by Kathy Reichs
Stone outcroppings rose on both sides, creating a circular cove with a white sand beach. Added bonus. The towering projections concealed the cozy anchorage from view by passing watercraft.
As secret places go, this one was killer.
Ben tied Sewee to a sunken post. Shelton dropped the anchor. Hi, Coop, and I hopped ashore and took a steep, narrow path up the sand hill overlooking the hidden bay. Nearing the crest we turned right and circled the hill. I dropped to my knees, and crawled through a person-sized hole cut into the hillside.
We’d reached our clubhouse.
Once a key to Charleston’s harbor defenses, Morris Island is riddled with old military fortifications. The boys and I had discovered our bunker by accident, chasing an errant Frisbee. Practically invisible, it could double as a CIA safe house.
To our knowledge, only we knew of the bunker’s existence.
We intended to keep it that way, though lately that’d been tough.
A soft buzzing greeted my arrival in the main chamber. The air smelled of ozone, dust, and packaging peanuts.
After worming in behind me, Shelton dropped into the ergonomic chair fronting our new computer workstation. Honest to God, the thing looked like something out of Star Trek.
Shelton’s fingers tapped the keyboard, another piece of high-tech wireless wizardry.
“Run the fans when the system’s powered,” I reminded him. “We don’t want the components overheating.”
“I’ll only be a sec.” Shelton reached below the desk and flipped a switch. “I need to check some software I added to the hard drive. This stuff will blow your mind.”
Over the previous weeks, we’d transformed the place.
Pirate gold goes a long way, if you spend wisely.
Indoor-outdoor carpet covered the floor. A retractable window secured the cannon slit facing the harbor. Sleek IKEA units had replaced the rickety wooden furniture. The old bench still ran along the wall beneath the window, but Ben had sanded, polished, and treated the wood with a dark cherry stain. Three lamps glowed with soft white light.
A mini-fridge occupied one corner. Hi had insisted.
The rear chamber had also been overhauled.
The mineshaft and cannon slit were sealed. Days of sweat there. Cables running from the main room snaked metal shelves stuffed with external hard drives, routers, Ethernet switches, AV components, and other hardware, along with a line of rechargeable batteries.
The far corner was now a doggie hotel for Coop: bed, chew toys, and automatic food and water dispensers. He padded over, curled up, and promptly fell asleep.
After weeks of online searching and ordering, secret deliveries, backbreaking transport, and maddening assembly, our clubhouse was as capable as an air traffic control tower. And there was still a decent balance in our checking account.
Thank you, Anne Bonny.
“Did you fix the WiFi?” Hi asked as he rooted through the fridge. “I couldn’t capture an IP address yesterday.”
Shelton nodded. “Loose cord. The router wasn’t drawing power from the gennie. It’s all good now.”
Our prize addition was a solar-powered generator. Outside in the scrub brush, we’d hidden a four-panel array above the bunker’s entrance to collect daylight. With a half-dozen batteries storing the juice, we had electricity 24/7.
I worried about the array constantly—it was easily our most expensive purchase. But so far the system had weathered two storms without a hitch. It was a pricy piece of equipment to leave exposed, unguarded, but what can you do? Solar panels need sunlight to work. Plus, no one else knew it was there.
“Testing new software?” Ben glanced at our workstation’s massive twenty-seven-inch LED cinema display. “More like downloading Crank Yankers.”
“I’m multitasking,” Shelton replied. “All work and no play makes me bored silly.”
“Don’t use up too much drive space,” I warned, watching the screen from over his shoulder. “We bought this stuff to research parvovirus, not so you can watch ‘Boom Goes the Dynamite’ twenty times a day.”
We’d agreed on a specific goal for our funds: learn everything possible about the invader twisting our DNA. Our powers were wild, mostly a mystery. And with Karsten gone, no one else knew the virus existed. Finding answers was on us.
“Who has the box from the geocache?” I was eager to have a look.
“That’d be me.” Hi removed it from his bag and placed it in on the table. We each took a chair. Then, as one, the boys turned to look at me.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I lifted and rotated the odd purple object. There was no obvious top, bottom, or locking mechanism. The snarling clowns were evenly spaced and uniform in size. And in creepiness. When I shook the box, something rattled inside.
After a few minutes of fruitless tapping and tinkering, I handed the thing to Ben. He squeezed sides, pressed edges, and rubbed the surface before passing it on. Hi poked and prodded for what seemed like forever before sighing and giving the box to Shelton.
“That’s your best shot?” Shelton frowned in mock disapproval. “Weak sauce.”
“Think you can do better?” Ben, only half joking.
“Not think, dude. Know.” Toothy grin. “I’m the man with a plan.”
CHAPTER 8
“HIMITSU-BAKO.”
Shelton flourished the sheet of paper we’d found inside the geocache.
“Himso Bucko?” Hi’s face scrunched in confusion. “What the what?”
“Himitsu-Bako,” Shelton repeated. “It’s Japanese, means ‘personal secret box.’ That’s what this gadget must be.”
“So there is something inside.” I grabbed the page, embarrassed to have forgotten it. “And the phrase is a clue on how to gain access?”
“Exactly.” Shelton rose and moved back to the workstation. “I’ve been googling. Puzzle boxes like this originated in nineteenth-century Japan. Hakone region. They’re designed as games, and usually contain a good luck charm.”
“Great work, Wikipedia,” Hi deadpanned. “Now how do we open it?”
“It’s not that simple.” Shelton rejoined us at the table. “Himitsu-Bako only open through a specific series of manipulations. Some you just squeeze in the right place, but others require several movements at once. Each box is unique. The trick is figuring out the sequence.”
My eyes fixed on the dancing, sneering clowns. They seemed to leer back at me.
“Are these things typically metal?” I asked.
“Nope,” Shelton said. “Wood, usually. This puppy’s a modern version.”
“Fascinating.” Ben sat back and crossed his arms. “So what next?”
“I’ve got some ideas.” Shelton trained his thick lenses on Ben. “Unless you wanna take lead?”
Ben raised both arms. “Your show, maestro.”
“Damn right.”
As Shelton centered the box before him, the rest of us watched in silence.
“I’ll start with an easy one,” Shelton said. “Four corners.” His fingers pressed the closest two, then the pair across. No effect. He flipped the box and tried again. Nada.
Shelton grunted. “Top and bottom.”
Holding the box between his palms, Shelton squeezed, slid his hands forward and backward. Strike two.
“Side to side.”
Nope.
“Rotating top.”
Nyet.
“Bottom drop.”
Nothing doing.
All attempts were futile. The box remained stubbornly sealed.
Frustrated, Hi rose and wandered to the computer. “I’m gonna check my email.”
“I’m going to kill myself,” Ben muttered.
Shelton ignored them. “Only three sides will move. This rectangle piece—which is either the top or bottom—and both short, vertical ends.”
“Does knowing that help?” Hiding my impatience. “Maybe include that in a search string?”
“On it,” Hi called.
Moments lat
er the printer hummed. Hi snagged the page and handed it to Shelton.
Shelton scanned the instructions, shrugged. “Might work.”
Spinning the box so it faced him longwise, Shelton gently pressed the left side. The metal slipped down a few millimeters, then stopped. Holding that position steady with one hand, Shelton pushed the top of the box toward the right with the other.
“Put your finger here.” Motioning me to hold the cover in place, Shelton switched ends and pushed the right side down as he’d done with the left. Thumbing that in place, he pushed the top of the box back toward the left.
This time, the cover slid all the way off.
The box was open.
“Yes!” I fist-bumped Shelton. “And nice work, Hi.”
“There’s a ton online about these boxes.” Hi was scanning the list of hits. “Man, how did people do anything before the Internet?”
“They actually had to think,” Ben replied. “Cheating wasn’t so easy.”
Ignoring the banter, I reached into the box and withdrew another thick cream envelope. Like the one before, it was adorned with the now-familiar swooping G, dancing clowns, and a wax seal.
“Our host has a unique sense of style,” Hi said. “And spares no expense.”
Suddenly, Coop popped into the room. Drawing close, he froze and growled.
“Coop, no!” I tried to rub his muzzle, but he shied away, barked, then lunged at the envelope.
“Down, boy!” Sharp. His reaction was somewhat unnerving. “Bad dog!”
Coop growled again, then crossed to a corner and sat. Silent as ordered, but eyes glued to the envelope.
“Must hate clowns,” Shelton said.
“Who can blame him?” Hi said.
“I’ve never seen him act like this.” Shaking my head, I cracked the envelope’s seal and withdrew two more sheets of bond paper.
The first contained a black semicircular drawing that looked like a serrated, gap-toothed smile. Centered below the smile at its lowest point was a large black square. Ten rectangles were spaced along the curve of the semicircle, five to each side. Nine of the rectangles faced inward, like teeth on a cartoonish lower jaw. But the last rectangle on the left faced outward, on the exterior side of the arc. A snaggletooth.
Below the strange image, a long string of numbers stretched across the page.
“Wonderful,” Hi said. “Another wacky clue.”
The second page was styled as a letter, but the words were nonsense. The only legible portion was an elaborate signature at the bottom.
The Gamemaster
“Excuse me?” Shelton pulled his earlobe. “Who the hell is the Gamemaster?”
“A dork with way too much time on his hands,” Ben answered.
I tapped my lip in thought. “The body of this letter is gibberish, but we’re clearly supposed to read it.”
“It’s a code,” Shelton said. “The message must be scrambled.”
I flipped both pages over, checked the envelope, and rifled through the box. No other clues. “How are we supposed to decode this without a key?”
“Easy!” Shelton rubbed his palms theatrically. “We break that mug. And I know how to do it.”
“Feeling pretty confident today, eh, tiger?” Hi leaned back in the astronaut chair. “Do tell.”
“Using this.” Shelton tapped a short string of characters just above the signature: Hrmxvivob.
“That’s useful,” Hi said. “Sounds like a sex position.”
“Actually, that’s the key.” Shelton looked smug. “Look at where this word is. It stands alone, just above the sign-off, followed by a comma. Dead giveaway.”
Nine characters, the first capitalized, followed by a comma.
Of course.
I stole Shelton’s thunder. “‘Sincerely.’”
“It’s gotta be, right?” Shelton tapped his temple. “And if we know a keyword, we can plug the whole thing into a cipher program for decoding.”
“Internet, baby.” Hi chuckled. “You make my heart sing.”
“You’re sure that will work?” Ben asked.
“No,” Shelton said, “but I’m guessing it’s a basic substitution cipher. My dad used to leave me coded notes like this when I was younger.”
My mouth opened, closed. Hi grunted. Ben fixed Shelton with a squinty stare.
“Maybe you should explain a little more,” I prodded.
“Look here.” Shelton pointed to the keyword. “We all know how to spell ‘sincerely,’ right? The fifth and seventh letters are both e.” He finger-jabbed the page. “In the scrambled keyword, the fifth and seventh letters are both v. So it looks like v and e are swapped in this cipher.”
Okay. I could see that.
“In fact …” Shelton smiled wide. “I already cracked this sucker.”
“BS.” Ben, always the skeptic. “Prove it.”
“Happy to.” Shelton grabbed a blank sheet of paper and listed the alphabet. “I know e is the fifth letter in the alphabet. Guess where v is?”
“Twenty-second.” My gray cells made the connection. “Fifth from last.”
“Exactly. This is an inversion cipher. A and z flip-flop, so do b and y, c and x, and so on, working toward the middle. Check it out. The last letter in the keyword is b. That replaces y.”
“All right,” Ben said. “I’m officially impressed.”
“Don’t be, this formula’s super easy.” Shelton began scrawling letters, decoding the message. “Just give me a sec.”
I leaned close to observe. Shelton’s eyes rose to meet mine.
“A minute, Tor?” Finger-shoving his glasses back up his nose. “This is more difficult if you micromanage.”
I stepped backed, mildly offended, but not wanting to slow the process. I crossed to Coop and rubbed his head. The wolfdog was still tense and agitated.
“It’s okay, boy. Clowns are dumb, aren’t they?”
Patting him one last time, I joined Hi at the computer for a game of Angry Birds.
Five minutes dragged by. Then five more.
“Done.” Shelton’s voice was tight, tense. “I won’t lie, this message gives me the willies.”
From deep in the corner, Cooper rumbled another low growl.
CHAPTER 9
THE MESSAGE WAS short.
Four sentences. Thirty-eight words. It took mere seconds to read.
Adventurous Souls
,
Congratulations! You’ve passed The Test, and have proven yourself worthy of The Game. My challenge is simple: Do you have what it takes to play? Follow the clues and unlock the ultimate surprise
.
Sincerely,
The Gamemaster
“Hmm.” Hi scratched his chin. “Okay, that’s not normal.”
“What do you mean?” A scowl crimped Ben’s features. “I thought you understood this geocaching nonsense.”
“I do,” Hi said primly. “And this isn’t how it usually works.”
“Explain.” My arms folded across my chest.
“There are specific rules.” Hi returned to the computer and began punching keys. “This is Geocaching.com, one of the main websites.” A green and blue homepage appeared on-screen. “It lists the coordinates for all active caches, and any clues about how to find them.”
“How many caches are out there?” Shelton asked.
Hi glanced at the monitor. “Currently, over 1.5 million. With five million players, worldwide.”
“For real?” Shelton shook his head. “That’s crazy!”
“Soooo many dorks,” Ben muttered, his coal-black eyebrows forming a steep V. “A giant nerd army, digging up plastic boxes they hide for each other.”
“Like everything you do is cool,” Hi snorted. “Still have that ninja costume you wore to my twelfth birthday party?”
“Go back to what you said earlier,” I insisted. Their trash-talking was wearing thin. “What isn’t normal about this?”
“Let me show you.” Hi spun back to th
e keyboard. “I’ll record our discovery of the Loggerhead cache.”
With varying degrees of enthusiasm, we crowded around the workstation.
“Enter a place-name, address, whatever, and the site compiles a list.” Hi’s fingers flew as he spoke. “Nearby caches are mapped. Last week I searched our zip code, and found a surprise.”
A satellite image of Morris Island filled the screen. He pointed to a single red icon dotting the southwestern point.
“There. Someone planted a cache inside the Morris Lighthouse. I found it a few weeks ago, tucked under the spiral stairs.”
“That’s trespassing.” Ben sat back down at the table and began examining the decoded message. “The lighthouse is off-limits to the public.”
“Never stopped us,” Shelton replied with a grin.
Hi shrugged. “Anyone can log a cache into the database. The site doesn’t police where a box is hidden, or if a player has permission to be there.”
“What led you to Loggerhead?” I asked. “It doesn’t even have a zip code.”
“I figured, why not check? Maybe some LIRI guys play among themselves.”
Using the cursor, Hi dragged the edge of the map eastward into the Atlantic until an outline of Loggerhead Island appeared. As on Morris, a lone red marker glowed, positioned near the base of Tern Point.
“This Gamemaster didn’t include much information.” Hi double-clicked the icon. “There’s no difficulty rating. No size info. Not even a user name, which I didn’t think was possible. Just an exact set of GPS coordinates and a clue: ‘Be sure to scratch the surface.’”
“Here’s how it should look.” Hi moved back to Morris Island and moused over the lighthouse box. “See? This one has complete info. ‘Danger Mouse’ buried his prize three months ago, and rated the difficulty, terrain, and cache size all as fours on a one-to-five scale. There’s also a page-long clue. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”
“What did Danger Mouse hide?” I was curious.
“Toy sailboat,” Hi said. “He didn’t want exchanges, so I signed the log and put the cache back where I found it. Later I logged on here, reported a successful find, and posted a comment.”
