Authors: Lauren Oliver
Just as the tiger, the one Heather had been sure was moving to spring, lay down again.
“Nine seconds,” Diggin said above the sudden roar of sound. Heather registered a small burst of triumph—Nat was out of the game—and then a stronger pull of shame. She pushed over to Nat and drew her into a hug.
“You were amazing,” she said into the top of Nat’s hair.
“I didn’t make it,” Nat said. Her voice was muffled and her face sticky against Heather’s chest.
“You were still amazing,” Heather said.
Nat was the only one who wasn’t celebrating. She returned almost immediately to the house. But everyone else seemed to forget about the threat of cops, forget about what had happened at the Graybill house and about the body of Little Kelly, found charred and blackened in the basement—for a short while, it felt almost as it had at the beginning of the summer, when the players had first made the Jump.
It took more than an hour for Heather to get everyone out, into their cars and off the property, and the whole time the dogs were going crazy and the tigers were still again, as though deliberately making a point. By the time the yard was almost empty of cars, exhaustion numbed Heather’s fingers and toes. But it was over, thank God. It was all over, and Anne would never have to know.
There were only three players left. And Heather was one of them.
“Heather,” Bishop tried again when almost everyone had gone. “We need to talk.”
“Not tonight, Bishop.”
There were a few people lingering, leaning up against their cars, hands down each other’s pants, probably. Strange how just a few months ago she had been one of them, hanging out at parties with Matt, her capital-B Boyfriend, flaunting it however she could. Wearing his sweatshirts, his baseball hats, like a badge of something—that she was lovable, that she was fine and normal and just like everybody else. Already the old Heather seemed like someone she barely knew.
“You can’t avoid me forever,” Bishop said, deliberately moving in front of her as she stooped to collect a cigarette pack, half trampled into the grass.
She straightened up. His hair was poking out from every side of his hat, like something alive trying to get out. She resisted the urge to reach up and try and wrestle it into shape. The worst was that when she looked at him now, she still saw their kiss: the heat that had roared through her and the softness of his lips and the brief electric moment when his tongue had found hers.
“I’m not avoiding you,” she said, looking away so she wouldn’t have to remember. “I’m just tired.”
“When, then?” He looked lost. “It’s important, okay? I need you. I need you to listen.”
She was tempted to ask him why Vivian couldn’t listen, but she didn’t. He looked awful, and miserable, and she loved him even if he didn’t love her. The thought that he was upset, in pain, was a worse feeling than her own pain.
“Tomorrow,” she said. Impulsively, she reached out and squeezed his hand. He looked startled, and she dropped it quickly, as though it might burn her. “I promise, tomorrow.”
IN THE MORNING, HEATHER WAS WOKEN UP BY SHOUTING. Lily was calling her name, pounding up the stairs; then the door flew open, so hard it struck the wall.
Lily said, “The tigers are gone.” She was breathing hard, her face red and damp with sweat. She smelled a little like manure—she must have been out feeding the animals.
“What?”
Instantly Heather was awake and sitting up.
“The gate is open and they’re gone,” Lily said.
“Impossible.” Heather was already pulling on clothes, shoving her legs into shorts, wrestling on a T-shirt. She didn’t even bother with a bra. “Impossible,” she repeated, but even as she said it, a dull thud of terror began, bringing back images from last night, disjointed memories—hugging Nat, latching the gates. . . . Had she replaced the padlock? She couldn’t remember. Mindy Kramer had been talking to her about her job at Anne’s, and then she’d had to yell at Zev Keller for trying to get into the pigpen.
She must have replaced the padlock. Maybe the tigers weren’t really missing. Maybe they were just hiding out in the trees somewhere, where Lily hadn’t spotted them.
Downstairs, Heather saw that it was already eleven a.m., that she’d overslept, that Anne would be home soon. Lily followed her outside. It was another day of thick heat, but this time the sky was overcast, and there was moisture shimmering in the air like a curtain. It would rain.
She was halfway across the yard when she saw it: the padlock, coiled in the grass like a metal snake, exactly where she had placed it last night when she unlocked the gate for Natalie.
And the gate, now swinging open.
There was no need to search the whole enclosure. They were gone. She could
feel
it. Why hadn’t the dogs barked? But maybe they had and she hadn’t heard. Or maybe they’d been frightened, bewitched like the crowd last night.
Heather closed her eyes. For a second she thought she might faint. The tigers were gone, it was her fault, and now Anne would despise her and throw her out. She’d have every right to.
She opened her eyes, fueled by a wild panic: she had to find them, now, quickly, before Anne came home.
“Stay here,” she told Lily, but she didn’t have the strength to argue when Lily followed her back into the house. She hardly knew what she was doing. She found a bucket under the sink, dumped out a bunch of shriveled sponges and cleaning supplies, and filled it with some half-thawed steaks. Then she was out of the house again and plunging into the woods. Maybe they hadn’t gone far, and she could lure them back.
“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.
“It’s true.” Now he turned back to Anne. “It wasn’t Heather’s fault. You have to believe me.”
Anne brought her hand briefly to her forehead, as though pressing back pain. She closed her eyes. Lily was still standing several feet away, shifting her weight, anxious and silent. Anne opened her eyes again. “We need to call the police,” she said quietly. “They’ll need to put out the alert.”
Bishop nodded. But for a second no one moved. Heather wished Anne would yell—it would be so much easier.
And Bishop’s words kept swirling through her:
I told her to do it. I told all of them to do it.
“Come on, Lily,” Anne said. “Come inside with me.”
Heather started to follow them into the house, but Anne stopped her. “You wait out here,” she said sharply. “We’ll talk in a bit.”
Her words brought little knife-aches of pain to Heather’s stomach. It was all over. Anne would hate her now.
Lily shot Heather a worried glance and then hurried after Anne. Bishop and Heather were left standing alone in the yard, as the sun pushed through the clouds and the day transformed into a microscope, focusing its heat.
“I’m sorry, Heather,” Bishop said. “I couldn’t tell you. I wanted to—you have to know that. But the rules—”
“The
rules
?” she repeated. The anger was bubbling up from a crack opening inside her. “You lied to me. About everything. You told me not to play, and all this time—”
“I was trying to keep you safe,” he said. “And when I knew you wouldn’t back down, I tried to
help
you. Whenever I could, I tried.” Bishop had moved closer and his arms were out—he was reaching for her. She took a step backward.
“You almost got me killed,” she said. “The gun—if it wasn’t for Dodge—”
“I told Dodge to do it,” Bishop cut in. “I made sure of it.”
Click-click-click.
Memories slotted together: Bishop insisting on taking the shortcut that led past Trigger-Happy Jack’s house. The fireworks at the Graybill house on the Fourth of July, which Bishop made sure she would see. A clue: fire.
“You have to believe me, Heather. I never meant to lie to you.”
“So why
did
you do it, Bishop?” Heather crossed her arms. She didn’t want to listen to him. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to give in to the black tide, let it suck away all her other thoughts—about the tigers, about how badly she had disappointed Anne, about how she would be homeless again. “What did you need to prove so badly, huh?” More parts of her were flaking off.
Crack.
“That you’re better than us? Smarter than us? We get it, okay? You’re
leaving
.”
Crack.
“You’re getting out of here. That makes you smarter than the whole fucking rest of us put together.”
Bishop’s mouth was as thin as a line. “You know what your problem is?” he said quietly. “You
want
everything to be shitty. You have a sister who loves you. Friends who love you. I love you, Heather.” He said it fast, in a mumble, and she could not even be happy, because he kept going. “You’ve outlasted almost everyone in Panic. But all you see is the crap. So you don’t have to believe in anything. So you’ll have an excuse to fail.”
Crack.
Heather turned around, so if she started crying again, he wouldn’t see. But she realized she had nowhere to go. There was the house, the high bowl of the sky, the sun like a laser. And she, Heather, had no place in any of it. The last bits of her broke apart, opened like a wound: she was all hurt and anger. “You know what I wish? I wish you were gone already.”
She thought he might start yelling. She was almost hoping he would. But instead he just sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Look, Heather. I don’t want to fight with you. I want you to understand—”
“Didn’t you hear me? Just go. Leave. Get out of here.” She swiped at her eyes with the palm of her hand. His voice was screaming through her head.
You want everything to be shitty . . . so you’ll have an excuse to fail.
“Heather.” Bishop put a hand on her shoulder, and she shook him off.
“I don’t know how many other ways I can say it.”
Bishop hesitated. She felt him close to her, felt the warmth of his body, like a comforting force, like a blanket. For one wild second, she thought he would refuse, he would turn around and hug her and tell her he was never ever leaving. For one wild second, it was what she wanted more than anything.
Instead she felt his fingers just graze her elbow. “I did it for you,” he said in a low voice. “I was planning to give you the money.” His voice cracked a little. “Everything I’ve ever done is for you, Heather.”
Then he was gone. He turned around, and by the time she couldn’t stand it anymore and her legs were about to give out and the anger had turned to eight different tides pulling her to pieces, and she thought to turn around and call out for him—by then he was in the car, and couldn’t hear her.
It was an upside-down day for Carp. Bishop Marks turned himself in to the police for the murder of Little Kelly—even though, as it turned out, Little Kelly hadn’t been killed in the fire at the Graybill house. Still, no one could believe it: Bishop Marks, that nice kid from down the way, whose dad had a frame shop over in Hudson. Shy kid. One of the good ones.
At the police station, Bishop denied the fire had anything to do with Panic. A prank, he said.
Upside down and inside out. Sign of the messed-up times we’re living in.
That night, Kirk Finnegan came outside when his dogs began to go crazy. He was carrying a rifle, suspecting drunk kids or maybe his piece-of-shit neighbor, who’d recently started parking on Kirk’s property and couldn’t be convinced that it wasn’t his right.
Instead he saw a tiger.
A fucking tiger, right there in his yard, with its enormous mouth around one of Kirk’s cocker spaniels.
He thought he was dreaming, hallucinating, drunk. He was so scared he peed in his boxer shorts and didn’t notice until later. He acted without thinking, swung the rifle up, fired four shots straight into the tiger’s flank, kept firing, even after it collapsed, even after by some grace-of-God miracle its jaws went slack and his spaniel got to his feet and started barking again—kept firing, because those eyes kept staring at him, dark as an accusation or a lie.