Terminal

by Kathy Reichs

  “Nuh-uh.”

  But he was right.

  I rose, changed into PJs, and washed my face. Then, squaring my shoulders, I left the protective bubble of my room and descended to the main floor.

  Kit and Whitney were sitting silently on the couch. The TV was off. They both straightened when they saw me.

  I cleared my throat, worried that I might break down again. “I want to apologize.”

  With the first words out, the rest flowed more easily. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, Whitney. You couldn’t have known about our flat tire.”

  Whitney shifted—quite obviously bursting with things to say—but held her tongue.

  Kit watched me with kind eyes, a sad smile on his lips.

  I took a deep breath, then continued, not looking at either of them. “I also shouldn’t have said what I did about my mother.” My voice caught, but I pushed ahead. “That was totally unfair. To both of you. I apologize.”

  “You don’t have to apologize about that,” Kit said immediately. “Not ever.”

  Whitney’s eyes became glassy.

  “You’re wrong.” A single tear leaked onto my cheek. “I do. And I want to congratulate you both on the happy news.”

  That was all I could manage. “Good night.”

  I hurried back upstairs, not hearing whatever they may have said in response.

  My door closed a second time, and stayed that way until morning.

  I was out the door at sunrise.

  I didn’t want to see Kit or Whitney. Having barely survived the night before, I couldn’t make it through a tense breakfast.

  One problem: Mr. Blue’s shuttle wouldn’t depart for another forty minutes.

  I couldn’t loiter on the dock—in plain sight of everyone in the complex—so I opted for a stroll along the beach.

  I considered going back for Coop, but decided not to risk it. Sorry, boy.

  The temperature was already seventy-five, with the promise of more heat to come. Seagulls cawed overhead, riding the thermals in search of their morning meals. A stiff breeze swept the shoreline, flapping my plaid skirt and ruffling my hair. I tried to keep the sand from my shoes, but knew it was impossible.

  My thoughts were stuck on my father and his fiancée. How terrible I’d been. Hopefully I’d made things better in the end, but I wasn’t sure. I feared the memory of their engagement night would always carry a sour note.

  Distracted by dismal thoughts, I didn’t realize where my feet had taken me. The first whiff of charred wood caught me unprepared. Brought the here and now crashing home with a vengeance. A whole new set of worries engulfed me.

  Massive ships were lining up to enter the harbor. Fort Sumter sat at its mouth, defiant, forcing traffic around it like an old man on a sidewalk. The ancient brick fortress shimmered in the early morning haze.

  But on my stretch of beach, the topography had changed forever.

  Where our bunker had hidden for hundreds of years, there was now only a blackened mound of scorched earth. The ground had slumped at least twenty feet—likely beneath the notice of a casual observer, but a gash right to my jugular.

  No smoke rose—the cave-in had doused the flames, a small blessing that would reduce prying eyes. I’d worried the fire department might be called, or perhaps the Coast Guard. Anyone picking through that rubble would have questions for the Morris Island locals.

  Thankfully, that seemed unlikely. With any luck, no one would investigate at all. Just one more unmarked Civil War fortification collapsing under the weight of decades. Happened all the time.

  But I knew better.

  My fury simmered now, rather than running wild.

  Our bunker had been taken from us. I knew who did it, if not the specific individuals.

  Next on my list.

  Who were the Trinity? Why did they harbor such hatred for my pack?

  We should be working together, not fighting. We had the same issues. The same problems. We were the only two groups in the world who could flare. A unique species on earth. This rivalry was more than foolish, it was dangerous. It had to stop.

  But as I surveyed the rubble where our clubhouse once hid, I knew cooperation was no longer possible.

  The Trinity had declared war. I planned to win it.

  So find them.

  I turned my back to the damage. Resolved. Determined.

  Striding toward home, thoughts coalesced in my head. Questions cropped up. Theories formed. By the time I spotted the dock—and Shelton and Hi, waiting to disembark—I was damn near running.

  • • •

  “Just think about it,” I argued, words spilling out in a torrent. “That kid in the baseball cap is the only person we know has been in contact with at least two of the Trinity.”

  “True.” Hi flopped onto a bench as Hugo pulled from the dock. “Though we’re banking on a memory you stole from the guy’s head.”

  Shelton took a spot next to Hi, eyes thoughtful behind his thick lenses. Ben had driven back to Mount Pleasant that morning, a logistical gift from the gods.

  “He did act kinda suspicious when you confronted him,” Shelton admitted.

  “Exactly!” I began pacing, too wound up to sit. “And who just hands over camping gear to someone they might not see again? That stuff isn’t cheap. Jordan’s whole story doesn’t add up. I think he’s one of them.”

  “Seemed like a huge wuss, though.” Hi squinted in the morning sun. “These Trinity jokers—one thing I won’t call them is afraid. So far they’ve broken into Chance’s magic palace, raided Fort Sumter, set up a freaking night ambush on Loggerhead, and torched our HQ. Does the wet blanket you interrogated in that dorm room really fit the profile?”

  I wasn’t dissuaded. “Maybe Speckman is the driving force. When we confronted Jordan at CU, he was cornered. Alone. Plus—if he is Trinity—he knew who we were! That we were Viral, like him. Could flare, like him. It’s hard to be a tough guy when caught off guard by your enemies and outnumbered five to one.”

  Hi nodded thoughtfully. Shelton grunted, noncommittal.

  “So what should we do?” Shelton asked.

  “We’re going back to that college.” I flashed my fake “camera” smile. “We’ll turn up the heat on that clown, and see if he melts.”

  • • •

  When the bell rang, I sprang from my seat.

  “Easy, girl!” Ella pretended to flinch. “Save those moves for practice.”

  “Sorry!” Shoving books into my bag. “Busy day today. And I won’t be at practice again, unfortunately.”

  Ella frowned. “Coach Lynch won’t like it. That’s twice this week. You’re a starter, in case it slipped your mind. We have a game Tuesday.”

  “I know.” My guilty look was genuine. I hated lying to Ella. “Kit’s being crazy about the SATs. He insisted I take this prep class. But it only runs a few more days.”

  Ella flapped a hand. “I’ll handle Lynchie. I’ll say you’re having girl issues. I guarantee he won’t dig any further.”

  I snorted, then squeezed her hand good-bye.

  Shrugging on my jacket, I’d just cleared the room when I stumbled into trouble.

  “Hey, Tor!”

  Face-to-face with Courtney Holt.

  Crapballs.

  “Hi!” I kept moving, but worse was lurking down the hallway.

  “There you are.” Ashley stood with her arms crossed, an unreadable expression on her face. Her tone was oddly level, as if merely stating a fact.

  Crap crap crap.

  What had I said to Hi and Shelton about being cornered?

  I spotted the two boys as they crossed the hall, watching with anxious expressions. I waved them on. This was my problem. I’d deal with it.

  “Hello, Ashley.” Voice just as wooden.

  We moved down t
he corridor, Ashley and Courtney flanking me like prison guards.

  My pulse quickened. I was hemmed in by the remaining legs of the Tripod of Bitch.

  Ashley stayed close to my side, like a best friend about to share gossip. I wanted to stare into her eyes. Take her measure. Search for any sign she was what I suspected.

  If Ashley was Trinity, she knew my secret. She’d been hiding in the branches of a Loggerhead Island oak tree less than twelve hours before. She could flare.

  I carefully concealed my suspicion. At the moment, I had only one edge—Ashley didn’t know I suspected her. I wasn’t ready to give that up yet.

  Not until I’ve identified all three.

  Ashley flashed her perfect teeth. I imagined them stripping the flesh off her prey.

  “How are you, Tory? I feel like we haven’t talked in ages.”

  Still this odd play at friendship. I didn’t know how to react.

  “Yeah, been busy.” I tried to edge away, but she stayed glued to my side.

  “Still, it makes me sad.” Ashley drew out the last word. Her lilting tone gave me chills. “Courtney and I want to know if you’re free this weekend. We’ve got a shopping day planned.”

  “You have to come.” Courtney smiled vapidly, fingers tugging at her tight cheerleading uniform. “We’re getting shoes. Pedicures, too.”

  For a hot second I imagined Courtney as the third member of the Trinity, but quickly dismissed the notion. She was too dumb to be devious.

  Ashley, however, was anything but.

  “Don’t say no.” Ashley’s shark smile never touched her dark, piercing eyes. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. But you’re coming with us. I insist.”

  She gave my shoulder a squeeze. Did I imagine her fingers pressing a little too hard?

  “Um, okay. Sure.”

  What!?

  “Perfect. Talk soon.” Ashley strode away, her sleek, athletic form gliding between nervous classmates skittering out of her path. Courtney waggled her fingers at me as she followed, a loyal puppy hoping for a head pat.

  I exhaled sharply. Noticed my hands were trembling.

  What had I just agreed to?

  I spun, intending to track down Hi and Shelton.

  Madison and Jason were approaching from the opposite direction.

  Not my luckiest class break.

  I plastered on a smile, determined to plow through their attempts at conversation as quickly as possible. But, spotting me, the two stopped abruptly. Exchanging a hurried whisper, they ducked through the nearest open door.

  But that’s Mr. Edde’s room. Not their class.

  What was going on?

  I walked to the door they’d entered. Poked my head inside.

  Saw Jason and Madison exit through the door at the opposite end of the room.

  I stepped back out into the hall. The pair was hustling away, having bypassed me neatly.

  “What in the what?”

  Jason never avoided me. Far from it. And Madison now claimed to be a friend.

  Yet they’d clearly given me the slip. And knew I saw them do it.

  A fresh set of suspicions wormed into my mind.

  Ashley and Courtney had ambushed me, sure, but that wasn’t overly strange. I’d never understood them, and this kind of thing had happened before.

  But Jason and Madison . . .

  I thought of every conflict between Madison and me.

  Every cruel rejection I’d served to Jason, sometimes in public. Every unkindness.

  But Jason? Surely not! He’d always been an ally.

  An ally taken for granted. One who’d suffered because of you.

  In Jordan’s mind, I’d seen a girl in a Bolton Prep uniform. But had it really been Ashley? I tried to recall the stolen memory, but the details remained stubbornly fuzzy.

  Was I certain the girl had black hair? Madison’s auburn locks weren’t out of the question.

  Madison and Chance had been close. Very close.

  Chance was Viral, and connected to the Trinity. Who but Madison made the most sense?

  What if Ben’s right? What if I’m being played a fool. Again.

  “Blargh.” And I meant it.

  This was almost too much. I had no clue who to trust.

  The bell rang, scattering my dark thoughts.

  I hurried after my friends, worried I’d been suspecting the wrong people.

  I kept these new suspicions to myself.

  So much for my policy of full disclosure, but I didn’t want Hi and Shelton glancing over their shoulders for no reason. I needed more to go on than a hallway dodge.

  There were dozens of reasons why Jason and Madison might avoid me, their new relationship topping the list. Madison knew Jason used to have a thing for me. Jason knew I’d had problems with Madison forever. The pair avoiding me wasn’t hard to explain.

  Still . . . it was the way they’d done it.

  I couldn’t shake a feeling that something was off.

  When last bell pealed, Hi, Shelton, and I hustled off the grounds and toward Chance’s office. Ben would meet us there. We had a lot to discuss. The Trinity. Our mysterious stalkers. The DNA tests that had seemed so important just days ago.

  My personal life needs to stay out of it.

  Yet I knew I couldn’t put Ben off forever. Or Chance, for that matter.

  My phone buzzed, causing me to jump. I dug it from my bag and read the waiting text.

  Chance. Good news. Get here ASAP.

  “What do you think it is?” Hi had shed his jacket and was working his tie loose, already pink-faced in the afternoon heat.

  “Probably got fired,” Shelton grumbled, shuffling along at Hi’s side. “Or maybe he heard that Morris Island was just leveled by a tidal wave. Some kinda terrible news to match our luck.”

  Of all the Virals, Shelton was taking the bunker disaster hardest.

  “Cheer up.” Hi’s shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe he’s ordering pizza, and wants to know what toppings I like. Which are all of them.”

  Shelton pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I feel so much better.”

  We arrived at Candela just as Ben was parking. Without a word, he joined us as we crossed the street, snuck down the alley, and entered through the keypad access door. Nor did he speak as we rode up to the twenty-fifth floor.

  Ben didn’t even look at me. Was he angry? Embarrassed? Hurt?

  Ugh! No time for this.

  Chance was waiting at his desk, wearing a pink oxford shirt and khaki pants. He rose as we entered, shut the door, and then joined us as we took seats around the coffee table. “I have news.”

  We waited, expectant.

  He looked at me. “I got lab results for the materials you collected.”

  My eyes squinched. “Which ones?”

  Chance began spreading papers on the tabletop. “The paint chips. Flecks. Whatever. From the statue in my atrium, and the delightful wall art decorating Fort Sumter.”

  “Oh. Those.” I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Had been hoping for more.

  Chance sensed my lack of enthusiasm. “I think this might be pertinent. Look.”

  He arranged several documents I didn’t recognize. The first showed an image of two columns, like long stains, leaking across the color spectrum from red to blue.

  “These are chromagraph readouts,” Chance explained. “Our lab examined the paint samples collected from both my house and Fort Sumter. What you see here is a visual breakdown of the molecular components of each substance.”

  “Pretty,” Hi cooed. “But I’m not skilled in the art of identifying different paints from chromagraph readouts.”

  “First, look at the results side by side.” Chance laid the two sheets next to each other. “The left one is from Uncle
Milton’s touch-up job. The right one is from the wall graffiti. Notice anything?”

  I held them up. “They’re nearly identical. The hues in these readouts match.”

  Chance sat back with a satisfied smile. “The Trinity used the same paint in both places.”

  “Awesome,” Ben deadpanned. “And useless.”

  Chance flashed a superior smile. “If I stopped there, then yes. But I didn’t.”

  He flipped through the file, then slapped down a second set of documents. “I ran the chromagraph results through a spectrometer.”

  Ben just looked at him. “And that is?”

  I jumped in. “A machine that identifies materials by measuring properties of light over a portion of the electromagnetic spectrum.”

  “Ah.” Ben rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

  Shelton spun a finger in the air. “Can we get to the point?”

  Chance tapped the closest page. “Paint is a chemical, and each brand and type is typically patented. I should know, Candela owns several. The chemical properties of most commercial paints are recorded, and can be cross-referenced for comparison.”

  “Like with cars!” Hi was nodding excitedly. “There’s something called the National Automotive Paint File. Since the 1930s, police and the FBI have been cataloging samples of paint finishes used on vehicles. They’ve got tens of thousands on record now. Any fleck left at an accident can be run through the database, and investigators can find the make, model, and sometimes even the year of the car in question. Pretty dope.”

  “Great,” Ben said sarcastically. “So, as long as the Trinity hit your statue with a Chevy, we’re in business. Did they drive out to the island fortress, too?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Chance laughed, his good humor seemingly unshakeable. “As I said, the compositions of most paints are cataloged. So I ran these results through our database.”

  He leaned back and put his hands behind his head.

  “And?” Shelton asked finally.

  “Next page.”

  Suppressing a groan, I flipped the sheet. Scanned the first paragraph. “Three matches. Black. White. Red.”

  “Military issue.” Chance sat forward, eyes alight with excitement. “The paint used by the Trinity is expensive. An outdoor, rust-resistant formula that wears extremely well. The brand is used almost exclusively by government contractors. I couldn’t locate a single civilian retailer of the stuff anywhere in South Carolina.”