My conversation with President Snow in the study comes back to me.
“My advisors were concerned you would be difficult, but you're not planning on being difficult at all, are you?”
“No.”
“That's what I told them. I said any girl who goes to such lengths to preserve her life isn't going to be interested in throwing it away with both hands.”
I think of how hard Hazelle has worked to keep that family alive. Surely she'll be on my side in this matter. Or won't she?
It must be getting on toward noon now and the days are so short. No point in being in the woods after dark if you don't have to. I stamp out the remains of my little fire, clear up the scraps of food, and tuck Cinna's gloves in my belt. I guess I'll hang on to them for a while. In case Gale has a change of heart. I think of the look on his face when he flung them to the ground. How repelled he was by them, by me…
I trudge through the woods and reach my old house while there's still light. My conversation with Gale was an obvious setback, but I'm still determined to carry on with my plan to escape District 12. I decide to find Peeta next. In a strange way, since he's seen some of what I've seen on the tour, he may be an easier sell than Gale was. I run into him as he's leaving the Victor's Village.
“Been hunting?” he asks. You can see he doesn't think it's a good idea.
“Not really. Going to town?” I ask.
“Yes. I'm supposed to eat dinner with my family,” he says.
“Well, I can at least walk you in.” The road from the Victor's Village to the square gets little use. It's a safe enough place to talk. But I can't seem to get the words out. Proposing it to Gale was such a disaster. I gnaw on my chapped lips. The square gets closer with every step. I may not have an opportunity again soon. I take a deep breath and let the words rush out. “Peeta, if I asked you to run away from the district with me, would you?”
Peeta takes my arm, bringing me to a stop. He doesn't need to check my face to see if I'm serious. “Depends on why you're asking.”
“President Snow wasn't convinced by me. There's an uprising in District Eight. We have to get out,” I say.
“By 'we' do you mean just you and me? No. Who else would be going?” he asks.
“My family. Yours, if they want to come. Haymitch, maybe,” I say.
“What about Gale?” he says.
“I don't know. He might have other plans,” I say.
Peeta shakes his head and gives me a rueful smile. “I bet he does. Sure, Katniss, I'll go.”
I feel a slight twinge of hope. “You will?”
“Yeah. But I don't think for a minute you will,” he says.
I jerk my arm away. “Then you don't know me. Be ready. It could be any time.” I take off walking and he follows a pace or two behind.
“Katniss,” Peeta says. I don't slow down. If he thinks it's a bad idea, I don't want to know, because it's the only one I have. “Katniss, hold up.” I kick a dirty, frozen chunk of snow off the path and let him catch up. The coal dust makes everything look especially ugly. “I really will go, if you want me to. I just think we better talk it through with Haymitch. Make sure we won't be making things worse for everyone.” He raises his head. “What's that?”
I lift my chin. I've been so consumed with my own worries, I haven't noticed the strange noise coming from the square. A whistling, the sound of an impact, the intake of breath from a crowd.
“Come on,” Peeta says, his face suddenly hard. I don't know why. I can't place the sound, even guess at the situation. But it means something bad to him.
When we reach the square, it's clear something's happening, but the crowd's too thick to see. Peeta steps up on a crate against the wall of the sweetshop and offers me a hand while he scans the square. I'm halfway up when he suddenly blocks my way. “Get down. Get out of here!” He's whispering, but his voice is harsh with insistence.
“What?” I say, trying to force my way back up.
“Go home, Katniss! I'll be there in a minute, I swear!” he says.
Whatever it is, it's terrible. I yank away from his hand and begin to push my way through the crowd. People see me, recognize my face, and then look panicked. Hands shove me back. Voices hiss.
“Get out of here, girl.”
“Only make it worse.”
“What do you want to do? Get him killed?”
But at this point, my heart is beating so fast and fierce I hardly hear them. I only know that whatever waits in the middle of the square is meant for me. When I finally break through to the cleared space, I see I am right. And Peeta was right. And those voices were right, too.
Gale's wrists are bound to a wooden post. The wild turkey he shot earlier hangs above him, the nail driven through its neck. His jacket's been cast aside on the ground, his shirt torn away. He slumps unconscious on his knees, held up only by the ropes at his wrists. What used to be his back is a raw, bloody slab of meat.
Standing behind him is a man I've never seen, but I recognize his uniform. It's the one designated for our Head Peacekeeper. This isn't old Cray, though. This is a tall, muscular man with sharp creases in his pants.
The pieces of the picture do not quite come together until I see his arm raise the whip.
8
“No!” I cry, and spring forward. It's too late to stop the arm from descending, and I instinctively know I won't have the power to block it. Instead I throw myself directly between the whip and Gale. I've flung out my arms to protect as much of his broken body as possible, so there's nothing to deflect the lash. I take the full force of it across the left side of my face.
The pain is blinding and instantaneous. Jagged flashes of light cross my vision and I fall to my knees. One hand cups my cheek while the other keeps me from tipping over. I can already feel the welt rising up, the swelling closing my eye. The stones beneath me are wet with Gale's blood, the air heavy with its scent. “Stop it! You'll kill him!” I shriek.
I get a glimpse of my assailant's face. Hard, with deep lines, a cruel mouth. Gray hair shaved almost to nonexistence, eyes so black they seem all pupils, a long, straight nose reddened by the freezing air. The powerful arm lifts again, his sights set on me. My hand flies to my shoulder, hungry for an arrow, but, of course, my weapons are stashed in the woods. I grit my teeth in anticipation of the next lash.
“Hold it!” a voice barks. Haymitch appears and trips over a Peacekeeper lying on the ground. It's Darius. A huge purple lump pushes through the red hair on his forehead. He's knocked out but still breathing. What happened? Did he try to come to Gale's aid before I got here?
Haymitch ignores him and pulls me to my feet roughly. “Oh, excellent.” His hand locks under my chin, lifting it. “She's got a photo shoot next week modeling wedding dresses. What am I supposed to tell her stylist?”
I see a flicker of recognition in the eyes of the man with the whip. Bundled against the cold, my face free of makeup, my braid tucked carelessly under my coat, it wouldn't be easy to identify me as the victor of the last Hunger Games. Especially with half my face swelling up. But Haymitch has been showing up on television for years, and he'd be difficult to forget.
The man rests the whip on his hip. “She interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal.”
Everything about this man, his commanding voice, his odd accent, warns of an unknown and dangerous threat. Where has he come from? District 11? 3? From the Capitol itself?
“I don't care if she blew up the blasted Justice Building! Look at her cheek! Think that will be camera ready in a week?” Haymitch snarls.