Panic(63)

But then, of course, there was the fact that Dodge had ensured her challenge would be harmless too. Dodge, who had palmed a bullet while making a show of checking the gun for ammo.

Dodge, who now refused to pick up her phone calls. It was such a joke. Bishop called Heather incessantly. She called Dodge. Krista called Heather. No one picked up for anyone else. Like some mixed-up game of telephone.

Nat stayed out of it. She had still not been given her solo challenge. Every day, Nat grew paler and skinnier. For once, she wasn’t chattering endlessly about all the guys she was dating. She’d even announced, solemnly, that she thought she might try and stay away from guys for a while. Heather didn’t know if it was the game or whatever had happened on the night of Nat’s birthday, but Nat reminded Heather of a painting she’d once seen reproduced in a history textbook, of a noblewoman awaiting the guillotine.

A week after Heather’s challenge, the blade fell.

Heather and Nat had taken Lily to the mall to see a movie, mostly to get out of the heat—it had been a record ninety-five degrees for three straight days, and Heather felt as if she was moving through soup. The trees were motionless in the shimmering heat.

Afterward, they returned in Nat’s car to Anne’s house. Nat knew, at last, that Heather wasn’t living at home, and had offered to come sleep at Anne’s with her, even though she disliked the dogs and wouldn’t even get close to the tigers’ pen. But Anne had left town for the weekend to visit her sister-in-law in Boston, and Heather hated being in the big, old house without her. That was one good thing about the trailer: you always knew what was what, where the walls were, who was home. Anne’s house was different: full of wood that creaked and groaned, ghost sounds, mysterious thumps and scratching noises.

“Get it,” Nat said when her phone dinged between her legs.

“Ew. I’m not reaching for it,” Heather said.

Nat giggled and tossed the phone at her, taking her hand off the wheel only briefly. She swerved, and Lily yelped from the backseat.

“Sorry, Bill,” Nat said.

“Don’t call me that,” Lily said primly. Nat laughed. But Heather was sitting with the phone in her lap, ice running through her wrists, into her hands.

“What’s the matter?” Nat asked. Then her face got serious. “Is it—?” She cut herself off and glanced in the rearview at Lily, who was listening attentively.

Heather read the text again. Impossible. “Did you tell anyone you were sleeping over at Anne’s tonight?” she asked, in a low voice.

Nat shrugged. “My parents. And Bishop. I think I mentioned it to Joey, too.”

Heather slid Nat’s phone shut and chucked it into the glove compartment. Suddenly she wanted it as far from her as possible.

“What?” Nat asked.

“Someone knows that Anne’s gone,” Heather said. She turned the radio up so Lily couldn’t eavesdrop. “The judges know.” Who had Heather told? Dodge—she’d mentioned it to him in a text. Said he should come over so they could talk, so she could thank him. And of course, Anne had told some people, probably; it was Carp, and people talked because they had nothing else to do.

The implication of what Heather had just read—what Nat would have to do—sank in. She unrolled her window, but the blast of hot air gave her no relief. She shouldn’t have drunk so much soda at the movie theater. She was nauseous.

“What is it?” Nat said. She looked afraid. Unconsciously, she’d begun tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “What do I have to do?”

Heather looked at her. Her mouth tasted like ash, and she found she could not even speak a complete sentence. “The tigers,” she said.





dodge

THE CHALLENGES WERE ALWAYS POPULAR, BUT THIS year, many spectators had been staying away. It was too risky. The police had threatened to haul in anyone associated with Panic, and everyone was worried about taking the rap for the fire at the Graybill house. Rumor was Sadowski wanted someone—anyone—to take the fall. The roads, usually so empty, were infested with police cars, some from other counties.

But the word—tigers—was too much to resist. It had its own lift and momentum: it flitted through the woods, stole its way into houses barred up against the heat, spun into the rhythm of fans that cycled in bedrooms across Carp. By afternoon, all the players and ex-players and spectators and bettors and welshers and squealers—everyone who cared even remotely about the game and its outcome—had heard about the tigers of Mansfield Road.

Dodge was lying naked on his bed with two fans going at once when the text came in from Heather. For a second he wasn’t sure whether he was sleeping or awake. His room was dark and as hot as a mouth. He didn’t want to open the door, though. Ricky was over again and he’d brought food for Dayna, stuff he’d cooked himself at the diner, rice and beans and shrimp that smelled like burned garlic. They were watching a movie, and occasionally, despite the noise of the ancient fans and the closed door, he could hear the muffled sound of laughter.

The effort of sitting up made Dodge begin to sweat. He punched in Bishop’s number.

“What the hell?” he said, when Bishop picked up. No preamble. No bullshit. “How could you do it? How could you make her do it?”

Bishop sighed. “Rules of the game, Dodge. I’m not the only one in control of this shit.” He sounded exhausted. “If I don’t make it hard enough, I’ll get replaced. And then I won’t be able to help at all.”