Panic(68)

“Where are we going?” Lily asked.

“Shhh,” Heather said sharply. She felt the bite of tears in her eyes. How could she be such an idiot, such an absolute moron? The bucket was heavy and she had to pull it with both hands, scanning from left to right, looking for a flash of color, those luminous black eyes. Come on, come on, come on.

Behind Heather, there was a rustling in the undergrowth, a shift in the air—a presence, animal, watchful. All of a sudden it struck Heather that what she was doing was idiotic: charging off into the woods with Lily, searching for the tigers like they were lost kittens, hoping to lure them home. If she did find the tigers, they’d probably tear her head off for a snack. A hard zip of fear went up her spine. She was overconscious of every rustle, every snapping twig, the diamond patterns of light and shadow that could easily conceal a pair of eyes, a swath of tawny fur.

“Take my hand, Lily,” she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “Let’s go back inside.”

“What about the tigers?” Lily asked. She thought it was some kind of adventure, obviously.

“We’ll have to call Anne,” Heather said, and instantly knew it was true. She still had the unmistakable sense of something Other watching her, watching them. “She’ll know what to do.”

A raccoon poked its head suddenly from between the fat leaves of a spirea bush, and Heather felt a flood of relief that nearly made her pee. She abandoned the bucket in the woods. It was too heavy, and she wanted to move quickly.

As they were emerging from the woods just next to the outdoor shower, Heather could hear tires spitting on the driveway and thought that Anne must be home. She didn’t know whether to feel grateful or afraid. She was both.

But then she saw the rusted hood of Bishop’s Le Sabre and remembered she’d promised him they could talk today.

“Bishop!” Lily was running to him before he had even fully extricated himself from the car. “The tigers are gone! The tigers are gone!”

“What?” He looked even worse than he had the night before, as though he hadn’t slept at all. He turned to Heather. “Is it true?”

“It’s true,” she said. “I forgot to padlock the gates.” All of a sudden the truth hit her like a hard punch to the stomach, and she was crying. She’d get kicked out of Anne’s house; they’d have to move back to Fresh Pines or go on the run. And Anne would be devastated. Anne, who was practically the only person who gave a shit about Heather.

“Hey, hey.” Bishop was next to her. She didn’t resist when he hugged her. “It’s not your fault. It’s gonna be okay.”

“It is my fault.” She buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder and cried until she coughed, while he rubbed her back and her hair, touched her lightly on her cheek, murmured into the top of her head. Only Bishop could make her feel small. Only Bishop could make her feel protected.

She didn’t even hear the approach of Anne’s car, until a door was slamming and Anne’s voice, frantic, called, “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

Heather stepped away from Bishop and immediately, Anne seized her by the shoulders. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“It’s not me.” Heather swiped an arm across her nose. Her mouth was thick with the taste of phlegm, and she couldn’t look Anne in the eye. “I’m fine.” She tried to say it. The tigers are gone. The tigers are gone.

Lily was quiet, her mouth moving soundlessly.

It was Bishop who spoke. “The tigers got out,” he said.

Anne’s face turned colors, as though Heather was watching her on a screen and someone had just adjusted the contrast. “You’re . . . you’re joking.”

Heather managed to shake her head.

“How?” Anne said.

Before Heather could speak, Bishop cut in, “It was my fault.”

At last Heather found her voice. “No. Bishop had nothing to do with it. It was me. It was . . . the game.”

“The game?” Anne squinted at Heather like she’d never seen her before. “The game?”

“Panic,” Heather said. Her voice was hoarse. “I opened the gates. . . . I must have forgotten to lock them again.”

For a second, Anne was silent. Her face was awful to see: white and ghastly. Horrified.

“But I was the one who told her to do it,” Bishop said suddenly. “It’s my fault.”

“No.” Heather was embarrassed that Bishop felt he had to stand up for her, even as she was grateful to him. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“I did.” Bishop’s voice got louder. He was sweating. “I told her to do it. I told all of them to do it. I started the fire at the Graybill place. I’m the one . . .” His voice broke. He turned to Heather. His eyes were pleading, desperate. “I’m a judge. That’s what I wanted to tell you. That’s what I wanted to explain. What you saw the other day, with Vivian . . .”

He didn’t finish. Heather couldn’t speak either. She felt like time had stopped; they were all transformed to statues. Bishop’s words were sifting through her like a snow, freezing her insides, her ability to speak.

Impossible. Not Bishop. He hadn’t even wanted her to play. . . .

“I don’t believe it.” She heard the words, and only then realized she was speaking.