Panic (10 page)

“What?” Nat said with her mouth full. “We’re going to be here all night.” Except it came out,
“Weef gonna be hey all nife.”

She was right. Heather went and sat down next to her. The floor was uneven.

“
So waf do youf fink
?” Nat said, which this time Heather had no trouble translating.

“What do I think about what?” She hugged her knees to her chest. She wished the cone of light were bigger, more powerful. Everything outside its limited beam was rough shadow, shape, and darkness. Even Dodge, standing with his face turned away from the light. In the dark, he could have been anyone.

“I don’t know. Everything. The judges. Who
plans
all this?”

Heather reached out and took two chips. She fed them into her mouth, one from each hand. It was an unstated rule that no one spoke about the identity of the judges. “I want to know how it got started,” she said. “And why we’ve all been crazy enough to play.” It was meant to be a joke, but her voice came out shrill.

Dodge shifted and came to squat next to Natalie again.

“What about you, Dodge?” Heather said. “Why did you agree to play?”

Dodge looked up. His face was a mask of hollows, and Heather was suddenly reminded of one summer when she’d gone camping with some other Girl Scouts, the way the counselors had gathered them around the fire to tell ghost stories. They had used flashlights to turn their faces gruesome, and all the campers were afraid.

For a second, she thought he smiled. “Revenge.”

Nat started to laugh. “Revenge?” she repeated.

Heather realized she hadn’t misheard. “Nat,” she said sharply. Nat must have remembered, then, about Dodge’s sister; her smile faded quickly. Dodge’s eyes clicked to Heather’s. She looked away. So he did blame Luke Hanrahan for what had happened. She felt suddenly cold. The word
revenge
was so awful: straight and sharp, like a knife.

As if he could tell what she was thinking, Dodge smiled. “I just want to cream Ray, that’s all,” he said lightly, and reached out to grab the bag of chips. Heather felt instantly better.

They tried to play cards for a while but it was too dark, even for a slow-moving game; they had to keep passing the flashlight around. Nat wanted to learn how to do a magic trick, but Dodge resisted. Occasionally they heard voices from the hall, or footsteps, and Heather would tense up, certain that this was the beginning of the real challenge—spooky ghost holograms or people in masks who would jump out at them. But nothing happened. No one came barging in the door to say
boo
.

After a while, Heather got tired. She balled up the duffel bag she’d brought under her head. She listened to the low rhythm of Dodge and Nat’s conversation—they were talking about whether a shark or a bear would win in a fight, and Dodge was arguing that they had to specify a medium. . . .

Then they were talking about dogs, and Heather saw two large eyes (a tiger’s eyes?) the size of headlights, staring at her from the darkness. She wanted to scream; there was a monster here, in the dark, about to pounce. . . .

And she opened her mouth, but instead of a scream coming out, the darkness poured in, and she slept.

dodge

DODGE WAS DREAMING OF THE TIME THAT HE AND Dayna had ridden the carousel together in Chicago. Or maybe Columbus. But in his dream, there were palm trees, and a man selling grilled meats from a brightly colored cart. Dayna was in front of him, and her hair was so long it kept whipping him in the face. A crowd was gathered: people shouting, leering, calling things he couldn’t understand.

He knew he was supposed to be happy—he was supposed to be having fun—but he wasn’t. It was too hot. Plus there was Dayna’s hair, getting tangled in his mouth, making it hard to swallow. Making it hard to breathe. There was the stench from the meat cart, too. The smell of burning. The thick clouds of smoke.

Smoke.

Dodge woke up suddenly, jerking upright. He’d fallen asleep straight on the floor, with his face pressed against the cold wood. He had no idea what time it was. He could just make out Heather’s and Nat’s entangled forms, the pattern of their breathing. For a second, still half-asleep, he thought they looked like baby dragons.

Then he realized why: the room was filling with smoke. It was seeping underneath the crack below the door, snaking its way into the room.

He stood up, then thought better of it, remembering that smoke rises, and dropped to his knees. There was shouting: screams and footsteps sounded from other parts of the house.

Too easy.
He remembered what Heather had said earlier. Of course. Firecrackers exploded here on the Fourth of July; there would be a prize for the players who stayed in the house the longest.

Fire. The house was on fire.

He reached over and shook the girls roughly, not bothering to distinguish between them, to locate their elbows from their shoulders. “Wake up. Wake up.”

Natalie sat up, rubbing her eyes, and then immediately began coughing. “What—?”

“Fire,” he said shortly. “Stay low. Smoke rises.” Heather was stirring now too. He crawled back to the door. No doubt about it: the rats were abandoning ship. There was a confusion of voices outside, the sound of slamming doors. That meant the fire must have already spread pretty far. No one would have wanted to bail right away.

He put his hand on the metal door handle. It was warm to the touch, but not scalding.

“Nat? Dodge? What’s going on?” Heather was fully awake now. Her voice was shrill, hysterical. “Why is it so smoky?”

“Fire.” It was Natalie who answered. Her voice was, amazingly, calm.

Time to get the hell out. Before the fire spread further. He had a sudden memory of some gym class in DC—or was it Richmond?—when all the kids had to stop, drop, and roll onto the foot-smelling linoleum. Even then, he’d known it was stupid. Like rolling would do anything but turn you into a fireball.

He grabbed the handle and pulled, but nothing happened. Tried again. Nothing. For a second, he thought maybe he was still asleep—in one of his nightmares, where he tried and tried to run but couldn’t, or swung at some assailant’s face and didn’t even make a mark. On his third try, the handle popped off in his hand. And for the first time in the whole game, he felt it: panic, building in his chest, crawling into his throat.

“What’s happening?” Heather was practically screaming now. “Open the door, Dodge.”

“I can’t.” His hands and feet felt numb. The panic was squeezing his lungs, making it hard to breathe. No. That was the smoke. Thicker now. He unfroze. He fumbled his fingers into the hole where the door handle had been, tugging frantically, and felt a sharp bite of metal. He jammed his shoulder against the door, feeling increasingly desperate. “It’s stuck.”

“What do you mean,
stuck
?” Heather started to say something else, and instead started coughing.

Dodge spun around, dropped into a crouch. “Hold on.” He brought his sleeve to his mouth. “Let me think.” He could no longer hear any footsteps, any shouting. Had everyone else gotten out? He could hear, though, the progress of the fire: the muffled snapping and popping of old wood, decades of rot and ruin slurped into flame.

Heather was fumbling with her phone.

“What are you doing?” Nat tried to swat at it. “The rules said no calling for—”

“The rules?” Heather cut her off. “Are you
crazy
?” She punched furiously at the keyboard. Her face was wild, contorted, like a wax mask that had started to melt. She let out a sound that was a cross between a scream and a sob. “It’s not working. There’s no service.”

Think, think. Through the panic, Dodge carved a clear path in his mind. A goal; he needed a goal. He knew instinctively that it was his job to get the girls out safely, just like it was his job to make sure nothing bad ever happened to Dayna, his Dayna, his only sister and best friend. He couldn’t fail again. No matter what.

The window was too high—he’d never reach it. And it was so narrow. . . . But maybe he could give Natalie a boost. . . . She might be able to fit. Then what? Didn’t matter. Heather might be able to squeeze through too, although he doubted it.

“Nat.” He stood up. The air tasted gritty and thick. It was hot. “Come on. You have to go through the window.”

Nat stared. “I can’t leave you guys.”

“You have to. Go. Take your phone. Find help.” Dodge steadied himself with one hand on the wall. He was losing it. “It’s the only way.”

Dodge barely saw her nod in the dark. When she stood up, he could smell her sweat. For a crazy second, he wished he could hug her, and tell her it would be okay. But there was no time. An image of Dayna popped into his head, the mangled ruin of her car, her legs shriveling slowly to pale-white stalks.

His fault.

Dodge bent down, gripped Nat by the waist, helped her climb onto his shoulders. She drove a foot into his chest by accident, and he nearly lost it and fell. He was weak. It was the goddamn smoke. But he managed to steady himself and straighten up.

“The window!” Nat gasped. And Heather, somehow, understood. She fumbled for the wrench she’d spotted earlier and passed it upward. Nat swung. There was a tinkling. A rush of air blew into the room, and after just a second a
whooshing
sound, as the fire—beyond the door, edging closer—sensed that air, felt it, and surged toward it, like an ocean thundering toward the beach. Black smoke poured underneath the door.

“Go!” Dodge shouted. He felt Nat kick his head, his ear; then she was outside.

He dropped to his knees again. He could barely see. “You next,” he said to Heather.

“I’ll never fit.” She said it in a whisper, but somehow he heard. He was relieved. He didn’t really think he had the strength left to lift her.

His head was spinning. “Lie down,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. She did, pressing flat against the ground. He was glad to lie down too. Lifting Nat that small distance had exhausted him. It was as though the smoke was a blanket . . . as though it was covering him, and telling him to sleep. . . .

He was back on the carousel again. But this time the spectators were screaming. And it had started to rain. He wanted to get off . . . the ride was whirling faster and faster . . . lights were spinning overhead . . .

Lights, spinning, voices shouting. Sirens screaming.

Sky.

Air.

Someone—Mom?—saying, “You’re okay, son. You’re going to be okay.”

SATURDAY, JULY 9

heather

WHEN HEATHER WOKE UP, SHE IMMEDIATELY KNEW SHE was in a hospital, which was kind of disappointing. In movies, people were always groggy and confused and asking where they were and what had happened. But there was no mistaking the smell of disinfectant, the clean white sheets, the
beep-beep-beep
of medical equipment. It was actually kind of pleasant—the sheets were clean and crisp; her mom and Bo weren’t shouting; the air didn’t reek of old booze. She’d slept better than she had in a long time, and for several minutes she kept her eyes closed, breathing deeply.

Then Bishop was speaking, quietly. “Come on, Heather. We know you’re faking. I can tell by the way your eyelid is twitching.”

Heather opened her eyes. Joy surged in her chest. Bishop was sitting in a chair drawn up to the bed, leaning forward, as close as he could get without crawling into the cot with her. Nat was there too, eyes swollen from crying, and she rocketed straight at Heather.

“Heather.” She started sobbing again. “Oh my God, Heather. I was so scared.”

“Hi, Nat.” Heather had to speak through a mouthful of Nat’s hair, which tasted like soap. She must have showered.

“Don’t suffocate her, Nat,” Bishop said. Nat drew back, still sniffling, but she kept a grip on Heather’s hand, as though she were worried Heather might float away. Bishop was smiling, but his face was sheet white and there were dark circles under his eyes. Maybe, Heather thought, he had been sitting by her bed all night, worried she might be dying. The idea pleased her.

Heather didn’t bother asking what had happened. It was obvious. Nat had gotten help, somehow, and Heather must have been carted off to the hospital when she was passed out. So she asked, “Is Dodge okay? Where is he?”

“Gone. He got up a few hours ago and walked out. He’s okay,” Nat said all in a rush. “The doctor said you’d be okay too.”

“You won the challenge,” Bishop said, his face expressionless. Nat shot him a look.

Heather inhaled again. When she did, she felt a sharp pain between her ribs. “Does my mom know?” she asked.

Nat and Bishop exchanged a quick glance.

“She was here,” Bishop said. Heather felt her chest seize again.
She was here
meant she’d left. Of course. “Lily, too,” he rushed on. “She wanted to stay. She was hysterical—”

“It’s all right,” Heather said. Bishop was still looking at her weirdly, like someone had just forced a handful of Sour Patch Kids into his mouth. It occurred to her that she must look like crap, probably smelled like crap too. She felt her face heat up. Great. Now she’d look like crap warmed over. “What?” she said, trying to sound annoyed without breathing too hard. “What is it?”

“Listen, Heather. Something happened last night, and you—”

The door swung open, and Mrs. Velez came into the room, balancing two cups of coffee and a sandwich filmed in plastic, obviously from the cafeteria. Mr. Velez was right behind her, carrying a duffel bag Heather recognized as belonging to Nat.

“Heather!” Mrs. Velez beamed at her. “You’re awake.”

“I told my parents,” Nat said unnecessarily, under her breath.

“It’s all right,” Heather said again. And secretly, she was pleased that Mr. and Mrs. Velez had come. She was suddenly worried she might cry. Mr. Velez’s hair was sticking straight up, and he had a grass stain on one of the knees of his khakis; Mrs. Velez was wearing one of her pastel cardigans, and both of them were looking at Heather as though she had come back from the dead. Maybe she had. For the first time she realized, really
realized
, how close she had come. She swallowed rapidly, willing back the urge to cry.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Mrs. Velez set the coffees and sandwich on the counter and sat down on Heather’s bed. She reached out and smoothed back Heather’s hair; Heather imagined, just for a second, that Mrs. Velez was her real mother.

“You know.” Heather tried, and failed, to smile.

“I had my dad bring some stuff,” Nat said. Mr. Velez hitched the duffel bag a little higher, and it occurred to Heather that she had lost her own bag—left it in the Graybill house. It was probably ashes by now. “Magazines. And that fuzzy blanket from my basement.”

The way Nat was talking made it seem as if Heather was actually going to be
staying
here. “I’m really fine.” She sat up a little higher in bed, as though to prove it. “I can go home.”

“The doctors need to make sure there’s no damage inside,” Mrs. Velez said. “It might be a little while.”

“Don’t worry, Heather,” Bishop said quietly. He reached out and took her hand; she was startled by the softness of his touch, by the slow warmth that radiated from his fingertips through her body. “I’ll stay with you.”

I love you.
She thought the words suddenly; this urge, like the earlier urge to cry, she had to will down.

“Me too,” Nat said loyally.

“Heather needs to rest,” Mrs. Velez said. She was still smiling, but the corners of her eyes were creased with worry. “Do you remember what happened last night, honey?”

Heather tensed. She wasn’t sure how much she should say. She looked to Nat and Bishop for cues, but both of them avoided her eyes. “Most of it,” she said cautiously.

Mrs. Velez was still watching her extra carefully, as if she were worried Heather might suddenly crack apart, or begin bleeding from the eyeballs. “And do you feel up to talking about it, or would you rather wait?”

Heather’s stomach began to twist. Why wouldn’t Bishop and Nat look at her? “What do you mean, talking about it?”

“The police are here,” Bishop blurted out. “We tried to tell you.”

“I don’t get it,” Heather said.

“They think that the fire wasn’t an accident,” Bishop said. Heather felt like he was trying to communicate a message to her with his eyes, and she was too stupid to get it. “Someone burned the house down on purpose.”

“But it
was
an accident,” Nat insisted.

“For God’s sake, both of you.” Mrs. Velez rarely lost her temper; Heather was surprised even to hear her say “God.” “Stop it. You’re not doing anybody any good by lying. This is because of that game—Panic, or whatever you call it. Don’t try to pretend it isn’t. The police know. It’s all over. Honestly, I would have expected better. Especially from you, Bishop.”

Bishop opened his mouth, then closed it again. Heather wondered whether he’d been about to defend himself. But that would mean selling out Heather and Nat. She felt horribly ashamed. Panic. The word seemed awful spoken out loud, here, in this clean white place.

Mrs. Velez’s voice turned gentle again. “You’ll have to tell them the truth, Heather,” she said. “Tell them everything you know.”

Heather was starting to freak. “But I don’t know anything,” she said. She pulled her hand away from Bishop’s; her palm was starting to sweat. “Why do they need to talk to me? I didn’t do anything.”

“Someone is dead, Heather,” Mrs. Velez said. “It’s very serious.”

For a second, Heather was sure she’d misheard. “What?”

Mrs. Velez looked stricken. “I thought you knew.” She turned to Nat. “I was sure you would have told her.”

Nat said nothing.

Heather turned to Bishop. Her head seemed to take a very long time to move on her neck. “Who?” she said.

“Little Bill Kelly,” Bishop said. He tried to find her hand again, but she pulled away.

Heather couldn’t speak for a moment. The last time she’d seen Little Bill Kelly, he was sitting at a bus stop, feeding pigeons from the cup of his hands. When she’d smiled at him, he waved cheerfully and said, “Hiya, Christy.” Heather had no idea who Christy was. She’d barely known Little Kelly—he was older than she was, and had been away for years in the army.

“I don’t—” Heather swallowed. Mr. and Mrs. Velez were listening closely. “But he wasn’t . . .”

“He was in the basement,” Bishop said. His voice broke. “Nobody knew. You couldn’t have known.”

Heather closed her eyes. Color bloomed behind her eyelids. Fireworks. Fire. Smoke in the darkness. She opened her eyes again.

Mr. Velez had gone into the hall. The door was partly open. She heard murmured voices, the squeak of someone’s shoes on the tile floor.

He poked his head back in the room. He looked almost apologetic. “The police are here, Heather,” he said. “It’s time.”