Code tb-3

by Kathy Reichs

  Far too much. I had to free it. Had to drive the energy away.

  AGAIN.

  We pulled as one.

  The grate shuddered. Rose an inch. Stuck fast.

  No! I WILL NOT LOSE!

  I focused. Pushed more and more energy down the flaming cords.

  Something popped. My arms ripped upward.

  I heard the screech of twisting metal.

  My eyes opened. I stared in shock.

  The bottom third of the grate was bent inward, its steel bars twisted like overstretched Play-Doh. The track had ripped free of the wall.

  “Go! Go! Go!” I shouted.

  Shelton and Hi crawled under the grate, then reached back and grabbed Jason’s arms. With Ben and me pushing, we forced his unconscious body beneath the barrier. Then Ben and I scrambled to freedom.

  Lurching to our feet, we dragged Jason across the electrical room. Once safely beyond the toxic odor, we collapsed, gasping for breath.

  I looked up as Chance emerged from the direction of the stairwell. He stiffened, staring at the mangled grate, naked shock on his face.

  I shut my eyes and sent a message to the other Virals: Snuff your flares!

  SNUP.

  The connection broke. Strength drained from my limbs.

  “I’ll sound the alarm.” Chance turned to run.

  “No.”

  All eyes whipped to me.

  I coughed and spat, trying to clear my throat. “The Consequences, remember? We can’t tell anyone.”

  “What consequences?” Chance demanded. “What are you talking about?”

  “The bastard who did this threatened to hurt our families if we talk.” My voice was a dull rasp. “Ever. I don’t think he was bluffing.”

  “But we have to warn people!” Shelton aimed a finger toward the ventilation room. “The gas could escape the basement.”

  I shook my head. “Bromomethane is heavier than air. It won’t rise.”

  “You all need medical treatment.” Chance knelt beside his former lacrosse teammate. “Jason’s unconscious, for God’s sake! The poison might be killing him.”

  “That wasn’t the gas.” Ben avoided Chance’s eye. “He … tripped. Hard.”

  “Help me up.” I was still woozy from the loss of my flare. “I have a plan.”

  Chance gave me an odd look, but extended a hand.

  I stumbled toward the stairs. “Follow.”

  The boys trailed me up the steps, Chance and Ben lugging Jason’s dead weight. On the landing beside the lobby door, I spotted my target. Without hesitating, I pulled the fire alarm.

  Sirens screamed. Blue lights flickered inside the emergency stairwell.

  “This will get them outside,” I shouted. “A fire scare should give us some cover for how we look. But no one says a word about what happened down there.”

  “That’s crazy!” Shelton wailed. “We should call the police right now!”

  “We’re gonna catch the psycho who did this.” The words gave me strength. “The Gamemaster is still loose. Probably thinks we’re dead. I bet he’s celebrating his victory right now. Let’s show him he chose the wrong pawns for his amusement.”

  That said, I bent over and vomited on the concrete.

  Out in the lobby, feet began pounding down the grand staircase. The foyer soon filled with nervous guests hurrying for the front door.

  I tried to smooth my rumpled gown. Gave up. I was reasonably sure we’d have to pay for it. Whitney was going to flip out. The thought made me feel a little better.

  The boys looked equally bad. Lost jackets. Ripped pants. Stained cuffs. Everything drenched in panic-sweat. I hoped it was dark outside.

  “Now.” Clasping my hands in front of me. “Let’s close this nightmare, shall we? Don’t forget—I have gifts for all my escorts.”

  Hi and Shelton chortled. Ben snorted as he helped Jason to his feet.

  “Wha?” Jason asked groggily.

  “Take it easy, tiger.” Ben patted Jason’s back. “You ran into a pole.”

  Chance never smiled. Never took his eyes off me.

  I remembered his expression upon seeing the twisted metal. The shattered grate he’d pounded with a crowbar without success.

  Later.

  Hi cracked the door. “Ladies first.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  For the hell of it, I dropped into another formal curtsy.

  The boys snickered. Then, straightening their soiled garments as best they could, they gave me a polite round of applause.

  “Off we go then.” I winked. “There’s still cake and dancing on the program.”

  Joining the stream of anxious partygoers, we slipped out into the night.

  PART FOUR:

  CONFRONTATION

  CHAPTER 48

  “HOW DO YOU get into these messes?”

  Jason’s words jarred me back to full wakefulness. There’d been a lull in conversation, and Chance’s overstuffed chair was far too comfortable for my level of fatigue.

  “You heard the story,” Shelton grumbled. “It’s not our fault some wackjob likes playing insane games.”

  “We won.” Ben’s eyes didn’t open. “No one got hurt. That’s all that matters.”

  “I assume there’s no antique cash register in need of special oil?” Jason said.

  No one bothered to answer.

  Eleven forty-five p.m. Claybourne Manor. The six of us were gathered in Chance’s study, ignoring the revelry one floor below.

  My tired eyes wandered the room. I had bad memories of this place.

  Little had changed since the days Hollis Claybourne ruled the cavernous chamber. Floor-to-ceiling windows and bookcases. Scarlet drapes. Mahogany desk the size of a tank.

  My gaze tracked the wrought-iron catwalk circling high overhead. I thought of the day Chance had caught me up there. Our confrontation.

  Definitely bad memories.

  Not now. Focus.

  Cedar logs crackled, the orange and yellow flames casting long shadows across the chamber. Shelton, Ben, and I sat facing the huge stone fireplace. Chance was leaning back against his desk. Jason was slumped on the floor, back to the coffee table, an ice pack strapped to his head. Hi lay flat on his back on the Persian rug.

  I’d briefed Jason and Chance on the events of the last two weeks. Our find on Loggerhead. The string of caches. The Game. Our wild trips around the Lowcountry. The Gamemaster’s folder of threats. I withheld only the secrets we could never share.

  An avalanche of questions followed. I’d answered as best I could.

  “So we aren’t calling the cops?” Shelton removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Am I the only one who thinks that they’re supposed to handle murders and bomb threats?”

  “We can’t risk it,” I said firmly. “The Gamemaster might believe his rules still apply.”

  “Captain Psychopath knows about our parents, our homes, even Tory’s dog.” Hi’s fingers were interlaced on his chest, his eyes glued to the oak rafters stretching above us. “If we talk, who knows what he’ll do? The guy’s into clowns, for God’s sake.”

  I took a deep breath. “We can catch this chump ourselves.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Shelton squawked.

  “I’ll think of something.” I will.

  “You’re positive the gas won’t escape?” Jason asked for the third time.

  “Yes,” I said. “I double-checked on my phone. Bromomethane is heavier than air, and should simply pool in the electrical room. And if someone goes down to the basement, they’ll smell the fumes and book it out of there. A slight delay in reporting the danger shouldn’t pose a risk.”

  I hoped.

  The Gamemaster belonged to me now. I wanted blood.

  A wave of music and laughter carried from below. Everyone ignored it. There was a crash of breaking glass. Chance didn’t flinch.

  Two hours earlier, my impromptu fire drill had caused a mild panic. Flustered debs stumbling
across the grass in ankle-breaking heels. Escorts struggling to locate their dates. Parents and siblings searching for one another. Chance had slipped away to find Madison, leaving the rest of us mercifully alone. Shelton had pulled a bleary Jason aside and brought him up to speed.

  Whitney went apoplectic upon seeing me. Mussed hair. Stained gown. Jacketless entourage. Kit demanded an explanation.

  Thank God for Hiram.

  He launched into an improvised tale of woe and misfortune. We’d found ourselves in the dark. Flustered and disoriented, we’d blundered through an emergency exit. Then we’d tumbled down a staircase in a complicated domino sequence that incorporated each one of us.

  The story was bizarre, confusing, and wildly improbable.

  They’d bought it without hesitation.

  Working like a field surgeon, Whitney had blotted and fluffed my dress, then repaired my makeup using cosmetics from her purse. When I’d casually asked permission to attend Chance’s after party, Kit had been quick to agree.

  After the fire marshal declared a false alarm, everyone scurried back inside. The remaining debs were presented in full splendor, averting heart attacks and dousing a few temper tantrums.

  Dancing followed. I endured three formal numbers—Kit twice, then an awkward turn with Jason—solely for appearances’ sake. The rest of my crew sat in chairs along the wall. I kept one eye on Chance as he twirled Madison across the hardwood.

  Finally, mercifully, the ball ended. I handed my boys their monogrammed cuff links and Kit drove us to Claybourne Manor. Chance’s bash was supposed to run late—he’d even chartered a car service to take guests home.

  Kit told me to enjoy myself. He’d inform the other parents.

  Chance had demanded answers as soon as we arrived. He marched my group upstairs, leaving a butler to see to his guests.

  So there we were, an hour later.

  A wild celebration raged downstairs. Half the school was in attendance.

  Partying was the furthest thing from our minds.

  Chance stirred. “How did you destroy the grate?”

  “Adrenaline.” Hi sat up. Flexed. “The human body is capable of amazing things.”

  “There were four of us.” Shelton was inspecting his shoes. “That probably made the difference.”

  “Four.” Jason’s gaze shifted to Ben. “Because I was unconscious. Having run into a pole. Which I don’t remember.”

  Ben shrugged. “Not my fault you’re clumsy.”

  Jason turned dubious eyes to me. “That’s how it happened, Tor?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “You were doubled over coughing up a lung and lost your bearings. The passage was narrow and dim. Too many people, too much chaos.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.” Jason tested his jaw by easing it left, then right. Then his mouth formed a lopsided grin. “That’s the second function where I’ve gotten knocked silly. You’re dangerous to my brain, Miss Brennan.”

  Chance crossed to the hearth, crouched, and began stoking the fire. He spoke without turning.

  “I pounded those clamps with a crowbar for a good ten minutes. Each was solid iron, and bigger than a fist. I didn’t make a dent.”

  Chance rose and turned to face us. “Yet you four ripped the grate from its tracks. Then you ripped the tracks from the wall, bending the metal bars like they were drinking straws. How? How is that possible?”

  “I read once where this guy in Ulan Bator powerlifted a Chinese tank after—”

  “Can it, Stolowitski. Let Tory explain.”

  I sat up straight. Kept my voice steady. “What more is there to say?”

  “So that’s your story? A massive surge of adrenaline? Hormones to the rescue?”

  “What else could it be?”

  Chance pointed without looking, eyes on me. “And poor Jason ran into a pole, conveniently missing this dramatic feat?”

  I nodded. Met him stare for stare.

  “Nor was I there,” Chance went on. “Because you suggested I search the stairwell for a key. That seemed unlikely at the time, but I was exhausted and out of ideas. Thankfully, you had the presence of mind to send me … off.”

  “What’s your point?” Jason was unwinding his ice pack. “We escaped. Be happy.”

  “My point, Jason, is that this story is a pack of lies.” Chance’s face went hard. “A new entry in a long list of deceptions. And not a very good one.”

  “Watch it,” Ben warned from the chair beside mine. “I don’t like your tone.”

  Chance ignored him, focused entirely on me. “I want the truth, Tory. The real story. An explanation of what we both know has been going on for months.”

  “It happened like I said.” Holding his gaze. “Jason hit a post. The rest of us worked together and managed to knock out the gate. Believe me, or don’t believe me, but you won’t get a different version. From anyone.”

  Our eyes remained locked for what seemed an eternity.

  Then his smirk returned.

  “So be it.”

  Chance spun and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 49

  HI WAS FIRST to deliver the news.

  Kit and I were eating Saturday breakfast when he pounded on our door.

  Coop bounded over to investigate. Spotting Hi through the glass, he returned to his doggie bed and settled down to nap.

  “Hurricane Katelyn took a hard left,” Hi said breathlessly. “She’s now on a collision course with Charleston.”

  Kit began searching for the TV remote. “What are local officials saying?”

  “There’s an evacuation order for downtown and the barrier islands, including Morris. Pretty much the whole Lowcountry.”

  “Blargh.” A thousand things ran through my mind. “How soon?”

  “We have to be gone by tomorrow noon.” As Hi snagged half my English muffin, he gave me a meaningful look. Our time was suddenly very short. “I’ve gotta run. My mother has me sounding the alarm.” Hi rubbed Coop’s head, then fired back outside.

  Kit was frowning at CNN. “Katelyn picked up strength overnight. She’s now a Category Four, with sustained winds over 131 miles per hour.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it. A Cat Four hasn’t hit South Carolina since Hugo in ’89. Before that, you’d have to go all the way back to Hazel in ’54. This is bad.”

  I powered my laptop and scanned the National Weather Service homepage, then checked Weather Underground. “This state hasn’t been hit by any hurricane for almost a decade. Guess we’re due.”

  “They’re saying the storm surge shouldn’t be like Katrina.” Kit was surfing the 24-hour news channels, bouncing between overcaffeinated meteorologists analyzing the coming tempest. “Because of how she’s spinning or something. No more than ten feet. But her wind speeds are fierce.”

  I felt a stab of worry. “Is Loggerhead ready?”

  Kit grunted. “As much as it can be. We prepared for this possibility. The monkeys have shelter available, and they’re smart enough to use it. Same with Coop’s family. LIRI buildings were designed to withstand winds over 150 miles per hour, but we’ll see. We’ll be needing a new fence for sure.”

  Kit went upstairs to make calls. I stayed at the table to stew.

  Hurricane Katelyn was ruining my plans.

  My gut said we had a narrow window to catch the Gamemaster. A forced evacuation would destroy our chance.

  What chance? We have no leads, no evidence. Nothing.

  “Arrgh!”

  I cleared the table, then walked out to the front steps and sat.

  The breeze was light, the sky gray. I smelled the brackish odor of the salt marsh just down the road. The honeysuckle crawling along the Stolowitskis’ trellis.

  The Atlantic appeared unnaturally calm. But I knew that somewhere over the horizon, a maelstrom was barreling toward my little island home.

  Morris sits at the mouth of Charleston Harbor. Beyond it lies nothing but open sea.

  I examined the construction of o
ur row of townhouses. Sun-baked brick walls. Wooden trim. Stone foundation. My lips whispered a quiet prayer for the old fort. It was about to get smacked.

  Kit stuck his head out the door. “I’m heading down to Folly. Nelson Devers bought a load of plywood, but needs help hauling it back. Then we’re all going to pitch in boarding up the units.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “If anyone from LIRI calls, give them my mobile number.”

  “Will do.”

  Kit left. I lingered on the stoop, stuck in a funk.

  We’d foiled the attack at The Citadel, but that didn’t feel like enough. As things stood the Gamemaster would escape unpunished. The thought made me sick.

  And I worried.

  Everything about The Game pointed to obsession. The planning. The expense. All those crafty twists. The fanatical attention to detail.

  It added up to a pair of inescapable conclusions: The Gamemaster had done this before. Perhaps many times. And if he’d done it before, he’d do it again.

  My anger built. The lunatic could already be plotting his next game. Building deadly traps. Designing lavish clues.

  How many geocaches had he buried? How many lives had he ruined?

  He’d never stop.

  Unless we shut him down.

  I thought of the body in the crypt. The poor soul whose life had ended mere minutes before we found him. We’d never even learned his name.

  The Gamemaster was a psychopath. A merciless, narcissistic predator. Maybe even a serial killer.

  We couldn’t let him escape. Couldn’t let him hurt more people.

  I’m not letting this go.

  “You look ready to chew nails.” Shelton grinned at me from his own stoop.

  “There’s a certain murderer I’d like to chat with.”

  “Not me.” Shelton descended to the sidewalk. “I wanna bust the lunatic, not spend time with him. Who knows? Crazy might be catching.”

  I joined Shelton and we ambled toward the docks.

  “Heard your dad scored some primo storm supplies,” I said.

  “Had to go three places. Katelyn’s another cat I’d prefer to avoid.” Shelton gestured toward the horizon. “It’s creepy. You can’t even tell she’s out there.”