He huffed. “I am being quiet.”
Another crunch. And another.
“Try harder,” she said between her teeth. Fletcher ducked beneath a branch as they rounded the corner of the building, nearly out of Rick’s line of sight.
This time, a rustle.
She skidded to a stop, spinning on her heels. “Waylon, I swear to—”
Fletcher’s whole body tensed.
Behind Waylon stood a chimpanzee. Inky black eyes, coarse hair, human enough that, given a briefcase and an ego problem, it couldhave been Dyer’s four o’clock meeting. It mimicked their every move. When they stepped, it stepped. When they crouched, it crouched.
And Waylon hadn’t seen it yet.
Without thinking, Fletcher slapped her hand over Waylon’s mouth because frankly after the bush baby debacle, she didn’t trust him not to scream. His eyes flew open wide, and as delicately as she could, she said, “Donotlook at its thumbs.”
His mouth moved beneath her hand. When she peeled back her fingers, he said, “Whose thumbs?”
“Um, his.” Fletcher pointed.
With only a peek over his shoulder, Waylon jolted, hands coming up next to his face, ready to go three rounds in the ring. Miraculously, he kept his voice to a hoarse hush. “God, no. No! Why is it here?”
“It’s trying to—”
The chimp craned its neck back toward the front of the estate, where the tip of Rick’s spear edged out. It started to hoot, trying to communicate with them, but all Fletcher could see in her mind’s eye was a very near future where Rick paid homage to Dyer’s creepy decor and had them all stuffed and turned into a real-life depiction of the evolution of man.
Fletcher planted her hands on the chimp’s shoulders and dragged it down into a crouch. Rick’s shadow faded back behind the building, still pacing, unaware of their presence.Phew.
With a shush from her, the chimp smiled, toothy, before making a big show of closing its mouth tight. Then, checking over its hairy shoulder for Rick, it took off toward the back of the house.
“I think it’s trying to help,” Fletcher finished.
Waylon muttered, “I think it’s trying to lure us into a trap where it can ax-murder us.”
When they didn’t immediately follow, the chimp hesitated, mouth forming a confused O. Fletcher reached for Waylon’s hand, hauling him forward. “Come on. If it gets any dicey ideas about ax-murdering, I’ll volunteer to go first so you can say ‘I told you so.’ ”
Fletcher didn’t mention that she was markedly less concerned about ape-related murder schemes compared to human-related ones. Especially as they lurked past windows revealing Opal and Sheila running rampant through the staff building.
Besides, when a knobby branch swung back, nearly slapping Fletcher in the face, the chimp stopped it. (Thank you, opposable thumbs.)
Even Waylon, who kept an impossibly wide distance, owed the chimp his life when it plucked a centipede the size of a hoagie off his back and flung it into the forest. Fletcher had been so terrified by the insect’s Entirely Too Many Legs to do anything besides breathe heavily and mentally plan a lovely funeral service for Waylon.
By the time they made it around the back edge of the property, the chimp had solidified itself as part of the crew.
And then Fletcher’s worst nightmare came true.
Bananas.
A whole crate of them. It teetered next to the edge of the building, near a door that must have led to the kitchen. And it wasn’t alone—there were mangoes and kiwis and dragon fruit, pineapple by the bushel, citrus as far as the eye could see.
The chimpanzee howled. All sense of preservation soared out the window. It broke free from the jungle and loped toward the treasure trove of fruit.
Fletcher waited, muscles seized, for someone to apprehend the chimp. She could practically taste the gunpowder in the air already.
One second passed. Then another. No one came. No Sheila shriek, no shotgun blast.
Because no one questions a chimpanzee in a jungle.
