by Kathy Reichs
I called again, thinking she might be asleep. Same result.
“Ugh.”
I disconnected and sent a text: U OK? U missed psych!
After waiting a full minute, I gave up and stepped back into the hall.
I had my own problems.
The B-Series files we’d downloaded from Candela’s server. What could they be? Why the encryption? How did they fit with Karsten’s old project?
I hadn’t the slightest doubt Chance was involved.
But why the freaking aquarium? What was Chance doing there?
Find out. Crack the files.
Hurrying to class, a single question dominated my thoughts.
How?
Headmaster Declan Paugh peered through his office blinds.
Making a space with his finger, he watched Tory Brennan disappear down the hall.
Trouble from the start.
Paugh released the slats and returned to his desk. It was Edwardian, a rare example of late-reign oak treatments that fell out of the court’s favor.
Paugh adored it.
Like so little else in a world filled with disposable plastic abominations—cheap, soulless replications—this desk had character. A testament to the class and refinement of a better time.
Paugh’s mission in life was to preserve Bolton Preparatory Academy in the same manner.
To hold back the creeping poison of modernity that was destroying polite society.
And I’m failing. One concession at a time.
Allowing the Loggerhead Trust to send students on scholarships had been a mistake. That much was obvious now. But at the time, money had been vital.
Paugh’s predecessor had possessed no head for business. He might even have been a crook. It’d taken years to right the books, all while hiding the academy’s dire fiscal picture under the rug.
But he’d done it. Bolton was back on firm footing.
If the parents only knew what Herculean measures he’d taken to make it so, they’d give him a service medal. A parade.
Not to be. Burying all signs of distress had been Rule Number One.
Without its sterling reputation, the academy was nothing.
But those kids are still here. Three of them, anyway.
That cursed trial! What a nightmare. Publicity was anathema to everything Bolton Prep stood for. Paugh didn’t care about putting some petty thug away. He wanted the media away.
And now they were back. Prowling his gates. Disturbing his sanctuary. If those cretins kept poking around, who knows what they might find?
Those blasted Gable twins. A problem without an answer.
Things were spiraling out of control. Paugh had begun to feel very, very nervous.
Just do as you were told. No more, no less.
That wasn’t the headmaster’s style, but in this matter his hands were tied.
Sighing, Declan Paugh picked up his cell phone and dialed.
I checked my iPhone after last period.
Nothing. No calls. No texts. Ella had been absent all day.
I swung by Coach Lynch’s office, but he hadn’t heard from her either. After begging my way out of practice—promising to rejoin the squad ASAP—I headed for the gate.
Shelton and Hi were waiting.
“Change of plans,” I said. “I’m gonna run by Ella’s place before going home.”
Shelton scratched his nose. “Why? Looking to collect another virus?”
“She missed a big thing in psych today, and didn’t return any of my texts. That’s not like her. I wanna make sure she’s okay. See if she needs anything.”
“You want us to walk with you?” Hi asked casually. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”
I smirked. “You can come, Romeo.”
“You sure?” Hi licked his palm, then used it to slick his hair. “With me around, she might not even notice you’re there.”
“I’ll risk it. I’m just popping my head in, anyway. Shelton?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Mr. Blue will want to ferry us together anyway.”
“Good point. Can you text him we’ll be late?”
Shelton nodded, digging out his iPhone as we headed down the street.
The Francis family lived in South of Broad, the ultra-exclusive neighborhood at the tip of the peninsula. While not as imposing as Claybourne Manor—located just a few blocks away—Ella’s home was still a registered historical landmark.
After a few short blocks, we turned right onto Logan Street. Ella lived directly across from Saint Peter’s Cemetery, which she claimed gave her the creeps.
As we strolled down the row of pristine mansions, it occurred to me how improbable our friendship was. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to attend Bolton on scholarship, it’s unlikely Ella and I would’ve ever met. The thought made me sad.
Which is why I didn’t see the flashing lights.
“Tory?” Shelton pointed to a knot of houses ahead. Several squad cars were parked on the street before the. “Is one of those Ella’s?”
“Yes.” I was running before the word left my mouth.
As I streaked down the block, an evidence recovery van began backing into a narrow driveway. I nearly moaned. That was Ella’s property.
The Francis home was constructed in traditional Charleston style: long and narrow, with the side of the house parallel to the street. Cops were milling by the front door, which opened onto a sweeping piazza that ran the length of the house.
The bright yellow structure rose three stories, with balconies on each level overlooking an interior courtyard garden. A round metal plaque bolted to the gate detailed the building’s three-hundred-year history.
I burst through a gaggle of cops and onto the porch, then raced to the door leading inside. Shouts chased after me, but I ignored them, panic bubbling in my chest.
Ella’s parents were seated on a narrow couch in the parlor, hands tightly clenched.
Mr. Francis’s eyes were bloodshot. Tears streaked his wife’s cheeks. Opposite them, a visibly uncomfortable Detective Hawfield was perched on a slender divan, taking a statement.
I shot to their side. “What’s happened? Where’s Ella?”
“They’ve taken her!” Mrs. Francis wailed, collapsing into her husband’s arms. “My precious little girl!”
“Tory!” Detective Hawfield juggled his clipboard, struggling to stand. “What are you doing here? This is a crime scene.”
I don’t think I heard. My mind had jumped the tracks.
Taken. Ella.
Oh please, please, no.
“Officer Kirkham! Please remove this child from the premises! How did she get by—”
A hand reached for me. I spun, kicked the man in the shin. I leaped back from the muttered curses and fired up the stairs.
One flight. Two. Three. Ella’s bedroom was on the top floor.
“Grab her!” Hawfield bellowed. “Don’t let her taint the crime scene!”
Boots thundered on the steps behind me. Then a crash, followed by angry shouts.
“Leave her alone!” Hi’s voice.
Reaching the top floor, I ran to Ella’s room. Found three CSI techs inside, snapping pics.
“You can’t be in here,” a woman said. “This room is sealed.”
I ignored her, eyes scanning the room. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Didn’t have a plan. But I had to help. Had to find a clue. A lead. Some evidence to solve the case.
Anything to save my friend.
Then I saw it.
An old, hand-painted playing card was sitting on Ella’s bed.
I flew over and picked it up, drawing shouts from the CSI crew.
My eyes drank in the design.
A serpentine fish, painted gold, bristling with claws, teeth, and scales.
“What is this?” I shrieked at the card. “What have you done with Ella!?!”
Hands on my shoulders. An arm around my waist.
I was dragged backward from the room. Someone snatched the card from my fingers.
Everything came crashing down.
I screamed at the top of my lungs. Kept screaming, over and over.
Then the world went black and I remembered nothing more.
Kit’s footsteps receded down the hall.
With an ear pressed to my bedroom door, I heard him mumble something to Whitney. Her response was inaudible. Seconds later the TV clicked on.
Beside me, Coop nuzzled my hand. I absently scratched his back.
I knew Kit was worried. Who wouldn’t be? His teenage daughter just had a nervous breakdown at a crime scene.
Retreating onto my bed, I grabbed my iPhone. Checked email. Voicemail. Text messages. Chat. Nothing from the other Virals. I hadn’t heard from anyone since this afternoon.
Clock check—8:00 p.m.
Coop settled down beside the bed, his eyes never leaving me.
The holes in my memory were slowly filling.
I recalled flashing lights. The mass of police officers. Mr. and Mrs. Francis, red-eyed on their silly little couch. My mad dash up the stairs. A rush of blood to the head.
Ella had been taken. Ella was missing.
I felt panic bubble up inside me once more.
Calm. Breathe.
I glanced at the light blue pill resting in my trash can. Maybe I should’ve swallowed it.
No. I need a clear mind to be of any use.
I knew I was barely keeping it together. Could feel the shrieking desperation, just below the surface, that threatened to engulf me. To blind me. To turn out the lights a second time.
Ella has been taken. Ella was missing.
I grabbed my phone. Still nothing.
On the Francises’ porch—as three EMTs were guiding me from the property—Shelton had whispered he would gather the pack. Hi had waved from across the front yard, where he was sitting between two officers, waiting for his mother to arrive. Apparently he’d body-blocked the first cops to chase me through the house. The police were none too pleased.
I owe you one, Hi. You bought enough time.
That strange, unnerving playing card. Its ghastly image was seared into my retinas.
A golden sea monster. Some horrid snake-fish hybrid, all sharp teeth and vicious claws. Hi’s intervention had given me precious seconds to examine the clue.
The link, I should say. There was no doubting that whoever kidnapped Lucy and Peter Gable had also abducted Ella. The snake-fish card was a smoking gun.
No one could compare it to Ophiuchus and not see a connection. The items were clearly of common origin.
A madman’s signature.
The twisted calling cards of a psychopath who steals children from their homes.
On its own volition, my mind leaped to Rex Gable. The man seriously gave me the creeps.
But would he really imprison his own children? Did he grab Ella, too? Why?
I was forced to admit it didn’t make sense.
What would Rex Gable have to do with Ella Francis?
Yet . . . Rex Gable was at the art show. He’d have seen Ella there with me, radiant in her rebellious green cocktail dress.
And the black BMW. The type of car Rex Gable might own. It was at the opening, too.
My hands found my face. Rubbed slowly, up and down.
I didn’t know what to think. My brain felt like scrambled eggs.
Against my will, I pictured Ella, locked in that awful dungeon with the Gable twins.
Or worse, all alone.
Cracks in my calm resurfaced. Anxiety threatened to overwhelm me.
Coop popped onto the bed and curled up beside me. He rested his giant head on my knee. I dove forward and hugged his body close.
Knew that someone was looking out for me, always.
The tide of dread receded, but didn’t fully disappear. Disturbing thoughts about Ella kept exploding inside me, like popcorn on a hot stove. But Coop’s warm, solid presence helped keep the demons at bay.
I hadn’t felt like this since losing Mom.
Stop it. Ella’s missing, not . . .
I shook my head to dispel the terrible thought.
Do something. Work the problem.
Go to the police? With what, exactly? My suspicions? A few wild theories?
We had next to nothing concrete. Not really.
A bleach-stained area in an otherwise spotless house. No help there.
The authorities had surely identified the Ophiuchus card by now. No sense revealing Hi’s sticky fingers just to pass along stale info.
And how could I possibly convey the feeling I got from watching Peter Gable’s eyes?
The writing on the steel bar. That’s definitely intel the police could use.
Moving to my desk, I powered my MacBook and googled “Philip Simmons Ironworks.”
Dozens of hits. The links momentarily distracted me from my grief.
Philip Simmons was a renowned African-American blacksmith and ironworker. Scrolling Wikipedia, I discovered he’d recently passed away at age ninety-seven. He began his career at a small shop on Calhoun Street, before moving into the specialized field of ornamental wrought iron in the 1930s. All told, Simmons fashioned over five hundred decorative pieces—gates, fences, balconies, and window grills—many of which still grace the area’s richest mansions and estates.
I clicked a few more sites, impressed. In 1982, the National Endowment for the Arts awarded Simmons its National Heritage Fellowship, the highest honor the United States can bestow upon a traditional artist. The South Carolina legislature gave him a “lifetime achievement” award, and commissioned several public sculptures for museums and the city of Charleston. Simmons was inducted into the SC Hall of Fame in 1994, and received the Order of the Palmetto—South Carolina’s highest award—in 1998. Some of his pieces are displayed in the Smithsonian.
I leaned back in my chair. “Not bad.”
This man was no common grunt. Though Simmons began his career making penny nails and horseshoes, he became a world-famous artist. A real one—not like that fop Jean-Paul Delacourt and his horrible interpretations. Philip Simmons was a true master at shaping metal.
So how did steel bars bearing his name end up forming a dank prison?
I surfed a bit more. Late in life, Simmons had been in extremely high demand. His works literally blanket the Lowcountry. Without more to go on, his mark was useless for locating the twins’ dungeon.
Still, I knew the CPD had more resources than Google. This was a tip they could use.
But how would I explain having a copy of the ransom tape? Impossible. Commissioner Riggins would have a stroke.
In all honesty, I doubted they’d even let me through the door. Who was going to trust a high schooler’s video analysis? The silly girl who’d fainted while contaminating a crime scene.
I’d get handed a second blue pill. And this time, they’d check under my tongue.
Fine. No police. Then what?
The card from Ella’s room. Find out what it is.
I reached for my iPhone. Ran a search. Placed a call.
“Yes?” The same melodious voice.
“Miss Gordon?”
“Speaking.” A tad hesitant. “May I help you?”
“This is Tory Brennan. We met the other day in your shop. You told me and my friends about Ophiuchus, and the zodiac?”
Silence.
I forged ahead. “I have another question, about a different symbol. Would it be possible to pay for a session over the phone?”
No respon
se. But I heard breathing on the line.
“Miss Gordon? Hello?”
“Now’s not a good time.”
I felt the brushback pitch sail by my chin. Ignored it.
“I know it’s after business hours, but I’d appreciate if we could just talk. I’m willing to pay double, if that helps.”
“It’s not the money. Look, why don’t you—”
“Clara?” My voice shook. I was suddenly on the brink of tears. “I’d really, really like to do this now, if you don’t mind. I’ve had a horrible day. Can you please help me?”
There was another pause. Then, “What would you like to know?”
“Thank you. How should I send payment?”
“Never mind that.” Brusque. “Ask your question.”
“I’ve encountered another symbol, similar to the first one we showed you.”
I described the card from Ella’s room in exacting detail.
“That is Cetus,” Clara said. “Known as the Sea Monster in Greek mythology, he was slain by Perseus while saving Andromeda from Poseidon’s wrath. He’s commonly referred to as The Whale today. Cetus is in the same boat as Ophiuchus—omitted from the zodiac.”
“There’s another missing sign?”
“Yes. Cetus is located in a celestial region known as the Sea, because of the many water-associated constellations nearby. Pisces. Aquarius. Capricornus. Others as well.”
“Is Cetus a sign, though?”
“He has claim to be. The constellation passes very close to the ecliptic. Once a year—at the boundary between Cetus and Pisces—a sliver of our home star strays into Cetus for not quite a full day. March fourteenth. The planets also appear in Cetus on rare occasions. Thus, his inclusion in the zodiac is arguable, though not as clear-cut as Ophiuchus.”
I thought a moment. “What does Cetus mean to people?”
There was a sigh on the other end. “It’s hard to say. What you describe is a seventeenth-century depiction of Cetus, that of a dragon fish. In other times, Cetus has been portrayed as simply a large fish, or whale, or shark.”
“But who would care about him now?” Frustration tinged my voice. “Who would follow Cetus today? Who would carry his symbol around in their pocket?”
“I’m not sure, Tory.” Gordon sounded disappointed that she couldn’t answer. “Sailors, maybe. Cetus is often a ship’s name, chosen to express a lack of fear of the sea. But he’s usually viewed as a bad omen, or a bringer of misfortune. Superstitious mariners associate him with bad weather, pirates, lost cargo, pretty much anything negative. On some ships, merely saying his name can trigger reprisals.”
