A little-girl scream shrieks through the air. I cringe, arms lifting to protect my head, but there’s nothing. I can’t see a thing, and the scream is—there. Again. Another rasping wail that scrapes at my ears and needles up my spine.
It fades away, but I’m not crazy. We’re all looking around. Everyone’s terrified.
Everyone but Mr. Walker.
“It’s just a barn owl,” he says. His eyes are glassy beads beneath his brow. “You’re letting all the wrong things scare you.”
Is he thinking of things that should scare us? Because the way he’s watching makes me wonder if he’s enjoying this. Enjoying our fear.
Chapter 18
Mr. Walker doesn’t press when we don’t tell him what sort of thing you can’t fake. Maybe he figures the owl scared us out of talking. Maybe he doesn’t care because he’s got creepy, murderous plans to carry out now that his “pretend I’m drugged” act is out of the bag.
I bite my lip because I’m still not sure I buy it. Would a killer really do that? Just lie there in his own filth so he could watch us freak out until his countdown runs out? You’d have to be pretty committed to wait that long to kill someone in the end.
Unless you’ve got some sort of very specific time line in mind. I think of the number two we saw earlier. Tomorrow, will we find a one? The day after that, do I die?
I watch Mr. Walker limp toward the tree near his sled. He doesn’t look like a killer when he slouches into a heap. Emily offers him water, playing her unconcerned caretaker role beautifully. After a few crackers, he pushes the water away and gives us a big “everything is all right” smile.
Sure it is.
Mr. Walker takes the lead, just like we hoped he would. Of course, that was before. Now it chills me when he orders us to stay close. He makes us repeat what we’ve already told him about waking up with the words on our wrists and finding Ms. Brighton’s finger, even about the bears and the food we spotted around camp.
Emily does most of the talking, while the rest of us watch him like something under a microscope. He’s too weak and sweaty to look dangerous. I’ve gone completely paranoid though because I’m convinced all his active listening is a scripted performance. He’s making all the right noises, but the director in me wants to tell him to dig a little deeper. Every frown and furrowed glance feels like too much or not enough or just…false.
Emily’s right about the sick thing though. That’s no act. Mr. Walker is shivering and pale, and if we go by Emily’s hand-to-the-forehead thermometer, he’s rocking a hell of a fever.
But is he sick enough to not hurt us? Does he even want to? Because why would he?
I rub my forehead and roll my shoulders, the bark of the hickory behind me digging hard into the space between my shoulder blades. The whole thing is crazy making. How could he have set up the dolls and the speaker? He hasn’t been out of our sight, so what gives? Did he set all this up before?
Does he have a partner?
It’s too scary to even consider.
I look down at the mostly eaten yogurt cup in my lap and finish it off. Thank God for the food. I’m nowhere near as shaky, and even Jude’s starting to lose the death pallor he’s been wearing since getting dehydrated. Of course, for all I know, we’re just fattening ourselves up for the soup pot or whatever.
The thought materializes in my mind, and nausea rolls through me. We aren’t any closer to getting out of here. My plan isn’t working. We were supposed to get Mr. Walker awake and healed enough to help, and now he might be the very person we’re running from. How in the hell did my turn-the-tables plan come to this?
I stand up because I can’t just sit here. Everyone’s looking at me. Emily, lips pursed; Lucas, hair flopped into his face; and Mr. Walker, his dark eyes shiny in his sweat-slick face.
“You headed somewhere?” Mr. Walker asks.
“Bathroom.” I sound frantic. About the bathroom. Great.
“Alone?” Emily asks.
Jude frowns. “It’s dark.”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Mr. Walker says, but he’s too slow, I think. It’s like living in a badly dubbed film. Everything’s half a beat off, and it’s making me seasick to watch. Or am I imagining it? Am I that crazy?
His eyes sweep me up and down, a quick assessment. My skin tingles and then crawls.
Lucas stands up between us. For once, I’m grateful for his size. “I’ll go with her,” he says, taking my arm and moving off into the trees.
I don’t even think about arguing. My heart is skipping like a scratched record. Jude comes too, claiming his own need for a break. This is way too obvious. Two boys do not accompany a girl to pee behind a tree. He’ll know we’re talking about him.
Or think something entirely different is going on out here.
Jude and I slow at a cluster of river birches, the bark peeling off in sheets and clumps, but Lucas holds up a hand before we can speak. He moves back a few paces toward the camp, shoulders back and wide hands balling into fists over and over. I can’t quit looking at his fingers, thinking of them curved over my waist. Threaded into my hair.
This is so stupid.