Trace Evidence: A Virals Short Story Collection

by Kathy Reichs

  Not usually from ingesting a covertly manufactured antiviral serum created in hopes of reversing a catastrophic DNA mutation—one granting infected subjects extrasensory canine superpowers—but whatever. It happens.

  Whitney stared at the ceiling, looking hopeless. “We left home, had brunch at the hotel, then came straight here,” she said glumly. “I had everything in my travel bag. But the garter has simply vanished!”

  Something clicked. “Didn’t you pay for brunch?”

  Whitney nodded impatiently. “Overpaid, if you ask me. Runny eggs, scorched toast, plus the mimosas were—” She cut off abruptly as I arrowed for the window.

  In the courtyard below, guests were already being seated. I spotted Hi and Shelton, both looking uncomfortable in their tuxes as they ushered friends and family members to the rows of white folding chairs facing the altar.

  As I watched, Hi awkwardly extended an elbow for Madison Dunkle, which she took, even though she’d clearly arrived with Jason Taylor. Those two had been dating for several months, and the odd match seemed to be working. Maddy would never be my favorite person in the world—too much shady history between us for that—but I was happy they’d found each other. Unsure of decorum, Jason followed on their heels as Hi led Maddy to a pair of open seats on the groom’s side.

  Just behind them, Shelton was attempting to shepherd Jason’s mother, Agnes, down the aisle, but Mr. Taylor rebuffed him with a friendly wink, escorting his wife himself. Shelton trailed them for a few steps, then shrugged and turned around, leaving the detective and his wife to find their own seats. Professional ushers my friends were not.

  The next pair stifled my amusement.

  Chance and Ella.

  Why did we invite them?

  That wasn’t fair. For all the trouble Chance Claybourne had caused over the last few years, he’d also come up big when we’d needed him most. Chance’s quick thinking was one of the only reasons I was attending my father’s wedding at all, instead of banging my head against a cage door in some top-secret government lab.

  Still.

  His betrayals ran deep. Chance had created most of my problems in the first place.

  And Ella Francis . . .

  She was my best girl friend. Even now. She’d apologized more times than I could count, and I knew she meant every one. Ella had backed me in the end, too, when the chips were down.

  But, still.

  The knife wounds in my back were still healing.

  I could close my eyes and smell the charred ruins of our clubhouse.

  It is what it is.

  Chance stopped abruptly, as if responding to a sixth sense. He turned. Looked straight up at the window.

  My breath caught, and I ducked away like an idiot.

  Had he felt me watching him? No. How could he, with his powers snuffed out?

  Yet my nerves were thrumming like guitar strings.

  Chance remained irritatingly beautiful, seemed to grow more darkly handsome by the day. More than a few local debs gave Ella the stink eye when spotting them out together, though she was no less captivating than he was. With her three-foot cable of lustrous black hair, and dancing, mischievous eyes, Ella was the prettiest girl I knew in real life. Small wonder Chance was hooked. Let the haters hate.

  Not me, though. I made my choice.

  “Tory?” My head whipped to Whitney, who’d sat up and was eyeing me curiously. “Did you find it?”

  “Not yet, but I will.” Feeling foolish, I swung back to the window. Chance and Ella were strolling down the aisle, unescorted. They grabbed a pair of seats on the bride’s side.

  Interesting.

  Random, or deliberate?

  Shrug. Trying to divine answers from the actions of Chance Claybourne has never been a profitable business. Not for me, at least.

  Then I spotted my original target, and my heart swelled.

  Ben Blue. My Ben.

  He looked miserable in his penguin suit, but that doesn’t mean bad. His shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, exposing his tanned face and sharp brown eyes. Ben was supposed to be ushering like Hi and Shelton, but he’d planted himself by the guest book, smiling uncomfortably as people paraded by, his natural shyness winning out.

  Ben sensed my attention as well. He squinted up at my window, then smiled—the open, unguarded version reserved only for me. My stomach did a backflip.

  Benjamin Blue.

  My boyfriend. Mine.

  It was weird. It was wonderful. It was still hard to believe.

  This is the worst day of my life, Ben sent, the sour thought at odds with his quirked lips. I feel like a movie theater host.

  Ben’s irises grew muddier as his voice sounded inside my head.

  His reaction was easiest to cover. Add blue to brown, you get more brown.

  Classier than that, I sent back, my own eyes brightening to a crystal-clear blue, with only flecks of green remaining. Maybe an upscale steakhouse? Anyway, you look very handsome.

  I look like a jackass. When do I get to see you?

  Soon. I cannot wait to escape this room. Whitney is a Bridezilla.

  We can disappear. This building must have some fancy hiding places.

  Ben’s emotions were streaming up at me, and I blushed. Could he read me as easily?

  Not that I minded sharing my feelings. Not with him. Not anymore.

  Just in time for him to leave.

  I pushed the painful thought away. Hoped he hadn’t caught it.

  Ben had graduated from Wando High in the spring, and had been accepted at Warren Wilson College in Asheville. In less than a month he’d be moving to the Appalachians to pursue a degree in environmental science. I was insanely proud of him. Rotten timing, for sure, but we’d make it work. I’d drive the four hours up I-26 every weekend if I had to.

  “Tory?” Whitney squeaked, insistent. “What are you doing? We have a problem here!”

  “One sec!” Averting my eyes, though in her current state I doubt she’d have noticed their sudden blueness. A far cry from when they’d blazed with golden fire.

  Is Whitney being awful? Ben sent, his speech weaker in my mind since we’d broken eye contact. I bet she’s being awful.

  That’s how it worked now, with all four of us. No more mind-wrenching snaps. No explosions of overwhelming sensory perception. No inrush of visceral power. Everything came smooth and easy, though slightly muted from our previous highs.

  We were connected all the time, our flaring effects dulled from a roaring fire that was hard to ignite—and extinguish—to a low simmer that never fully dissipated.

  No more tells, either. Just an ocular flush of blue when we communicated.

  It’d been almost a year since that morning in the woods. Our current condition had developed slowly, then stabilized. This . . . icing effect felt like a new normal, but who knew what the future might bring? I’d learned—repeatedly—that I never did.

  Something buzzed inside my head. I glanced at Hiram, who waved. He’d picked up our conversation and, of course, had to chime in. Old ladies smell weird. FYI.

  I rolled my eyes. Noted.

  Shelton stomped over to stand beside Hi, shading his now-bluish eyes as he scowled up at my second floor perch. I’m doing twice the escorting as these two fools put together. I should get a bonus.

  This is supposed to be an honor, I scolded, mock-stern. Now get back to it. I need Ben.

  I bet you do, Hi deadpanned. What can only be described as kissing noises echoed in my skull, followed by Shelton’s laughter.

  Doofuses. I hoped my scarlet cheeks were too far away for Ben to notice. Unlikely, since we could all see like eagles. Can you check on something for me? I asked him.

  Of course, Ben replied.

  The cloakroom by the entrance. See if there’s a gold clut
ch inside Whitney’s black coat.

  A what now?

  I snorted. A slim, flat handbag. If you find it, bring it up here on the double.

  Will do.

  I slowly turned to face Whitney, my irises fading back to aquamarine. She was slumped sideways across on the divan, one arm thrown over her face.

  “I signaled for Ben to get your coat.” Mostly true. “Could the garter be in your clutch?”

  Whitney popped up like a champagne cork, her face electric. “Yes! It is! I put it there for safekeeping! Tory, you’re a genius!” She swept forward and crushed me in a bear hug.

  “Just doing my job,” I wheezed.

  Whitney drew back to arm’s length, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I’m so happy to be joining your family, honey. I’ll be the best stepmother you could hope for! You’ll see!”

  “Yeah.” I coughed into a fist. She tries hard. Never forget that. “It’s gonna be . . . great.”

  A soft knock. Whitney released me with a small cry, her expression scandalized. “No one can see me yet!” Lifting her dress, she fled into the bathroom.

  “Good lord.” Shaking my head, I walked over and opened the door.

  There he was. Ben.

  My stomach did another double axel.

  Soooo cute.

  Ben held up his prize. “I really hope this is a clutch.”

  “Bingo.” With a relieved sigh, I snapped the gaudy thing open. Whitney’s garter was neatly folded inside. “Congrats, Blue. You’re the hero.”

  One of his hands found my waist. “Doesn’t the hero usually get a reward?”

  I grinned wickedly, tapping him on the chest. “Naughty boy. It’s not our wedding day.”

  “Close enough.” Pulling me in.

  Our lips met, and all other thoughts fled.

  For a hot second only.

  Then Hiram’s voice hissed inside my skull.

  Tory, we’ve got a problem! Get down here ASAP!

  They were all clearly dead.

  Every flower, every centerpiece.

  Wilted petals. Broken, flaccid stems. Murky brown water filled the bottom of each crystal vase, soiling the white rocks artfully placed within. The same horror repeated throughout the ballroom.

  I gasped, a hand shooting to my forehead. “What happened to the lilies?”

  We stood at the entrance to the ballroom, surveying the carnage. The reception was scheduled to begin immediately after the outdoor church service, but now the decorations were only appropriate for a gothic rave. All the dying plants gave me the chills.

  “I came in here to stash my mother’s purse, and found this.” Hiram’s nose crinkled in a grimace. “It even smells bad. Like the Walking Dead crashed your dad’s wedding.”

  “This makes no sense!” Shelton was tugging an earlobe. “I saw this room like forty-five minutes ago, and everything looked great. They even had those Mag League snobs in here taking pictures. The place was perfect.”

  “Where are the stupid florists?” I spat. We were the only ones present at the moment.

  “They left a while back,” Ben said disgustedly. “I saw them go. The head guy told your aunt Tempe that everything was all set up.”

  “Oh boy.” I covered my eyes. “What do we do?”

  Whitney had designed and planned everything, forgoing a full-time wedding coordinator. Despite the hundreds of tiny details involved, she hadn’t wanted anyone else “in the way” at her nuptials. While no one doubted her ability to handle the task—Whitney was born to dream up and execute extravagant events—her dictatorial micromanagement had left a leadership vacuum here on the big day. Kit’s mother, Harry, was supposed to be coordinating the vendors, but she’d proven hopeless at it, so Aunt Tempe and some of the other ladies were helping out.

  Hi blew out a breath. “I’m no flower scientist, but I’m pretty sure they’re supposed to last longer than a half hour. Methinks you’re entitled to a refund.”

  “Like that’ll do us any good.” I thought of Whitney, still nervously prepping upstairs, and my stomach dropped through my shoes. “You guys, Whitney will not be able to handle this. She’s a mess already. When she sees Stephen King’s floral arrangements . . .”

  Hi snorted. “That actually might be funny. We could YouTube it.”

  He yelped as Ben smacked the back of his head.

  “We have to fix this.” I pressed my fists to my forehead, thinking. “Should we call the florists back? I don’t have their number, plus their shop is all the way in Mount Pleasant. And they won’t have a truckload of backup centerpieces just lying around, anyway. Or even the same flowers.”

  “A different place?” Ben suggested doubtfully. “Somewhere close? Or maybe we could snag the flowers for the outdoor service, and swap them in here?”

  Shelton shook his head. “In front of all those people? Everyone would freak. And then the actual wedding would look like trash.”

  “Shoot!” I stomped a foot. “No one can fix this in time. Two hundred white lilies don’t fall from the sky!”

  “No,” Hi said seriously. “They grow in the ground.”

  I gave him a nasty look, but Shelton’s clap grabbed my attention.

  “That’s it!” He smiled wide, then pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room. “There are flowers outside. Hundreds of them!”

  Ben frowned. “You’re the one who said we can’t swap the arrangements.”

  “No!” Shelton was bouncing on his balls of his feet. “Not the courtyard! I’m talking about the botanical garden on the other side of the building! Flowers grow in the ground, just like Hi said!”

  My eyes rounded. “We raid their flower garden! That’s genius!”

  Hi shook out his sleeves, then tugged on his cuffs. “Let’s all remember that this was my idea. Sometimes brilliance strikes like lightning, whereas—”

  Ben smacked Hi again, but kept his focus on me. “What types of flowers do they have back there?”

  I shook my head, nerves returning as I strategized the best course of action. “Whatever they are, we have to make it work.”

  Shelton’s enthusiasm abruptly dried up. “I’m guessing the manager won’t love us destroying their award-winning garden. That’s for real, by the way. This place won awards.”

  Wince. Shrug. “We’ll pay them back. Kit will. I’m sure.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Ben asked.

  I took a calming breath. “Ben, go tell Kit what happened. Get his permission to raid the garden—tell him it’s the only way to keep Whitney from imploding. Then meet me back there.”

  “And if he doesn’t say yes?”

  “Get him to!”

  Ben nodded, trotted for the door.

  I turned to Shelton. “I need you to round up Tempe and Harry. Tell them what happened, and then bring them to the garden with whomever else they want to include. Someone has to decide what to pick for the new arrangements. I don’t have a clue.”

  Shelton clicked his tongue. “Great. Round up some old ladies at a wedding and get them to commit vandalism. No problem at all.” But he hurried to carry out my instructions.

  “I assume you want me to go have a snack?” Hi suggested hopefully.

  My hands found my hips. “I saved the best for you, Mr. Brilliant. I need you to clean all this up. Every dead flower has to go, every vase needs to be rinsed out and scrubbed. The rocks, too. I’m counting on you.”

  Hi groaned. “Maybe we should reconsider this whole thing.” He waved a hand at the morbid lily centerpieces. “These arrangements have a certain . . . serial killer . . . charm.”

  I gave him a flat look. “Get moving.”

  As Hi trudged to the closest table, bemoaning his fate, I ran a hand across my face. The plan could work, but we had to move fast. I was about to track down the house manager—to calm
ly inform him that we intended to devastate his flowerbeds—when Hi’s voice echoed across the ballroom. “Tor! Come here a sec!”

  I spun, annoyed. “What is it, Hi? I have to go.”

  Hi was holding the first centerpiece, an odd look on his face. “Something’s not right.”

  Curiosity won out, and I hurried over to him. “What do you mean?”

  Hi shoved the wilting arrangement at my face. “Smell this.”

  I batted dead lily petals from my eyes, glaring at Hi. But then I noticed it, too. A faint chemical aroma, wafting from the vase water. Shoving my nose closer, I inhaled deeply, irises washing blue as my sensory powers amplified the odor.

  My nose wrinkled. The smell was harsh. Bitter. “What is that?”

  Hi shrugged. “Water mixed with . . . something. Maybe a fancy preservative?”

  I looked around at all the dead flowers. “Then why are they all dead? Super dead.”

  I took another whiff, concentrating on the bouquet of aromas emanating from the vase. Once upon a time, I was better at this—I could’ve told you what lake the water came from—but I could still sense that something was off.

  “I’m not certain,” I said slowly, “but part of this mixture smells like rubbing alcohol. There’s more, too. Another chemical. Acrid. It burns my nostrils.” I took a step back, shook my head to clear it. “All I can think of is . . . weed killer.”

  Hi snorted, pulling dead stems from the liquid. “Basically the last two things you’d use to keep plants alive. Stupendous job, florists! Prepare for a really bad review on Yelp.”

  “Seriously.” Yet the hairs on my arms were standing. How could such an obvious mistake occur? What kind of bonehead would place flowers into a solution that would kill them within minutes?

  The door opened, driving all other thoughts from my mind. Shelton slipped inside, followed by Aunt Tempe and Harry, Kit’s mom. She’s also technically my grandmother, but we hadn’t spent much time together. Harry’s an odd bird, to say the least.

  The two women froze, ogling the flower massacre.

  “What in God’s name?” Harry’s dyed-blond curls quivered as she stared in disbelief. “Who designed this look, Tim Burton?”