The Outliers

by Kimberly McCreight

  “Well, this sucks ass,” Jasper says as Officer Kendall’s flashlight disappears inside the first cabin. It’s the first really negative thing he’s said.

  “I thought you were all about optimism,” I say, and it is a dig for calling me pessimistic before. Even though I know there are much worse things he could have called me. “What happened to your glass half-full?”

  “Maybe you drank it.” Jasper smiles a little when he turns to me. But it fades once he reaches forward and tries the door. It doesn’t open. “We’re locked in here, you know.”

  “It is a police car,” I say, like that was already obvious to me. It wasn’t, and I definitely wish Jasper hadn’t mentioned it. Because now all I can think about is what will become of us if something happens to Officer Kendall out there? What if whoever is responsible comes after us, trapped there in the middle of nowhere?

  My heart beats harder as I watch Officer Kendall’s flashlight bounce around the inside of the second small cabin. When the light shines through the front window, I see something hanging out in front of the window. Screens, maybe? We’re too far away to be sure, but that’s what it looks like. Like someone tore them up trying to escape. I don’t realize how tight I’ve been holding my body until Officer Kendall has finished searching the last two cabins and his flashlight is finally bouncing back our way.

  “We shouldn’t have come here,” I say before he reaches the car.

  “What do you mean?” Jasper asks. “Here where? The camp?”

  “I don’t know.” And that is the truth. I don’t know what I mean. But there is no doubt that is exactly the way I feel.

  “Hey.” Jasper reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze. But long enough for me to notice just how stiff and cold my own fingers are. “It’s going to be okay. She’s going to be okay.”

  “You don’t know that,” I say.

  “Maybe not,” Jasper says. “But that’s not going to stop me from believing it.”

  “N-n-nothing,” Officer Kendall says when he finally opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat. “Except s-s-s-ome g-g-garbage, wrappers, b-b-beer cans.”

  “That means someone’s been here,” I say.

  “S-s-someone’s always b-b-been here,” he says. “They use it, m-m-move on.”

  We go on like that cabin after cabin. Roll forward, stop. Roll forward, stop. Officer Kendall gets out. Officer Kendall checks the building. Officer Kendall comes back. Shakes his head: nothing. Roll forward, stop. Roll forward, stop. All he reports are different kinds of garbage: candy wrappers in some, empty beer cans and cigarette butts in others. One had a huge pile of unraveled Saran wrap, which Officer Kendall can’t explain. I don’t want him to try.

  As we move farther up the driveway, the cabins seem in worse shape; some are too broken down for him to even go inside, one not much more than a pile of boards. Officer Kendall shines his flashlight on even that, like maybe Cassie could be buried somewhere underneath. At least he seems competent, thorough. But it does make me think that I should have called Karen from town. Should have told her what we knew, the name of the town at least. I didn’t because Cassie had specifically asked us not to tell her mom, and that was even after she let us go to the police. But the truth is I also didn’t call Karen from Seneca because I didn’t want to end up talking to my dad. Now that he’s tried to get me committed—something I still can’t fully believe—I’m not sure I’ll ever talk to him again. It’s too late now to change my mind anyway. Back here, so deep in the woods, my cell signal is already long gone.

  Finally, we pull to where the driveway dead-ends at the top of another hill in a circular parking area. There are three slightly larger cabins and a fourth much larger building, the size of two or three cabins combined. They are all pitch black, like the others, but easier to make out in the brighter clearing. From a distance, they look in much better condition, too.

  “These are th-th-the main b-b-buildings,” Officer Kendall says. “But p-p-people usually stay down at the others—easier to g-g-get in. G-g-g-get out.”

  I hear Jasper exhale hard. He shakes his head and turns back to me. “This isn’t looking good.”

  He’s right. What will we do when Officer Kendall doesn’t find Cassie in any of these buildings either? I don’t have an answer for that. I look over at the buildings again. I’m not high on meth, but if I was going to go anywhere at that camp it would be there, the buildings that aren’t totally falling apart. This isn’t over until we’ve checked every last place. There’s still a chance that Cassie’s there.

  “I’ll s-s-still check,” Officer Kendall says. “Th-th-there are the other c-c-camps, t-t-too. We’ll head there next. Maybe she g-g-got the n-n-name wrong.” He is being kind, staying hopeful. And I’m glad because someone needs to keep looking at the bright side now that Jasper can’t bring himself to.

  Officer Kendall parks facing the open lawn between the buildings. It’s actually legitimately bright with the moon nearly full in the open patch of sky. He leaves the headlights on, too, this time, passing through the two beams of light on his way to check the first building. Lit up gold, Officer Kendall looks even more handsome and genuinely brave. And I try to see that as an encouraging sign until he pauses suddenly in the middle of the lawn to look down at something. His hand moves to his gun.

  “What’s he looking at?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. But it’s impossible to see from where we’re parked.

  “I don’t know.” Jasper presses his face in close to the wire cage locking us out of the front seat. Whatever it is, Officer Kendall kicks at it with his foot. “It’s a pile of something, maybe logs—wait, is that smoke?”

  “Where?” My heart is beating hard as I squint harder. And then I see it, when Officer Kendall kicks again—smoke curling up toward the sky.

  “Holy shit,” Jasper says. “There is somebody here.”

  “Or was. Was somebody here,” I say, trying not to let myself feel too relieved. Or too worried. Because the thought of someone really being at that camp fills me with so much hope and even more dread. I pull in a mouthful of air, but already I feel light-headed.

  A second later Officer Kendall is back, leaning in to grab his radio.

  “Three-zero-six requesting b-b-backup,” he says. “Camp Colestah. Possible 207.” There’s no response. Maybe there never is, or maybe that means the sergeant and Officer O’Connell have closed up for the night. I feel like they might do that in a place like Seneca, close the police station. And what’s a 207? I’m too afraid to ask. Officer Kendall looks back at us. “I expect whoever was here is already g-g-gone. But I’m g-g-going to s-s-sweep the b-b-buildings just t-t-to be sure.”

  It’s much worse being locked in the back of the car when Officer Kendall leaves this time. At least, it doesn’t take long for him to get through the first building and then the next, but the last of the small cabins he’s inside for a while. We can see his flashlight through the window, moving this way and that like he’s teasing a cat.

  A minute later he’s coming back in our direction. But this time, he’s moving fast. He’s found something. And it isn’t good.

  “I’m g-g-going to need the two of you to c-c-come with me,” Officer Kendall says when he opens my door. And all I want to do is slam it shut again. “There’s s-s-something I need to see if you can identify.”

  Cassie’s body? That’s all I can think. “Identify what?”

  “Just some c-c-clothing and a b-b-bag. New and expensive, not like an addict would have. I need to know if they belong to your f-f-friend. I’d bring them here, but I d-d-don’t want to disturb the scene, in case—” He doesn’t finish the thought. In case something horrible has happened to Cassie, that’s what he means. What’s inside could be evidence of a crime. Officer Kendall looks down the driveway and around the edges of the woods, like he’s considering. “Would p-p-prefer to wait for b-b-backup, but they could be a while.”

  But we might not have that kind of time. Cassie might not.
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  The air is full-on bitter when we get out of the car. The cold burns my lungs, and a white cloud of steam gathers around my face as I exhale. Officer Kendall starts forward quickly across the grass, waving silently for us to follow. He swivels his head right and left, watching for danger, checking the perimeter as we make our way toward the cabin to the far right. As we pass the other cabins, I can see the screens aren’t peeled back and the doors look solidly on their hinges. But it’s making me feel worse, not better. Of course, up here at these cabins is where you’d go to hide something or someone. I clench my fists like the pain of my fingernails digging into my palms is going to release some of the pressure in my gut. But what I really need to do is breathe. I know that. For real, I have to. If only that wasn’t so much easier said than done.

  “I’m scared,” I whisper to Jasper.

  “Me too,” he says.

  “L-l-let’s pick up the p-p-pace,” Officer Kendall says once we’re in the middle of the lawn. Like it’s a threat, us being out in the open. “Your f-f-friend didn’t tell you anything about these people she was with? No details at all?”

  He’s really listening for our answer now. He wasn’t before, that’s obvious now. They had written Cassie off as just another junkie. Maybe even the kind they had agreed to turn a blind eye to.

  “Just that she got herself into something and that her mom would be mad,” Jasper says, doing his own nervous survey of the perimeter. “Then all of a sudden she said she was scared that they were going to hurt her.”

  Which means, of course, that she had her phone. I’ve known that the whole time but haven’t really thought about it until now. Why would they have let her keep her phone? Maybe she really did come up here to “party” like that sergeant said. And it got out of hand.

  “Stay to the left inside,” Officer Kendall says when we finally reach the steps up to the cabin door. “There’s a big hole in the floor to the right. And there’s boxes, furniture everywhere. Flashlight will only do so much.”

  As we start up behind him, I feel more light-headed. I grab the handrail to steady myself. Breathe. Something new feels wrong, though. Something more than everything that is already so very bad—Lexi and Doug, the men chasing us through the woods, Cassie’s things maybe being on the floor of some meth den. It’s like I’ve left something crucial behind—my backpack, my phone, a piece of my body—and haven’t fully realized it yet. Breathe, in and out to a count of four. Officer Kendall stands to the right, holding the door open for us, his flashlight pointing us left.

  I’m trembling as I step inside, glimpse the outline of a desk along the wall, a filing cabinet in the corner. The camp office, probably. It smells dusty and a little mildewed but not terrible. Not like death. And that seems important. But there is still that other something in the air, something that feels extra off. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

  “It’s right there on the floor, under the window,” Officer Kendall says, drawing a circle on the floor some distance ahead with the beam of his flashlight.

  My heart catches when I finally see it: Cassie’s floppy hobo bag. The one she always carries. There’s her sweatshirt, too, right there on the floor—the red Boston one with the hole in the right sleeve. I rush toward it because if it doesn’t have that hole, then it won’t be hers after all. And that bag, they are pretty popular these days. It could be anyone’s.

  “Don’t touch anything!” Officer Kendall shouts after me.

  And so I fold my hands against myself as I crouch down next to the sweatshirt. Sure enough, there is that stupid hole. It is her sweatshirt. Cassie was here in this cabin and now she’s gone. Someone took her. Made her leave her things behind. Because Cassie loved that sweatshirt and she paid for that bag herself—almost a hundred dollars she’d made scooping a lot of ice cream at Holy Cow. Something else catches my eye then, a couple of inches to the side: pink camouflage. I look closer, and sure enough they are boy-style briefs that say Sleep with Me across the butt. Cassie’s underwear.

  I push myself to my feet. Too fast. Way too fast. Fireworks of little lights cascade in front of my eyes. Head rush. But that’s okay. Just a little low blood pressure. The edges of the room aren’t actually stretching thin. The tingle in my hands is all in my head.

  “Do you recognize any of it?” Officer Kendall asks. Not a hiccup, not a twitch. Not a stutter. Officer Kendall’s speech is totally even. It’s been even, actually. For how long? He was stuttering before in the car, definitely. And when we first stopped here at these buildings, wasn’t he? But for sure he’s not stuttering now. That’s what was off. That was what was left behind.

  I look up from Cassie’s underwear to Jasper’s reflection in the window. No stutter, I think, but am too afraid to say. We are not safe. My heart is beating in my ears. The sound is echoey, like we’re underwater. And now the room is so narrow and dark, like I’m staring down a paper towel tube.

  There’s a sound then. Loud. Near the door. A crash? Is that it? Then darkness to my left and then a burning and a tilt and then—

  “Wylie? Are you okay?” A voice. I don’t know whose.

  I try to open my eyes but they are sealed shut. My mouth is, too. Is my jaw broken? No, it’s just the insides of my mouth pasted together. Water. I need water. But when I move, pain slices through the side of my head. Squinting my eyes open makes it even worse.

  It’s dark still. Nighttime, but not pitch black. Pale-gray light comes from the window. Moonlight, maybe. Scratchy fabric under my hands. I’m lying on a couch—dusty, mildewed, lumpy. The cabin, Camp Colestah, Cassie—it all snaps back to me. Her underwear here. Her somewhere else.

  “You blacked out.” It’s Jasper. When I push myself up on my elbow, my head sings. Jasper is sitting on the floor a couple of feet away, back against the wall. He’s staring at me. Worried. No, worse than worried. He looks scared. “You hit your head on the side of the bureau.” He points to a big piece of furniture not far from the door. “I tried to grab you, but I didn’t make it in time. Are you okay?”

  “I pass out sometimes when I get really stressed,” I say, trying to make it sound like no big deal. “It hasn’t happened in a while. Sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  “Oh.” He glances down, away. “I don’t think you cut your head or anything.” He points to his own scalp. “I, um, checked. But there’s a big bump.”

  My cheeks feel hot thinking of Jasper lifting me onto the couch, his hands inspecting my head. It’s humiliating. And, yes, also sweet.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say, wincing through the throbbing in my head as I roll up to sitting. “Wait, where’s the—” I look around. I can’t remember his name. I wonder for a minute how bad I hurt my head. “The police guy.”

  “I don’t know,” Jasper says quietly. In the pale light, I see him turn toward the door. “As I was running to you, there was this loud sound behind us. And then the door slammed shut. I guess someone could have maybe grabbed him or—”

  “Grabbed him?” The pain in my head is worse with each word. “He’s a police officer.” Like that alone means nothing bad could ever happen to him. Then I remember Officer Kendall’s stutter, how it vanished. I think about telling Jasper this, but I’m afraid saying it aloud will wind me up again. And maybe it was the rush of adrenaline that smoothed out his voice. Officer Kendall could be like me: better in an actual emergency. Except that seems the opposite of likely.

  “Maybe they’re so high they didn’t even realize he was a cop?” Jasper offers, but not like he believes that. Frightening, too, that this is our best option: people so high they can’t see straight.

  “I think maybe the stuttering was an act,” I say. “Did you notice? He stopped right before we came into the cabin.”

  “Are you sure?” Jasper asks, and like he actually thinks maybe I imagined it. I wonder if this is how it is going to be now that I’ve told him about my dad’s call to the police. Will Jasper doubt everything I say? “Why would he do that?”


  “I have no idea.”

  He’s still looking at me like he’s not buying it. “I think we’ve got a bigger problem at the moment anyway.”

  “What?” I swallow over the lump trapped in my throat.

  “The door is locked.”

  “Locked?”

  I push myself to my feet and lurch for the door. No, no, no. We cannot be locked in this dark and terrible place. The knob does turn a little bit, and for a second I think I’m about to prove Jasper wrong. But the door sticks hard when I push, like there’s a bolt across the outside. Bam, bam, bam, goes my heart as I head over to the window next to where Jasper is still sitting on the floor. Panes of clear glass fill the window frame. I think of all the peeled-back screens in those other cabins as I put my hand flat against the cool glass. Not even cracked or dusty. Actually, the window looks brand-new.

  Jasper looks up at me. My hand is still on the glass, his face half-sunk in shadow. I push up on the window, but it doesn’t budge. “That one’s locked,” Jasper says as he gets up to head to the other window on the opposite side of the room. It won’t move either when he tries to open it. Neither do the two in back. He peers closer to the last one. “I think they’re nailed shut from the outside.”

  “Then we should break one,” I say, as Jasper comes back to stand next to me.

  And this does seem like something the emergency-me could actually do. Shatter glass, scramble through broken shards. Run again through the dark and tangled woods.

  But Jasper is already shaking his head. “Look.”

  What I mistook for one of the thin, easily-torn screens on the other side of the window, I can see now, is actually much thicker wire. Like a chain-link fence. We are not just trapped in a cabin. We are locked in a cage.

  “What the hell is this?” I whisper.

  Jasper takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself. “Okay, there has got to be another way out,” he says, not answering my question. Maybe he is trying to think positive again. And I hope so because every single thought I have is dark and terrible and ends in doom. Our doom.