Norah looks around. She can’t see any obvious staff members or security personnel from here. So she walks toward the dirty tent, pausing beside the flap where the man disappeared. There’s a zippered door in the thick canvas material. And a cracked plastic sign that reads “Staff only.”
She frowns. Maybe he’s a staff member. But if that’s the case, why was he standing in line earlier tonight?
Norah reaches out for the zipper then pulls her hand back. Keeping one eye on the entry flap, she turns and walks toward the mini-donut stand.
“Excuse me,” Norah calls, waving a hand toward one of the employees. A somber-looking, deeply tanned boy who is filling a cup of lemonade from a bubbling fountain inside the brightly lit trailer turns around. “I just saw someone go inside that tent—I don’t think he works here, though.”
The employee glances past her, toward the tent. His expression doesn’t change. “That’s just where everyone changes costumes and stuff.”
Norah can feel the lines in her forehead deepen. “Okay. He was acting kind of weird, though. Could you check?”
The kid’s expression shifts from somber to annoyed. “I’m not supposed to leave the donut stand. There’s a line.” He nods toward the small group of kids surrounding the counter. Then he places a lid on the cup of lemonade and hands it to a redhead in a parka.
The redhead glances at Norah with a smirk.
“I’ll let security know when I have a sec,” he calls over his shoulder, turning his attention to the back wall of the stand. A shiny metal tube is popping tiny beige O’s into a sizzling yellow river of grease along the wall.
Norah stays where she is a moment longer, feeling her stomach rumble despite herself as she watches a second employee drizzle maple and bacon bits onto a pile of hot donuts.
She looks back at the white tent. Then she slowly makes her way back to the bale of hay to think. A sign that says “If you see something, say something,” is just visible, staked along the dirt path that leads back to the cabins.
She allows herself a hiccup of laughter. Then she pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and brings up the saved contact.
Officer Willis. Minidoka County Police Department. He was the officer who interviewed Norah the night it happened. And then again the day after. He left her his card. Told her to call, anytime if she thought of anything.
Norah grits her teeth and taps the number before she can think about it.
He picks up on the second ring. “Rupert Police. Officer Willis.”
Norah clears her throat and summons her best calm, not-high voice. “Hi, Officer Willis. It’s Norah.”
There is a short pause, “Hi, Norah.”
She’s a little surprised he answered. She clears her throat. “I’m sorry to call you randomly, but I’m at the Thicket, and—”
He interrupts. “Hold on. You’re at the Thicket right now?”
Norah glances at the canvas tent again and feels her cheeks suddenly get hot. The flap of the tent is still closed. “Yeah. I just …I um. I wanted to see it before they … pack everything up.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. She sounds like a moron. Even so, she rushes ahead. “But that’s, uh, not why I’m calling. I was sitting down for a few minutes by the exit, and I saw someone go inside a tent.”
She hurries to add, “I don’t think he works here. I’m pretty sure I saw him in line earlier. He had a beard. I—I tried to tell one of the employees—just a kid working at one of the food stands. He said he would let security know, but I don’t think he did.”
Officer Willis doesn’t answer right away. And Norah can feel the thread of the conversation slipping away from her in the silence on the line. A few cold pinpricks land on her bare hand as she holds the phone. It’s snowing again.
When Officer Willis finally responds, his voice is softer. “Thanks for letting me know, Norah. I’m sure everything is okay. But I’ll get a message to Dave just in case. He’s head of security there, really a good guy. We used to work together.” He pauses, and she’s sure he’s trying to find a graceful way to tell her to go back home. Or to ask if her parents know where she is right now. Instead, he adds, “I’m sure it’s not easy being there right now, Norah. Glad you called.”
To her horror, tears well in her eyes and something deeply broken alligator rolls in her chest. “Okay,” she chokes out. Then she hangs up the phone.
Norah stays where she is a few moments longer, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. Then she stands up, tucks her hands back into her pockets.
She walks away from the white tent, retracing her steps through the plaza until she reaches the end of the line for the cabin trails.
CHAPTER 29
He can’t believe how easy it is to find the knife.
He’d expected to sort through the contraband piles. The haphazard collection of debris is overflowing from two plastic bins on the folding table beside a long rack of costumes and props.
But as he walks toward the bins, he sees it. The knife is separated from the rabble, in a torn cardboard box on the end of the folding table. It’s nestled beside two pocket knives, patiently waiting to be recovered.
He takes the hunting knife, leaving the smaller blades in the cardboard box. He’s careful not to touch either one of them.
The tent smells just like he remembers. Musty latex and the nearly overpowering tang of sweat from unwashed costumes.
He scans the fraying tarp beneath his feet in the dark tent, looking for a break in the fabric. Then he crouches and uses his fingernails to pry up one of the long, steel tent stakes. Brushing the dirt from the rusty metal, he tucks it into his other pocket.
The white staff tent was a hive of activity during the two hours before opening. After closing, it was the same story. Staff members applying makeup and changing into or out of costumes, coordinating schedules, repairing props, swapping stories. However, the benign-looking tent was strategically set up far enough beyond the main plaza that staff and management rarely used it otherwise. The last thing anybody needed was kids poking their noses in the staff tent or getting a hold of the props and costumes.
The mini-fridge sits the corner like he remembers, perpetually unplugged and gathering dust. If he guesses correctly, there’s one lukewarm, expired diet Coke in the back. The mini-fridge is a “luxury” none of the staff ever really got to enjoy. Once you were in costume and working the trails or the plaza, you weren’t allowed to leave your post unless someone tapped you out. And once you were assigned a post for the night, you stayed put for the duration—usually a five-hour block—to minimize complicated staff swaps.
That’s how all of it had worked five years ago, anyway.
He knew things might have changed. Especially with the new “security” protocols. But he’d gambled on human nature operating like normal.
The panicking parents and PTA moms wanted metal detectors, bag searches, and more rent-a-cops. More signs. More safety they could touch and see.
Nobody was looking at an old white staff tent.
Five years ago, the lost and found had been kept in the back of the costume tent. Contraband wasn’t much of an issue then. There were no masks to confiscate, no bags to search, and no metal detectors.
Still, there had been one kid—dressed as Zorro—who had the audacity to bring a real sword to complete his costume.
That item had been quickly confiscated.
And stashed with the lost and found.
“Kids are so freaking dumb,” Tim had said to him that night, in a rare moment of camaraderie after closing. “The kid with the sword probably still has to use safety scissors at school,” he added as he changed out of his costume and back into his street clothes in the dim light of the glowing space heaters.
He nodded as Tim unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt. High and frilly, straight out of The Crucible. Perfect for hiding just how loosely—or tightly—the gallows rope wrapped around his neck. “What’ll happen to the sword?”
&nb
sp; Tim had shrugged. “Looks expensive, so I’m sure we’ll hang onto it. Management probably called his parents.”
He wonders if the boy’s parents ever did retrieve the sword. For all he knows, it was packed up with the rest of the chaos in the tent a few days later, when Tim’s white collar turned red.
He scans the two piles on the table, keeping his attention focused on the distant muted chaos outside the tent. He’s reasonably confident that the guard who dumped the second bin of contraband here ten minutes earlier is likely to be the only visitor for at least another hour. And he’s also reasonably confident that no one saw him walk inside. But even if they did, and even with the signs shouting “if you see something, say something,” he knows they’re unlikely to do more than shrug and turn back to their bag of popcorn.
He’s learned not to skulk. The trick is confidence and calm.
Still, he has no interest in explaining what he’s doing in the staff tent if he can avoid it.
There are numerous black lights in the bins of contraband. A diverse collection of masks. Two disposable cameras. And what looks like a set of nunchucks. He smiles slightly as his eyes land on a familiar black mask poking out from the middle of the pile.
He nudges it gingerly with the sleeve of his coat, bringing the black latex to the top of the pile.
Tenderly, he slips a finger through the dark eyeholes then pulls the mask into his jacket.
He’d considered bringing the original. But the logistics of planting a hunting knife and a mask weren’t worth the effort.
This discovery feels like serendipity.
He feels his pulse speed up again, then carefully tamps it down.
After passing through the metal detector with flying colors, he got in line at the nearest food vendor. It was something to do while he waited for the bin of contraband to fill up. The girl with the purple wig and crocheted purse had stomped past him at one point, followed by her bewildered friends. “Seriously, how did it get in your purse?” one of them kept asking.
For a while, the girl with the purple wig had stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, just inside the ticketing area. Like she might decide to leave the Thicket of her own volition after all. She kept shaking her head at the two boys who appeared to be apologizing for god-knows-what. Certainly not planting the knife.
Finally, the girl had tossed her hands in the air and moved toward the food trucks, while the boys followed close behind.
If she’d been a boy, the security guard with the patchy red beard and the sour face probably would have called her parents. Maybe even the police—the real ones. But between the tears and the convincing pleas that she didn’t know where the knife came from (along with an impressive amount of blubbering and smearing her too-thick mascara around her eyes while she gestured angrily at the two boys who held up their hands in protest) the guard had let her into the plaza anyway.
He scans the dark tent until he spots a familiar set of white plastic bins. In the first one, he finds what he’s looking for underneath a first-aid kit: a few tubes of glue, some thin plastic sheeting, and several rolls of Gorilla tape.
He tucks the Gorilla tape into the deep pockets of his black coat along with the folded square of plastic sheeting.
The knife, the sheet, the tape, and the tent stake feel heavy and good in his pockets.
He considers rummaging through the rest of the bins, on the off chance that he finds something else he likes. But there’s really no need.
He has what he needs.
As he exits the tent through the back flap that is visible from only one side of the plaza, he reminds himself not to look from side to side or rush too much. He calmly re-zips the tent flap and mentally rehearses what he will say if he is questioned. “Sorry, I was just looking for a bathroom,” with a sheepish shrug and a smile. The line of port-a-potties isn’t visible from this half of the Thicket.
As he walks across the plaza back toward the crowds, he spots a security guard headed toward one of the mini-donut stands. He keeps his eyes on the main plaza and doesn't speed up his gait.
The guard is leaning on the counter of the donut stand and talking to an employee, who gestures toward the tent.
Keeping one eye on the guard, he veers slightly toward a stand selling cotton candy and caramel apples.
The guard turns to look at the tent. Then he shakes his head and waits while the kid ladles a heap of mini donuts into a red and white cardboard tray.
Finally, the guard ambles toward the tent, adjusting his too-big hat before popping one of the tiny donuts into his mouth whole. A moment later, the guard unzips the canvas flap and disappears.
He tucks a hand into his pocket to touch the utility knife as he reaches the front of the cotton candy line. “What are you supposed to be?” the girl at the counter asks, eyeing his beard while he pulls a five-dollar bill out of his front pocket and requests a bottle of water. “That beard is sick. Is it real?” she asks.
He chuckles softly. He knows that between the thick beanie on his head and the beard, the only thing you can see clearly is his eyes. “Thanks. Duck Dynasty. You watch it?”
The girl shakes her head and turns to retrieve his bottled water. “Doesn’t the beard get, like, food and stuff in it?”
He chuckles again. Not food.
He studies the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck as she reaches into the refrigerator for the bottle of water. The hairs are feathered like duck down, beneath her ponytail. That’s where he would cut. The knife inside the coat pocket feels substantial and warm against his side.
By the time he has finished the transaction at the cotton candy booth, the security guard has re-emerged from the tent. As the man readjusts the ridiculous tan hat on top of his head, he lifts a hand and waves at the employee at the mini-donut stand. The employee, who has already gotten back to filling sodas, doesn’t see.
The rent-a-cop shrugs and walks back toward the other side of the plaza.
CHAPTER 30
“You WILL hand it over right now, or you WILL be escorted out of the Thicket,” Maren repeats in a deep, strained voice. Then she breaks out into laughter for the umpteenth time as they exit the last cabin, mimicking one of the guards. “Could they be any more anal?”
“Seriously. What a letdown,” Jamie adds, laughing, her arm still tucked into the crook of Tyson’s arm. “I mean, most of it was pretty good. But Cabin Twelve was gonna be, like, the highlight.”
Taylor nods in agreement. Overall, she’d give the Thicket an A-minus. The effects, the staff, and the props were realistic, creative, and legitimately scary. And everyone—including the boys—had let loose at least one ear-splitting scream.
However, the cabin—the room where it actually happened—had mostly been a joke. Just a bottleneck of kids lingering at the entry and exit points. Everyone kept trying to sneak photos with their cell phones and flashing black lights that somehow made it through the bag search.
There were two guards in Cabin Twelve. One stood outside the door, and one stayed just inside of the room itself. Both guards had been tenuously costumed as part of the production itself, since the room had been reconfigured as a dingy jail cell. The guards’ presence made the animatronic inmates, rattling their chains and flinging themselves at the cell bars, decidedly less scary. There wasn’t much of a chance to let the eeriness of the room itself seep in.
Still, there had been a brief moment when the beam of a contraband flashlight suddenly illuminated the wall behind one of the prison cells. The soft purple glow had revealed a dim, glowing pattern of dots and splatters across the back wall and floor, behind the two inmates.
The pattern was faint. But it was everywhere.
Constellations of tiny white dots created haphazard patterns halfway up the rough logs. The dots dribbled into thin tails, like comets. And a thick, blotchy pool spread across the floor near the back wall of the cabin, disappearing out the door in a dribble.
The patterns reminded Taylor less of blood t
han of the glow-in-the-dark paint she’d tried to apply to her ceiling in elementary school. She remembered balancing on the edge of her bed in the dim light so she could see where to paint the tiny stars. While painting, she’d stepped forward without thinking—right off the edge of the bed, dropping the entire bottle of paint on the carpet. Despite several scrubs, the invisible splotch on the carpet still glowed faintly green-white in the dark. She’d given up on a ceiling full of stars after that, abandoning the tiny patch of constellations.
“Holy mother of—is that—” Ben had said when the splatter patterns suddenly appeared in the beam of the black light. Maren and Jamie turned around to look—but not before the flashlight clicked off. One of the guards strode across the room toward the source of the light, holding out his hand and booming, “You WILL hand that to me now, or you WILL be escorted out of the Thicket.”
Taylor had taken a small step backward, her arm inadvertently brushing against Ben’s. He had laced his fingers into hers with surprising confidence, and she left her hand in his as they exited Cabin Twelve.
Maren had regaled everyone with her loud imitation of the guard as they continued down the trails into the next nest of monsters. Jamie laughed harder each time, irritating the group of kids behind them so much that one kid, exasperated, finally yelled for her to shut up. Maren only repeated herself louder.
Taylor had snuck a glance down at her hand, still interlaced with Ben’s, debating whether to lean in or pull back. She doggedly ignored Maren and Jamie’s attempts to catch her eye. Ben wasn’t really her type. But he wasn’t not her type. She wondered if maybe he was trying to comfort her—after seeing the blood spatter.
Ironically, it was the flash of the black light in the crowded cabin that finally lifted the uneasy pall trailing Taylor since the confrontation with Norah Lewis. Suddenly, it felt like the awkward encounter had happened days ago. To someone else, maybe.
The Thicket Page 12