Heather had been on Coral Lake only a few times. Trigger-Happy Jack was known for being consistently drunk, and half-insane, and for owning an arsenal of weapons. His property was fenced in and guarded by dogs and who knew what else. When his fence came into view, pushing right up to the road, she half expected him to come banging out of his house and start taking potshots at the car. But he didn’t. Several dogs came running across the yard, though, barking madly. These dogs were nothing like Anne’s. They were skinny, snarling, and mean-looking.
They had almost passed the limits of Trigger-Happy Jack’s property when something caught Heather’s eye.
“Stop!” she nearly screamed. “Stop.”
Bishop slammed on the brakes. “What? Jesus Christ, Heather. What the hell?”
But she was already out of the car, jogging back toward a sagging scarecrow—at least, it looked like a scarecrow—slumped on the ground, leaning back against Donahue’s fence. Her stomach was tight with fear, and she had the weirdest sense of being watched. There was something wrong with the dummy. It was too crudely made, too useless. There were no farms this side of Coral Lake, no reason for a scarecrow, especially one that looked like it had been dumped from the trunk of a car.
When she reached the scarecrow, she hesitated for a second, like it might suddenly come to life and bite her.
Then she lifted its head, which was slumped forward on a spindly stuffed neck.
In place of features, the scarecrow had words written neatly, in marker, on its blank canvas face.
FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT.
THE GAME MUST GO ON.
FRIDAY, JULY 1
dodge
THE CROWD WAS SMALLER ON FRIDAY NIGHT; THE atmosphere tense, unhappy. Nervous.
There was no beer, no music, no bursts of laughter. Just a few dozen people huddled silently fifty feet down the road from Trigger-Happy Jack’s fence, massed together, lit up white-faced in the glare of the bouncing headlights.
When Bishop cut the engine, Dodge could hear the sound of Nat’s ragged breathing. Dodge had spent the ride over trying to distract her by doing easy magic tricks, like making a joker appear in her jacket pocket and a penny vanish from her palm. Now he said, “Just follow the plan, okay? Follow the plan and everything will be okay.”
Nat nodded, but she looked sick—like she might puke. She was deathly afraid of dogs, she had told him. Also: ladders, heights, darkness, and the feeling you get in the middle of the night when you check your phone and see no one has texted. As far as he could tell, she was pretty much afraid of everything. And yet, she had decided to play. This made him like her even more.
And she had chosen him, Dodge, as her ally.
Bishop said nothing. Dodge wondered what he was thinking. He’d always thought Bishop was nice enough, and book smart for sure, but just like a big dumb sheepdog of a person who followed Heather everywhere. But Dodge was starting to change his mind. During the drive, Bishop’s eyes had clicked to his for a second in the rearview, and Dodge had detected some kind of warning there.
The night was clear and still. The moon was high and halfway to full, and turning everything to silhouette, drawing angles around the fence. Still, it was dark. A flashlight went on and off several times, a silent signal. Heather, Bishop, Nat, and Dodge walked toward it. Dodge had the urge to take Nat’s hand, but Nat was hugging herself tightly.
At least Dodge had had time to plan, to prepare. If Nat hadn’t told him about the dummy Heather had spotted on Tuesday, he might not have known about the newest challenge until this morning.
The email had come to all the players simultaneously from an encrypted address, [email protected].
Location: Coral Lake Road
Time: Midnight
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, pacing, 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**kingsonsofbitchesgetthehelloffmyyardyoupiecesofshit . . .
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. Youcocksuckersdead asadoornailI’llburyyouallyoufuckers . . .
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.