“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**kingsonsofbitchesgetthehelloffmyyardyoupiecesofshit . . .
“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, just as her left arm was snagged by the toothy bite of the fence—so why had he turned it off? Her heart surged into her throat and she reached out with both 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 closed.
Was it Donahue? Dodge? Another player?
Here, moonlight filtered in through a large, curtainless window, and Heather suddenly sucked in a breath. The walls were covered with metal, glinting dully in the milky light. Guns. Guns mounted to the walls, hanging from upended deer hooves, crisscrossing the ceiling. The gun room. She thought it even smelled faintly like gunpowder, but she might have been imagining it.
The room was cluttered with workbenches and overstuffed chairs, bleeding stuffing onto the floor. Underneath the window was a large desk. Heather felt as if the air in the room were suddenly too thin; she felt breathless and dizzy, remembering the email she’d received that morning.
Bonus: Find the desk in the gun room and take what’s hidden there.
Heather moved across the room to the desk, navigating the clutter of objects. She began with the drawers on the sides—right, and then left. Nothing.
The shallow central drawer was loose, as though from frequent use. The gun was curled there, like an enormous black beetle, shiny, hard-backed.
The bonus.
She reached in, hesitated—then seized it quickly, like it might bite her. Heather felt nausea rising in her throat. She hated guns.
“What are you doing?”
Heather spun around. She could just see Dodge silhouetted in the doorway, although it was too dark to make out his face.
“Shhh,” Heather whispered. “Keep your voice down.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Dodge took two steps across the room. “You were supposed to keep watch.”
“I was.” Before Heather could explain further, Dodge cut her off.
“Where’s Natalie?”
“Outside,” Heather said. “I thought I heard—”
“Was this some kind of a trick?” Dodge spoke quietly, but Heather could hear the edge in his voice. “You guys get me to do the dirty work, then sneak in and grab the bonus? So you could get ahead?”
Heather stared at him. “What?”
“Don’t screw with me, Heather.” Two more steps and Dodge was there, directly in front of her. “Don’t lie to me.”
Heather fought for breath. Tears were pushing at the back of her eyes. She knew they were being too loud. Too loud. Everything was all wrong. The gun in her hand felt awful, cold but also alive, like some alien creature that might suddenly roar to life.
“What are you doing here?” she finally said. “You were supposed to get proof for us and get out.”
“I heard something,” Dodge fired back. “I thought it might be one of the other players—”
The lights came on.
Jack Donahue was standing in the doorway, eyes wild, chest slick with sweat. Then he was shouting and the barrel of the gun was swinging toward them and there was an explosion of glass, and Heather realized Dodge had just hurled a chair straight through the window. Everything was fracture, roar, blur.
“Go, go, go!” Dodge was shouting, pushing Heather toward the window.
Heather threw herself shoulder-first into the night. She heard a second explosion and felt a spray of soft wood as she went through the window, felt pain slice through her arm and an immediate dampness pooling in her armpit. Dodge hauled her to her feet and they were running, fleeing into the night, toward the fence, while Jack shouted after them and sent two more shots off into the dark.
Through the fence—gasping, panting—to the road, mostly empty of cars. There was the dazzle, the wide sweep of headlights. Heather recognized Bishop’s car. Nat suddenly materialized in front of her, backlit, like a kind of dark angel.
“Are you okay?” Her voice was wild, urgent. “Are you okay?”
“We’re okay,” Heather answered for both of them. “Let’s go.”
Then they were in the car and moving quickly, bumping over the country roads. For several minutes they were quiet, listening to the distant sound of police sirens. Heather gritted her teeth every time they hit a rut. She was bleeding. A piece of glass had sliced the soft skin of her inner arm.
She still had the gun. Somehow, it had ended up in her lap. She kept staring at it, bewildered, half in shock.
“Jesus Christ,” Bishop finally said when they had put several miles behind them, and the noise of the sirens was lost beneath the quiet shushing of the wind through the trees. “Holy shit. That was crazy.”
All of a sudden, the tension broke. Dodge started whooping and Nat began to cry and Heather rolled the windows down and laughed like a maniac. She was relieved, grateful, alive—sitting in the warm backseat of Bishop’s car, which smelled like soda cans and old gum.
Bishop told them about nearly pissing himself when Trigger-Happy Jack came barreling out of the house; he told them that Ray had cracked one of the dogs with a huge rock and sent it whimpering off into the dark. But half the kids never even made it over the fence, and he thought Byron Welcher might have been mauled. It was hard to tell in the dark, with all the chaos.
Dodge told them about getting so close to Donahue; he thought for sure he’d be shot in the skull. But Donahue was enraged, and probably drunk. He wasn’t aiming well. “Thank God,” Dodge said, laughing.
Dodge had stolen three items from the kitchen—a butter knife, a saltshaker, and a shot glass shaped like a cowboy boot—to prove they’d all been in the house. He gave Nat the shot glass and Heather the butter knife, and kept the saltshaker for himself. He made Bishop pull over and placed the saltshaker on the dashboard, so he could get a good picture of it.
“What are you doing?” Heather asked. Her brain still felt like it was wrapped in a wet blanket.
Dodge passed over the phone wordlessly. Heather saw that Dodge had emailed the photo to [email protected], subject line: PROOF. Heather shivered. She didn’t like thinking of the mysterious judges—invisible, watching, judging them.
“What about the gun?” Dodge said.
“The gun?” Nat repeated.
“Heather found it,” Dodge said neutrally.
“Dodge and I found it at the same time,” she said automatically. She didn’t know why. She could feel Dodge staring at her.
“You should both get credit, then,” Nat said.
“You take the picture, Heather,” Dodge said. His voice was slightly gentler. “You send it.”
Heather arranged the shot glass and the gun on her lap, clumsily, with one arm. Her stomach tightened. She wondered if the gun was loaded. Probably. So weird to have a weapon so close. So weird to see it sitting there. She’d been a year old when her dad shot himself—probably with a gun just like this one. She had a paranoid fear that it might go off on its own, exploding the night into noise and pain.
Once the picture was sent, Bishop asked, “What are you going to do with the gun?”
“Keep it, I guess.” But she didn’t like the idea of having a gun in her house, waiting, smiling its metal smile. And what if Lily found it?
“You can’t keep it,” he said. “You stole it.”
“Well, what should I do with it?” Heather felt panic welling inside her. She had broken into Donahue’s house. She had stolen something that was worth a lot of money. People went to jail for shit like that.
Bishop sighed. “Give it to me, Heather,” he said. “I’ll get rid of it for you.”
She could have hugged him. She could have kissed him. Bishop shut the gun in the glove box.
Now everyone was quiet. The dashboard clock glowed green. 1:42. The roads were all dark except for the sickly cone of the headlights. The land was dark too, on either side of them—houses, trailers, whole streets swallowed up by blackness, like they were traveling through an endless tunnel, a place with no boundaries.