Exposure

by Kathy Reichs

  “I didn’t expect to be here again,” he replied airily. “But apparently my employer needs a transcript for my file.”

  An eyebrow rose. “Your employer?”

  “Candela Pharmaceuticals. I’ve been named to the board.” Chance casually plucked a fallen leaf from his sleeve. “Not all that surprising, since I do own most of the company.”

  I stiffened. Candela triggered bad memories.

  “They put you in charge?” Hi snorted. “Remind me to sell my stock.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hiram.”

  “How can an eighteen-year-old run a major corporation?” Shelton said. “You were still in high school, like, five minutes ago.”

  “It’s not a one-man show,” Chance said dryly. “I’ve been tasked with running a small division focusing on special projects. The rest of Candela’s leadership stays the same.”

  “Special projects,” I repeated. Felt a chill.

  “Research and development, mainly.” Chance stepped onto the tree-lined sidewalk. “I’ll get to play around a little. Crack a few eggs, so to speak.”

  My voice raised an octave. “What does that mean?”

  Chance’s face was unreadable. “It means, I’ll be able to work on whatever I want. Get some answers I’ve been seeking.”

  “How dramatic.” Hi tapped his head. “You wanna make a difference? Create a deodorant that doesn’t suck. The brand I use leaves pit stains on all my undershirts.”

  “I’ll pass.” Chance’s hair dancing rakishly in the light ocean breeze. “My interests are a touch more exotic.”

  His eyes found mine. I looked away.

  Chance’s past accusations flashed through my mind.

  “I have to go,” he said abruptly. “Maybe I’ll see you soon.”

  He walked past without another word.

  I watched his form recede down the block. Chance never glanced back.

  “That guy ain’t right,” Shelton whispered. “But at least he’s out of our hair now.”

  “Yeah.”

  But I had a sinking feeling.

  Special projects.

  Cracking eggs.

  Answers.

  For some reason, I felt like Chance had threatened me.

  Chance dropped the battered file on his desk.

  He’d studied its contents a hundred times. The hundred-and-first reading had revealed nothing new.

  Bong. Bong.

  A grandfather clock chimed 2:00 p.m. Chance could barely make out the stately timepiece, tucked as it was in the far corner of his father’s private study.

  My study, rather.

  He still hadn’t gotten use to that.

  Long shadows crisscrossed the wood-paneled walls and expensive Persian rugs. He meant to install more lights, but never got around to it.

  Chance spun his chair to face giant floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate’s inner yard. Below, a landscaper was carefully sculpting a wall of the hedge maze. Chance didn’t know the man’s name. Claybourne Manor had dozens of gardeners.

  Once more, Tory Brennan crashed his thoughts.

  Maddening.

  He was no closer now than on the day he’d first discovered the information.

  No closer, but out of ideas.

  And time, perhaps.

  Frustrated, Chance swiveled back to his desk. Lifted the folder once more. Eyed the red block lettering stamped on its face:

  CANDELA PHARMACEUTICALS

  DR. MARCUS KARSTEN—RESEARCH NOTES

  TOP SECRET. PROPRIETARY R&D

  He’d found five more folders identical to this one. A hidden cache, locked away in his father’s private cabinet. Another secret among the many Hollis Claybourne had kept.

  His father never mentioned this project. Not once.

  Chance grinned sourly.

  The Old Man hadn’t shared much before getting hauled off to prison.

  Chance opened a desk drawer. Placed the file inside with the others.

  He was obsessed. And knew it. But recognition made no difference. He could more easily hold back the tides than abandon this endeavor.

  Tory Brennan.

  So many emotions, derived from a single name.

  The girl was nothing. A transplant science geek from the barrier-island sticks. Still a sophomore in high school. She didn’t come from wealth, or have an influential family name. It was borderline miraculous that he was aware of her existence at all.

  But he was. In fact, he noticed everything about her.

  Chance leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Inevitably, his mind began picking at the memories he’d been counseled not to trust.

  Tory and her Morris Island friends, in the darkness of his basement. Moving way too fast, eyes glowing unnaturally bright.

  Those same four, darting like arrows across a pitch-black beach. Same unnatural speed. Same blazing irises.

  He’d thought himself crazy. His doctors had agreed. Together they’d painstakingly constructed a new reality—a rational one—where Chance hadn’t seen those things at all.

  Then it happened again.

  The debutante ball.

  He hadn’t witnessed the last event firsthand—Tory had seen to that—but those outcasts had accomplished the unthinkable. A feat of strength beyond anything remotely reasonable.

  It. Was. Not. Possible.

  Third time’s a charm.

  His tortured laugh echoed in the cavernous chamber.

  Chance’s gaze dropped to the drawer. He tapped the handle with an index finger.

  These folders hold the key.

  He didn’t know how. Didn’t understand why. But Chance was certain.

  Karsten’s records would solve the riddle of Tory Brennan and her sidekicks. The answers he sought lurked somewhere inside those reports.

  Chance yanked the drawer open again. Slapped a new file onto his desk.

  He paused a moment, shaking his head at the part of the story he knew.

  A hidden lab. Secret tests. Corporate espionage. Payoffs and payouts.

  His father had ordered an illegal medical experiment, off the books, bankrolled by an untraceable shell corporation using Candela funds. The harebrained scheme violated dozens of laws and regulations. It was both a criminal and fireable offense.

  The arrogance of it boggled Chance’s mind.

  Thankfully, his father had been careful. Chance had checked for records thoroughly, spending hours sifting through boxes at Candela’s file storage warehouse, and even more time combing the database. He was satisfied no other documents existed.

  No one would learn of Karsten’s work.

  No one but me.

  It’d taken Chance months just to comprehend what he was reading.

  At first, the connections were hidden. Even with a mole at LIRI feeding him intel, Chance had learned little of use. Dr. Mike Iglehart was a major disappointment. The secret link to Loggerhead Island hadn’t borne much fruit.

  But then he’d found it.

  Chance flipped to back of the file. Selected a computer printout.

  The bridge had been there all along. He just hadn’t seen it.

  Page sixty-four. Third paragraph. Second line. Twenty-five words.

  Subject A for Parvovirus XPB-19 is a wild canine hybrid captured on Loggerhead Island, the offspring of a female gray wolf and male German shepherd.

  In other words, a wolfdog.

  So simple. Yet he’d missed it repeatedly.

  “Cooper,” Chance whispered. Tory’s too-smart mongrel was the key.

  Though, admittedly, Chance still hadn’t put it together at that point.

  Karsten had used Coop as a parvovirus test subject. So what? The dog had clearly recovered and survived. Perhaps Tory had ado
pted him afterward. What difference did it make?

  But Chance had held tenaciously to his theory. And his diligence paid off.

  He’d simply needed to find the other pieces.

  Chance removed a third file from the drawer and placed it beside the other.

  Paging to the middle, he found the crucial line. He’d only apprehended its significance that morning.

  Bottom margin. Handwritten. So easily overlooked.

  The highest caution must be employed. Due to its radical structure, Parvovirus strain XPB-19 may be infectious to humans.

  There.

  There there there.

  A connection. One that might explain everything.

  What he’d seen. What he’d experienced with those Morris Island weirdoes.

  What, exactly, had Cooper carried?

  What happened after Tory took him home?

  Chance didn’t know. But he was going to find out.

  At that moment, a startling thought occurred to him. Something that, shockingly, he’d never considered before. The implications shot ice through his veins.

  Chance quickly dug out and opened his MacBook. Fingers flying, he accessed his secure database and scanned the research protocols for Brimstone, the first project he’d commissioned at Candela. His anxiety level rose.

  Dear God.

  He’d green-lit the secret venture immediately upon discovering Karsten’s files, content to improvise, learning as he went. Hoping hard science would give him answers, even without knowing the exact questions.

  But had he taken the proper precautions?

  Switching to an outside server, Chance reviewed several encrypted files with an entirely new set of concerns. What he discovered sent his heart hammering.

  Chance’s hands found his forehead.

  Was it dangerous?

  I don’t know.

  Popping from his seat, Chance strode for the door. He hurried down two flights of stairs and into the grand entrance hall.

  At the massive front doors, he paused.

  Squeezed his eyes shut.

  Drawing a deep breath, Chance straightened his tie and smoothed his hair.

  Then he stepped outside and called for his driver, desperately hoping he hadn’t made a colossal mistake.

  “All hail MegaDock!”

  Hi led us across the marina parking lot, heading for the southernmost section known as Pier Group Z. There we’d meet Hugo for our trip home.

  The afternoon sun had ramped up the heat. I stopped a moment to shed my jacket. Shelton shuffled along beside Hi, loosening his navy-blue-striped Bolton tie.

  The Charleston City Marina is a behemoth, with over nineteen thousand feet of dock space covering forty acres of water. Located in a sheltered zone where the Ashley River flows into the harbor, the sprawling facility is packed with amenities, including restaurants, stores, bars, and a floating boathouse.

  And MegaDock, of course.

  At a whopping 1,530 feet, MegaDock is the longest freestanding, floating fuel dock in the Southeast. Equipped with state-of-the-art power uplinks, boat-side assistance, and twenty-four-hour security, plus every other nautical perk you can imagine, its length is always crammed with massive yachts and expensive pleasure boats.

  We trooped through the marina twice every school day. I barely noticed the opulent crafts any more, though at first I’d gawked like a tourist.

  I trailed the boys, stuck in a funk.

  Chance was in my head. I couldn’t shake a feeling of impending doom.

  Was it coincidence we’d run into each other? Or had Chance been waiting? And what was up with his new job?

  I’d assumed that, after graduation, Chance would relax into a life of playboy luxury. Work on his polo game. Collect oil paintings, or Italian sports cars. Date Victoria’s Secret models. After all, he didn’t have to work. Didn’t have to do anything but spend his money.

  So why take on a dreary job at Candela? It made no sense.

  We passed a small outbuilding crammed with yacht sales offices, then swept by the Variety Store Restaurant. As we approached the pier walkways, I heard a TV newscast floating from inside Salty Mike’s Deck Bar.

  The faint audio caught my attention.

  “Hi! Shelton!” I pointed, then ducked through the open door.

  Salty Mike’s interior was rough but clean, with neon beer signs adorning a large central tiki bar. A pair of gnarly dartboards flanked a flat-screen TV on the right-hand wall.

  I raced over, tried to figure out the volume. Heard feet behind me.

  “What is it?” Hi asked. “I thought you were anti-booze. Plus, it’s three o’clock.”

  “Shh!” I jabbed a button, then hissed in frustration as snow filled the screen. The bartender shot me an irritated look.

  “Here, let me.” Shelton somehow corrected the feed and jacked up the sound.

  A tinny voice filled the room. “Repeating our top story this morning, police sources have told Channel Five News that two Charleston teens have officially been designated missing persons . . .”

  Smiling pictures of Lucy and Peter Gable flashed onscreen. Each wore a Bolton uniform.

  “Holy crap,” Shelton breathed. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

  Hi snorted. “Color me shocked that those ace cops couldn’t maintain radio silence.”

  “Quiet!” I barked. “There’s more.”

  The image shifted to a live shot of Bolton’s front gates, where a breathless female reporter took up the story. “The Gable siblings are both juniors at Bolton Preparatory Academy, the same prestigious private high school that recently made headlines for its connection to the sensational Gamemaster trial.”

  The three of us groaned in unison.

  “Headmaster Declan Paugh declined to be interviewed for our broadcast—” they cut to a clip of Paugh, red-faced, waving the camera away, “—but stated that the school will cooperate fully with the police investigation. Currently, there are no leads regarding the twins’ disappearance.”

  Shelton covered his mouth. “Oh, man, he looks upset.”

  The program jumped to a noticeably annoyed Commissioner Riggins, standing on the steps outside police headquarters. “At this time we have no evidence of foul play, or even that a crime has been committed. We ask the media to refrain from creating undo panic and let us do our jobs.”

  The scene shifted to a large waterfront house with several police cruisers parked outside. A deep male voice began narrating. “Rex Gable, father of the missing teens, is a prominent local businessman who serves on the Charleston University Board of Trustees, and is an alderman at Saint Michael’s Church. Channel Five has learned that police investigators searched the family’s Daniel Island home early this morning.”

  The coverage shifted to a flashy news studio, where a silver-foxed anchorman addressed the camera. “The Gable family has temporarily relocated to assist with the investigation.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Hi offered. “This should bump the Gamemaster’s trial from page one.”

  Shelton slapped Hi’s shoulder. “C’mon, man. Not cool. We know those guys.”

  The anchor continued. “If you know the whereabouts of Lucy or Peter Gable, please contact the Charleston Police Department. A reward is being offered for information leading to their safe return.”

  The broadcast switched to an empty-headed weatherman predicting partly cloudy skies. Shelton turned the volume back down and we stepped outside.

  Absently, I began walking toward our slip, where Hugo would arrive any minute. The boys followed. But my feet slowed as we approached the long wooden walkway to Pier Group Z. Halfway across, I stopped altogether.

  The boys halted behind me, uncertain, matching puzzled expressions on their faces.

  For a long moment, I stared out over the harb
or in silence.

  A feeling was hardening inside me. A resolve.

  “We have to do something,” I said finally. Forcefully. “We have to get involved.”

  Shelton scratched the back of his head. “Okay. Fine. But what?”

  “We’ve got that voodoo card,” Hi suggested. “Let’s find out what it means.”

  “More,” I urged. “We need to fully investigate the twins’ disappearance.”

  “I distinctly remember being told this was a police matter,” Shelton grumbled. “More than once, yo.”

  “But we can help.” I spun to face them. “What are we doing these days, anyway?”

  Hi’s face scrunched. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what’s our purpose? We have these—” I stepped closer and lowered my voice, “—abilities, but no direction. No goal. We should be doing more.”

  “We’re keeping our heads down,” Shelton countered. “Avoiding the spotlight while we figure out what happened to us. Jeez, Tor. Isn’t that enough? I thought that’s what you wanted?”

  “No. Not anymore. I was wrong.”

  Both boys gave me confused looks. I couldn’t blame them.

  I tried to express what I was feeling. “We need to do things. Accomplish something. Make a difference with . . . whatever it is these powers are.”

  Hi spread his arms wide. “With great power comes great responsibility. Ask Spider-Man.”

  “So now you two wanna fight crime?” Shelton shook his head, incredulous. “Where is this coming from? Should we make costumes?”

  Hi’s face lit up. “I’ve definitely got some ideas in that area, if—”

  “Of course we don’t need costumes!” I paused, took a breath. “Look, I’m not even sure what I want. And, yes, I realize this is coming straight out of nowhere. I was the one who said we shouldn’t be flaring at all.”

  I glanced at the door to Salty Mike’s. “Maybe it was seeing Lucy’s and Peter’s pictures onscreen. Like mug shots. It just hit me—we have these powers, why not apply them to something worthwhile? Solve problems normal people can’t.”

  Shelton’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like a guidance counselor.”