Terminal

by Kathy Reichs

  “I think it’s a warning.” I felt a rock in my gut. “And not for everyone. Just for us.”

  “Why say that?” Shelton squeaked. “We don’t even know these people!”

  I frowned. “Red eyes in the dunes, remember? For some reason, these Virals targeted me.”

  “And me,” Chance said softly.

  “If they get caught . . .” Hi’s eyes rounded like dinner plates. “They could spill the beans about us.”

  No one spoke as the harsh truth sunk in.

  These red-eyed Virals weren’t just an annoyance, or a mere curiosity.

  They were a threat to our safety.

  “So what do we do about it?” Chance drummed his fingers on the table. “And I do mean we. Can the five of us now agree we’re in this together?”

  All heads swiveled toward the bench.

  A tense moment stretched. Finally, Ben nodded. “In this one thing, we are.”

  “Capital!” Hi slapped his hands together. “I can already feel the love. But Chance asked the billion-dollar question—what next?”

  Ben rose and strode for the bunker’s entrance. “We go to Fort Sumter, obviously. Sewee’s down in the cove. We can be there in ten minutes.”

  Shelton stiffened. “What? You mean right now?”

  But Ben was already crawling outside. In seconds, his sneakers disappeared.

  “He’s nuts, right?” Shelton’s gaze darted from face to face. “We don’t need to see the vandalism in person. What’s the point? There’ll be dozens of photos online by tomorrow. The cops might still be around!”

  “Doing what?” Hi scoffed. “Guarding a stone wall? There’s nobody out there after sunset. Law dogs aren’t just gonna sit beside a tagged rock all night long for no reason. They’ve got a union to prevent that kind of thing.”

  “He’s right,” I said.

  “Who is?” Chance asked.

  Shelton gave me a hopeful look.

  “Ben.”

  Shelton smacked the table, grumbling under his breath.

  “Shelton does have a point, though,” said Chance. “Why go see the markings firsthand? We risk getting blamed for committing the crime.”

  “Damn right.” Shelton slumped in his chair. “Guilty people always return to the scene of the crime. Don’t y’all watch Law & Order?”

  “SVU or original?” Hi asked. “Because I’ve got casting issues with—”

  “If they return,” I interrupted, “we might catch them. But I’m not counting on that.”

  I gathered my thoughts as best I could. “It’s the words they used. One territory, one pack. That was meant for us alone, right? Which makes me wonder if there’s something more. Some additional message other people might not pick up on.”

  Chance pursed his lips in thought. “Like some sort of clue?”

  “More like a challenge.” My tone grew frosty. “These jerks seem to think they own the city. They’ve been on Morris Island. They went inside your mansion.” I pointed out the cannon-slit window. “Fort Sumter is practically on our doorstep.”

  The recitation gave me shivers.

  What else did these people know about us?

  Outside it was full dark, but floodlights ringed a hunk of rock rising from the dark ocean waters. Fort Sumter loomed in the harbor mouth, less than a mile from where we sat.

  “I’m sold.” Hi pushed himself up from his chair. “We can shoot over and take a look while the place is deserted, then bounce. Easy peasy, Japanesey.”

  Chance nodded, rising to his feet.

  We all looked at Shelton, who rolled his eyes. “Like my vote matters now.”

  Hi patted his back. “If it makes you feel better, your vote’s never mattered.”

  “Hilarious.” Shelton rubbed his face. “I hope my parole officer finds you as funny.”

  I sprang up and hurried for the exit, stopping Chance with a hand on his shoulder. “Give me a second alone with Ben. He’s still worked up, probably needs a few minutes to decompress.”

  Chance’s expression soured, but he held back.

  Hi fired a shooter my way. “Good idea. We need him mission focused. Roger dodger.”

  Shelton covered his face with his hands. “Enough already.”

  Slipping out into the warm night air, I scanned for Ben, but there was no sign. So I took the narrow path downhill to our secret anchorage below—surrounded by outthrusts of rock, the tiny bay was completely hidden from view by sea.

  My friend was aboard Sewee, untying his vessel from an ancient sunken post.

  “Ben?”

  No response.

  I slipped off my shoes and waded to the runabout. Pulled myself up the tiny ladder. Found Ben’s hand waiting at the rail. He effortlessly hoisted me into the boat, maneuvering my weight like it was nothing.

  I sometimes forgot how strong Ben was. How warm his hands could feel.

  Ben released me. Went back to coiling line.

  “Are you okay?” I immediately realized it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Of course I’m okay.” Gruff. Distant.

  I stood watching him, unsure what to say next. Unbidden, the image of a bench sprang to mind. The two of us, huddled close. Me crying in his arms.

  I felt blood rush to my face, was grateful for the concealing darkness.

  “No one expects you to like Chance,” I said finally.

  “Good.” Not looking up. “Because I don’t.”

  Another awkward silence. Then Ben huffed, “You like him enough for both of us.”

  I straightened, surprised. Was that what was bothering him? Jealousy?

  Why would Ben be jealous of Chance? After everything that spoiled boy had done to me?

  Did Ben think I was some ditz? That my memory reset with every pretty smile?

  Am I?

  I felt a nervous twinge in my stomach. Felt it grow.

  Ben. Jealous. Because of his feelings for me. The issue would not simply go away.

  “Ben. I . . .” Words failed. My face grew hot.

  How could I say he was being silly, without acknowledging what lay underneath?

  Ben’s hands stopped moving. He stared at the deck, his long black hair fanning around his face. He sucked in a breath, as if on the verge of something.

  Footsteps echoed from above.

  Gravel rolled down the trail as Hi lumbered into view. “Permission to board, captain?”

  Shelton and Chance followed, an excited wolfdog bouncing at their heels.

  Ben turned away, dropping into the captain’s seat. “Granted. Let’s get going.”

  I watched him, hoping he might look at me. Give some sign of what he’d been thinking.

  Ben’s hand spun. The engine fired to life.

  “Everyone grab a life jacket” was all he said. “And somebody help the dog.”

  Sewee’s motor purred as we eased out of the hidden cove.

  A full moon shimmered in the black, cloudless sky, providing more than enough light to see by as we slid across the glass-like water. Ben kept the running lights off. Dangerous—massive container ships traversed the harbor day and night, and our little boat wouldn’t survive a collision—but it wasn’t a good night to advertise an illegal trip to the national monument.

  Which lurked dead ahead.

  A stone’s throw from Morris Island, warning lights announced our destination: Fort Sumter. The shadowy, man-made hunk of rock guarded the entrance to Charleston Harbor, silent and implacable, a medieval fortress out of step with modern times.

  Ben cut the engine. As we drifted, I scanned the weathered battlements, alert for any sign someone might be home. Coop uncurled at my feet, rose, and stretched.

  A tense minute passed. My body relaxed a fraction.

  No sound. No movement. The island appear
ed to be empty.

  “Hiram?” I said.

  He needed no further prompting. “The Civil War’s first battle happened right here. Federal troops were holding Fort Sumter when South Carolina seceded from the Union in 1861, and they refused to hand it over to the Confederates. So the surrounding fortifications—almost certainly including our own bunker, by the way—blasted it with cannons and mortars for a day and a half. Eventually the soldiers inside gave up and sailed away. I’m pretty sure the only casualty was a horse.”

  Chance ran his fingers along the starboard rail. “Delightful.”

  Shelton piped up. “When the fort was operational, nobody could enter the harbor without facing these cannons. Sumter was the linchpin of Charleston’s harbor defenses, with Morris Island and Sullivan’s Island protecting its flanks. A tough nut to crack. The Union tried to take it back twice, and failed both times.”

  “Great history lesson.” Ben restarted the engine and nosed Sewee toward a small pier jutting from the rocky shoreline. “Skip ahead to something useful.”

  Hi spoke before Shelton could steal his thunder again. “Fort Sumter is an artificial island—seventy thousand tons of granite, stacked on a sandbar.” He pointed up at the thick stone battlements. “The building is a giant brick pentagon. The walls are sixty yards long and five feet thick, and rise fifty feet above the waterline. The fortification could house nearly seven hundred men, and had over a hundred big guns arrayed in tiers.”

  I gazed up at the gloomy fortress. “And now?”

  Hi looked surprised. “What? You’ve never been? This national treasure is like a thousand yards from your house. You could swim here.”

  “It’s on my list,” I said defensively.

  Ben snorted. Chance gave me the side-eye. Even Coop’s glance seemed reproachful.

  Well, excuse me.

  Hi shook his head like a disappointed father, but continued. “There’s a big museum downtown where you catch the ferry, and a smaller one out here. But, honestly, not much else. The outer shell surrounds that one building and a grassy courtyard. No frills, just massive walls facing the water, lined with cannons to rain death upon passing boats.”

  “Those wolf-head jokers could’ve tagged anywhere,” Shelton said. “All the walls inside look the same, but the fort isn’t big. We should find the message without any trouble. What we’re supposed to do then . . .”

  I didn’t respond. Because I didn’t know either.

  But my gut was certain: there was something out here for us to see.

  Something intended for Viral eyes.

  “We won’t know until we get there.” Chance steadied himself as Sewee kissed the dock. “No point worrying about it now.”

  Hi and Shelton scrambled over the rail and secured the lines. Chance presented a hand to Coop, then carefully lifted him onto the dock. Coop danced a few steps, shaking out his limbs before stretching into a perfect Downward Dog. Ben climbed out next, turned, and reached a hand back for me.

  A deep, suffocating silence enveloped our group as we snuck toward shore. The fort loomed overhead—a massive, intimidating stone monolith dominating the tiny islet. I tried to picture men living and working on this desolate rock, day after day. Couldn’t imagine it.

  We exited the pier onto a short, rocky beach. A tidy brown sign announced: FORT SUMTER NATIONAL MONUMENT. HOURS: 10:00 A.M.–5:30 P.M. Oh well.

  The path led to a sally port in the side of the fortress secured by massive steel doors. I examined them for any sign of electronic surveillance, found none.

  “I doubt they alarm the entrance,” Hi whispered. “This place is as isolated as it gets, and there’s nothing valuable to steal in the outer tiers.”

  “Just avoid the building in the middle.” Shelton, back pressed against the rough stonework. “That’s Battery Huger, built during the Spanish-American War. The museum’s inside it.”

  “We’ll stick to the battlements,” Ben said. “That’s where the vandals struck anyway.”

  I waved Shelton forward. “You’re up.”

  Shelton nodded reluctantly, dropping to a knee and removing his lock-pick set. “These locks are fossils.” He worked quickly, inserting the fine tools, then moving his fingers clockwise with precision. In moments I heard a sharp click.

  Shelton rose with a nervous smile. “Might as well not lock this at all.”

  I whistled for Cooper, who had strayed down the beach and was snuffling everything in sight. Chance swung the door open and we slipped inside.

  We entered a low-ceilinged chamber supported by bulky brick columns. Archways on both sides revealed a line of similar rooms stretching in both directions. There was no rear wall, allowing a clear view of open grass and the smaller building in the fort’s center.

  Hi pointed to the oddly shaped structure dead ahead. “Battery Huger. You can walk right over it to the opposite side of the courtyard, but I don’t know about security.”

  “Let’s circle the outer wall.” Ben peered through the archway to our left. “Work around to where the flagpoles are. I saw them on the news report, so the graffiti must be somewhere nearby.”

  “Lead on.” I didn’t have a better plan.

  We snuck through dusty chambers composing the lowest tier, passing rows of cannons facing out to sea. In the last compartment, a narrow staircase led up to the fort’s second level. A white chain was stretched across the opening.

  “Out of bounds,” Hi whispered, “but that should lead to the top of the wall.”

  “You know I hate heights,” Shelton groaned.

  Ben chucked him on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll carry you if you get scared.”

  “Real funny.” Shelton pushed his glasses up his nose. “Until we plummet to the rocks.”

  Reaching the second level, I spotted another flight of steps.

  After a short debate, we decided to climb. The upper catwalk was the quickest route to the other side of the fortress. Reaching the highest section, we walked along the top of the outer parapet, six dark profiles outlined against the moon for anyone to see.

  Hi moved easily, seemingly unconcerned. Shelton followed close behind, arms outstretched, Ben whispering encouragement at his shoulder. Chance came next, then me. Coop brought up the rear, showing zero concern.

  I refused to acknowledge the fifty-foot drop to the rocks below.

  Reaching the next juncture, I blew out a relieved breath.

  Hi was waiting where the wall sections met. “We just crossed the left face. Ahead is the right. Once we reach the next section, the ground rises to meet the wall and we can stroll down to the courtyard.”

  Everyone nodded, anxious to get down from the apex. Thankfully, the next section was easier—an interior roof connected to the catwalk, creating a wide, flat walking space. Crossing it quickly, we hopped to a grassy hill sloping down to the flagpoles.

  We’d made it to the opposite side of the fort. Now to locate the crime scene.

  Hi rubbed his chin, then pointed to ground level. “Let’s check the storerooms in there. I’m guessing one of those walls.”

  It didn’t take long to locate.

  Ahead, a low passage burrowed into the junction where two massive exterior wall sections met. At the tunnel’s far end, yellow police tape crisscrossed the entrance to a windowless, fortified chamber, likely once used for storing ammunition.

  Inside, a bank of lights had been erected, facing a flat stretch of the dugout’s rear wall. Long orange extension cords snaked back toward the museum. Even in the darkness, I could see paint streaking the ancient bricks.

  Beside me, Coop voiced a nervous growl.

  My heart kicked up a notch. “Fire up those halogens.”

  “Hi-aye, captain.” Hi jostled the setup until he found a switch.

  Harsh white light flooded the room.

  Three wolf heads
glowed in the artificial brightness.

  “Black and white, with red eyes.” Chance rubbed his chin. “This matches the sign they left at my house exactly.”

  Shelton ran a finger over the closest image. “Did they carve these things?”

  Squinting, I saw it too. The wolf heads were aligned in a row, composed of jet-black paint bordered by pure white lines. Yet beneath the paint, delicate accents had been chiseled directly into the bricks. Teeth. Whiskers. The ghostly outlines of ears and snouts. Though roughly gouged, the engraved details gave the depictions a certain raw artistic appeal. A wraithlike flair.

  Excepting the eyes.

  Those were messy blobs of a brilliant scarlet. No lids. No pupils. Harsh. Unblinking.

  Something clicked.

  “Eye color,” I whispered, trying to pin down the thought. “It means something specific.”

  Chance rubbed his cheek. “How so?”

  “These wolves have red eyes,” I said slowly, piecing my theory together, “just like the ones on your sign. I think they represent our adversaries. But your statue—a Claybourne—had its eyes blackened. With a note calling you ‘traitor.’”

  Shelton snapped his fingers. “They were casting Chance out! From their red-eye pack!”

  I watched for a reaction, but Chance simply shook his head. “They broke into my house just to kick me out of their club?”

  “Are you sad?” Ben taunted.

  “Makes a sick kind of sense,” Hi mused. “That was an insult; this is an announcement.”

  “Hell of a medium,” Shelton muttered. “Next time just start a Facebook group.”

  The crude tableau was deeply unsettling. It felt both vague and intensely personal. The lines were rough, yet precise. The first impression was of slapdash vandalism, but a closer look revealed an artist’s touch. Everything in proportion. Each drop of paint precise within a larger context. All exactly as intended.

  “‘One territory. One pack.’” Chance crossed his arms as he read. “What does it mean?”

  The words were engraved above the canine images. Long, deep cuts, meticulously scored into aging brick, then painted white.