by Kathy Reichs
“How?” I asked.
“A bullet is marked with the unique signature of the weapon that fired it.” Marchant waved at his collection. “Every barrel is different, even ones produced for the same type of gun, by the same company, in the same factory, on the same day. Each gun comes off the line with a distinct ballistic fingerprint.”
“Why is that?” Hi asked.
“Tiny imperfections are produced during the manufacturing process. Microscopic slivers of metal are pressed into the barrel as it’s being shaped. These flaws create a unique pattern of scrapes on a discharged bullet, called striations.”
“So every bullet fired from the same gun will have the same unique striations.” I followed that far. “And I assume these striations can be detected?”
He smiled. “Just like a fingerprint.”
“Okay, but I still don’t get the point.” Hi pointed. “We have the gun. Why do we care about the signature?”
“Because we keep bullet signatures on file.”
Marchant carefully placed the snare gun in a plastic bag. “When the police identify a weapon that might be linked to a crime, they send it to ballistics for analysis. That’s me. First, I’ll shoot air through the barrel to see what comes out. Sometimes tiny bits of matter like hair, skin, or fibers have been sucked in upon firing.”
“DNA. Trace evidence.” Hi nodded sagely. “Nice.”
“Then I’ll fire sample bullets into a trough or ballistics gel, and check the striations against our database. If the gun was used in any other crimes, I’ll find a match.”
“Match the gun, maybe find an owner.” Made sense to me. “It’s a shot, at least.”
“I’ll try our local files, then the South Carolina database. If that doesn’t tell us anything, I can run it through the ATF’s Ballistic Information Network.”
“That’s very generous,” I said. “You’re being incredibly helpful.”
Marchant thumb-hooked his belt. “Snare guns are extremely dangerous. Anything or anyone can walk into the field of fire. Whoever set that for your dog could just as easily have shot a child. They have to answer for that.”
“So you think we have a chance at an ID?” Hi asked.
“I do.” Marchant checked his watch. “A gun like this reeks of trouble. Give me a week and we’ll know if it’s reared its ugly head elsewhere.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Hi pointed to the AK. “So how’s about me ripping off a banana clip with that bad boy?”
“There’s zero chance of that happening.” Marchant smiled, drawing the sting from his words. “But I’ll let you know what I find.”
Repeating our thanks, Hi and I headed for the lot. I hoped that Wimpy and the Vomitasaurus had gotten their acts together.
“We need one of those fully autos.” Hi cracked his knuckles. “Maybe get one for the bunker, don’t you think? Keep the rabbits in check.”
“Hi, we’re going to have a talk about pushing people’s buttons.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up.” He yawned huge. “I forgive you. Now, much more importantly—do you have any Advil?”
CHAPTER 28
THE RETURN TRIP began in silence.
Ben seemed flustered by his retching episode. He clutched the steering wheel in a two-handed death grip, driving faster than usual. Shelton just crawled in back to sleep.
I was happy we’d accomplished our goal, but still worried about The Game. Everything hinged on our solving the next puzzle. The pressure was starting to get to me.
Maybe Marchant would kick something loose. Fingers crossed.
Then Hi cleared his throat. “Time runs out at midnight. Any ideas?”
“We have to ID the figurine,” I said. “It’s our only clue.”
Hi and I discussed a few ideas, planned a strategy for that afternoon. Shelton snored. Ben said nothing, eyes glued to the road.
He’s embarrassed. Or worried he’ll boot in Kit’s ride.
Forty minutes later we arrived home on Morris. Ben pulled into my garage, tossed me the keys, and headed for his unit.
“Ben?” I called after. “Can you help this afternoon? We’re almost out of time.”
“Give me an hour.” Then he hurried off.
“He’s gonna spew.” Shelton burped, grimaced. “Think I’ll join him.”
“But you’re coming back too, right?”
Shelton raised a thumb. “Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
I turned to see Hi slinking away as well. “Food. Or else I’m done for. I’ll come over when Shelton does.”
And just like that, I was alone.
I entered through the garage and ascended the back stairs. Coop was waiting at the top.
“Hey, boy.”
Coop’s backward glance was my only warning.
“Tory?” Whitney was lurking within.
I took a deep, calming breath, then stepped into the living room.
Whitney was perched on the couch. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
“It’s okay,” I said automatically, unsure of how I really felt but anxious to avoid the conversation. “Let’s just forget it.”
“I never meant to upset you.” Placing one delicate hand to her chest. “Truly! Your father and I should never have sprung such news.”
“Everything’s fine.” I decided there was no point being angry. “I overreacted.”
“No.” Whitney shook her head firmly. “This is your house, too.”
“Look, if you and Kit want to live together—” my palms rose, pushed outward aimlessly, “—it’s not my place to stand in your way.”
Whitney was saying more, but I didn’t hear. I’d noticed something … off.
I looked around. “Where’s your stuff?”
The vase, picture, and other foreign articles were missing. I spun. The Blue Dog painting was no longer in the hallway.
“I took my things home. You were one hundred percent correct. It was presumptuous to move them in without your approval.”
“No. Wait. I mean …”
A war raged inside me. On the one hand, this retreat was exactly what I’d wanted. Part of me felt like shouting “damn right!” and heading upstairs.
But Whitney was clearly trying to make good. Had gone to a lot of trouble.
For the first time I could recall, she actually seemed to get it.
But I really, really didn’t want her living here.
Blargh.
Dilemma.
Be petulant, selfish, and happy? Or be generous … and miserable.
Then something grabbed my attention. I forgot all about the Whitney problem.
An object sat where Whitney’s vase had been.
Small. Weathered. Metal.
The Gamemaster’s figurine.
I bounded to the shelf. “Where’d you get this?”
“The statuette? I saw it on your desk, and thought Saint Benedict would look nice down here.” Whitney’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear. I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”
My pulse quickened. “Say again?”
“Darling, I’m so sorry!” Whitney’s face dropped to her hands. “I thought you’d like something of yours in place of my vase. I’m just terrible, aren’t I?” She sounded on the verge of tears.
“Whitney, I’m not mad.” I pointed at the figurine. “You said this is who?”
“Saint Benedict, of course.” Whitney drew a fingertip under each watery eye. “I was raised Catholic, as you surely know. When I was a girl, his image hung in our family library. He’s the patron of students.”
I couldn’t believe it. Hours of fruitless searches, and Whitney freaking Dubois just hands me the answer. Odds that long don’t exist.
My mind raced. We had twelve hours to find the next cache.
I needed the boys ASAP.
“I prefer keeping this in my room.” I snatched the figurine and bolted for the stairs. “But I do appreciate the thought.”
“Forgive me.” Whitney stood as I passed her. “I’
ll never touch your things again.”
Impulsively, I turned and hugged her. “Not a problem.”
Then I raced up the steps, leaving the stunned Barbie in my wake.
“Got it!” Hi kissed his laptop screen. “Come to Daddy.”
I raised a brow. “Got what?” We’d been searching for thirty seconds.
We sat at my dining room table, waiting for Shelton and Ben. Whitney must’ve left soon after I’d gone upstairs.
I’d sent the boys a demanding text. So far, only Hi had surfaced.
“There’s a Saint Benedict Catholic Church.” He spun his computer for me to see. “In Mount Pleasant. How ya like them apples?”
“That’s great.” Could it be that easy?
I glanced at the black-and-white cloth that had covered the statue.
“What about the wrapping?” I tossed the fabric to Hi.
“Could be nothing.” He turned it in his hands. “Did you notice this, though?”
“Notice what?”
Hi held the swatch by a corner, revealing a tiny piece of embroidery on its back.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I was getting sloppy. And at the wrong time.
I snatched the square back from Hi. The small and neat stitching formed a half circle with four squiggly lines rising from it.
“Looks like a sunrise,” I said. “What could that mean?”
“Who knows? The fabric could just be protective packaging.”
“Maybe.” But something bothered me. “Don’t you think this was too easy?”
Hi was already headed for my kitchen. “Too easy how?”
“Compared to the other tasks.” I hugged my knees to my chest. “The other clues were hard. Intricate. They involved codes, puzzles, things like that.”
Hi returned with a box of Wheat Thins. “Maybe we got lucky this time.”
Perhaps. Probably.
No.
I didn’t buy it.
“So far, the Gamemaster hasn’t included anything in a clue that wasn’t relevant.” I tapped the fabric. “There’s a shape here. And why is it black and white? This cloth has to factor somehow.”
Hi sighed. “So you need my brilliance again.”
“I do.”
“Fine.” Dropping the Wheat Thins on the table. “These are ‘reduced fat’ anyway. Blech.”
We ran search after search. Shelton arrived and added his thoughts to the mix. Thirty minutes later we still had nothing.
“We’re going in circles,” Hi complained. “And where the heck is Ben?”
“AWOL.” Shelton glanced at the clock. “He looked terrible this morning. I bet he lay down and passed out.”
“Let’s start over.” I cleared the history and typed. “Saint Benedict. Charleston.”
Familiar results. Every hit involved the Mount Pleasant church.
Was I overthinking this? I could be wasting precious time.
Trust your instincts. Keep looking.
“What if we remove that church from the results?” Shelton suggested.
“Do it.” I yielded the keyboard.
Shelton’s fingers danced as he adjusted search functions.
“Hell-o. What’s this?”
I hunched over his shoulder. The screen contained a pleasant image of a country road lined with giant oaks. In the corner was a soft logo, white on black.
Mepkin Abbey.
“A monastery.” Hi was leaning in close beside me. He did not smell tremendous.
“Monks?” Shelton snorted. “Seriously? In South Carolina?”
The website was organized and professional. A link at top read: “Who We Are.”
“Click that.”
Shelton did. The next page contained a mission statement and group portrait.
“These guys pray all day,” Hi said. “And they don’t talk.”
Shelton chuckled. “You’d never make it.”
“Weird.” Hi was scanning text. “They also sell produce, tend gardens, and operate a modern library. And the grounds are open to visitors every day.”
“Mepkin Abbey is a Trappist monastery,” Shelton read aloud. “These guys follow something called the Rule of Saint Benedict. That’s news to me, but it fits our search.”
I ignored their banter, eyes glued to the photo. “Nice robes, don’t you think?”
“Ah-ha!” Hi crowed.
Shelton nodded. “Nice catch, Tor.”
The picture showed twenty monks in two rows, standing in a beautiful flower garden. All were smiling. The average age appeared to be north of sixty.
But that wasn’t what had me grinning.
The men wore identical robes.
Identical black-and-white robes.
I kissed my index finger and pressed it to the screen.
“Gotcha.”
CHAPTER 29
“TURN IN … HERE.”
I pointed to an odd marker beside the highway—a large white M, with a white cross rising from its center. The name Mepkin Abbey was carved into the stone pedestal.
“Took us long enough.” Ben had been driving for over an hour. Add that to the ninety minutes we’d waited for Ben to reappear, and we’d burned off half the afternoon.
Shelton yawned, scratched the top of his head. “Talk about living in the boonies.”
“They probably don’t have cable,” Hi quipped. “Or indoor plumbing.”
We cruised down the tree-lined drive we’d seen on the abbey’s website, massive live oaks flanking us on both sides. Sunlight and shadow danced on the windshield.
The setting was serene. Idyllic. Perfect for the contemplative life.
“Keep your eyes peeled during the tour,” I reminded them. “The next cache must be hidden on these grounds.”
I’d brought two trowels in my backpack, just in case. Only nine hours remained to crack the Gamemaster’s clue.
“Monks live out here?” Shelton was peering out a backseat window. “In the middle of South Cack nowhere?”
“Since 1949.” Hi began reading from his iPhone. “Founded by monks from the Abbey of Gethsemani, in Kentucky, the Mepkin brotherhood belongs to the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance.”
“What does that mean?” Shelton asked.
“Don’t ask me. But if you want to join, I’ll put in a good word.”
We parked in a guest lot, then followed a hedge-lined path to the welcome center. Inside was a shock—the interior was modern and well appointed. Exchanging astonished glances, we wandered into the gift shop.
And received a second surprise. The shop was airy and brightly lit. Tables and shelves overflowed with monastic artwork, carved bowls, knickknacks, knit scarves, blankets, and other handicrafts. Cookbooks and monastic texts shared space with vases and monk-made jams.
The store had an eclectic, arty feel, quite at odds with my expectation of dour monks living in stark, Spartan silence.
“Tory, look!” Hi pointed to a bookcase packed with idols and figurines.
“Nice.”
Excited, I scanned the assortment. There! On the middle shelf—a statue of Saint Benedict identical to the one in my bag.
I couldn’t help but smile. “We’re definitely in the right place.”
Hi slapped me five. Ben nodded, looking pleased.
“Can you believe they sell beer?” Shelton was eyeing a tower of six-packs. “Do monks like to booze it up?”
“Our vows do not require abstention from alcohol.”
We turned to see a small, clean-shaven man in his mid-forties. He had dirty blond hair fading to gray, sea green eyes, and soft, almost feminine features. He wore the black-and-white robes of a Mepkin brother.
“Indeed, the Order is somewhat famous for brewing,” the monk said. “Mepkin offers some of the finer ales produced by Trappists worldwide.”
“The shop is lovely.” Random, but he’d caught me off guard. “I didn’t expect so much … color. Variety.”
“You’re not the first to say so.” The monk sm
iled. “Our store offers a wide range of items created in the monastic tradition, as well as works by local artisans. All reflect the beauty of God’s creation.”
“Do you make anything here?” Shelton asked.
“We do.” The monk hefted a jar labeled Oyster Mushroom Powder. “Chapter forty-eight of the Rule of Saint Benedict states, ‘For then are they monks in truth, if they live by the work of their hands.’ We produce and sell goods to provide income for the monastery, and to honor the Lord through work. Our mushrooms are world famous, and our garden compost is top-notch. We also offer an array of honey products and a delightful fruit syrup.”
“I thought you guys didn’t talk.” Hi wheezed as my elbow found his gut. “Took a vow of silence, I mean.”
“A common misconception.” The monk adopted a lecturing tone. “Saint Benedict described speech as disruptive to a disciple’s duty for quietude and receptivity, and a temptation to exercise one’s own will, instead of God’s. As adherents, we respect his call for silence, but take no vow. That said, we only speak when necessary, and idle chatter is discouraged. We take our meals in contemplative peace, perhaps listening to a reading by a fellow brother.”
“This isn’t idle chatter right now?” Hi dodged my second jab.
“Of course not,” the monk replied good-naturedly. “To instruct the inquisitive is to spread the joy of God. My name is Brother Patterson. I’m Guestmaster for today’s tour. Were you planning to join us?”
“Tory Brennan,” I replied. “And yes, that’s why we’re here.”
“Wonderful.” Patterson beamed. “We have so few younger visitors. Please follow me. Others have come today as well.”
We exited into a tidy flower garden.
A wealthy-looking couple was gabbing loudly about the proper care of azaleas, while a trio of nuns glared in disapproval. Beside them, an elderly couple whispered quietly in what sounded like German.
“Welcome to Mepkin Abbey.” Patterson addressed the group. “We are a Roman Catholic order of contemplative monks, more commonly known as Trappists. We live in silence and solitude, according to an ancient discipleship that focuses on seeking God through communal living. We praise our Lord through prayer, meditation, work, and hospitality. Again, welcome.”
The female azalea freak dabbed on shiny lip gloss. “What’s a Trappist?”
