Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Seventeen

We scattered. Hatch began hoisting Blackstone's corpse over his shoulder but stopped when Josiah said to leave it. I joined the avalanche of stomping feet out of the study, past Blackstone's soccer-ball-chasing daughters, my sandals collecting more and sharper shards of glass. Noise crisscrossed in my brain—siren bloops, yelled instructions, shrieks. I kept my head down and legs moving.

Outside felt twenty degrees colder than before. People ran all directions, trampling vines, tripping over garden hose.

Where was the Prius? Left or right?

Beyond the Blackstone's private tennis courts rose a majestic willow tree. I passed through its branches with other Mice, curtains of leaves whipping our faces, and came out the other side still more disoriented.

Was I in the back or front yard?

Rumors swirled around me, that somebody had fallen off a balcony (what balcony?) and broken his leg, that Blackstone's wife was chasing us, that cops were out front. A bike whizzed by, the rider's breath and pumping pedals quick in my ears.

It was obvious the Blind Mice had no clue what they were doing. They were hackers. Computer jocks. I got the sense Josiah had decided to kill Blackstone all by himself—possibly on the spot—without formulated an escape plan. We were all going to end up in jail.

I ran. The glass worked itself out of my sandals, and dimly I perceived that I was approaching a property line—the grass changed up ahead, mowed at a different angle.

The guy with great hair was running beside me, nose up like dog's.

"Which rendezvous point, did you hear?" he asked me.

I blinked. Maybe there was plan. "No. I—tonight's my first night."

"Oh. Cool." He grimaced at the stupidity of this word in this moment. "I'm Garrison."

"Molly."

We had paused in the middle of a neighbor's yard. I did a half-wave, from my waist outward. He ducked his head awkwardly. Six-foot, mellow eyes. His backpack straps had broken; he carried it in one fist like a brown paper bag. Guessing, I'd say he was an even decade younger.

"I can't believe that happened," he said. "This is so borked."

I had started to nod agreement, but stopped short at the term.

"Sorry, I code. You probably blog, huh?"

"Right." I scanned nearby streets for the Prius, deciding smalltalk could wait. "You said something about rendezvous points?"

"Yeah. It was supposed to a gas station or this IHOP, but that—I mean, that was before we murdered somebody."

My stomach plunged at his use of we. "Do you have a car?"

"Not here. I caught a ride with ..." He fluttered his fingers toward the mansion. "Whatever. No. No car."

I described where I had parked, and together we figured out which direction to move. A piked privacy fence ruled out behind us, but both left and right were clear. Garrison was 50/50 on whether we needed to circle back around the Blackstone property.

"If it's a tossup," I said, "let's get as far away as possible."

He gathered his hair behind his head, holding it like a mane. "For sure."

I grabbed his hand and we sprinted for the road. Halfway, we heard a car engine start. Then another. Tires whinnied. Headlights swept over the wide chimneys of the Tudor whose yard we were crossing, throwing zigzag shafts all about.