Deception
Page 43
I pull away from him. “You came to the camp to wake Quinn but didn’t wake me too?”
“Quinn was already up. I met him while I was walking the southern section of camp. I’d already awakened Frankie and Thom so they could gather the second-shift guards and get into position.”
“Wait. You knew a killer was out there, and you decided to go find them by yourself?” I stare at him.
“Would you rather have me take the few guards we have around the camp and leave our people totally unprotected?”
I snap my mouth shut before I say yes. Yes, I’d rather have Logan protected and alive than everyone else in our camp. It’s selfish of me, I know that. But I’ve lost everyone else in my family. I can’t stand the thought of losing him, too.
Instead, I say, “Next time you want to lecture me about putting myself in danger without having an acceptable exit strategy, I want you to remember this.”
A muscle along his jaw flexes. “It’s not the same.”
Shaking my head, I glance at the sky. At the faint violet rim that is slowly spreading along the eastern horizon. “It’s almost dawn. These are first-shift guards. This happened several hours ago. Why didn’t you get me?”
“You needed sleep,” Quinn says.
I turn on him, and the fear that courses through me for Logan snaps out at Quinn instead.
“And what were you doing in the southern section of camp? That’s a long way from your shelter.”
“I was having trouble sleeping,” Quinn says, and the quiet hurt in his voice makes me feel small inside. He crouches beside Donny’s body, his dark eyes guarded. “I wander the Wasteland when I can’t sleep. It helps to clear my head. You can check with Willow if you don’t believe me.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?” I ask, though I already know his answer. Didn’t I just question him like I thought he might have something to hide?
“Because someone killed these boys, and everyone else was sleeping except for me and Logan.”
“Not everyone,” Logan says, and the cold fury in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
Placing his hand on Donny’s head, Quinn tilts the boy’s chin toward the sky and examines his neck in the flickering light of the torch.
I choke and look away.
“The killer used a short blade, easily hidden,” he says. “The deepest part of the cut is on the left side of the neck where he first stabbed his victim. The wound then decreases in depth as the knife slides across the throat.” He considers the other bodies for a moment. “Looks like the work of the same man on each boy.”
Sweat beads my upper lip and covers my palms. I want to throw up. I need to throw up. I tilt my head back and drag in a shaky breath, trying not to think of bloody knives sliding across tender throats.
Logan presses a hand to the small of my back.
“Most people are right-handed,” Logan says. “If a right-handed man attacked someone from the front, he’d swing his knife left to right for maximum speed and velocity. The wound would start on the right side of the victim’s neck.”
“So our killer might be left-handed.” Quinn rises.
“Or he killed them from behind to avoid blood spatter on his clothing.”
“He punctured the artery on the left and made a long clean slice to the artery on the right. That isn’t easy. He knew exactly where to strike and how much pressure to exert so he wouldn’t get caught up in the trachea, the ligaments, or the esophagus. He’s done this before,” Quinn says.
“Wouldn’t it be hard to sneak up on them since they were all facing the Wasteland? Especially if he needed to get behind them before killing them?” I ask.
“I walked right up to Donny before he saw me,” Logan says.
“But all eight of them?”
“Maybe he didn’t have to sneak.” Logan is wearing his I’m-three-facts-short-of-figuring-out-the-entire-thing face. “Maybe he just walked right up to them.”
“And no one ran? No one screamed for help to alert the others?” I ask as Quinn moves toward us, his eyes on the pale pink sky.
Logan’s voice is flat. “They wouldn’t scream for help if they didn’t realize he was an enemy.”
“Someone we know?” Quinn asks, wiping the tips of his fingers on his pants. “No offense, but the list of potential professional killers born and raised in Baalboden begins and ends with the two of you. We’re dealing with an expert here.”
I don’t want to know what was on his fingers. I refuse to look at the faint dark stains marring his pant leg. Instead, I step to the side and stare at the huge white rock rising just behind the camp while I gulp in deep breaths of damp morning air.
“Still, we have to look at every possibility. Are we absolutely sure every survivor in our camp was a citizen of Baalboden before the fires?” Logan asks, and a chill sinks into me. “When we blew up the gate and escaped the burning city, it was chaos. People running into the Wasteland, convinced the Cursed One could find them anywhere. People still staggering out of the city long after we thought everyone inside must be dead. How hard would it have been for someone to pretend to be one of us?”
“But why would anyone want to?” I ask.
Logan makes a rough sound. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m just looking at all of the possibilities and seeing which one, no matter how unimaginable, lines up with the facts.”
“Quinn was already up. I met him while I was walking the southern section of camp. I’d already awakened Frankie and Thom so they could gather the second-shift guards and get into position.”
“Wait. You knew a killer was out there, and you decided to go find them by yourself?” I stare at him.
“Would you rather have me take the few guards we have around the camp and leave our people totally unprotected?”
I snap my mouth shut before I say yes. Yes, I’d rather have Logan protected and alive than everyone else in our camp. It’s selfish of me, I know that. But I’ve lost everyone else in my family. I can’t stand the thought of losing him, too.
Instead, I say, “Next time you want to lecture me about putting myself in danger without having an acceptable exit strategy, I want you to remember this.”
A muscle along his jaw flexes. “It’s not the same.”
Shaking my head, I glance at the sky. At the faint violet rim that is slowly spreading along the eastern horizon. “It’s almost dawn. These are first-shift guards. This happened several hours ago. Why didn’t you get me?”
“You needed sleep,” Quinn says.
I turn on him, and the fear that courses through me for Logan snaps out at Quinn instead.
“And what were you doing in the southern section of camp? That’s a long way from your shelter.”
“I was having trouble sleeping,” Quinn says, and the quiet hurt in his voice makes me feel small inside. He crouches beside Donny’s body, his dark eyes guarded. “I wander the Wasteland when I can’t sleep. It helps to clear my head. You can check with Willow if you don’t believe me.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?” I ask, though I already know his answer. Didn’t I just question him like I thought he might have something to hide?
“Because someone killed these boys, and everyone else was sleeping except for me and Logan.”
“Not everyone,” Logan says, and the cold fury in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
Placing his hand on Donny’s head, Quinn tilts the boy’s chin toward the sky and examines his neck in the flickering light of the torch.
I choke and look away.
“The killer used a short blade, easily hidden,” he says. “The deepest part of the cut is on the left side of the neck where he first stabbed his victim. The wound then decreases in depth as the knife slides across the throat.” He considers the other bodies for a moment. “Looks like the work of the same man on each boy.”
Sweat beads my upper lip and covers my palms. I want to throw up. I need to throw up. I tilt my head back and drag in a shaky breath, trying not to think of bloody knives sliding across tender throats.
Logan presses a hand to the small of my back.
“Most people are right-handed,” Logan says. “If a right-handed man attacked someone from the front, he’d swing his knife left to right for maximum speed and velocity. The wound would start on the right side of the victim’s neck.”
“So our killer might be left-handed.” Quinn rises.
“Or he killed them from behind to avoid blood spatter on his clothing.”
“He punctured the artery on the left and made a long clean slice to the artery on the right. That isn’t easy. He knew exactly where to strike and how much pressure to exert so he wouldn’t get caught up in the trachea, the ligaments, or the esophagus. He’s done this before,” Quinn says.
“Wouldn’t it be hard to sneak up on them since they were all facing the Wasteland? Especially if he needed to get behind them before killing them?” I ask.
“I walked right up to Donny before he saw me,” Logan says.
“But all eight of them?”
“Maybe he didn’t have to sneak.” Logan is wearing his I’m-three-facts-short-of-figuring-out-the-entire-thing face. “Maybe he just walked right up to them.”
“And no one ran? No one screamed for help to alert the others?” I ask as Quinn moves toward us, his eyes on the pale pink sky.
Logan’s voice is flat. “They wouldn’t scream for help if they didn’t realize he was an enemy.”
“Someone we know?” Quinn asks, wiping the tips of his fingers on his pants. “No offense, but the list of potential professional killers born and raised in Baalboden begins and ends with the two of you. We’re dealing with an expert here.”
I don’t want to know what was on his fingers. I refuse to look at the faint dark stains marring his pant leg. Instead, I step to the side and stare at the huge white rock rising just behind the camp while I gulp in deep breaths of damp morning air.
“Still, we have to look at every possibility. Are we absolutely sure every survivor in our camp was a citizen of Baalboden before the fires?” Logan asks, and a chill sinks into me. “When we blew up the gate and escaped the burning city, it was chaos. People running into the Wasteland, convinced the Cursed One could find them anywhere. People still staggering out of the city long after we thought everyone inside must be dead. How hard would it have been for someone to pretend to be one of us?”
“But why would anyone want to?” I ask.
Logan makes a rough sound. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m just looking at all of the possibilities and seeing which one, no matter how unimaginable, lines up with the facts.”
