The Bakersville Dozen

by Kristina McBride

  “Oh.” Jude’s mouth tightened. By the time I reached the ground, his jaw was clenched.

  “I asked her to help me find the fireworks.” Wes swung his leg over the ladder and began climbing down. Beneath the ripple of his untucked T-shirt, I caught a glimpse of the red envelope peeking up from the waistband of his jeans. Skipping the last few rungs with one giant leap, he turned and faced Jude. “Thought it would be cool to sneak one of the bigger ones out and set it off early.”

  Jude narrowed his eyes and looked from Wes to me and back again. “Which one did you choose?”

  “Huh?” Wes asked.

  “The fireworks?” Jude raised his eyebrows, the anger in his voice clear. “Which one did you choose? To set off early?”

  “Oh.” Wes looked at me, pausing briefly. “I didn’t. I mean, I couldn’t. Bailey here wouldn’t let me.”

  Jude looked at me suspiciously. “And you lied to me just now because . . . ?”

  “You went with the guys to get them. I thought you’d be pissed.” I reached out for Jude’s hand, but he pulled away. Suddenly, I was afraid of losing more than just the girls.

  “So you’re done then?” Jude asked, swaying a bit. “We can go back to the party?”

  “Not quite yet,” I said, hating the waver in my voice, hating that I had to lie to Jude again. We needed enough time to read the clue and figure out our next move.

  “There’s an issue,” Wes said. “Nothing to worry about, just something with Tripp we need to take care of.”

  “Right,” I said with a nod. “He’s acting a little off today.”

  “Really?” Jude asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Wes says it’s been going on for a while now, that he’s been meaning to call and talk to me, maybe even warn my parents, but he didn’t want to worry us or get Tripp in trouble.” I tried to look concerned, which wasn’t so hard. “That’s why we were really up there—we had to ditch Tripp so we could talk without him eavesdropping. We just saw the fireworks and Wes got the idea to steal one. But, anyway, Wes and I, we’re going to—”

  “—try to get a handle on the situation,” Wes finished.

  “Right.” I nodded. “Without my parents.”

  “He’s in some kind of trouble?” Jude asked, concern lining his face. Here I was, lying, and he was worried about my brother? I was awful. Horrible.

  I’d make it up to him. As soon as I pulled myself out of this scavenger hunt.

  “He’s not in any trouble.” Wes said. “He’s just had a rough year. The transition to college wasn’t easy for him. I don’t want to leave you out, but it’s kind of a secret mission. The type of thing that can only include people Tripp has known his entire life.”

  “Please don’t take that wrong,” I said, “but Wes is right. This has to be Tripp’s inner circle, the people he trusts the most.”

  “Okay.” Jude shrugged, like he didn’t care, but he couldn’t hide the disappointment in his eyes. “You’ll be back, though, right?”

  “I think so,” I said, even though I had no idea.

  “The thing is, we need to drive. Off the property. You think that’ll be a problem?” Watching Wes in action, seeing firsthand how naturally lies flowed from his lips, both scared and irritated me. There was no denying he’d had a lot of practice.

  Jude ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a stream of air. His eyes were softer now. Hurt.

  “I guess I could find the stash of keys. Just don’t tell anyone.”

  I followed Jude out of the barn, watching the muscles ripple in his arm as he pulled the chain and turned off the light hanging from the rafters. I felt Wes behind me every step of the way, the weight of the two pressing against me, making me feel like I was being flattened into a paper-thin version of myself.

  CHAPTER 17

  10:19 PM

  “Read it again,” I said from the front passenger seat as Hannah steered her Escape around a curve in the road.

  “It’s not going to change,” Wes said from the behind me.

  I twisted around, reaching through the space between the front seats, and yanked the clue from his hand.

  “He’s right, B,” Tripp said, the beams from the car behind us backlighting him through the rear window. “We picked a location. Now we have to trust our decision and just go.”

  “But are we sure it was the right decision?” I asked. “We have to make sure we’re going the right way.”

  “If you want me to turn the car around, tell me now,” Hannah said, her words rushed, the tone beneath them unsure.

  “We have to hurry.” Tripp’s voice cracked. “There’s a chance she’s alive so we can’t screw this—”

  “Can everyone just shut up for one second?” I asked, flipping on the overhead light and reading each word again carefully.

  HERE’S YOUR CLUE

  TO FINDING TROPHY NUMBER TWO.

  SHE WAS BREATHING WHEN I LEFT HER.

  SHE’S BEEN GRETEL AND BLANCHE,

  BUT NOTHING COMPARES

  TO HER DEBUT AS ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

  GO STRAIGHT TO HIS STAGE,

  AND FIND WHAT’S WAITING FOR YOU.

  SAVE HER IF YOU CAN,

  BUT DON’T STOP NOW

  OR ELSE—I SWEAR IT—THIS WILL GET WORSE

  FOR ALL OF YOU.

  HAPPY HUNTING!

  “Robin Goodfellow is from A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I said. “We read it sophomore year in English class. Becca bragged for weeks about landing the role of Puck. But the clue says we have to go to his stage. The school was renovating the auditorium that year, and—”

  “The entire play takes place in the woods,” Hannah said, her eyes fixed on the road. “We have to be going the right way.”

  “You’re sure we shouldn’t be heading to the community theater?”

  I looked at the shadows seeping across the blacktop just ahead of the car’s headlights, my eyes following the twisting pavement that led to Timber Park, the largest rec area in town. It had jogging trails, playgrounds, soccer fields—and an outdoor amphitheater right at its center.

  The clock in the dashboard glowed a bright blueish-green: 10:22.

  “I’m not sure sure,” Hannah said. “I didn’t go see the stupid play or anything, but—”

  “Whoever’s doing this isn’t stupid enough to lead us to the center of town. Too much risk of exposure,” I said. “We have to be right.”

  As the seconds passed, I tried not to worry. I tried to make myself believe that we would still be able to save Becca.

  And then we were passing through the wooden arch that led into Timber Park. Hannah raced down the tree-lined road, skidding to a stop in the back lot, and we all shoved our doors open and jumped out.

  We ran.

  As fast was could.

  Racing across the blacktop.

  Leaping over parking blocks.

  Plunging into the grass beyond.

  “Faster,” I said. “We have to go faster!”

  Tripp and Wes were gaining speed, arms pumping, legs straining, pulling ahead with each step.

  I dug my feet into the ground, pushing off with all the strength that I had.

  My hair whipped against my back.

  My heart exploded in my chest, fear and hope clashing.

  We were close.

  So close.

  Hold on, I told her. We’re coming for you.

  Tripp and Wes dashed through the trees, shadows swallowing them whole.

  As soon as they disappeared from view, I heard the rumble.

  The echo of what sounded like thousands of hands.

  Clapping.

  And I wondered who else was here.

  Then Hannah was by my side.

  Right there with me.

  Rounding the trees.

  Dashing with me into the shadows.

  My eyes darted to the domed stage.

  A lattice of bluish moonlight trickled through the trees.

  Another burst of applause erupte
d, the sound somehow frantic, wild.

  I thought it was a good sign.

  She wasn’t alone.

  But then my mind caught up.

  The area in front of the stage was empty.

  There was no audience tonight.

  I tried to focus, each step reverberating throughout my body.

  Wes leaped up, a seamless arc from the grass to the lip of the stage, his arms spread wide for balance. Tripp was right behind, his feet pummeling the stage boards, the sound echoing.

  The applause came again, ripping the night open.

  I kept running, leaping and catching myself on the edge of the stage before dragging myself up. Hannah was behind me. She stood and swiped her palms down the front of her shorts.

  “Oh, no,” she said, her voice a shaky whisper.

  I tried to catch my breath as I took in the details:

  Wes and Tripp kneeling.

  The light shining from the phone in Wes’s hand.

  The girl between them, slack, lying on a sky-blue blanket.

  Thick waves of red hair fanning out around her head.

  Blue-black bruises ringing her ankles.

  The chipped purple paint on her jagged fingernails.

  And the swelling.

  It distorted her entire face—lips, eyes, cheeks—running down to her neck.

  Even though she looked nothing like herself, we all knew who she was. The hair—her fiery trademark on stage and off—said it all. This was triple threat Becca Hillyer. She’d won the leads in the school musical three years in a row. She’d spent her entire high school career balancing her performances with school, and earning her place as valedictorian. She’d received early acceptance to Juilliard for her mad skills on the piano. Becca Hillyer—Missing Girl Number Three—who, according to The Bakersville Dozen, was “Hot for Teacher.” The rumor had never been proven, of course, but apparently, Mr. Epperson and Mrs. Hutch weren’t the only ones to get off in the school auditorium.

  “She’s still breathing, right?” Hannah cried, her voice nearly hysterical. “She has to be breathing.”

  Tripp leaned down, his cheek inches from Becca’s puffy mouth. “I don’t think so.”

  We’d failed.

  On every level.

  CHAPTER 18

  10:41 PM

  “Focus. We have to focus.” Hannah’s voice changed. The emotion had hardened, solidified. “We need to be careful. None of us can get too close. The cops’ll find any evidence we leave behind.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Tripp asked, one hand hovering over both of Becca’s, which, like Leena’s, were clasped over her chest, holding a red envelope. “I have to check for a pulse.”

  “You touch her and you risk leaving DNA behind.” Hannah walked toward the back of the amphitheater and disappeared into the shadows. “Do I need to add that contaminating a murder scene could lead to you being charged with that murder?”

  “What if she’s still alive?” I asked, my voice growing louder to compete with another round of the applause. All at once, I remembered a thousand Becca moments: Becca directing plays during recess in middle school; Becca smiling quietly as people congratulated her on, yet again securing the lead role; Becca hunched over the keys of a grand piano, her hands flying; Becca making funny faces behind Sylvie’s back as she focused on her whiteboard. The memories made my stomach churn. I thought I might throw up. “She could still be alive. We won’t know unless—”

  “She’s not,” Hannah said, her words clipped. “It was stupid for us to hope. We wouldn’t be here if she was still alive. This guy’s too careful. Our hope is his bait. It’s why he’s timing the clues. He’s not going to let us save her or any of the others. If he lets them live, they could provide information that would give us an advantage.”

  “Hannah’s right,” Tripp said, as he drew his hand away from Becca’s swollen neck. “No pulse. But she’s still warm. So we were close.”

  Hannah snorted. “Way to listen to my advice. This whole thing could be a set-up. You know that, right?”

  Tripp’s words echoed through my thoughts: She’s still warm . . . “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Don’t,” Hannah said. “That’s major evidence. A treasure trove of DNA for the cops to play with.”

  And then there was a click so loud it practically split the night in two. The applause stopped abruptly, leaving behind a ghostly echo.

  “You stopped the clapping,” Wes said. “How’d you—”

  “Old-school tape recorder.” Hannah stepped out of the shadows with a rectangular-shaped black box in her hand. “I just pressed the little button that said STOP.”

  “Smartass.” Tripp pointed at the tape recorder. “I thought you were worried about leaving behind evidence.”

  Hannah’s voice was all business. “This evidence is leaving with us. Now, quick, take some pictures of her.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wes asked, disgusted.

  “We can’t stand around here all night waiting to be found with her body,” Hannah said. “But we need to be able to remember exactly how she was positioned, so that we can study the details. Any clue could help us figure out who’s behind all of this.”

  I looked at the envelope—the black ink, the precise block letters that spelled out my name—trying to push away the knowledge that Becca’s body was still warm. “We need the clue,” I said, my words a whisper.

  “Obviously,” Hannah said. “But we can’t move the envelope until Wes and Tripp get a few pictures.”

  Tripp stood slowly and tucked his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “There is no freaking way I’m taking pictures of a dead girl with my phone. Talk about evidence.”

  “Seriously?” Hannah asked, propping a hand on her hip. “You know your sister’s life is on the line, right? This freak singled out Bailey from all the other girls to play his disgusting game, which means he has some specific interest in her. Don’t you think that’s strange, especially since the cops can’t figure out why she was included at all?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Hannah’s eyes went wide. “Oh, come on, you must have noticed. All the other girls have a thing that makes them stand out. Some kind of talent or—”

  “You’re saying I don’t have any talent?”

  “Not like getting in early to Julliard or Parsons. Now is not the time to be sensitive. It’s a fact that sets you apart from the rest of the girls. For some reason, you not only made the cut, but you’re the one the killer picked to play this game? If we don’t get this right, you’re probably next.”

  “We have to keep Bailey safe, no matter what.” Tripp’s voice was raw. “But we also have to protect ourselves. You’re acting all worried about us leaving evidence behind, but in the same breath you’re telling me to take pictures, to create evidence so I can carry it with me and implicate myself? It doesn’t make any sense, Hannah!”

  She glared at him. “You have to calm down.”

  “CALM DOWN?” Tripp yelled. “You have got to be kidding me! You want to know what I think?”

  “Lemme guess.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “You think we should call the cops again. You think we should take the chance and tell someone, but we can’t—”

  “No.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I think you just might be in on this. Maybe you’re the one trying to set us up.”

  Tripp’s words hung in the air, mixing with the sharp, barking call of a dog in the distance.

  Hannah stood there, her lips pressed tight, twitching at the corners. She was blazing mad. Watching her reaction, I hated myself for thinking it, but couldn’t she be in on this?

  She knew my locker combination as well as her own. She’d been with Sylvie Warner just after Sylvie stole the tiara. Hannah was the one who had insisted that we go back to Leena’s body, she’d been the one to find the tiara on Leena’s head. She’d left me when she was supposed to meet me in the woods . . . which wou
ld have given her time to plant the clue in the hayloft at Jonesy’s. She knew a lot about creepy crime scenes, maybe even enough to pull something like this off.

  But no. No. It couldn’t be Hannah. Even if she had all the opportunity in the world, she had absolutely no motive.

  “Bailey? You’re not going to defend me?” Hannah whispered, her eyes glistening with anger. “I’ve stood by your side from the very beginning, and you’re not going to say anything after he accuses me of . . . what, Tripp? Being in on this?”

  Tripp took a deep breath, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Han, I just—”

  “—thought you’d accuse me of somehow kidnapping five girls and holding them hostage for months? Killing two of them in two days? All while plotting and executing a twisted scavenger hunt to, what, fuck with my best friend in the world?”

  “Look, I’m just freaked out, okay?” Tripp ran his hand through his hair, pulling his phone from the pocket of his shorts with shaky hands. “I assume that’s a natural reaction after being directed to take pictures of a dead chick.”

  “It’s not like I asked you to take the pictures for kicks,” Hannah said.

  Tripp grimaced. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help. I’ll take the damn pictures.”

  “No,” Hannah said. “Really. I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.”

  Tripp focused on Becca’s body. The flash went off, a blinding light.

  There was more barking, a string of harsh guttural sounds that drifted out from the trails behind the amphitheater.

  “You guys hear that?” I asked.

  “What?” Tripp aimed his camera and shot another picture of poor Becca Hillyer.

  “The barking.” Wes jumped up from Becca’s side, jostling her body. Her hand slipped from her chest and smacked the wooden floor of the stage. “It’s closer now.”

  Tripp squinted as he looked from Wes to me. “I don’t hear any—”

  Then we heard it again, this time louder, more insistent, and heading toward us.

  “Take another picture,” Hannah said, her voice urgent. “Make sure you get her face. The swelling, it could be some kind of reaction. We can look it up and—”