Owen and I crouch in the racks of kayaks, our eyes on the trees.
“Maybe she couldn’t get in,” says Owen.
Maybe. If Mercy couldn’t get into the shed to get the flares, I’m out of ideas. This is the best plan we’ve got. It needs to work. For Mike’s sake, it needs to.
“I don’t like this,” Owen goes on. “Even if we do pull this off, we’re heading out on the Starling at night, Nate. We won’t be able to see anything.”
“We just have to get downriver,” I tell him. “Just far enough that we’re hidden in the dark and out of sight, and then we’ll make camp for the night.”
He shakes his head. “I still don’t like it.”
Of course not. But what other choice is there?
I glance back to where Bob’s goons are sitting with Mr. Evans. Ed and Dale have been smoking and laughing, sitting on the hood of the truck, ignoring Mr. Evans completely. Mr. Evans hasn’t looked up from his knees. I stare at him, trying to understand how he could have fooled me—fooled all of us—into thinking he was our friend for so long. Then again, maybe he didn’t think he was fooling us. Maybe he really did care. I don’t know how much money a camp director makes. Maybe it isn’t much. Maybe the amount of money Bob Higgins was offering was just too much for him to turn down. Maybe he really needed it. Maybe he was desperate.
I growl, shaking my head. It doesn’t matter what Mr. Evans may have needed. What matters is he lied. What matters is he put us all at risk. What matters is Mike is missing. And for what? A few extra bucks in his pocket?
Why do I love it? Mr. Evans’s voice is inside my head. Our first riverside picnic in our first week at Camp Clearwater. Because nothing gets your heart pumping the way the river does. There’s no greater joy than remembering how small I am in the grand scheme of things. No greater reminder than the feel of that white water tossing around my little boat. And knowing that I can get through it.
I wonder when he forgot all that. Or if he ever even meant it.
Suddenly I see Ed slide off the hood of the truck. He’s pointing toward the tree line.
“What the hell?” shouts Dale.
Owen and I look to the trees, and there it is, the bright-orange glow of a flare. Not just one flare. Mercy must have lit a whole box. The blaze is blinding. Ed and Dale are shouting at each other. Mr. Evans gets to his feet.
“C’mon, Dale!” shouts Ed, and they take off toward the trees.
“You stay away from those kids!” bellows Mr. Evans, taking off after them.
“Now,” I tell Owen.
The two of us sprint for the cabin, bursting in the door and frantically grabbing all our gear—neoprene skirts, PFDs, carabiners, helmets, throw bag, granola bars, Mercy’s crackers.
“Got everything?”
“I don’t know!” snaps Owen. “We usually have days to plan this kind of thing, Nate! I don’t know what I have here—this is insanity.”
He’s right. If this were a camp excursion, we’d have checklists and counselors like Raina or Mike checking everything we packed, ensuring we were well prepared. This is reckless.
“It’ll have to do,” I tell him. “Mercy’s waiting by the water. We have to go.”
Owen scoops up what he can in his arms and heads for the door. I move to follow and realize I’ve forgotten Mike’s river knife. It’s sitting on the desk, black and sleek. I snatch it and run.
Owen and I jog toward the water, where Mercy is waiting with three kayaks ready to go.
“Do you have everything?” she whispers.
“We hope so,” I say, handing her a helmet.
“That’s reassuring.”
“Where are they?” asks Owen.
She points toward the trees. There’s a small grassfire burning now. “They didn’t see me. They’re trying to control the flames, kicking dirt and stuff. We’d better hurry though. It looks like they’re close to snuffing it out.”
As quick as we can, we strap on our gear.
Mercy grabs Owen by the arm. “Did you bring my water shoes?”
“I couldn’t find them.”
“I can’t go without my water shoes.”
“There they are!” Behind us, Ed and Dale emerge from the trees by the flagpole, Mr. Evans behind them.
“Nate!” I hear him shout. “Nate, stop!”
But there’s no way to stop now.
“Forget the shoes, Mercy!” I scream, dumping the rest of the gear into the boat and shoving off into the river.
“Nate!” Mr. Evans yells as the three men run toward us. “Mercy! Owen! It’s too dangerous!”
I’m in the water. Floating on the Starling. Free of dry land. If we can get just a little downriver, we’ll be hidden in the dark. I dip my paddle into the water, ready to disappear—
Mercy screams behind me.
Ed and Dale have charged into the water, grabbing onto the back of Mercy’s kayak.
“Mercy!” shouts Owen.
I circle back, digging my paddle into the water as hard and as fast as I can. When I’m close enough, I take a swing at Ed, the staff of my paddle connecting with his nose, and he falls back with a groan.
Mercy brings her paddle up, driving it into Dale’s chin. His head cranks back, and his massive body falls with a splash.
“Go, Mercy!” I shout, taking off down the river. “Quick!”
“Kids!” Mr. Evans stands knee-deep in the Starling. “Come back! It’s not safe!”
But there is no going back. Not after what Mr. Evans has done.
The only way is forward, to where the Starling takes us.
And, hopefully, it takes us to Mike.