by Kathy Reichs
Ashley and Courtney watched in disbelief.
“I don’t get it.” Courtney spoke as if I wasn’t there. “Did Brennan, like, hypnotize her or something?”
Ashley was more direct. “I don’t know what you did to her, Boat Girl, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll make sure everyone remembers you’re a loser. And I don’t scare so easily.”
I calmly held her gaze.
Ashley looked away first. “Come on, Courtney. Let’s find people our own age.” The two stalked off, one baffled, the other furious.
I stood in place a few beats, processing the encounter and assessing potential damage. I’d always considered Madison the most dangerous leg of the Tripod, but Ashley’s cruel streak was legendary. Was she the brains of the operation?
A sigh escaped. Nothing is ever easy.
A familiar voice snapped me back. “I never expected to see that. She runs from you like a field mouse.”
I whipped around. Chance was leaning against a locker a few yards away. I hadn’t noticed him, but apparently he’d been watching.
“It’s nothing.” Damn him! The boy moved like an alley cat.
“Hardly.” Chance ambled over, black hair expertly tousled, Griffin uniform molded to his frame as if specifically designed with him in mind. “When we first met, you’d have crawled into a sewer to avoid Madison Dunkle. Now you’re staring her down in public.”
“Your advice, remember? No fear?”
Instantly regretted. I didn’t want Chance thinking about last summer.
“Oh, I recall.” Chance smiled thinly. “I haven’t crashed on your floor so many times that I’d forget. But showing a little backbone doesn’t explain why Madison turns to jelly at the mention of your name.”
I shrugged, not knowing what to say.
“I wonder if it’s something else.” Chance idly tapped a locker. “Maybe she saw something surprising in you. A unique quality, one others don’t possess.”
My pulse quickened. Color rose to my pale cheeks. Was Chance flirting, or threatening me? I wasn’t sure which I’d prefer.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Careful not to meet his eye.
“You don’t think you’re special? I do.”
“What I think is that I’m going to be late for class.” I hoisted my pack and started past him. “Excuse me.”
“Save me a dance on Friday.”
That stopped me. I glanced over my shoulder.
“You’re going to the debutante ball?”
Chance executed a small bow. “Madison asked me to be her escort. I think it’s just the two of us. But I hear you’re bringing the whole entourage.”
“That’s right.” Anxiety fueled my temper. “The four of us look out for each other. So if some rich douchebag tries to start trouble, we’ll have each other’s backs.”
“Good for you, then.” Smug smile. “Tell the Morris boys they’re invited as well. Though Ben must promise to behave himself.”
“Invited where?” I didn’t follow.
“To my after party, of course. At Claybourne Manor.”
“After party? Claybourne Manor?” I knew I was gibbering, but couldn’t stop.
“I’ll drop the invitation in your locker.” He snapped a wink. “It should be quite an event.” Then he turned and strode away.
“Wait!”
But Chance entered a classroom and shut the door behind him.
“I’m not going to your freaking party!” I shouted at the closed door. “In that house? No way!”
The few students hurrying by shot me odd glances.
I barely noticed. Things were spinning out of control.
Special? Unique quality? What was Chance hinting at?
A cold pit opened in my stomach. He could only mean one thing—Chance had seen our flare abilities on more than one occasion.
So why would he invite me and my friends to a party?
I was still rooted in place when the bell pealed.
“Crap balls!”
I sprinted for class. Was halted outside the room by a gray-haired man in a bad guayabera shirt.
“Qué lástima, Señorita Brennan!” Señor Messi intoned sadly. “Estás tardía. Frente a la detención, por favor.”
“Sí, Señor Messi.” I sighed. “Lo siento mucho.”
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the hallway.
“Ay de mi.”
CHAPTER 36
LOCKOUT DRAGGED.
Barring tardy students from class made no sense to me. I got that we’re supposed to be on time, but how did missing a full lesson improve the situation? Didn’t an absence just make the problem worse?
I sighed. At the front table, Mr. Warnock glanced up briefly, then returned to his John Grisham novel. He looked as thrilled to be there as I was.
Two boys shared the cafeteria with me. One was sleeping, the other was doodling. I’d never met either.
After reading the next unit in my Spanish text, I slumped in my seat, bored and frustrated.
Watch check: thirty minutes to go.
This is nuts.
The other Virals would be wondering where I was. Skipping class wasn’t a hobby of mine.
I should do something productive.
But what? I’d finished my homework, and didn’t know what the next assignments would be. Plus my other books were still in my locker.
Forget about school. We’ve got bigger issues to deal with.
Número uno being the Gamemaster.
I thought of Marchant. The snare gun. We’d never heard back about ballistics. I could follow up on that.
But how? Technology was forbidden in lockout, or else kids might skip class just to surf and text their friends. Warnock would confiscate my iPhone on sight.
I watched the apathetic gym teacher slouching at the front table. Devised a plan.
“Mr. Warnock?”
My jailer looked up, surprised at the break in silence.
“If you need something, Miss Brennan, come to the front so I don’t have to yell.”
Shouldering my bag, I approached. “Could I dash to my locker? I don’t have my world history book, and I’d like to read ahead.”
Warnock frowned. “You know the rules. Though I can’t say I’ve seen you in here before. No one can leave until the next bell.”
“I know. It’s just, I have nothing to do, and it makes more sense to study than to stare at the wall.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Warnock set his book aside. “I’ve taught at Bolton for over two decades, and have never understood this policy. We all could be making better use of our time. But rules are rules.”
“My locker’s just down the hall.” Hopeful look. “I won’t tell if you won’t?”
Warnock regarded me for a moment. “You’re the one who wrote that letter to the school paper, aren’t you?” He nodded to the empty kitchen behind him. “The op-ed about childhood obesity, criticizing the nutritional value of our lunch menus?”
“Yes, sir.” Hesitant smile.
“For that fine piece of work, you get a hall pass. I’ve been complaining for years about ketchup counting as a vegetable. Glad someone agrees.”
“Thanks. I promise I won’t be long.”
“See that you aren’t.” He handed me a pass. “Though why I’m supposed to imprison one of our brightest students I’ll never understand. Hurry now.”
Speeding from the cafeteria, I ducked into the closest ladies’ room, locked myself in a stall, and dialed Marchant’s number.
Four rings. Then a robotic voice asked me to leave a message.
Damn.
“Good morning, Mr. Marchant. This is Tory Brennan, calling about the issue we discussed last weekend. If you could get back to me, I’d love an update. And thanks again for your help. Bye-bye.”
I hung up, regretting the childish “bye-bye,” but unable to take it back. I slipped back into the hall and hurried for my locker.
Something dropped as I opened the
door.
A thick white envelope, my name in calligraphy on its face.
Chance’s invitation.
“Nope nope nope.” Yet I jammed the envelope into my bag.
I was almost back to the cafeteria when my phone buzzed. No caller ID. Pumping a fist, I ducked back into the restroom and answered.
“Sorry I missed you,” Marchant said, “department meetings seem to eat up all of my time.”
“Oh no, don’t worry.” Backing into a stall, sitting, and locking the door. “I appreciate you returning my call so quickly.”
“I found something interesting,” Marchant continued. “Are you free to meet? I’m headed out for a caffeine fix in thirty minutes.”
Um, what? Did this guy not understand I was fourteen? Bolton wasn’t big on students popping out for midday lattes.
But the Gamemaster was my top priority. The Roman Empire could sit tight until tomorrow.
“Sure. Where?”
Marchant gave me an address and the line went dead.
Uncertain what I’d gotten myself into, I returned to the cafeteria, cracked my text, and killed the last fifteen minutes reading about Caligula. Dude was a wacko.
After the bell, I slipped out a side door and through the front gates. Hustling down Broad Street, I crossed my fingers that I hadn’t been observed.
I felt guilty not telling the other Virals about the meeting. They’d probably worry after back-to-back missed classes. But I wasn’t calling the shots. I’d fill them in at lunch.
City Lights Coffee is a relaxed, hipster café on Market Street, in the heart of the tourist district. An easy ten-minute walk. Marchant was sitting at a window table, sipping from an oversized mug.
He waved as I entered. “Glad you could make it. Would you like something?”
“No, thank you. I can only stay a few minutes.”
“Of course.” Marchant noted my uniform with obvious embarrassment. “You’re in school today. What was I thinking?”
“I’m on my lunch break,” I lied. “It’s okay, we’re allowed to leave.”
“Regardless, that was incredibly stupid of me.” Shaking his head, Marchant slid a file across the table. “But I think you’ll find this interesting.”
I opened the file. “Were you able to ID the gun’s owner?”
“Yes and no. The weapon is registered to a business entity, not an individual.”
My eyes rose to meet his. “A business? Which one?”
Marchant reached over and flipped to the file’s last page.
I stared in disbelief.
Four words had been typed on the line marked, “Registrant’s Name.”
Loggerhead Island Research Institute.
“What the hell?”
“That was my reaction as well,” Marchant said. “Apparently, it’s an extremely high-tech facility based on an island just off the coast. A non-profit, focused on veterinary medicine. Someone in its security department submitted the snare gun for a permit exception.”
“But I thought these guns were totally illegal?”
“So did I.” Marchant stirred his cappuccino. “I wasn’t aware an exception existed, and I work for the police.”
“Why would … this place need this type of weapon?” For some reason, I was hesitant to reveal my connection to LIRI.
“The application states that snare guns are necessary to protect bird-nesting areas from predators. Since the whole island is private property, with no human inhabitants, the request was approved. The institute applied for two such permits.”
“Crazy.” I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was hearing.
Snare guns? On Loggerhead? I wondered if Kit had approved the requisition. And why would security apply for weapons intended to protect birds? None of it made sense.
First alarming thought: Whisper and her family.
These guns fire indiscriminately, at anything. If there was another on Loggerhead, the pack was in danger.
Second alarming thought: The Gamemaster’s gun was registered to LIRI.
And the first cache had been buried on Loggerhead.
My blood pressure spiked.
Did the Gamemaster work at the institute?
“Are you okay?” Marchant’s face was crimped in concern.
“I’m fine.” Calm as I could manage. “I just don’t get what this crazy zoo has to do with me. My dog, I mean.”
“I dug a bit further. Turns out, this institute is bigger than just the one island.” Marchant retrieved his file. “My guess? Some worker swiped the weapon to make a buck. A snare gun is pretty unique—they might’ve thought it was worth a bundle if they pawned it, or sold it at a local gun show. Anyone could’ve bought it off the books.”
Was it that simple? Was it coincidence that connected the Gamemaster to LIRI?
Not on your life.
Marchant ran a hand across the file. “Sorry I couldn’t score a name.”
“You can’t find what isn’t there.” I checked my watch. “Yikes! I’ve got to get going. Thanks again.”
Marchant nodded. “I’ll keep looking. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
Leaving the café we headed in different directions.
I ran all the way back to Bolton.
“You shouldn’t sneak off to meet strangers without telling one of us,” Hi admonished between bites of his Philly cheesesteak. “Don’t you watch Dateline?”
“Marchant’s a cop.” I tried not to sound defensive. “Almost, anyway.”
Hi wasn’t swayed. “Bad policy is still bad policy.”
We were sitting at our usual table in the cafeteria. The boys were expressing their disapproval of my solo day trip.
Ben was even more blunt.
“Meeting that guy alone was freaking crazy.” He glared at me until I dropped my eyes. “You don’t know anything about him.”
Ben seemed about to say more, but couldn’t find the words. Finally, “No more risks like that, Tory. Promise me. No more secret meetings without another Viral there to watch your back.”
The scolding touched a nerve. “I’m a big girl, Ben. I think I can talk to a police official without masculine backup.” My hand shot up to forestall his angry reply. “Fine! I won’t go anywhere else alone. Ever again. Scout’s honor.”
“You’re not a Scout,” Hi pointed out. “No loopholes, Miss Brennan.”
I nearly ground my teeth. “On my honor as lady, Hiram.”
“Excellent! I accept.” Hi glanced at Ben, who nodded reluctantly.
“Things are tying back to Loggerhead.” Shelton pushed his sandwich aside, untouched. “I don’t like that at all.”
“You think the Gamemaster works at LIRI?” Ben scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Why?” His dismissive response surprised me.
“Because it is.”
“From day one,” I countered, “we’ve assumed our involvement in this game was random. Pure bad luck, us finding the Gamemaster’s first cache before anybody else. But what if there was nothing random about it?”
Shelton’s forehead hit the table, barely missing his ham and cheese. “You think we were handpicked.” More statement than question.
“I don’t know. But if we were somehow … chosen to be the players, then targeting the debutante ball makes perfect sense!”
“You’re nuts,” Ben insisted. “Jumping to wild conclusions just to fit your theory. We don’t know jack squat right now. Targeted? How?” He raised both hands. “How could someone know we’d go dig up that first cache? We didn’t even know until that day! And the gun was probably stolen and sold, like Marchant said.”
“We still need something concrete,” Hi said quietly. “Hard evidence.”
On that point, I agreed. “We have to ID the body.”
“Spotter will finish its face recognition search by tomorrow,” Shelton said.
“So we go back to LIRI then.” I tapped my temple. “And we keep our eyes open.”
“Where is the ballist
ics report?” Hi began pawing at my bag.
“Marchant kept it.” I made a mental note to call and ask for a copy.
Hi lifted the heavy cream envelope penned with my name. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that.” Could anything matter less right now? “You guys are gonna love it.”
I passed along our invitation to Claybourne Manor.
Their groans drew every eye in the room.
CHAPTER 37
3:27 P.M. TUESDAY afternoon.
Sewee bounced across the surf, her bow rising and falling with loud smacking sounds. I rode in the passenger seat as Ben steered toward Loggerhead.
Hi and Shelton had bailed, claiming family obligations. I’d had to endure thirty minutes of instructions before Shelton was satisfied I could handle Spotter.
“Sneaking around will be trickier,” I said. “Today’s a workday.”
“We’ll just blend in with the staff,” Ben answered. “Plus, I doubt anyone uses that upstairs terminal.”
“True, but we have to avoid Hudson this time. I don’t need Kit finding out.”
“You could practice catwalk turns in the courtyard.” Ben’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Or waltz your way upstairs.”
“Are you done?” It was his third crack since we’d left the Morris dock.
He didn’t reply, but suddenly I’d had enough.
“Ben, stop the boat.”
He looked at me funny. “We’re in the middle of the ocean, Victoria.”
“Stop the damn boat!”
Ben rolled eyes, but eased off the throttle. Sewee decelerated until we just bobbed along with the current.
“Did you want to jump in?” Ben asked dryly. “Water’s pretty cold in October.”
“I want to know why you’ve been such a jerk lately.”
My anger caught him off guard. “I have not.”
“Ben, enough! We never used to fight. But now it’s like a storm cloud follows you twenty-four/seven.” My voice softened. “What is it? Tell me.”
I saw a flicker of something in his brown-black eyes. For a moment he seemed almost … stricken. Panicked, even. Then he looked away.
Seconds ticked by. Ben seemed about to speak. Instead, his features hardened.
“I hate that douchebag Jason, all right?” With a jerk of his wrist, Ben restarted the engine. “He’s a classic silver-spoon asshat, yet you can’t get enough of him. It’s pathetic.”
