Virals tb-1

by Kathy Reichs

  Grrr.

  “Sea turtles are such beautiful creatures.” I encouraged the current line of conversation. Kit took the bait.

  “Yes. Boaters really must be more careful. But the pilot thought enough to bring the animal to us, so he’s not a bad sort. Surgery took about an hour, and . . . ” He stopped. Pointed with his fork. “Wait. Who told you about the turtle?”

  Shoot.

  “Who told me?” I stammered.

  “How did you find out about the injured sea turtle?” Kit spoke slowly, as though addressing a toddler.

  “We sort of motored out to Loggerhead this afternoon. Coop has been missing, and I wanted to figure out what’s upsetting the pack, so—”

  “Stop. Who is ‘we’?”

  “Just me and the usual guys. Hi, Ben, and Shelton.”

  A sharp tsk from Whitney. She had strong feelings about my being with boys unescorted. Puh-leeze.

  “I didn’t see you,” Kit said.

  “We went straight to Dead Cat. No big deal.” Here goes. “We did chat with Dr. Karsten for a few minutes.”

  “And?” Wary.

  “And what? You know how he is. We didn’t do anything. He’s all, ‘you kids always cause trouble,’ and ‘you’re going to burn down the island because you’re such idiots.’ We just left base and went out to Dead Cat for a while. That’s it.”

  Close enough.

  “Am I going to get an earful from Karsten?”

  “No, Kit.” Heavy mocking. “You’re not ‘going to get an earful from Karsten.’”

  I hoped.

  “Why would you want to play on that stinky old island?” Whitney’s perfect little nose crinkled in disgust. Stopped. I actually saw the thought cross her mind. “Unless you’re doing work like your daddy does.” Again, she turned the big blues on Kit. “Important work.”

  “Like I said, I wanted to check on the wolfdogs. Coop’s been missing lately, and the other three are agitated about something.”

  Whitney donned her long-suffering face. A parent confronted by childish obstinacy. “I thought we were finished with the dog debate.” Prim. “Your father has spoken.”

  Okay. I may stab her. I would probably get a medal.

  “I wasn’t asking to get a dog, Whitney.” Kit had refused my repeated requests. I suspected Whitney was behind his opposition. She detests pets. “I was referring to the wolfdogs out on Loggerhead. The puppy is missing.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Softer. Kit knew I wanted a dog more than anything on earth. “It’s a big island. He’s probably just nosing around by himself.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. Wolves develop close relationships and maintain lifelong social bonds. They have a deep affection for kin, will even sacrifice themselves for the pack.” I grew more distressed just talking about it. “The others would never let Coop go off alone. He’s not fully grown.”

  “Wolves?” Whitney’s eyes were saucers. “You’re cavorting with wolves?” Her head whipped to Kit. “That’s ghastly! She’ll be mauled. Or eaten!”

  Kit looked trapped. Two angry women. Tough spot.

  “Only one is actually a wolf,” he said to Whitney. “She’s harmless.”

  “A harmless wolf?”

  “She’s been on the island for years. Her mate is just a normal German shepherd.”

  “Their pups are called wolfdogs,” I explained. “Half-dog, half-wolf. Coop is the youngest.” I appealed to Whitney’s warm fuzzy center. “He’s a puppy, only a few months old.”

  “You mean a diseased, wild mongrel! Someone should call animal control. Aren’t those dogs illegal?”

  That’s it. I’m done.

  “Thanks for dinner.” I shot to my feet. “I’ve got homework.”

  A drive-by wave.

  I hit the stairs before either could utter a word.

  Two steps at a time.

  CHAPTER 10

  Safely locked in my room, I seethed.

  Downstairs, Kit and Whitney were undoubtedly discussing The Problem of Tory. Every time, like clockwork. I didn’t eavesdrop. I was sure my head would explode.

  Diseased mongrels? What the hell did she know?

  Wolves are noble, caring animals. Though I hadn’t told a soul, I’d thought about studying those “diseased mongrels” for a living, thank you very much. They ranked well above Whitney Dubois on my list.

  “I’m not prancing like her show pony,” I vowed to the dog figurines lining my bookshelf.

  Not going to happen. No ridiculous fluff for me. Nyet.

  I punched a bed pillow.

  Easy. Don’t make it about Whitney.

  Okay. I had to admit that dressing up a few times wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I like wearing white. And pearls are nice. At school, I’d seen girls looking at dress designs. I thought I could pull off the look. Might even turn a few heads.

  Also, shocker, my social calendar still had a few openings.

  “Who knows?” I asked the empty room. “On that special night of nights a handsome young bachelor of the aristocracy might choose me off the menu of virgin chattel!”

  Getting snarky again. How bad could a debutante ball be? And frankly, you need help on the girlfriend front. Point of fact, you have none.

  I knew Kit blamed himself for my lack of gal pals, but it wasn’t his fault. I just hadn’t clicked with any of the resident Mean Girls.

  Full disclosure: my isolation was a teensy bit my fault. Sure, the girls at Bolton Prep were terrible, horrible, despicable fembots. Yes, they teased me relentlessly. But I found most of them shallow and vapid, and never showed the slightest interest in their superficial world. So the disdain had been mutual. Plus, I’m smart, care about schoolwork, and wreck every curve on which I am graded. That hadn’t won me any popularity contests.

  It didn’t help that I was the youngest in my grade. I’d just turned fourteen. Skipping ahead had seemed awesome when I was twelve. I never considered what the impact would be once I reached high school. Now I was feeling the downside. I wouldn’t score a driver’s license until the very end of my junior year.

  I knew the formula. To get girlfriends I had to fake interest in the silly things the fluffbrains found important. Boys. Shopping. Reality shows starring rich dimwits devoid of talent.

  On second thought, being friendless gave me ample opportunity to read.

  So I ranked low on the social totem pole? So what?

  On third thought, cotillion offered monthly events leading up to the November ball. Hanging with the debs might score me some friends with double X chromosomes.

  But then Whitney would win. I couldn’t allow that. Could I?

  I leaned back on my pillows, worries elbowing for center stage in my mind. Coop. Whisper. Kit. Whitney.

  Thoughts about Whitney were always painful. They led to thoughts about Mom.

  My mother, Colleen Brennan, grew up in a tiny New England town called Westborough. She and Kit met at a sailing camp on Cape Cod. They were both sixteen. Maybe he noticed Mom because her last name was the same as his mother’s family. Maybe not. Brennan is common enough. It may have been because Mom was gorgeous. That works for most guys.

  Kit and Colleen must have determined they were not related, because they hooked up. Big time. I came along nine months later.

  I don’t know why Mom kept my existence secret from Kit. She never saw him again. Probably didn’t consider him prize parenting material. Who knows? She may have been right.

  For a while Mom and I lived with her parents, but they passed away when I was a toddler. All I remember is gray hair and cookies, and the smell of cigarettes. Both had lungs like Swiss cheese but still smoked. Don’t get me started.

  Raising a kid solo must have been tough on Mom. She never finished high school, I suppose because of me. She waited tables, worked at a Walmart, a movie theater briefly, but then that closed. Meanwhile, I was taking advanced classes because my teachers thought I was a genius. Mom never let on that it bother
ed her.

  Lost in memories, I missed the first half of my ringtone. Startled, I dug through the bedding, finally found the phone. Clicked on.

  Too late. The call had rolled to voicemail.

  I checked the screen: Missed call—Jason Taylor.

  My heart pumped faster.

  Other than my island pals, Jason was the closest thing to a friend I had at Bolton Prep. We shared two classes, which likely explained the call. Always fleeing at the bell, Jason usually forgot details of homework assignments.

  I was surprised Jason was thinking about school at eight thirty on a Saturday night. He was an A-lister. Why wasn’t he at some party way too cool for me?

  With his blond hair and blue eyes, Jason could have been cast as a Norse God. The Mighty Thor. He was also a lacrosse star, a starting attacker. Not bad for a sophomore.

  In other words, Jason was out of my league. No biggie. He wasn’t really my type. Don’t know why. Just no spark.

  Jason was a genuinely nice guy, though. In class, he listened when I spoke. And not the spiteful, mocking attention of the other popular kids. He seemed to actually value my input.

  My cell phone beeped an incoming text.

  Tory. Party @ Charleston Harbor Marina. Chance boat. Interested? J

  Jason again. Whoa.

  I re-read the words. Yep, still there. The message was real.

  I’d just been invited to a party. A popular person party. Unexpected, to say the least. Astounding.

  I flew to my Mac, searched the location. Patriot’s Point, Mount Pleasant. Damn, damn, damn! I had no way to get there.

  Kit would drive me if I asked, but getting dropped off by my father wasn’t an acceptable option. Plus, the trip would take forty-five minutes by car. No good.

  Could I get Ben to run me over there in the boat?

  And what, leave him standing on the dock?

  Cold. Out of the question.

  I was so busy crunching the numbers on transport that it took a second for the rest of the message to sink in.

  I read the text again. Chance boat? What, like gambling? One of those casino ferries that drives out to international waters so yuppies can play craps?

  Then it hit me. Of course!

  Chance Claybourne’s boat. The party must be on his father’s yacht, docked at the marina.

  So, this wasn’t just a party, it was the party.

  And I couldn’t get there. Crushing.

  And, honestly, a huge relief.

  It took me thirty minutes to compose my reply. I read the final copy out loud. “Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Don’t have too much fun, smiley face, exclamation point.”

  After final consideration, I hit send. Ten seconds later, I really, really regretted the smiley face. Ten more seconds, and I hated the whole damn message.

  I was busy searching for a recall feature when a new message beeped in. Rattled, I dropped the device. Then I dove on it, fearing the worst.

  Boo! Next time then ;).

  Winky face?

  “What the flip?” I smiled, feeling better. “Dork!” I meant both of us.

  Then I frowned. Wait. Was Jason hitting on me?

  Get a grip! Stop over-analyzing a one-line text.

  I looked for the TV remote, anxious for distraction. Like the phone, it eluded me, hiding somewhere in my covers. As I rolled to check between the bed and the wall, something sharp jabbed my butt.

  I checked my pocket, pulled out the crusty dog tag.

  “We meet again.”

  Crossing to my bathroom, I filled the sink with warm water, deposited the tag, and added a half bottle of Body Shop papaya-scented hand soap. Classy.

  Back in my bedroom, I turned on the Discovery Channel. Shark Week. Nice!

  An hour of sea carnage later, I remembered the dog tag. The sink now contained a chocolate-colored puddle. Ew.

  I pulled the plug and sludge swirled down the drain. The tag lay on the porcelain, still coated dark brown, indecipherable.

  I ran the water as hot as I could stand, and gently scraped the metal under the flow. No go. Even under my desk lamp, the letters were unreadable.

  Hmmm.

  I could’ve used my rotary tool, but I didn’t want to scratch the metal. And the sandblaster might damage the lettering. This task required something more delicate.

  I could have let it go right there. Thrown the thing away. But I didn’t. I wanted to know what the tag said, pure and simple. Had to know.

  I get like that.

  I kicked into research mode, and, a few minutes later, confirmed my hunch. A LIRI lab had everything I needed. The process would take twenty minutes, tops.

  I posted a tweet on the gang’s private page. Minutes later I had three replies, all affirmatives. We would go early the next morning.

  Time for a stealth mission.

  PART TWO:

  INFECTION

  CHAPTER 11

  Damp gusts tugged at my flimsy Gap poncho. A steady drizzle tapped techno beats on the hood drawn over my head. Once more, I wished I’d worn my North Face jacket. Too late. I was soaked.

  Sodden hair clung to my face and shoulders, wilted by the rain, humidity, and stifling heat. My sweat faucets were working overtime.

  Ignoring my discomfort, I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Surveillance.

  Crouched behind a boulder on Turtle Beach, Kit’s binoculars in hand, I studied the back entrance to the Loggerhead compound. Inside the fence, forty yards distant, the grounds appeared abandoned.

  “All clear,” I called.

  The boys emerged from the rocks, one by one.

  The early morning sky and roiling Atlantic were both the color of pewter. The sun had yet to penetrate the low-hanging fog.

  Lousy weather, but excellent cover. Perfect for espionage.

  Choppy surf had nearly scrubbed the mission. But the weather channel had predicted only passing squalls and ruled out the possibility of a major storm. If we hadn’t gone that day, it meant a week until our next opportunity.

  My curiosity was far too pumped for that.

  Shelton had agreed, which swayed Ben. Hi, outnumbered, had relented. The barf bag he brought had been put to use. Twice. Rough ride.

  We bypassed the main dock, churning instead to a little-used equipment platform off Tern Point. At times, turtle researchers used the location to observe breeding activity on the beach. After nesting season, the area was empty and forgotten. The platform wasn’t visible from the buildings, and no one would go near it on a day like this. Our stealth was assured. Hopefully.

  The rear gate to the LIRI complex was locked, as expected. Sunday was an off day so the shuttle ran only at noon and dusk. Few worked, usually those with patients requiring care. We’d arrived a little past nine, hoping to find the complex empty.

  Despite the ghost-town appearance, one of two souls was certain to be present. Sam and Carl, security guards extraordinaire, alternated weekends. One or the other would be manning the security booth, perhaps with one eye on the monitors. Perhaps with both shut.

  In any case, we knew how to avoid detection. At least, we thought we did. This caper was the first time we’d put theory into practice.

  Breaking in should be easy. We were about to find out.

  Our target was Lab Six in the rearmost building of the cluster. Hi had overheard his father griping that Karsten had closed the building several weeks earlier, giving no explanation. The doors were now locked at all times.

  Odd, that. The Loggerhead labs usually ran at full capacity, with waiting lists. The closure would burden operations, cause logjams for equipment, and rankle staffers.

  Whatever Karsten’s reason, I wasn’t questioning our luck. I wanted a name from that dog tag and intended to get it.

  Sneak in, sneak out. Don’t get caught.

  Hi read my mind. “We can still back out. My parents will flip if we’re busted. My mother may even drop dead.”

  “We don’t need another reaming from Karsten,�
� Shelton said. “He’d ban us forever.”

  “We won’t get caught.” I tried to sound firm. “Our plan is solid.”

  Though Shelton and Hi radiated apprehension, neither would back down in front of the other.

  Ben looked stoic. As usual.

  Dropping the binoculars to my chest, I turned to bolster my troops. Captain. Squad leader.

  First, my entry-man. “Shelton, you can pick locks in a heartbeat.” I patted his shoulder. “You know you can. I’ve seen you practice hundreds of times.”

  Uneasy nod.

  “Ben, the digital recorder for the security cameras is broken, right? You said your dad is bringing the replacement next week.” Temple tap. “That means no tape.”

  This was key. There wouldn’t be a recording for Karsten to review. We just had to avoid live detection.

  Ben gave a tight smile, mocking my “master criminal” imitation. I nodded back.

  Raising the binoculars, I ran a quick recheck of the compound. Nothing stirred.

  “The ferry’s not due for two and a half hours. The island is deserted, except for security, and those bozos never pay attention. We’re only in the open a few seconds, tops.” I squared my shoulders. “Our plan will work.”

  Rain ticked the rocks, the leaves, and branches overhead. Still sensing doubt, I attempted the Jedi mind trick, willed them to agree.

  “I could watch the boat?” Hi suggested hopefully.

  “We need you.” Shelton was back on board. “You’ve been inside Lab Six. We haven’t.”

  “Once,” Hi whined. “One time. My dad grabbed something and we left.” A raised hand waved off my response. “I know what you’re going to say! I’m the only one who can work the sonicator. Lucky me.” Big sigh. “Fine. I’ll sonicate.”

  “Then let’s go,” I said, allowing no time for a wimp out.

  “I should’ve written a will.” Hi dropped to a squat, tightened his sneakers, then bounced into a sprinter’s pose. “Okay. Just yell ‘go.’”

  “Don’t crowd me at the fence.” Shelton was gripping his tools so tightly I thought he might break them. “I need space to work.”

  I turned to Ben. “Ready?”