Is there something about this place you don't like?"
  
  "There's something I forgot back at camp," you say, deciding she's not the only one who can be ambiguous.
  
  "Forgot? What could possibly be so important?"
  
  You shift into drive again, not saying a word as you drive once more through the shallow pond in the road.
  
  "Tell me, what did you leave behind? What can't you suddenly live without?"
  
  You look across the width of the cab to her, illuminated only by the faint glow of the dashboard display. She looks surprised, sure, maybe even confused, but notably no longer terrified.
  
  "My sanity," you say, returning your attention to the road.
  
  "Gordy's going to flip out, you know." She sinks down into her seat — almost a pouty posture.
  
  "He's your husband. You would know."
  
  "Damn right I would know!" She sits up straight again. "You have no idea what he's capable of!"
  
  "Well then tell me."
  
  "Tell you?"
  
  "Yes, tell me. Does he beat you or something? Is that why you're so afraid of him?"
  
  "Beat me... ?" Her voice trails off, and it tickles you that for once she is two steps behind you.
  
  "When he gets mad. Does he hit you? Grab you by the throat, choke you until you can't breathe?"
  
  "It sounds to me like you're describing some kind of strange fetish there, Al," she says, quickly regaining her footing. "Is that how you get off with your wife?"
  
  It's becoming clear that any attempt at a conversation with Charlei is going to be a verbal parrying of wits, any one of her jabs a potential mortal wound. Best not to show any vulnerable spots.
  
  "Why were you acting so afraid of him a few minutes ago?"
  
  "Because of what he said he was going to do to you."
  
  "And what did he tell you? Why does he want to kill me?"
  
  She doesn't respond, and turns forward in her seat.
  
  "Well?" you push.
  
  "Gordy was right. You always want answers."
  
  "Of course I do. Someone says they want to kill me, I want to know what I did to piss them off." It is a false bravura; if you really thought Gordy was a murderer you wouldn't be turning back to ask him these questions to his face. But you're kicking yourself for falling for this nonsense back on the stoop of the Bear's Den, and you're eager to get back to see what he's been up to — why Charlei has been so eager to pull you away.
  
  "Sometimes it's not what you do, Al. It's what you are."
  
  "All right, I'll bite. So what am I?"
  
  "Bite? I'm not giving you anything to bite, I'm just telling you. I'm being straight with you."
  
  "Ha! You wouldn't know 'straight' if you were lost at an engineering convention."
  
  "Now you're just being mean!"
  
  "Now you're just being evasive. What am I to your husband?"
  
  She doesn't have an immediate response. There is an awkward moment broken only by the hyperactive swishing of the windshield wiper and the incessant pounding of the rain on the roof.
  
  "You remind him of his father," she finally says.
  
  "That's rich. Your boy has daddy issues, does he?"
  
  "Don't tell him I told you!"
  
  "Why? What's he going to do, kill me?"
  
  She turns her eyes back toward you. "That's why I tried to get you away." The words growl their way out of her throat. The resentment doesn't sound forced, and so you feel like you've scored yourself a point at last.
  
  Soon you are nearing the short driveway to your camp, although the rain is beating down so hard against the hood of the truck that it seems like it, too, is trying to push you back. But it's not just the rain that is buffeting you: the wind is picking up too, causing the trees lining the narrow gravel road to writhe in an irregular rhythm, like zealots moved by a holy spirit.
  
  What you don't see, however, is the old sugar maple that has already been lashed by the wind just a bit too much tonight. At least, you fail to see it until it is tumbling into the road, as if aiming straight for your front license plate, swifter than a running deer. Before you can help yourself you are steering hard left to avoid it, only to snag your left headlight on another tree beside the road. This one brings you to a hard stop, just in time for the maple — a rotten, termite-filled bole that lost its crown many years ago — to slam into your hood.
  
  "Holy Jesus!" Charlei shouts from the seat beside you.
  
  You exhale the breath you had been holding since you first saw the dead tree coming at you. "Well shit. This just isn't my night now, is it?"
  
  Charlei starts to open her door, as if she plans to get out. You're not quite sure where she plans to go.
  
  "Hold on," you say. The engine is still running, despite the few hundred pounds of force that just slammed into it from above, so you throw the transmission into reverse to see if you can back your way out of this trap. You gun the gas pedal, but the back of the truck merely fishtails as the tires dig into the soft gravel surface of the road.
  
  "I don't suppose you have Triple-A?" she says.
  
  "I don't suppose you have a cell phone that works out here?" you reply.
  
  "Well at least Gordy and I aren't the only ones with a broken down vehicle now. Welcome to the club, Al."
  
  When a belt begins to squeal under the smashed hood of the truck, you turn off the engine. There is no point in compounding the damage.
  
  > Next page.
  "So what do we do now?" she asks, her hand on the handle to her door.
  
  "Now we go see what your husband the daddy killer has been up to."
  
  The dome light comes on as you each open up your doors. Through the spongy slippers on your feet you can feel the sticks scattered on the ground, almost as plainly as if you were barefoot. The fallen maple has the front of your truck pinned down, and as you suspected the rear tires have dug themselves a pair of nice trenches in the saturated road surface. The tailgate extends more than halfway across the narrow lane, leaving no room for anyone to pass. For better or worse, though, it's unlikely anyone else will be coming this way tonight.
  
  Charlei watches as you make a quick inspection of the damage. "Now do you wish you had followed my advice?" she shouts over the storm.
  
  You trudge across the road, the slippers accumulating a sole of sludge with each step. "Come one," you shout back. "Let's get inside."
  
  Except for the newly fallen branches that are littering your driveway, the Bear's Den doesn't look any worse for wear — except for one piece of sheet metal on the roof that is starting to come loose in the wind, exposing some of the old wood underneath. That will need to be nailed back down when all this is over. There kerosene lamp is still glowing in the window, and you see no shadows cast upon the curtains. In other words, everything below the roof seems well.
  
  But Charlei catches up to you and taps you on the elbow. "Gordy will kill you, you know." She runs past you and up the steps, opening the door; the storm catches it and nearly blows it out of her hands. You see her husband stand up to help catch it, using his shoulder to steady the door against the wind. She enters the camp, looks up at him and shakes her head, and then he sees you still standing out in the driveway, Charlei's words echoing in your ears. Her tone was serious again, just as it was out on the back stoop half an hour ago, and now his glare seems downright deadly.
  
  This is your place, though, and has been for years. So why should you feel intimidated here? With your mud-caked slippers bogging you down and the wind gusting against your back, you climb the three steps leading up to your door, which is still being steadied by Gordy's shoulder.
  
  "God, it took you long enough to get in here," he says, using his body to close it against the wind once you're in. You see the pages of the Albany Times Union scattered across the floor, only just now coming to rest. "So what happened?" You look up as you peel the slippers off your feet, but he's not talking to you. He's asking Charlei, who once again is warming herself up by the fire as if this were a blizzard instead of a tropical storm.
  
  "Al had second thoughts," she says.
  
  "You mean you didn't get to—"
  
  "Nope."
  
  "So where's the truck?"
  
  "Al might be able to explain that one better than I can, but the short version is that it's down on the road, wrapped around a couple trees."
  
  Gordy spins around to you, still mostly wet from his own bout with the storm earlier. "What the hell, Al? Why'd you go and do that for?"
  
  It's your camp and your truck, but you're the one being called on the carpet. Before you can respond, though, Charlei interrupts. "He wants to know why you want to kill him."
  
  "I'll bet. What did you tell him?"
  
  "That he reminds you of your father."
  
  Gordy leans in as if to take a good look at you. "Nah, I don't see it. His hair was more auburn, and he had a better sense of humor."
  
  "Al fell for it, though."
  
  "Maybe, but I think he's starting to get wise to us though." He steps over and gives his wife a kiss by the stove, but in so doing he keeps one eye on you. When the amorous moment is over, he looks you up and down again as if appraising a large dog.
  
  "Now what are we going to do with you, Mr. Al Flansburgh?" He steps over to your cooler, reaches down to pull out a fresh Magic Hat, and then hands the bottle over to you.
  
  "What the hell do you mean?" you say, taking the bottle.
  
  "I mean, you're all but useless to us now. You didn't want to go along with Charlei's experiment, and now you're wrecked your truck. Judging by all the sounds this crappy camp of yours has been making, I doubt it will even last the night. And as we've already established, Magic Hat isn't my favorite beer. So I ask you again, why do we need you?"
  
  "But it's not really a matter of need—"
  
  "Actually, yes it is. Charlei warned you, you didn't believe her, and now here you are, and now here I am. What did you think was going to happen?"
  
  Instinct tells you that is by all means a serious situation, even if the exact nature of Gordy's physical threat to you remains elusive. Were he to lunge at you, you're pretty sure the adrenaline pumping through your system right now would be enough to snap him in too. He must know that too. So it's the fact that he still seems unconcerned that has you worried. What are you missing?
  
  Charlei's posture right now seems particularly odd; she's turned her back to you, and her body has become unusually tense. Her head is shrunk into her shoulders and her hands are raised as if ready to cover her ears. It reminds you of that seen at Mount Rushmore in North by Northwest, the old Hitchcock movie: Eva Marie Saint is about to shoot Cary Grant when one of the background extras, a young boy, plugs his fingers into his ears in anticipation of the gunshot, a good ten seconds before it even happens. Charlei, now, is just like that boy. But that makes you—
  
  Turning your attention back to Gordy, you see that he has produced a small handgun out of god-knows-where and is pointing it at you. "This will all be over in a second honey," he says out of the corner of his mouth, but you know it isn't you he's trying to console. And somehow, unlike that Hollywood prop from 1959, you know this is no harmless cap gun.