Panic(20)

Goal: Take a prize from the house.

Bonus: Find the desk in the gun room and take what’s hidden there.



“All right.” Diggin was speaking quietly as they drew up close to the group. They were late. “Players, step forward.”

They did, detaching themselves from the people who had come to watch. Fewer players, fewer spectators. After the bust, everyone was jumpy. And Coral Lake Road was bad luck. Trigger-Happy Jack was bad—all bad. A psycho and a drunk and worse.

Dodge knew he wouldn’t think twice about shooting them.

The beam of a flashlight swept over each of the players in turn. It felt like the minutes were swelling into hours. The counting took forever. Dodge could see Ray Hanrahan, chewing gum loudly, standing on the outer edge of the circle of players. His face was concealed in shadow. Dodge felt a familiar clutch of anger. Strange how it didn’t go away; over the past two years, it just seemed to be growing, like a cancer in his stomach.

“Walsh is missing,” Diggin said finally. “So is Merl.”

“They’re out, then,” someone said.

“It’s midnight.” Diggin was still practically whispering. The wind lifted the trees, hissed at them, as though it knew they were trespassing. The dogs were still quiet, though. Sleeping, or waiting. “The second challenge—”

“Second challenge?” Zev broke in. “What about the water towers?”

“Invalidated,” Diggin said. “Not everyone got to go.”

Zev spat on the ground, and Heather made a noise of protest. Diggin ignored them.

“When I say go,” he said.

He paused. For a moment, it seemed that everything went still. Dodge could feel the slow drum of his heart, beating in the hollow of his chest. And as they stood there in the dark, waiting, it occurred to him that here, somewhere in this crowd, were the judges—hiding behind familiar faces, maybe enjoying it.

“Go,” Diggin said.

“Go!” Dodge said to Heather and Nat, at the same time. Heather nodded and took Nat’s hand; they vanished together into the dark, Nat moving stiff-legged, still limping slightly, like a broken doll.

Dodge made straight for the fence, like they’d agreed, like he’d scoped the place out and knew what he was doing. And as he predicted, a half-dozen people ran after him in silence, doubled over as though, even now, they were being watched.

But much of the group didn’t move right away. They floated aimlessly to the fence, pacing it, watching, too scared to try to climb. They’d all be disqualified for doing nothing. Still, they stood there, watching the dark house, watching the shadow-people climb the fence, everything silent except for the occasional creak of metal, a muttered curse, and the wind.

Dodge was one of the first up the fence. There were other players around him—people grunting and breathing hard, bodies knocking into his—but he ignored them, focused on the bite of chain link on his palms and his breathing and the seconds running forward like water.

It was all about timing. Just like magic tricks: planning, mastery, staying calm under pressure. You could anticipate another person’s response; you could know what people would do, or say, or how they would react, even before they did.

Dodge knew it wouldn’t be long until Donahue came out with a rifle.

At the top of the fence, he hung back, even though his adrenaline was pumping, telling him to go. Several other people—it was too dark to make out faces—dropped and hit the ground first, and even though they barely made a sound, the explosion of barking came right away. Four dogs—no, five—tore out from the back of the house, barking like mad. Dodge felt every second like it had a different taste, a different texture from the second before it, like individual moments were ticking off in his head. Tick. Someone was screaming. There’d be points taken off for that. Tick. Only a few more seconds until the shooting would begin. Tick. Heather and Nat should have reached the hole in the fence by now.

Tick.

He was airborne, and then he felt the impact of the ground and he was up and fumbling for the Mace in his pocket. He didn’t head for the front of the house directly but instead made a loop, circumnavigating the small crowd of players, the dogs going crazy, snarling and snapping. Some of the players were already climbing the fence again, trying to reach the safety of the other side. But Dodge kept going.

Tick.

A dog came at him. He almost didn’t see it; it had its jaws practically around his arm before he pivoted and sprayed it, full-on, in the face. The dog dropped back, whimpering. Dodge kept going.

Tick.

Right on time, a light in the house clicked on. There was a roar—a sound that echoed out even over the chaos and the frantic sounds of barking—and something crashed to the ground. A black shape rocketed out the front door, into the night. Even from a distance of one hundred yards, Dodge could make out the stream of individual curses.

Goddamnmotherf*ckingsonsofbitchesgetthehelloffmyyardyoupiecesofshit . . .

Then Jack Donahue—paunchy, shirtless, wearing only a pair of saggy boxers—lifted his rifle and began to fire.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Shots exploded—louder, sharper than Dodge had expected, the first thing that had truly thrown him off guard. He’d never been so close to gunfire.

In the front yard, Trigger-Happy Jack was still screaming. YoucocksuckersdeadasadoornailI’llburyyouallyouf*ckers . . .