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  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue: The She-Pup

  Part I - June 20–21

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part II - June 22–July 3

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part III - July 6–July 23

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part IV: July 24–July 27

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part V - July 28

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part VI - August 18–21

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue: October 5

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  THE SHE-PUP

  Before the sickness, the pack had always hunted at night. The darkness gave it power. At night, the pack could be one—a stealthy, many-headed beast: dozens of eyes, hundreds of sharp teeth bared for an attack. The creatures who hid or burrowed underground during the day would emerge in the shadows, and the damp air would ripen with their mingled scents: beaver, chipmunk, deer—all nearby, all feasts for the taking.

  Tonight, as always, the forest was full of possibilities. But tonight the pack was too weak to hunt. The sickness had all but destroyed it.

  The she-pup stood beside Mother at the mouth of the cave, whining softly. The emptiness in her belly was a sharp, gnawing pain. Mother had been still for days. She had to start stalking prey again—not only for her own survival, but for the rest of the pack … and mostly for the she-pup and her brother, White Paws. Both were only six months old. Too young to fend for themselves.

  At last, Mother growled. She shook herself and stretched. The wait was over. The she-pup's belly rumbled in anticipation. She sat, every sense focused on Mother's movement. Foam dripped from Mother's mouth. Her legs buckled. There was a foul odor coming off her, but the she-pup ignored it. She wagged her tail and rubbed against her mother's body, welcoming her back to the world of the living.

  Mother turned to her. Their eyes locked. The puppy's tail fell still.

  Mother's eyes were not her own. They were clouded, dull, seeing but not knowing. A thousand generations of canine instinct flowed through the puppy's veins, and they all boiled down to a single command: Run.

  She darted out of the cave.

  Mother lunged at her. Her jaws closed within inches of the shepup's tail. The she-pup sprinted through the forest as fast as her starved body would carry her. Mother followed close on her heels, barking. The sound was savage, ferocious. Mud flew; twigs snapped; the puppy lost her footing several times. But Mother lost her footing as well. She staggered more than she ran.

  Eventually, the she-pup grew too weak to continue. She whirled to face Mother, her heart pounding. Mother closed in on her with great wheezing gasps.

  And then she collapsed.

  The puppy hesitated. She took a few tentative steps forward, sniffing. There was a new scent in the air now….

  Like fear, it had been burned into her memory since before she was born. But she'd also encountered it firsthand—whenever she'd hunted at Mother's side for a night's meal.

  It was the scent of death.

  Incident Report

  Redmont County Sheriff's Office

  June 15

  Officers Vasquez and Roper, responding to a domestic disturbance call, went to 719 Nakootick Way. At the scene, homeowner Michelle Thompson reported that her Labrador retriever, Jellybean, had attempted to maul her eleven-year-old son. “He just went crazy. I've never seen anything like it,” Mrs. Thompson stated. The boy was unharmed, but when the dog continued its violent and aggressive behavior, Mrs. Thompson and her son vacated the premises.

  Officers determined that the dog was still inside the house, and loud barking and thudding noises indicated it was still agitated. Officer Roper, formerly of the Portland canine unit, entered the house in an attempt to soothe the animal, at which point the animal began to pursue Officer Roper. In the course of evading attack, Officer Roper jumped through a picture window. When the dog came through the window in pursuit, Officer Vasquez was forced to shoot. A veterinarian was summoned and the dog was pronounced dead at the scene at 6:18 P.M.

  PART I

  JUNE 20–21

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  “You know what the Wallaces' dog can do?” Robert asked. He slapped the steering wheel. “He can fetch his own leash when he wants to go for a walk. Can you believe that? Otis fetches his own leash!”

  Robert had an annoying habit of slapping the steering wheel while he was talking and driving at the same time. Logan hated that.

  Logan Moore hated a lot of things.

  Mom said that hate was a strong word and that Logan shouldn't use it. Logan didn't agree. If hate was a strong word, then that was fine by him. If there had been a stronger word, he'd probably have used that one. In fact, hating was such a big part of his life that he kept a running list of all the things he hated.

  The list changed from day to day. It could change from hour to hour, even. Sometimes it was bigger, sometimes smaller; sometimes it was just one word—Robert—so Logan never wrote the list down. He kept it in his head, where he kept everything else that mattered.

  Right now the list read as follows:

  THINGS I HATE

  Being in the car with Mom and Robert

  Listening to Robert jabber on and on and never shut up about the Wallaces' dog

  The Wallaces

  Their dog

  The name Otis

  Devon Wallace

  Being angry

  The list always ended the same way, because even on a beautiful June afternoon—with summer vacation just starting and the sun blazing and the wind whipping through the open car window— Logan could count on being angry for one reason or another. At the very least, he could always be angry that Mom had married Robert, whose pockmarked face looked like the surface of an asteroid and whose mission in life was to be the All-Knowing Dictator of Everything. Logan could also be angry that his father had run off when Logan was seven and was now living the high life somewhere in the boondocks in a mansion he'd built by himself that probably
had a hot tub and a trampoline—but Logan wouldn't know because his father had never invited him to the place and never would. (Not that Logan even wanted to go.) And of course he could be angry about being angry all the time, since it was a lousy way to feel.

  But Logan had gotten used to all that sort of stuff. He'd had to get used to it, or else he'd go crazy. And then, who knew what could happen? He might turn violent. He might turn to crime. Then he would end up being one of those kids you see on talk shows: the kids whose heinous behavior proves to the studio audience that teenagers are, indeed, very evil—and isn't it high time we did something about it?

  Today Logan was just angry because Robert had burst into his room without knocking. Again. Then he'd torn the place apart, searching for the TV remote control. Again. He couldn't find it, of course, because Logan didn't have it. But that didn't stop him from throwing all Logan's stuff all over the place … his clothes, his books, everything— even the lousy baseball mitt that he never used because it was so stiff that it felt like concrete, and besides, there was nobody to play catch with, anyway.

  Then Robert told him to clean up the mess.

  And on top of all that, Mom and Robert were dragging him to the Wallaces' Summer Kickoff Barbecue for the eighty billionth time. Logan would rather have his eyes poked out with a sharp stick. He'd rather be hurled into a pit full of poisonous snakes. He'd rather do anything than be stuck in the same place as both Robert and Devon Wallace.

  But there was no point in dwelling on what he'd rather be doing.

  Every year, the Wallaces hosted the same Summer Kickoff Barbecue. Everybody in Pinewood was invited. That was the Pinewood spirit. Pinewood was the lame housing tract in the lame town where they all lived—that being Newburg, Oregon, otherwise known as Lameville, USA. And every year, the star attraction of the barbecue was Devon Wallace, the King of Lameness himself.

  Devon was fourteen, just like Logan. They'd been in the same class since they were five. They were both going to start ninth grade at the same high school in the fall. Given Logan's luck, they would probably go to the same college, work at the same office, and end up buried in the same cemetery, too.

  For the longest time, Mom and Robert had been putting up a fight to make Logan become better friends with Devon. It didn't take a genius to see why. From an adult point of view, Devon was perfect. He was a perfectly adequate student. He had perfect blond hair and perfect teeth. He was one of those kids who looked as if he belonged in a toothpaste commercial. He played about a zillion different sports, too, including soccer and water polo—yes, water polo—all perfectly.

  Logan, on the other hand, had messy brown hair and a crooked smile (which most people never saw). People said he looked like his mother. Why, he wasn't sure. Mom was a middle-aged woman. How could he possibly look like her? He and Mom were both skinny, though, and they had blue eyes, which was probably what people were talking about.

  As far as school went, he hated it and skipped whenever he could. And when it came to sports, he was decent at minigolf, but not much else. He liked to go hiking. But you couldn't beat anybody at hiking.

  In other words, he didn't rate so high on the perfection scale.

  So it was natural that his mother and stepfather would want him to hang out with Devon Wallace. They were hoping that some of Devon's perfection would rub off on him. Unfortunately, Mom and Robert missed what every single other adult also seemed to miss about Devon—namely, that he was an ass.

  He was the worst kind of ass, too: a mean one. When adults weren't around, Devon spent all his time bragging or picking on other kids—especially if they were younger. He treated Logan as if he were an idiot because Logan didn't get good grades. As if grades had anything to do with how smart you really were.

  It figured, though. The lamest people always made it their business to get good grades. Then they made it their business to find out what kind of grades everybody else got and make fun of them if they did badly.

  “… and I'm sure Devon has a great time with Otis,” Robert was saying. “Labradors are the best dogs on earth.”

  Logan couldn't believe it. Robert was still yammering on about the Wallaces' dog. He hadn't stopped since they'd pulled out of the driveway. He'd barely even taken a breath.

  “Not all Labradors,” Mom said.

  Robert scowled at her. “What do you mean?” “It's just … remember what I told you about Michelle Thompson? You know, my friend from Redmont?”

  “No,” Robert said. “What about her?”

  Mom sighed. “Last week, her son was playing with their new Lab. And the dog attacked him. The poor kid needed twelve stitches. Apparently she even had to hire somebody to come … well, to come take care of the dog.”

  Robert snorted. “The kid probably provoked it. I had a Lab growing up. They're the best dogs on earth,” he repeated, as if saying it twice somehow made it more true.

  Mom sighed again, then shrugged. “You're probably right.”

  “Of course I'm right,” Robert said. “Anyway, playing with a dog is a lot less dangerous than sitting alone in your room all day, playing with broken household appliances.” His dark eyes met Logan's in the rearview mirror. “Speaking of which, what's in that bag?”

  Logan blinked. “Huh?”

  Robert glared at him. “Hello? Earth to Logan? Anybody home? I want to know what's in your backpack.”

  “Nothing,” Logan said.

  “It can't be nothing. I can see that something's in it.”

  “Robert,” Mom said. “Please. Keep your eyes on the road.”

  “I just want to know what kind of trouble your son's got in that bag,” Robert said.

  “Nothing,” Logan repeated. He wasn't lying. Not technically. There was a very good chance that the device in the bag beside him—his latest invention, the Logan Moore Master Remote Control, or LMMRC—wouldn't work. If something didn't work, it didn't count. Therefore, it meant nothing. It was nothing.

  Robert's eyes kept flashing to the mirror. “It's trouble, isn't it?”

  “Actually, it's supposed to stop trouble,” Logan said. The LMMRC was big enough that even Robert would have a hard time losing it.

  “Don't be smart,” Robert snapped.

  As the All-Knowing Dictator of Everything, Robert loved dishing out important-sounding commands—most of which began with the word don't. His favorite: “Don't turn this into a production, Logan.”

  “It's a master remote control,” Logan explained reluctantly. “I made it from that old model airplane control panel.”

  “Whoa, whoa, wait a second here,” Robert said, grimacing. “You mean the model airplane control panel we got you for Christmas? Logan, did you break that?”

  “Um, well …,” Logan said. “I, uh, changed it a little.”

  Robert laughed. He turned to Logan's mom. “You hear that? He changed it a little. Translation: There's another seventy bucks down the toilet. Remind me about this when December rolls around.”

  “Robert,” Mom said tersely. “Please. Watch the road.”

  “It was mine,” Logan muttered. “Why can't I do what I want with my own stuff ?” He'd never asked for the model airplane, anyway. Robert had bought it because he wanted it. Because he'd had one when he was growing up.

  “You know what your problem is, Logan?” Robert said. “You're ungrateful. You don't appreciate anything I try to do for you—”

  “Please,” Mom begged. “Both of you! Let's not get into it now. We're almost to the barbecue.”

  “I'm telling you, Marianne,” Robert said, as if Logan weren't there. “The kid needs to shape up. He's heading for trouble. I still say we should have sent him to that camp, like Powell said. They'd have taught him some discipline. Some respect.”

  “Maybe next year,” Logan's mother murmured. “When he's older.”

  Logan could feel the muscles in his neck tightening. He turned his head and stared out the window. “That camp” was the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys. It had been fo
unded by an ex-marine and was supposed to whip kids into shape by treating them like soldiers in a boot camp. Or prisoners. Logan had looked it up online. The picture showed a bunch of barrackslike huts surrounded by a tall cyclone fence with razor wire at the top. That was where Robert wanted to send him.

  Nice, he thought.

  Robert turned onto the Wallaces' block and pulled up to the curb. The barbecue was already in full swing. The street was jammed with cars. Logan could hear the faint strains of music from behind the Wallaces' big, perfect, beautiful house—the kind of cheesy light rock music that only adults who lived in big, perfect, beautiful houses seemed to listen to. There were bright balloons hanging from the tree on the Wallaces' wide front lawn and a hand-painted sign:

  COME AROUND BACK! NO PARTY POOPERS ALLOWED!

  “You know what?” Logan said. “Maybe I should just wait in the car. I don't think I'm allowed inside.”

  “What in God's name are you talking about?” Robert demanded.

  But Logan didn't feel like explaining. Because if he did, Robert would get angry. He'd probably have a heart attack. And that would be great at first, because Robert would clutch at his chest and choke out, “Help me! Help me!” … but then he would grab Logan's neck in a final horror-movie moment and strangle him, and they would stare at each other, eyes bulging, until they both died—because the most fiendish horror-movie villains always manage to get in one last terrible crime before they get killed.

  Which wouldn't be so great.

  So Logan just shrugged.

  Robert turned off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition. He leaned over the seat and looked Logan in the eye.

  “Don't turn this into a production, Logan,” he said.

  Statement given by Rudy Stagg to