The Outliers (The Outliers, #1)(36)

“Run, Jasper!” I shout as I leap forward into the shadows, then stumble downhill with a jerk.

Just as fast I’m back up the other side, a slope, not a pit after all. And then I am running. Fast over all those sticks and leaves. I wait for my foot to catch something. For some kind of pain.

But nothing happens, and second by second those lights in the distance are closer. Jasper is right behind me. At least I hope that’s him. Feet fast, his breath coming in strong, even puffs. Which one was it in those boots? Can’t be the young crazy one. I’m pretty sure he would have shot us on sight. And not Doug. He had on some kind of sneakers or hip, urban shoes. Didn’t he? The third one then, maybe. At least that one seemed reasonable.

We don’t slow down until we come up on the back of a run-down cabin in a small clearing. Haunted-looking, but not abandoned, apparently. The lights are on. Jasper marches up the steps and pounds on the door. When no one answers, he peers in the windows.

“I don’t think they’re home,” he says, going back to the door to try it. He turns back and shakes his head. Locked. “We could break a window, but I didn’t see a phone.”

There’s a rusted truck parked nearby. Maybe the keys are inside. Amazing how easy it is to consider stealing a truck once you’ve stabbed someone.

I walk over and push up on my toes to look in the open driver’s-side window. In the pale light from the cabin, I can just make out the ignition. No key. I should check under the mat and in the glove box. People who live in the woods always leave their keys in their cars. Don’t they? I press the stiff button on the door handle, but it takes a few pulls to finally get the heavy rusted door open. I’m looking in the glove box when Jasper calls my name.

His voice sounds weird. He’s not judging my trying to take the truck, is he? Because we are way past caring about that. Ignore him, keep on looking for the keys. “Wylie, come out of the truck.”

This time Jasper sounds scared. And not about the truck.

“Wylie,” he says again. “You should come out. Right now.”

When I finally slide back out, I see the boots first. Someone close enough to grab me again. Between me and Jasper, too. I suck in some air as I look up to see who’s wearing them. But the man himself is not nearly as scary as I’d been bracing for. Creepy, to be sure. He’s superthin and really old with wild, white hair and a gnarled beard. Not one of the guys from the woods, though. He’s much older than they sounded. The owner of the cabin, probably. It would explain why he’s got one hand resting on his chin, the other on the back of his neck, like he’s contemplating what to do with a trespasser. He’s breathing hard, too; definitely the one who was chasing us. At least he is small. Jasper could definitely take him. I could probably take him.

And so why does Jasper look so worried? Eyes wide, color all gone. That’s when the man moves his hand. The one I thought was resting on his neck. It’s not. I can see that now. He’s holding something, resting it against his shoulder. Something long and thin, with a handle. And a big, curved blade.

“Tourist trapping is still illegal round here,” the man barks at me finally, like the last shot in a long argument we’ve been having. “So is trespassing.”

“Tourist trapping?” I ask. Better to focus on the part I know for sure we haven’t done. Might make him think less about our trespassing.

“The damn hounds? The doughnuts? I know how you people do it.” The man points his huge knife toward the woods, then swings around and points it right at me. Its long blade is so close I could lean forward and touch the tip with my nose. “It’s shooting fish in a goddamn barrel.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. None. Though that seems to matter much less than his big knife.

“We’re just trying to find our friend.” I hold up my hands. “We didn’t mean to bother you.”

I look over at Jasper and he nods. Good, keep talking, the look says. But the man’s not even listening.

“I didn’t give a shit about those damn animals before. That’s the damn honest truth. Kill ’em, don’t kill ’em, makes no difference to me. I sure as hell didn’t care how they did it.” He’s having a totally different conversation. Not even with me. “But if it wasn’t for the goddamn doughnuts, the bears never would have even been over here. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ that’s what Sarah said, when she come up on them. Like she’d just walked in on someone pissing. You know the sound someone makes when they’re being eaten alive?” He shakes his head, the anger twisting his face.

“We aren’t bear hunters. Look at us,” I say. “We’re kids from Boston. We don’t know anything about hunting or guns. But there are some bear hunters in the woods right now.”

I have no idea whether those men hunt bear, much less whether they trap them with doughnuts. But they did almost shoot us. Doesn’t seem totally unfair to send this guy their way. I feel confident he will have the upper hand even without a gun.

“Where?” he snaps, eyes flashing toward the dark woods.

“Behind the diner,” I say. “They were headed for the hounding trails.”

“Goddamn *s,” he mutters angrily as he starts toward the woods, knife gripped at his side.

“Wait,” I call after him.