Panic (5 page)

So he said, “Yeah, okay. Partners.”

“Allies,” Nat said, and stuck out her hand, formally. It felt soft, and also slightly sweaty.

She stood up, laughing. “It’s settled, then.” She couldn’t crane onto her tiptoes to kiss him, so she just grabbed his shoulders and planted a kiss on the side of his neck. She giggled. “Now I have to do the other side, so you’re even.”

And he knew then that he was going to fall totally head over heels for her this summer.

Afterward, no one knew who had posted the video online; it appeared on so many pages simultaneously, and spread to everybody else so quickly, it was impossible to determine its point of origin, although many people suspected it was Joey Addison or Charlie Wong, just because they were both dicks and two years ago had secretly filmed, and posted, videos of the girls’ locker rooms.

It wasn’t even that interesting—just a couple of jerky shots of Ray and Zev swinging at each other, shoulders butting up into the frame as a crowd formed; and then flashing lights, people screaming, a moment when the feed went dead. Then more images: sweeping lights and cops’ distorted voices, tinny and harmless-sounding in the recording, and one close-up of Nat, mouth wide, with one arm around Heather and the other around Dodge. Then darkness.

Dodge still kept a copy on his hard drive, so he could freeze-frame on that final moment, when Nat looked so scared and he was helping support her.

Just a few hours later an email made the rounds as well. Subject line: blank. From an encrypted address: [email protected].

The message was simple, only two lines.

Loose lips sink ships.

Nobody tells. Or else.

TUESDAY, JUNE 28

heather

“YOU’RE SURE THIS IS LEGIT, RIGHT?” BISHOP WAS SITTING forward in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel, maneuvering the car over a pitted one-lane dirt track. His hair looked even more exuberant than usual, as though he’d tried to style it with a vacuum cleaner. He was wearing his dad’s old Virginia Tech sweatshirt, loose flannel pajama bottoms, and flip-flops. When he came for Heather he had announced, with a certain pride, that he had not yet showered. “You’re not going to get axed to death by some psychopath, right?”

“Shut up, Bishop.” Heather reached out to shove him and he jerked the wheel, nearly sending them into one of the ditches that ran along both sides of the road.

“That’s no way to treat your driver,” he said.

“Fine. Shut up,
driver
.” There was an anxious feeling in Heather’s stomach. The trees here were so thick, they almost completely blocked out the sun.

“Just looking out for you, m’lady,” Bishop said, smiling, showing off the overlap in his teeth. “I don’t want my best girl to be turned into a lamp shade.”

“I thought Avery was your best girl,” Heather said. She’d meant it as a joke, but the words came out sounding bitter. Like a bitter, heartbroken, lonely spinster. Which she kind of was. Maybe not a spinster—you couldn’t be a spinster at eighteen, she didn’t think. But close.

“Come on, Heather,” Bishop said. He actually looked hurt. “You’ve always been my best girl.”

Heather kept her face to the window. They would arrive any second. But she felt a little better now. Bishop had that effect on her—like a human antianxiety pill.

The day after the challenge at the water towers, Heather had overslept, waking only when an anonymous text pinged on her phone:
Quit now, before you get hurt.
She was so shaken, she’d spent fifteen minutes searching for her car keys before remembering she’d stashed them on the hook by the door, then got fired from Walmart when she showed up twenty minutes late for her shift. And suddenly she had found herself blubbering in the parking lot. A week and a half earlier, she’d had a boyfriend and a job—not a good job, but still a job. A little money in her pocket.

Now she had nothing. No boyfriend, no job, no money. And someone wanted to make sure she didn’t play Panic.

Then, out of nowhere, she’d been attacked by a dog with the biggest tongue she’d ever seen. Maybe
attacked
was the wrong word, since the dog was just licking her—but still, she’d never been much of an animal person, and it had
seemed
like an attack. And some crazy old lady carrying a shit ton of grocery bags had offered her a job on the spot, even though Heather had snot dripping from her nose and was wearing a tank top streaked with salad dressing, which she hadn’t noticed in her rush to get out of the house.

The woman’s name was Anne. “Muppet’s taken a shine to you,” she’d said. Muppet was the name of the dog with the long tongue. “He doesn’t usually get on with strangers. You seem like you’re a natural with animals.”

Heather had stayed quiet. She didn’t want to admit that for the most part she thought animals, like pimples, were best to ignore. If you fussed too much with them, it would backfire. The only time she’d tried to keep a pet, an anemic-looking goldfish she’d called Star, it had been dead within thirty-two hours. But she said yes when Anne asked if she’d be into doing some pet sitting and light chores. It was $150 a week, cash in the hand, which was roughly the same as she would have made working part-time for Walmart.

Suddenly the trees opened up and they arrived. Heather immediately felt relieved. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting—maybe, after what Bishop said, a dingy barn full of rusting farm tools and machetes—but instead she saw a sprawling red farmhouse and a large circular parking area, neatly trimmed of grass. She could see a barn, too, but it wasn’t dingy—and next to it, a series of whitewashed sheds.

As soon as she opened the door, several roosters came trotting toward her, and a dog—more than one dog?—began furiously barking. Anne emerged from the house and waved.

“Holy shit,” Bishop said. He actually looked impressed. “It’s a zoo.”

“See? Not a human lamp shade in sight.” Heather slid out of the car, then ducked so she could say good-bye. “Thanks, Bishop.”

He saluted. “Text when you need a pickup, ma’am.”

Heather closed the door. Anne crossed the yard toward her.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Anne said, shielding her eyes with one hand, as Bishop began to turn around.

This was so unexpected, Heather’s face got hot. “No, no,” she said quickly, angling her body away from the car, as though Bishop, in case he was still watching, would be able to read the conversation in her body language.

“He’s cute,” Anne said matter-of-factly. She waved, and Bishop tapped the horn before pulling away. The blush grew to an all-over body inferno. Heather crossed her arms and then dropped them again. Fortunately, Anne didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m glad you came.” Anne smiled, as though Heather had just dropped by for a social visit. “Let me show you around.”

Heather was relieved that Anne seemed to approve of her choice of outfit: clean jeans, sneakers, and a soft, nubby henley shirt, which had belonged to Bishop before he accidentally shrank it. She hadn’t wanted to look sloppy, but then again, Anne had told her to wear clothes she could muck up, and she hadn’t wanted to look like she hadn’t
listened
.

They started toward the house. The roosters were still running around like crazy, and Heather noticed a chicken pen on the other side of the yard, in which a dozen yellow-feathered chicks were strutting and pecking and preening in the sun. The dogs kept up their racket. There were three of them, including Muppet, pacing around a small enclosure, barking lustily.

“You have a lot of animals,” Heather pointed out, and then immediately felt like an idiot. She tucked her hands into her sleeves.

But Anne laughed. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I just can’t stop.”

“So is this, like, a farm?” Heather didn’t see any farming equipment, but she didn’t know anyone who kept chickens for fun.

Again, Anne laughed. “Hardly. I give the eggs away to the pantry sometimes. But I don’t pull up a damn thing besides bird poop, dog poop, poop of all kinds.” She held the door to the house open for Heather. Heather thought that she would probably spend the whole summer shoveling shit. “My husband, Larry, loved animals,” Anne continued as she followed Heather into the house.

They entered the prettiest kitchen Heather had ever seen. Even Nat’s kitchen didn’t compare. The walls were cream and yellow; the cupboards tawny wood, bleached nearly white from the sun, which poured through two large windows. The counters were spotless. No ants here. Against one wall were shelves arranged with blue-and-white pottery and small porcelain figurines: miniature horses, cats, donkeys, and pigs. Heather was almost afraid to move, like one step in the wrong direction might cause everything to shatter.

“Tea?” Anne asked. Heather shook her head. She didn’t know anyone who drank tea in real life—only British people in TV miniseries.

Anne filled a kettle and plunked it on the stove. “We moved here from Chicago.”

“Really?” Heather burst out. The farthest she had ever been from Carp was Albany. Once on a school trip, and once when her mom had a court date because she’d been driving with a suspended license. “What’s Chicago like?”

“Cold,” Anne said. “Freeze your balls off ten months out of the year. But the other two are pure joy.”

Heather didn’t respond. Anne didn’t seem like the type who would say
balls
, and Heather liked her a little better for it.

“Larry and I worked in ad sales. We swore we’d make a change someday.” Anne shrugged. “Then he died, and I did.”

Once again, Heather didn’t say anything. She wanted to ask how Larry had died, and when, but didn’t know if it was appropriate. She didn’t want Anne to think she was obsessed with death or something.

When the water had boiled, Anne filled her mug and then directed Heather back through the door they had come. It was funny, walking across the yard with Anne, while the steam rose from her tea and mingled with the soft mist of morning. Heather felt like she was in a movie about a farm somewhere far away.

They rounded the corner of the house, and the dogs began to bark again.

“Shut it!” Anne said, but good-naturedly. They didn’t listen. She kept up a nonstop stream of conversation as they walked. “This one’s the feed shed”—this, as she unlocked one of the small, whitewashed sheds, pushing it open with one hand—“I try to keep everything organized so I don’t end up throwing grain to the dogs and trying to force kibble on a chick. Remember to turn off the lights before you lock up. I don’t even want to tell you what my electricity bills are like.

“This is where the shovels and rakes go”—they were at another shed—“buckets, horseshoes, any kind of crap you find lying around that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere else. Got it? Am I going too fast?”

Heather shook her head, and then, realizing Anne wasn’t looking at her, said, “No.”

She realized she wasn’t nervous anymore. She liked the feel of the sun on her shoulders and the smell of dark, wet ground everywhere. Probably some of what she was smelling was animal shit, but it actually didn’t smell that bad—just like growth and newness.

Anne showed her the stables, where two horses stood quietly in the half dark, like sentinels guarding something precious. Heather had never been so close to a horse before, and she laughed out loud when Anne gave her a carrot and instructed her to feed it to the black one, Lady Belle, and Heather felt its soft, leathery muzzle and the gentle pressure of its teeth.

“They were race horses. Both injured. Saved ’em from being shot,” Anne said as they left the stables.

“Shot?” Heather repeated.

Anne nodded. For the first time, she looked angry. “That’s what happens when they’re no good for running anymore. Owner takes a shotgun to their head.”

Anne had saved all the animals from one gruesome fate or another: the dogs and horses from death, the chickens and roosters from various diseases, when no one else had cared enough to spend the money to nurse them. There were turkeys she had saved from slaughter, cats she had rescued from the street in Hudson, and even an enormous potbellied pig named Tinkerbell, which had once been an unwanted runt. Heather couldn’t imagine that it had ever been the runt of
anything
.

“All she wanted was a little love,” Anne said, as they passed the pen where Tinkerbell was lolling in the mud. “That, and about a pound of feed a day.” She laughed.

Finally they came to a tall, fenced-in enclosure. The sun had broken free of the trees, and refracted through the rising mist, it was practically blinding. The fence encircled an area of at least a few acres—mostly open land, patches of dirt, and high grass, but some trees, too. Heather couldn’t see any animals.

For the first time all morning, Anne grew quiet. She sipped her tea, squinting in the sun, staring off through the chain-link fence. After a few minutes, Heather couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked.

“Shhh,” Anne said. “Look. They’ll come.”

Heather crossed her arms, biting back a sigh. The dew had soaked through her sneakers. Her feet were too cold, and her neck was too hot.

There. There was movement by a small cluster of trees. She squinted. A large, dark mass, which she had taken for a rock, shook itself. Then it stood. And as it stood, another form emerged from the shadow of the trees, and the two animals circled each other briefly, and then loped gracefully into the sun.

Heather’s mouth went dry.

Tigers.

She blinked. Impossible. But they were still there, and coming closer: two tigers,
tigers
, like you would find at a circus. Massive square heads and huge jaws, bodies muscled and rippling, coats glossy in the sun.

Anne whistled sharply. Heather jumped. Both tigers swung their heads toward the sound, and Heather lost her breath. Their eyes were flat, incurious, and
old
—impossibly old, as though instead of looking forward, their eyes saw back to a distant past.

They ambled up to the fence, so close that Heather stepped backward, quickly, terrified. So close she could smell them, feel the heat of their bodies.

“How?” she finally managed to ask, which was not quite what she meant, but good enough. A thousand thoughts were colliding in her head.

“More rescues,” Anne said calmly. “They get sold on the black market. Sold, then abandoned when they’re too big, or put down when there’s no one to care for them.” As she spoke, she reached her hand through a gap in the fence and actually
petted
one of the tigers—like it was an overgrown house cat. When she saw Heather gaping, she laughed. “They’re all right once they’ve been fed,” she said. “Just don’t try and cuddle up when they’re hungry.”

“I don’t—I won’t have to go in there, will I?” Heather was rooted to the ground, paralyzed with fear and wonder. They were so big, so close. One of the tigers yawned, and she could make out the sharp curve of its teeth, white as bone.

“No, no,” Anne said. “Most of the time, I just chuck the food in through the gate. Here, I’ll show you.”

Anne walked her to the padlocked gate, which to Heather looked alarmingly flimsy. On the other side of the fence, the tigers followed—languidly, as though by coincidence. Heather wasn’t fooled, though. That’s how predators were. They sat back and waited, lured you into feeling safe, and then they pounced.

She wished Bishop were here. She did
not
wish Nat were here. Nat would flip. She hated big animals of any kind. Even poodles made her jumpy.

When they turned their backs on the tigers’ pen and returned to the house, Heather’s stomach started to unknot, although she still had the impression the tigers were watching her, and kept picturing their sharp claws slotting into her back.

Anne showed her where she stored all the keys to the sheds, hanging from neatly labeled hooks in the “mudroom,” as she called it, where Heather could also find spare rubber boots like the kind Anne wore, mosquito repellent, gardening shears, and suntan and calamine lotions.