Ghost Hand (#Wattys2016)

Chapter 20, Jason's Bullet

By the time we'd hiked down the ridge to the dry creek bed where the wheelers were parked, the sun was already high in the sky.

Between getting buzzed by the helicopter, tearing down camp, spying on the lumber camp, and mapping out our plan, there'd been no time for breakfast, so Nose unpacked a cooler of sandwich stuff, and we each made our own. He never took off his mask. Of course, I knew why; it was pretty obvious. His nickname was Nose. Maybe mine would be The Hand.

"So where do you get all this stuff?" I asked Yale as I ate my sandwich, glancing at the ATVs and their trailers piled high with camping and survival equipment. "Do you steal it?"

"No, we don't steal it," he said, laughing. "We resupply once a month from the nearest town. Everything you see here was bought and paid for by our infamous leader."

"Marcus?" I asked, looking around for him, but he and Jason were deep in a discussion well out of earshot. "I thought he was—" and suddenly I didn't know how to finish that sentence. Poor. Homeless. An orphan with no resources. Thankfully, Yale rescued me from my own idiocy.

"He has a trust fund," he said, taking the last bite of his PB&J and talking right through it. "Some kind of out-of-court settlement from when he was a kid. I guess by the time he turned eighteen and finally got access, it was a lot of money."

"So, Marcus is rich," I said, "and he lives in a tent."

"Yep," Yale nodded, grinning.

I was leaning against an ATV, polishing off a packaged oatmeal cookie, when Marcus came over and handed me one of the black hydration packs.

"Thanks" I said, slinging it on and taking a long sip.

"Follow me," Marcus said. "We need to talk."

"Oow, it sounds serious," I said, "Are you breaking up with me?"

"I—we aren't—" Marcus stammered, all his cool composure of a moment before completely obliterated.

"Um, that was a joke," I said, rolling my eyes at him. Except it was only partially a joke. It was probably time to admit to myself that I liked Marcus.

"Right. Good," he said, sounding relieved.

"Where are we going?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"There's a stream just over there," he said, pointing toward the woods. "I like the sound. It helps me think."

And covers the sound of us talking so the other can't hear. The more I got to know Marcus, the more I realized how calculating he was. His motives were never simple. Marcus was not "what you see is what you get." What you saw barely scratched the surface.

"Lead the way," I said.

It didn't take long for us to reach a burbling, shady stream. Marcus sat down on the grassy bank and I sat next to him. He seemed suddenly unsure of himself, which made me feel pleased and worried all at the same time. I looked across the stream, waiting for him to speak.

"So, mainly, I just wanted to, you know, see how you're doing," he said, digging his hands into the grass like it was Berber carpet.

"Oh, I'm great," I said. "Last time I checked I had smoke inhalation, a concussion, and a hand that likes to reach inside people and yank random shit out."

Marcus looked up, startled by the heat in my voice. "You didn't hurt Jason," he said.

"Maybe not," I countered, "but I certainly pissed him off."