Garry Boots Goes Berserk Page 3
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George and Paula pitched their tent under a maple tree at the edge of a clearing in the East Texas woods, and then helped Shelly with hers. Hundreds of years of undisturbed foliage accumulation and decay had made the ground a perfect springy cushion of pine needles. Wildflowers and short grass carpeted the sloping ground to the edge of the lake. The shoreline was strewn with rounded, moss covered limestone chunks ranging in size from pebbles to small boulders. George’s ski boat rested motionless in the emerald water, its reflective silver and black paint casting unnatural hues onto nearby rocks. Several hundred yards across the lake sheer limestone cliffs, gray-green from exposure, emerged from the water.
The expedition had arrived at this isolated place via George’s boat, having parked the Jeep at a marina, miles away. From the main body of the lake they ventured up the Trinity River to their pristine campsite. Once the river had run free, but now it was a serene extension of the manmade lake itself, snaking for miles into the wilderness. It was always sheltered from the wind, and calm enough for anyone with a boat or canoe to penetrate deep into the forest.
Jerry volunteered to forage in the woods for firewood. Andy tagged along to help carry and to scout for doves. The men walked uneasily together across the shaded forest floor. Oak, hickory, and sweetgum trees mingled within the predominant loblolly pines. A slight breeze ruffled the canopy overhead, and except for intermittent bird calls, the only sound to intrude upon the stillness was that of the two wanderers. Noises from the campsite faded quickly.
Jerry and Andy traveled in silence parallel to the shoreline, keeping it as a reference for their return. Several hundred yards farther, they broke into another clearing. A weather-battered, solitary oak stump, partially blackened from the fire that had toppled it, stood head high in the sunlight. What remained of the upper trunk lay rotting in the grass and fallen leaves. Andy’s muscles tensed as four mourning doves, startled by the intruders, fluttered away into the safety of the surrounding woods.
“I can tell this is going to be a good place to kill something,” Andy said.
Jerry looked at Andy uneasily. “I’ll be ready for supper tonight, then.”
“But you know, Jerry, if I can’t shoot enough birds for everyone, you can guess who I’d like to entertain with my own private candlelight dinner.”
“Shelly, I presume?” Jerry said.
Andy smiled in acknowledgment.
“You and Shelly seem to have some things in common -- like weird tastes in music. Except Shelly’s not a hit songwriter,” Jerry prodded.
“Yeah . . ., well, I guess that was more luck than talent.” Andy fidgeted with a pine cone he had extracted from the grass.
Jerry pushed a little harder. “That was a pretty wild story you reeled off in the car.”
Andy crackled, “Well, it was a pretty incredible night.” His eyes betrayed his anger.
Jerry scooped up a few limbs of the fallen oak under his arm, mumbling something about a hot fire. He looked at Andy, and realizing the futility of his conversation, started back toward the others. Andy followed sullenly a few paces behind.