Panic(21)

Tick.

It wouldn’t be long now. Donahue would call the cops at some point. He’d have to.

Dodge sprinted around the house. His breath was caught somewhere in his throat, like each time he inhaled he was taking in glass. He didn’t know what had happened to the other players, where Ray was, whether anyone had made it inside yet. He thought he heard a whisper in the dark—he assumed Heather and Nat had taken up their positions, as planned.

At the back of the house was a half-rotten porch, cluttered with dark shapes—Dodge vaguely registered a refrigerator before he saw the distended screen door, barely hanging on its hinges. The shots were still cracking through the air. One two three four.

Tick.

He didn’t stop to think. He flung open the door.

He was in.





heather

HEATHER AND NAT REACHED THE PLACE WHERE THE fence veered north, away from the road, just as the dogs began barking. Their timing was already all wrong. And Dodge was counting on them.

“You gotta move faster,” Heather said.

“I’m trying,” Nat said. Heather could hear the strain in her voice.

There was a volley of shouting from the yard—a cry of pain and the snarling of an enraged animal.

Heather felt her pulse beating frantically in her neck. Focus. Focus. Stay calm.

They had reached the portion of the fence they’d prepped yesterday. And no one had followed them. Good.

Dodge had cut a makeshift door in the fence. Heather gave it a solid push and it groaned open, giving her just enough room to squeeze through. Nat followed.

Suddenly Nat froze, her eyes wide, horrified.

“I’m stuck,” she whispered.

Heather whirled around, impatient. Nat’s left sleeve was snagged on the fence. She reached out and tugged it free.

“You’re unstuck,” she said. “Come on.”

But Nat didn’t move. “I—I can’t.” Her face was drawn, terrified. “I’m not even.”

“You’re not what?” Heather was losing it. Dodge would be going in any minute; he expected them to stand guard. They’d made a pact. He was helping them; Heather didn’t know why, but she didn’t care, either.

“I’m not even.” Nat’s voice was high-pitched, hysterical. She was still standing, frozen, as though both legs had been rooted to the ground.

That’s when Jack Donahue came blasting from the front door.

Goddamnmotherf*ckingsonsofbitchesgetthehelloffmyyardyoupiecesofshit . . .

“Come on.” Heather grabbed Nat’s arm and pulled, hard, dragging her across the lawn toward the house, ignoring the sound of Nat’s whimpering, the words she was muttering under her breath. Counting. She was counting up to ten, then down again. Heather dug her nails harder into Nat’s arm, almost wanting to hurt her. Jesus. They were running out of time, and Nat was losing it. She didn’t care about Nat’s ankle, or that Nat was shaking, choking back sobs.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Heather jerked Nat down and into the shadows as Donahue thundered off the porch, gun up, firing. The light on the porch was white, half-blinding, and made him look like a character from a movie. Heather’s thighs were shaking. She didn’t see Dodge. She couldn’t see anyone—just shapes, blurring together in the darkness, and the small cone of light illuminating Donahue’s back, the curl of hair on his shoulders, his flab, the awful butt of his rifle.

Where was Dodge?

Heather could hardly breathe. She pressed up against the side of the house, rocking her weight back onto her heels, trying to think. There was too much noise.

And she didn’t know if Dodge had made it into the house already. What if he hadn’t? What if he’d screwed up?

“Stay here,” Heather whispered. “I’m going in.”

“Don’t.” Nat turned to her, eyes wide, frantic. “Don’t leave me here.”

Heather gripped her shoulders. “In exactly one minute, if I’m not out yet, I want you to run back to the car. Okay? In exactly one minute.”

She didn’t even know if Nat heard her—and almost didn’t care, at this point. She straightened up. Her body felt bloated and clumsy. And suddenly she registered several things at once: that the shots had happened, and were no longer happening; that the front door had just opened and closed with a firm click. Someone had gone in.

Immediately, her body turned to ice. What if Dodge was inside? She, Heather, was supposed to have been watching. She was supposed to have whistled if Donahue approached.

But the front door had opened and closed. And she had not whistled.

She was no longer thinking. Instinctively, she pulled herself onto the porch and opened the front door and slipped inside, into the hall. It stank of BO and old beer, and it was pitch-dark. Donahue had turned on a light earlier—that she had noticed, a bad omen—so why had he turned it off? Her heart surged into her throat and she reached out with her hands, grazed both walls lightly with her fingertips, centering herself in the hallway. She swallowed.

She took several steps forward and heard a rustling, the creak of a footstep. She froze, expecting at any second for the lights to click on, for the barrel of a gun to shine directly at her heart. Nothing happened.

“Dodge?” she risked whispering into the dark.

Footsteps crossed quickly toward her. She fumbled along the wall and hit a doorknob. The door opened easily and she slipped out of the hall, closing the door as quietly as possible, holding her breath. But the footsteps kept going. She heard the front door creak open and close.