by Kathy Reichs
Only one word described her expression. Smug.
Something wasn’t right. I looked each of them over, top to toe.
Hiram lay flat on his back, legs outstretched, sneakers propped on the bench’s stone armrest. He wore an older style of tennis shoe—a black-and-white checkerboard pattern popular two decades back. Hideous.
I recognized the brand. In middle school, my daughter, Katy, had been obsessed with Vans.
But more importantly, with his feet up I could see the tread on his soles.
Waffle print.
Identical to the marks I’d found inside the garage and by Terry’s locker.
The marks I hadn’t described to Kit. Given Terry’s confession, my finding had no longer seemed important.
Casually, I pulled out my cell phone and examined the three photos I’d taken.
Then I stepped closer to Hiram and scanned the bottom of his shoe.
I’ll be damned.
Hiram noticed me eyeballing his footwear. Eyes narrowing, he tried to swing his feet away, but overbalanced and rolled off the bench.
“Nice one,” Sheldon/Elton said. Muscle Boy smirked.
I caught Hiram’s eye. “Cool shoes. Classic tread. Very distinctive.”
“Thanks?” He sounded a touch nervous.
Hi lurched back onto the bench, but kept his soles firmly planted on the ground.
In my periphery, I noticed Tory watching me intently. The smugness was gone.
My my my.
My eyes dropped to the images on my iPhone.
These four were hiding something. What?
I was sure they wouldn’t have done anything really wrong. But I was equally certain of something else: They’d been inside that garage.
I looked at Tory. Our eyes locked. She knew I was suspicious. Which confirmed my suspicion.
I held her gaze. Saw what I needed to see.
Keep your secret.
Pocketing my phone, I snagged Kit’s elbow. “Come on, Monsieur L’Directeur. These guys didn’t come out here to hang with us.”
“Right.” Kit ruffled Tory’s hair. “Stay out of trouble.”
Walking back toward Building One, I felt eyes on my back. Knew Tory was tracking our retreat.
And I had a devilish thought.
“Give me a sec, Kit. I’ll meet you inside.”
“Sure thing.”
I snagged my phone and selected the best footprint photo of the series.
Attached it to a text message.
Selected the recipient.
Hit send.
Paused. Waited.
Out in the courtyard, I saw Tory reach into her pocket. She glanced down, then stiffened.
Her eyes whipped my way.
With a five-finger-waggle, I slipped inside.
Gotcha.
It’s safe to say I’d never seen anything like it.
Comic-Con.
Nerd Nirvana. Geek Paradise.
The entertainment event of the year, every year.
And the boys and I were at ground zero, strolling the packed exhibit hall floor.
“Check out that guy.” Ben nudged my arm, nodded toward a gawky teenager dressed in a puzzling assemblage of red-and-blue-cardboard boxes. The pimple-faced boy was leaning against one of the room’s massive pillars, scarfing a slice of pizza. “I didn’t know Optimus Prime was a fan of pepperoni.”
My nose crinkled at the sight. “Robots need fuel, too, I guess.”
Ben shook his head, a smirk framing his dark brown eyes. “No. Just, no.”
I was forced to jump aside as a gaggle of black-robed ninjas stormed past us, intent on a free T-shirt line forming at the video-gaming station just ahead. My fourth near-trampling of the morning.
“This place is crazy!” Edging farther from the cavernous chamber’s main thoroughfare, I ran fingers through my tangled red hair. “I might buy one of those Hunger Games bows for personal protection.”
“Crazy awesome, you mean.” Hi’s voice. Somewhere behind me. “I’m never leaving this convention. Ever. Tell my mother. I live here now. How come no one ever mentioned Comic-Con before? This is the sum total of everything cool in the universe.”
I sighed, turned. Abandoned my effort to make it look like we weren’t together.
Hi’s chubby face beamed as he took in the fanboy glory surrounding us. He wore an unlicensed Iron Man costume purchased online. The full-body red-and-yellow spandex left little to the imagination. A dozen people had asked for his picture already.
Shelton stood beside Hi, in a daze, dressed like Obi-Wan Kenobi: tan robes, black leather utility belt, flowing brown cloak. And his boxy black specs, of course. We’d just passed the Lucasfilm floor display—complete with Han Solo frozen in carbonite—and he’d yet to recover the ability to speak.
Ben rubbed his face with both hands. “I told you guys not to talk to me in those . . . outfits.” He was wearing his standard jeans and plain black tee. Shocker.
Hi snorted. “This is Comic-Con, bro. You’re the one that looks out of place.”
Frankly, he was right.
The exhibit hall was packed, with more visitors rocking cosplay than not. The giant room had been divided into sections, then rows, then booths, each packed with the weirdest stuff imaginable. I’d never seen so many bizarre things crammed into one place. “Geek Paradise” was putting it lightly.
I’d made a token effort in the wardrobe department: Wonder Woman tank, blue shorts.
I’ll fly my freak flag, but only a smidgen.
After all, the whole reason we were there was to see Tempe.
Can’t look the fool in front of Dr. Temperance Brennan. No, ma’am.
We’d stopped beside a wooden pirate ship rising twenty feet from the floor, complete with swashbuckling actors brandishing cutlasses and handing out promotional hats. Across the aisle, zombies in prison uniforms were locked inside a chain-link fence, mumbling about the new season of their show, returning Sundays at ten.
We’d been there an hour and barely crossed a third of the convention floor. The room stretched on and on, jammed by endless rows of comic-book vendors, TV and film promotions, memorabilia displays, novelties sales, and every other oddity under the sun.
More madness per square foot than any other place on earth.
And 100,000 people to go crazy over it, of course.
I was about to forge back into the herd of wide-eyed weekend superheroes when noise exploded around me. Lights began flashing at one of the towering movie studio booths just ahead. Ominous piano music boomed from its massive speakers as celebrity faces appeared on a bank of giant TV screens: the cast of some vampire show on cable.
“Nobody move!” I warned, my danger sense tingling.
Sure enough, a herd of teenage girls thundered down the walkway, fangs exposed, black leather jackets flapping, their white-painted faces contorted by screams of ecstasy.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ben shouted through cupped hands to be heard over the thumping music. “Where are we meeting your aunt Tempe?”
“Her panel ended ten minutes ago.” I pointed beyond the crush of jabbering supernatural creatures to a less congested area of the exhibit hall. “She’s signing books at her publisher’s booth, somewhere over there.”
Tempe had spoken in one of the conference rooms upstairs, where the lunacy was slightly more contained. The second floor of the convention center hosts earnest discussions on topics of all kinds: YA fiction. The legal rights of zombies. LARPing. How to master Dungeons & Dragons. You name it. And that’s not even mentioning the bigger ballrooms, which present the major TV show panels, movie launches, and celebrity appearances. But those events are next to impossible to get into, so we didn’t bother. No way I’d stand in line all day. Not when there was so much else to see.
“I�
�m making a break for it.” Tucking his black hair behind his ears, Ben shouldered his way into the crowd. “See you on the other side.”
I waved at Hi and Shelton, who’d stumbled into a group of costumed superheroes.
“Let’s go.” I pointed beyond the bloodsucker traffic jam.
“I just photo-bombed the Avengers!” Hi cried, red-faced and glowing.
Thumbs up. I try not to be a hater.
Tempe’s presence at the convention explained ours. A year earlier, she’d written a section of a nonfiction book examining the exploding popularity of forensic science in pop culture. To everyone’s surprise, the work had become a national bestseller.
Attempting to maintain sales momentum, the publisher had booked Tempe for a Comic-Con panel entitled “Forensic Science in Entertainment: The Effects of New Scientific Principles on Old-School Mystery Writing.”
A free trip to San Diego isn’t something my great-aunt will turn down.
After some googling, Hi had insisted we tag along.
Surprisingly, Kit had agreed. Or perhaps not so surprisingly—a few days without the daughter around must’ve appealed to Dad. His girlfriend, Whitney, had seemed positively delighted at the prospect.
Hi’s mother took some convincing, and Shelton’s parents made him promise to call twice a day, but both eventually granted permission. Ben had no trouble at all. So Tempe secured the badges, and here we were. Sunny San Diego in mid-July. The epicenter of media rollouts.
We wormed into the slow-moving press of bodies, pausing occasionally to whisper and point. I swear, some girls will use any event as a chance to show too much skin—if I never see another slave Princess Leia costume again, it’ll be too soon. Though I doubt my male companions would agree.
Eventually, we reached the book section, a slightly quieter neighborhood.
“Look!” Hi elbowed Shelton’s ribs. “Those chicks are dressed like Khaleesi! The Mother of Dragons! We. Need. That. Pic.”
“Those are Night’s Watch dudes with them.” Shelton raised both arms, smiling ear to ear. “That crew might be our best friends!” The two took off without a backward glance.
I glanced at Ben, who shrugged. “I’m a Sansa man.”
My eyes rolled. “Let’s just find Tempe. You can hunt cosplay fantasies later.”
Ben’s eyebrows quirked into an “innocent-man” look. “I didn’t just run off to Westeros. Lead the way. Maybe Tempe’s in that Ewok village up ahead.”
Weaving through a throng of steampunkers, I finally spotted Tempe, sitting at a folding table, chatting with fans and signing books. The line stretched around the corner and out of sight. Behind her stood an officious-looking man in a charcoal-gray suit. He was grinning broadly, no doubt tabulating the number of books sold. Tempe’s appearance was clearly a success.
Angling toward the booth, Ben and I were halted by a burly-armed woman in a yellow “Event Staff” polo. “Sorry,” she huffed, pointing in the opposite direction, “but the line ends two rows over, near those Batman stuffed animals.”
I smiled politely. “Thank you, but we’re actually with the author.”
“Of course you are, dear.” Skeptical. “You have special passes . . . or some such thing?”
I shuffled my feet, somehow feeling awkward even though I was right. “No, ma’am. I don’t think there are passes for that.” I edged sideways to see around the woman’s shoulder. “If I could just . . .”
I waved for Tempe’s attention. Failed to snag it.
Ben stepped in. “Dr. Brennan is family. She’s expecting us.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” But the woman didn’t move. “You’re her . . . ?”
“Niece and nephew,” Ben said firmly, easing the two of us past the still-hesitant line monitor. “We just need to grab her attention.”
We hurried forward. The yellow shirt spun to watch us.
“Nephew?” I whispered.
“What, you don’t see the family resemblance?”
“Uncanny.”
Just then Aunt Tempe glanced up, spied us, and signaled for us to join her. The guard returned her attention to the queue, eyes hunting for new line-jumping transgressors.
“Hey, kiddos!” Tempe’s face was flushed, from exertion or all the attention, I wasn’t sure. “See anything cool?”
“There’s a life-sized Superman made of Legos.” I slid around to Tempe’s side of the table. Several impatient autograph seekers watched with jealous eyes. I guess the book really was a hit.
“I never had enough patience for Legos.” Then Tempe nodded to a mountain of gray drawstring pouches stacked near the end of her table. “Be sure to take a swag bag.”
I scooped one and tugged it open. “Oh, neat idea!”
Inside was a rudimentary CSI kit: an LED penlight, two rubber gloves, a tiny magnifying glass, and a pocket-sized booklet on proper crime scene investigative techniques.
Ben mumbled a quiet hello, eyes glued to his sneakers. For some reason Tempe made him uncomfortable. Although, to be fair, almost all adult interactions had the same effect on Ben.
Tempe greeted the next person in line, answered a question, then signed her name on the title page. “Where are Hi and Shelton?” she asked, without looking up.
“Not sure.” Then I spotted them, being held up by the same insufferable guard lady.
“On it.” Ben scooted off to the rescue.
“How long are you going to sign here?” I asked Tempe.
“As long as books keep selling, right, Dr. Brennan?” Hovering at Tempe’s elbow, the gray-suited man flashed an obsequious smile.
“Yes, Miles,” Tempe replied pleasantly. “I’ll sign them all. No need to fret.”
“No worries at all,” the man said smoothly, raking his comb-over with long, spindly fingers. “This is simply wonderful, Dr. Brennan. Things are going even better than I’d hoped.”
“So glad I could help,” Tempe quipped, but I noticed a twinkle in her eyes.
She was enjoying herself. Everyone loves a taste of fame.
The man extended a manicured hand. “Miles Stanwick, publicist, nonfiction.”
“Tory Brennan. Grandniece. High school.”
Stanwick’s grip was like a dead fish, clammy and limp.
I resisted an urge to wipe my palm.
The boys arrived, Hi chattering nonstop. “We posed on the bridge of a replica Starship Enterprise. That’s a genre cross-up, but who cares? I’m gonna Facebook the crap out of these pics!” Then he noticed Tempe was paying attention. “Oh. Err. Please excuse me, Dr. Brennan. I didn’t know that you . . . like . . . listened when we talk.”
“Not a problem.” Tempe smiled as a nervous college girl approached with a hardback. “And for the last time, call me Tempe. I plan on Facebooking some shots myself.”
As the boys pocketed gift bags, I rose to my tiptoes and peered down the aisle. At least a hundred people were waiting, with varying degrees of patience.
Tempe followed my sight line. “You guys should go. I’ll meet you when I’m done.”
“You sure?” I checked my watch. “The Bones panel begins in thirty. I was hoping to check it out.”
“You didn’t see the line,” Shelton groused, shaking his hooded head. “Imagine Space Mountain, but times a billion. Ain’t happening.”
“Wait.” Stanwick raised a well-manicured finger. “I was given a few VIP passes. I won’t be using them, so . . .”
Shelton and Hi closed in like jackals.
“You have passes?” Hi’s fingers dug into the sides of his costume. “That we can have?”
“For Ballroom Twenty?” Shelton. All business. “For realsies?”
“Yes.” Stanwick produced four tickets from his jacket pocket. “Enjoy.”
I knew he was trying to get rid of us, but didn’t care. Stanwick was offe
ring the most coveted thing at Comic-Con: access. We were all for that.
Hi literally yanked the passes from Stanwick’s hand. Then he winced. “Sorry. I just . . . this is big-time.”
“Understood. Now go have fun.” The man actually shooed us a little.
We spun, searching for the closest exit. The panel was upstairs, in the convention center’s second-largest venue.
Passing the overzealous guard, Hi stopped and waved the tickets. “Got those passes you were wondering about,” he announced in an overly loud voice. “Heading up to Ballroom Twenty.”
The lady nodded irritably. Others in the crowd cast envious glances. Hi ate it up.
I was about to scold him for showboating when a piercing scream rose above the exhibit hall’s usual din. Shouts erupted, followed by a hundred voices whispering at once.
Ben’s head swung left, then right. “What in the—”
A second bloodcurdling cry cut across the room. I finally located the source: Two rows over, a mob was ballooning in front of a large stage.
Something about the excited whispers. The craning necks. The flurry of camera flashes.
Whatever was happening didn’t feel scripted.
I glanced back at Tempe. She’d stopped signing, was studying me, a curious look on her face. “Something’s up,” I mouthed, pointing toward the hubbub.
Tempe rose and, despite startled protestations from Stanwick, slipped around the table to join me. A third howl split the air just as she arrived.
“Trouble?” Tempe asked.
“Think so,” I replied. “But who knows, here? Could be we’re all getting punked.”
One of her eyebrows rose. “Want to check it out?”
“Um, yeah.”
The man was dressed as RoboCop, armored head to foot by interlocking metal panels.
Impressive, had he not been the one screaming hysterically like an eight-year-old girl with a spider in her hair.
The throng behind him swelled, pointing and murmuring in hushed tones. Tempe and I cut through the gawkers, the boys on our heels, jockeying for a clear look.
RoboCop, visibly shaken, was staring up at the stage with both hands on his helmet. A younger man in a Joker costume stood dumbstruck at his side, mouth open and breathing hard.
