Panic(58)

“What the hell, Dodge?” Bishop burst out. His fists were balled up.

“I was looking for you,” Dodge said, raising both hands, just in case Bishop was thinking of swinging at him. “I just wanted to get out of the rain.”

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Bishop insisted.

“It’s all right,” Dodge said. “I know, okay? I already know.”

There was a minute of electric silence. Bishop stared at him. “Know what?” he said at last.

“Come on, man. Don’t bullshit,” Dodge said quietly. “Just tell me one thing: why? I thought you hated Panic.”

Dodge thought Bishop might not answer, might still try to deny the whole thing. Then his body seemed to collapse, like someone had pulled the drain in his center. He tugged the door closed behind him, then sagged into the chair. For a moment, he sat with his head in his hands. Finally he looked up.

“Why did you play?” he asked.

Revenge, Dodge thought, and Because I have nothing else. But out loud he said, “Money. Why else?”

Bishop gestured wide with his hands. “Same.”

“Really?” Dodge watched him closely. There was a look on Bishop’s face he couldn’t identify. Bishop nodded, but Dodge could tell he was lying. It was more than that. He chose to let it go.

Everyone needed secrets.

“So what now?” Bishop asked. He sounded exhausted. He looked exhausted too. Dodge realized how much it must have weighed on him this summer—all the planning, all the lies.

“You tell me,” Dodge said. He leaned back against the desk. He was feeling slightly more relaxed, and grateful that Bishop was positioned so that he could no longer see the spiders.

“You can’t tell Heather,” Bishop said, sitting forward, suddenly wild. “She can’t know.”

“Calm down,” Dodge said. His mind was ticking forward, already adjusting to the new information, thinking of how he could use it. “I’m not going to tell Heather. But I’m not going to do the solo challenge either. You’re just going to say I did.”

Bishop stared at him. “That’s not fair.”

Dodge shrugged. “Maybe not. But that’s how it’s going to go.” He wiped his palms on his jeans. “What were you planning to do with those spiders?”

“What do you think?” Bishop sounded annoyed. “All right. Fine. You’ll go straight to Joust. Okay?”

Dodge nodded. Abruptly, Bishop stood up, kicking the chair so it scootched forward a few inches. “Jesus. Do you know, I’m actually kind of glad you found out? I was almost hoping you would. It’s been awful. Fucking awful.”

Dodge didn’t say anything stupid, like that Bishop could have said no when he was approached about being a judge.

So he just said, “It’ll be over soon.”

Bishop was pacing. Now he whirled around to face Dodge. Suddenly he seemed to fill the whole space. “I killed him, Dodge,” he said, choking a little. “I’m responsible.”

A muscle flexed in Bishop’s jaw; it occurred to Dodge that he was trying not to cry. “It was part of the game.” He shook his head. “I never meant to hurt anyone. It was a stupid trick. I lit some papers in a trash can. But the fire got out of control so quick. It just . . . exploded. I didn’t know what to do.”

Dodge felt a brief moment of guilt. Earlier tonight, when he’d gone off on Dayna about Bill Kelly, he hadn’t been thinking of Little Kelly at all. And about how awful his father must feel. “It was an accident,” he said softly.

“Does it matter?” Bishop asked. His voice was strangled. “I should go to jail. I probably will.”

“You won’t. Nobody knows.” It occurred to Dodge, though, that Bishop must have a partner. There were always at least two judges. He knew that Bishop wouldn’t tell him if he asked, though. “And I won’t say anything. You can trust me.”

Bishop nodded. “Thanks,” he whispered. Again, the energy seemed to leave him at once. He sat down again and put his head in his hands. They stayed like that for a long time, while the rain drummed on the roof, like fists beating to get in. They stayed until Dodge’s leg started to get numb where he was leaning on it, and the noise of the rain receded slightly, and became the light scratching of nails.

“I have a favor to ask you,” Bishop said, looking up.

Dodge nodded.

Bishop’s eyes flashed: an expression gone too quickly to interpret. “It’s about Heather,” he said.





SATURDAY, AUGUST 6





heather

ANNE HAD DECIDED THAT HEATHER WAS READY TO FEED the tigers. She had shown Heather how to unlock the pen and where to place the bucket of meat. Anne took her time doing it—sometimes, she even wound up and threw a steak, like a player hurling a Frisbee, and occasionally one of the tigers would snap it up in midair.

Heather always waited until the tigers were on the other side of the pen or lying underneath the trees, where they liked to spend the sunniest afternoons. She worked as quickly as possible, never taking her eyes off them. The whole time she could practically feel the heat of their breath, the sharp rip of their teeth in her neck.

“Do you think they miss home?”