Seizure tb-2

by Kathy Reichs

  “Seven Mile Island Wildlife Park has an opening for an environmental specialist.” Kit spoke softly. “Professionally, I’m a perfect fit. The pay is excellent. I know you’d prefer to remain in Charleston, but I can’t pass on this one.”

  “Where is Seven Mile Island?” Barely audible.

  “Alabama,” Kit said. “Near a town called Muscle Shoals.”

  “Roll Tide!” Whitney piped.

  Kit cringed, fearful of another outburst from me. His instincts were good.

  “Alabama? We’re moving next door to Forrest Gump?”

  “My back is against the wall, Tory. This job is a way out.”

  “You’ll adore Alabama,” Whitney said. “You just have to give it a chance.”

  “What do you care?” I turned on her, furious. “Anxious for some personal space?”

  Kit shifted. Cleared his throat. “Whitney’s decided to come with us.”

  The shock rocked me to my core. My eyes began to burn.

  Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

  “Coming with?” Oh, so very calm. “For a visit? To help us move?”

  “Your father is my world,” Whitney gushed. “I can’t bear to lose him.”

  “Whitney is moving, too.” Kit watched me intently. “We hope she can live with us, but only with your permission of course. If that makes you uncomfortable, she’ll find an apartment close by.”

  A headache formed. Pounded my frontal lobe. I felt dizzy, like the room was spinning.

  Alabama? Whitney? Kit had pummeled me with a deadly one-two.

  “Don’t worry, darling.” Whitney, Queen of Saying the Wrong Thing. “You still have time to finish your debut. With a little luck, we can advance you to this season’s cohort.”

  “This season?” I could barely form words.

  “I’ll handle everything,” she chirped. “I’ll speak to the women’s committee after tomorrow’s gala. Remember, you have a brunch in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow,” I stammered, my mind numb. The idea of living with Whitney was beyond horrifying. “Brunch. Yes.”

  “Good.” Kit tried for levity. “You can remind your friends that you’re still grounded.”

  “I don’t have friends at cotillion.”

  “Tell that to whoever keeps ringing the house phone.”

  His comment puzzled me. “No one calls me on the landline.”

  “There are three new entries on the caller ID. Someone named Marlo Bates. I never said you couldn’t use the phone, but remember, you’re supposed to be under house arrest.”

  The name jolted me fully alert. Marlo had gotten our phone number. How? Why? Yesterday’s encounter at the manuscript library had clearly been no fluke.

  Those guys were tracking me.

  “I’ll tell him,” I said, hiding my alarm.

  “Don’t worry, sugar.” Whitney’s face was scrunched in earnestness. “This move will be good for all of us. You’ll see that one day.”

  You are not my mother!

  I pushed back from the table.

  “May I be excused?” Glacial.

  Screw permission. I bolted up the stairs.

  “THE NERVE OF that bitch!”

  My hand still gripped the doorknob. “What’s best for me? Piss off!”

  “She walked all over you,” Chance said matter-of-factly. “Stop being such a pushover.”

  “Be quiet.” I snapped the lock on my bedroom door. “What would you know?”

  “I was bored. I eavesdropped. Dinner sounded delightful.” Checking my hands. “No plate for me, it seems.”

  Chance was stretched out on my bed, idly thumbing through an old US Weekly. Coop was snoring at his feet.

  Turncoat.

  “There’s a box of granola bars on my dresser,” I huffed. “Go nuts.”

  “Stick up for yourself.” Chance continued with the unsolicited advice. “It’s the same with Madison and her clique.”

  “Who are you to instruct me? You’re an escaped mental patient.”

  Chance’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “I know what I’m talking about. And even as a wanted lunatic, I’m still more popular than you.”

  Sad but true. I’d learned that much at the yacht club.

  “Mind your own business.” I walked to my bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush. “I’m doing fine, thanks.”

  But I wasn’t.

  As I brushed, my anxiety level remained sky-high.

  Why was Marlo calling? Was he the one stalking us in the Studebaker?

  And don’t forget my personal problems. Alabama. Cohabitating with Whitney. And, of course, the Tripod. I really needed Chance bringing that up.

  “You’re worried.” Chance swung his legs over the side of the bed. “But I can help you handle the spoiled brats.”

  I finished flossing and grabbed my facial scrub. “They don’t intimidate me.”

  They did.

  By flirting with Jason, I’d tweaked Madison in front of her lackeys. Next time, she’d be out for blood.

  Chance watched me from the bedroom. “If you remain an easy target, they’ll keep coming at you.”

  I splashed water on my face. “Maybe I’ll just blow the whole thing off.”

  Right.

  If I hoped to fight Kit’s proposed relocation, now wasn’t the time to make waves. Severing ties to Charleston was a bad idea. Plus, I needed reasons to get out of the house, and cotillion was a can’t-miss excuse.

  Ugh.

  “Skipping events is not a solution.” Chance tracked me with his eyes as I moved to my desk. “Those girls won’t disappear.”

  “Maybe I will,” I muttered. “You heard Kit.”

  On impulse, I googled the town of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. The results did nothing to improve my mood.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “What?” Chance hopped from the bed to read over my shoulder.

  “Worse and worse,” I moaned. “I can’t buy a break.”

  “Yikes. There was a chemical weapons facility there?” Chance chuckled. “At least they closed it. I’m sure most of the nerve gas has gone inert. Almost all.”

  The humor escaped me.

  I crossed to my closet, closed the door, and grabbed a tank top and shorts. Thinking better of it, I changed into sweats.

  Chance whistled when I reemerged. “Nice swag. But perhaps too much ankle?”

  “Sleeping on my floor is a privilege, you know. There’s space in the garage.”

  Chance raised both hands in mock surrender. “Just point me to my patch.”

  “Over there.” I indicated a gap between my bed and the far wall. “You won’t be visible from the doorway.”

  Chance saluted.

  “If Kit sees you,” I said sweetly as I handed him a pillow, “you broke through the window and attacked me.”

  “Nice.” Chance slithered into the tight space. “No one can fault your graciousness.”

  I turned off the lamp and crawled into bed. Then I lay still, listening in the dark.

  Chance was three feet away. I couldn’t believe how surreal events had become. Ridiculously, I regretted choosing to wear sweats to bed.

  Get a grip, Tory. This is no time for puppy love.

  But it wasn’t that easy. I’d crushed on Chance all last year, and feelings like that are hard to squash. They tended to pop up at inconvenient times. Like now.

  Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stop thinking about how close Chance was. How easy it would be to get a lot closer.

  Fantasies began cycling in my head, each more scandalous than the one before.

  My cheeks burned.

  Disturbed by how shallow I was being, I reminded myself of his many betrayals. Chance had toyed with my emotions, playing head games to throw me off track. He’d lied to my face repeatedly, had even pointed a gun at my head.

  His mind fractured that night. Don’t forget he’s not well.

  Yet, even damaged, Chance had a magnetism that no one else could mat
ch. Lying in my bed, listening to him breathe, I could feel the pull.

  Chance’s voice broke the silence. “You can’t dodge Madison forever.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Interesting. I never pegged you for a coward.”

  That touched a nerve. “If you’re such an expert, tell me what you’d do.”

  I heard fumbling at my bedside, then the lamp flicked on.

  “There’s only one way to deal with a bully.” Chance was sitting up, looking right at me, his dark eyes reflecting the lamplight. “No fear.”

  “No fear?” I cocked my head. “That’s it? That’s your big advice?”

  Mocking phrases popped to mind, but I held my tongue. Once more, I wondered at the absurdity of the escaped mental patient Chance Claybourne crashing on my bedroom floor, giving me life advice. What a world.

  “Bullies are inherently insecure,” Chance continued. “They attack those they perceive as weak, so that by humiliating them they can feel better about themselves. But bullies always run from a fair fight.”

  “Okay, Dr. Phil. So what am I supposed to do?”

  “You want those bitches off your back?” Chance fist-slammed his palm. “Give as good as you get. Don’t retreat. Attack.”

  He was right. I couldn’t avoid the Tripod forever. And even if I did, someday other tormenters would take their place.

  I had to get tough. Stand up for myself.

  “No fear, huh?”

  Chance nodded. “No fear.”

  CHARLESTON COUNTRY CLUB occupies the northern tip of James Island, just across the harbor from downtown.

  Elegant and exclusive, the club provides its members with easy access to tennis courts, swimming pools, and eighteen manicured holes.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, Kit dropped me at the elegant wood-and-stucco clubhouse.

  I wore a strapless Nicole Miller cocktail dress. Mocha. Sleek and form fitting. And borrowed, of course.

  By silent agreement, we’d avoided conversation the entire drive.

  “Two hours?” Kit finger-tapped the wheel, anxious about last night’s bombshells.

  “One,” I replied.

  He nodded. “Have fun.”

  I stumbled while stepping to the curb. I’d barely slept. Hiding Chance had frazzled my nerves. As had the prospect of a new encounter with the Tripod.

  Taking a moment to gather myself, I repeated Chance’s advice in my head.

  Stand your ground. Fight back. No fear.

  Shoulders squared, I strode into the foyer.

  Expensive Persian rugs covered a dark hardwood floor overhung by a massive crystal chandelier. Twin grand staircases curved upward along each wall.

  A regency table held a flower-filled vase and a silver-framed placard announcing that brunch would be served outside by the putting green.

  Standing next to the table was Rodney Brincefield.

  Dear God. What was he doing here?

  “Tory.” Brincefield smiled broadly. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  “Hello.” Startled, I said nothing more.

  “I didn’t know you frequented the club.” Brincefield wore a charcoal suit and black wingtip shoes. I was unsure if he was an employee, guest, or member.

  “I’m here for the garden brunch,” I said. “For cotillion.”

  “Wonderful. How goes the treasure hunt?” He lowered his voice. “Any clues?”

  Flashbulb image. An antique red station wagon weaving through traffic, tracking the Virals to Morris Island.

  I opted for directness. “Mr. Brincefield, have you been following me?”

  “Following you?” The bright blue eyes bored into me. “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “It’s just, I keep running into you.”

  “I’ve been walking the same treads for decades.” Brincefield chuckled. “It’s you that recently appeared in my world.”

  Fair point. I’d only seen Brincefield at places I’d never been before.

  Maybe I was following him.

  I didn’t notice Brincefield inching closer. When he next spoke, the snowy eyebrows nearly brushed mine.

  “Have you found it?” he whispered. “Do you know the volume?”

  I hopped backward. “What are you talking about?”

  Footsteps sounded behind me. “Tory?”

  I turned to see Jason bang into the room, a pair of wooden folding chairs tucked under each arm.

  “Did you just get here?” Jason shifted his weight, searching for a comfortable grip. “Everyone’s out on the lawn. I got stuck hauling things again.”

  “On my way.” I turned back to Brincefield. “Sorry, gotta run!”

  I hurried to the rear doors. In the mirror, I saw Brincefield watch me exit.

  Outside, I suppressed a shudder.

  Had Brincefield been waiting for me? His last question had been intense, almost manic. What did he mean? Perhaps the old man wasn’t harmless after all.

  Focus. You’re exposed.

  I stepped behind a stand of trees just as Jason emerged. After glancing around, he lugged his payload over to a white pavilion.

  Screened from view, I surveyed the scene.

  Most of the cotillion crowd had arrived. Blue bloods milled, chatting, wearing their newest finery. Women in bright sundresses held tiny plates heaped with sliced cantaloupe, honeydew, strawberries, and cheese. Fake laughter floated on the air.

  Impulsive decision: no more surprises.

  If an attack was coming, I wanted all my powers in place.

  SNAP.

  The transformation came swiftly, leaving me trembling and gasping as usual. I held position, willing the burning in my limbs to cease.

  My receptors kicked into high-definition.

  Slipping on my shades, I stepped from the trees and joined the party.

  The adults had congregated by buffet tables under the pavilion. My classmates strolled the putting green a few dozen yards away.

  Jason spotted me and waved.

  Swallowing my apprehension, I walked to his side.

  “There you are.” His tie was loose, his top button undone. “You disappeared.”

  “Bathroom break. Still on setup crew?”

  “Indentured servitude. The geniuses only set out fifty chairs.”

  Eyes hidden, I covertly searched for the Tripod. Nowhere in sight.

  Then a deeply southern voice called Jason’s name.

  “Again?” He groaned. “This woman is a grade-A dingbat. Back in a minute.”

  Jason followed an elderly woman inside the clubhouse.

  I was alone.

  Determined to make the best of my situation, I mingled, hanging on the fringes of a few group conversations. No one spoke to me, but no one chased me away, either. Progress.

  Then my finely tuned ears caught the sound I dreaded.

  Madison. Somewhere behind me.

  I flexed my sonic ability, trying to tease her voice from the cacophony of gossip and giggles.

  “… be sorry this time. Someone has to teach her …”

  “Now.” Ashley. “Jason’s gone inside.”

  Fabric swished in my direction.

  I took a deep breath. No fear.

  “Boat girl.”

  I ignored the taunt.

  “Boat. Girl.”

  Slowly, I turned.

  Madison stood a few feet from me, arms crossed, flanked by her sycophant flunkies. She’d spoken loudly, intending her performance to be very public.

  My pulse raced. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  Madison arranged her features in a puzzled expression. “I thought we made it clear you weren’t welcome here?”

  Conversations halted. A loose circle formed. Feral excitement gleamed in the onlookers’ eyes. The crowd smelled blood.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Courtney parroted.

  “Nope.” Ashley flashed a predatory smile. “This isn’t for you.”

  “It’s a free country.” But my voice was shaky.


  “Actually, it’s not.” Madison giggled. “It’s quite pricey. But I imagine you wish that were true, since you can’t afford places like this.”

  Scattered chuckles. I could sense the crowd holding its collective breath. Not a voice spoke in my defense.

  The silence lengthened, but I was determined not to break it. This was Madison’s show. If she wanted drama, she’d have to carry the performance.

  Then a familiar scent drifted my way.

  Beneath the Dior perfume and La Mer body lotion, Madison emitted the aroma of nervousness.

  Outwardly, she looked relaxed. But my enhanced vision noted her tense muscles, saw the tightness to her jaw. The vein in her neck was pumping mile-a-minute.

  The confident pose was an act. Madison Dunkle was wound tighter than a snare drum.

  “You’re out of your depth, Tory.” Madison pitched her voice to carry. “And not just here. Bolton Prep is far too prestigious to accept riffraff out of misguided pity.”

  “Pity?” My face was burning, but I kept my tone calm.

  Ashley laughed. “Everyone knows you can’t afford the tuition. They only let your pathetic group attend because some lame administrator needed a good deed for PR.”

  “But we’re the ones who suffer.” Madison shook her head in solemn distress. “Deserving students, forced to share classrooms with a band of island hicks. It’s a wonder we learn anything at all.”

  Enough. Chance said to attack? Done and done.

  “I’m not deserving?” I rolled my eyes. “Last I checked, I outscored you in every class we shared. You know, the sophomore courses I took as a freshman?”

  Madison’s eyes widened. She covered her anxiety with a smirk, but the nervous smell ripened.

  I didn’t let up. “Unlike you, I bust my ass every day. That’s why I’m a Bolton Scholar and you’re not. We’ll both be taking the AP schedule next year. If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll agree to tutor you.”

  Madison’s smirk wavered. Another scent flooded my nose.

  Embarrassment.

  I’d hit a nerve.

  The answer dawned on me.

  “You were accepted into the AP program, right?” My face was the model of sincerity. “I know you applied.”

  Madison stiffened. “You don’t know anything.”

  My nose told me otherwise.