Spike

by Kathy Reichs

  “You know, now that I think about it . . .” Shelton pointed a hesitant finger at the door the mystery cook had entered. “Weren’t the caterers wearing uniforms with blue stripes?”

  My pulse sped up. The newcomer had been dressed in white from head to toe.

  “That actually seems right.” Hi tapped his chin, making a show of considering Shelton’s words. “You think the guy’s working for HYDRA? Or is just drunk and lost?”

  Snap decision. “Let’s go see.”

  Popping to my feet, I headed for the door. The boys exchanged mental shrugs before rising and following. Cooper leapt to join me, but I placed a hand on his furry head.

  Sorry, boy. Out of bounds. Wait here.

  He whined, but stayed put. Call if need.

  Inside the door, the reception was straight ahead, but a covert scan of the ballroom failed to turn up our mystery chef. I ducked back out before anyone noticed me. “He’s not in there, which isn’t surprising.”

  Hi pointed to our left, down a short hallway. “Only one other way to go.”

  I nodded. The corridor led to the kitchen, which was empty for the moment. I paused in the doorway as doubt began creeping in. What was I doing, really?

  Footfalls in an adjacent room. I looked to Ben, who shrugged. “Why not?”

  We entered a small staging room connected to the ballroom by a pair of swinging doors. Music and laughter leaked through the cracks, but I only had eyes for our chef. The big man had his back to us as he hovered over Whitney’s triple-tiered wedding cake.

  I put a finger to my lips, edging closer for a better look. The man was smoothing the cake’s frosting with a flat-bladed implement. He held something in his other hand I couldn’t see. As I watched, he glanced at a notepad lying on the cake’s rolling cart.

  Nothing about this felt right.

  “Hey!” I called out.

  The man flinched, then spun around, keeping both hands hidden behind his back. He seemed to recognize us after a beat. His gaze darted to the kitchen door, then the doors leading to the ballroom. He blew out a shaky breath, once again looking relieved. “Yes?” he snapped in an annoyed voice.

  “What are you doing in here?” I squinted at the notepad. Something was scribbled in cursive on its face.

  Biggs noticed my glance. Eyes widening, his right hand shot out, ripping off the top sheet and crumpling it in his fist. The notepad tumbled to the carpet, ignored. “Just, uh, relaxing the frosting mixture,” he stammered, eyes once again darting between the doors. “We don’t want it to, um, harden before the cake is served. Pretty basic stuff.”

  His back was ramrod straight. Beads of sweat darkened his temples.

  All my alarms were sounding at once.

  Something was wrong.

  Check him out, Ben sent, as if he’d read my thoughts. He may have.

  I stepped closer to Biggs than most strangers find comfortable. Leaned forward and inhaled deeply, drinking the man’s scent. I detected the acrid stench of deception immediately.

  He’s lying.

  Biggs reared back, watching me warily. “Did you just—”

  The ballroom speakers squealed. Someone made an announcement.

  Biggs seemed to forget I was there, eyeing the doors, an artery pumping in his neck.

  I stepped sideways to get a look at the cake, a three-level monstrosity of pink curls and raspberry script, topped by a chocolate bride and groom. Beside it, a metal bowl half-filled with brown liquid rested on the cart. A pastry brush and plastic icing smoother sat beside it.

  Biggs had been retouching the cake.

  And from the looks of things, doing a crap job of it.

  “Why is the icing smeared?” I demanded. The top and middle tiers looked uneven, as if the frosting had been massaged with significantly less skill than the original application.

  I don’t like this. What’s he doing? The cake looks worse.

  The boys tensed behind me.

  Biggs must’ve sensed the change in atmosphere. He stepped backward, his left hand still tucked out of sight.

  “What’s in the bowl?” Hi pointed at the cart. “Weird place for a finger bath.”

  Biggs glared, then sniffed imperiously. “I don’t have time for this.” He started to turn away. Found a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

  Ben winked at the chef. “Make time.”

  Biggs shrugged Ben off with a sneer. But despite the bravado, dots of perspiration lined his brow. His left hand remained maddeningly out of view.

  “This cake looked better before you messed with it.” Shelton spoke softly, as if making a casual observation. “You sure you were supposed to?”

  I pointed to his closed fist. “What’s that note about? Why’d you ball it up?”

  Biggs didn’t answer. I could sense his confidence leaching away, despite his size. The four of us had him surrounded, and it was making him uncomfortable. “I . . . I . . . uh . . . I have to prepare the cake for service now.” He made a shooing gesture with his fist. “You’d better run along now. Go on.”

  No one moved.

  “Okay, fine.” Biggs spun and dropped something into the bowl, then scooped it with one hand, shielding the rim so we couldn’t see inside. “Guests aren’t supposed to be back here. I’m going to get my boss.” He shouldered through our circle—and the kitchen door—before anyone had a chance to stop him.

  We exchanged glances.

  “That was interesting,” Hi said. “It’s like we caught him with his pants down.”

  “Maybe we did.” Shelton was inspecting the cake. “Dude really jacked this frosting up. It’s not crazy noticeable, but he smashed some of the ridges when he smoothed the icing. Look at the bottom tier. See how it’s supposed to look?”

  Hi licked his lips. “Still looks delicious. Maybe I should take a small taste, just to—”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ben warned. “Whitney would have a heart attack. Whatever that guy was doing, thankfully the damage isn’t too bad.”

  True.

  But something was definitely fishy.

  Just then, three cooks bustled in from the ballroom, laughing and exchanging jokes. Seeing us around the cake, they smiled. “Soon!” promised a woman with twinkling brown eyes.

  I barely heard, eyes glued to her uniform.

  Specifically, to the royal blue piping on her pants, hat, and smock.

  I scanned the other two cooks. They were dressed identically to the first woman.

  Biggs wasn’t wearing the same uniform.

  A cold feeling formed in the pit of my stomach. I spun.

  Shelton, find that jerk. See where he goes and what he’s doing.

  Shelton ran a hand across his face, but hurried out. Can’t even go to a freaking wedding . . .

  Oblivious to my anxiety, the three caterers unlocked the cart’s wheels and began wheeling the cake toward the double doors. They hadn’t noticed the damage to the icing. As they disappeared into the ballroom, I felt a twinge of panic.

  Hi, follow the cake. Just . . . keep an eye on it.

  That I can do. Hi slipped through the doors behind them.

  Ben and I were alone. He grabbed my hand, worry lines creasing his forehead. What is it?

  I shook my head as a shiver swept through me. I don’t know.

  But my instincts screamed in warning.

  Applause thundered inside the ballroom.

  The wedding cake had arrived, and another speech was taking place.

  I knew what came next. Cutting. Pictures. Whitney and Kit hand-feeding each other like dorks. Tiny plates being distributed amongst the guests.

  I broke out in a cold sweat.

  The bowl. The liquid. The brush. Smeared icing.

  Biggs had done something terrible, I just knew it.

  I l
et them wheel that sucker out of here, without saying a word.

  Should we stop it? Ben asked. I must’ve inadvertently broadcast my thought.

  I wavered, unable to decide. Was I being paranoid?

  I didn’t know anything. Biggs had definitely messed with the cake, but what if he really was supposed to be there? It’s not like I had the freaking catering staff memorized. Maybe being a suspicious jerk just came naturally to him.

  No. I trusted my gut. This felt all wrong.

  I reached out with my thoughts. Shelton, where did Biggs go?

  His response was faint. We couldn’t see each other, and were almost out of communication range. We’re in the men’s room. I found him inside, but he didn’t notice me. Right now he’s washing the bejesus out of that metal bowl.

  “Not good,” Ben grumbled, eavesdropping on our communications.

  I wholeheartedly agreed. Hi, you have eyes on the cake?

  Affirmative. It’s parked near the dance floor, but they haven’t touched it yet. Kit’s mother is blabbering about horseshoes or something. I think she’s drunk. Tempe’s trying to pull her aside. Oh man, the cake looks delicious.

  Don’t let anyone eat a piece. Not yet.

  Hiram’s reply was laced with annoyance. How am I supposed to do that?

  Use your imagination.

  Shelton’s voice cut into our headspace. Biggs trashed the bowl, and then flushed the note! That’s weird, right?

  My stomach dropped. Worse and worse. Don’t let him leave the building!

  What? HOW?!?

  Improvise! I had no idea either.

  “You think he’s trying to poison people?” Ben asked me in a sharp voice. It was almost jarring to hear words spoken out loud.

  “I don’t know!” I was suddenly pacing. “Should we barge in there and stop the cake ceremony? We’ll look like lunatics. No one would understand, and I can’t prove anything!”

  Ben winced. “Whitney might burst into flames.”

  My eyes fell on the notepad lying on the carpet. I rushed forward and grabbed it.

  “What’s that?” Ben said.

  A blank sheet stared up at me. I flipped through the rest of the pages. More of the same.

  “Nothing.” Then an idea struck me. “Unless . . .”

  In the corner of the room was a small table with a desk lamp. I raced over and switched on the light. Held the notepad close to the bulb. Angled it slowly. “Ben, look!”

  When tilted just so, I could see faint characters indented into the top sheet.

  I stared at the marks until my eyes watered, but even with my enhanced vision I couldn’t make anything out. I handed the pad to Ben, but he had no better luck.

  “Damn it!” Ben growled. “Whatever was written here, he really didn’t want us to see it.”

  “But we can!” I blurted, eyes rounding. “I need a pencil!”

  Ben gave me a puzzled look, but he’d learned when to hold his tongue. A quick survey of the staging room turned up nothing, so he ran into the kitchen. I heard drawers being yanked open, followed by a triumphant “Bingo!”

  Ben raced back in with a weathered number two pencil covered in bite marks.

  “Gross.” But I snatched it from him anyway. “It’s sharpened, at least.”

  I placed the pencil tip flat against the top sheet of the notepad. Softly, carefully, I began sliding the graphite back and forth across the indentations on the page.

  Ben scratched his temple. “Care to explain?”

  “If I do this correctly,” I said, tongue wedged between my teeth, “the graphite will darken the paper around the indentations without reaching inside them, leaving the valleys white.”

  He was already nodding. “Revealing on this sheet whatever’s been pressed into it by the handwriting on the page above.” Ben squeezed my shoulder, sending a surge of warmth through my body. “Tory, that’s brilliant.”

  “Hold the applause. We haven’t found anything yet.” But internally, I preened.

  Shelton’s voice arrowed into my brain. Still faint, and panting like he’d run a marathon. Okay. So. I ran two brooms through the bathroom’s door handles and . . . and . . . well . . . Biggs is currently locked inside there. He’s . . . he’s . . . uh . . . he’s pretty mad about it. But the door seems to be holding up.

  Ben looked as shocked as I felt. You imprisoned him in the men’s room?

  YOU TOLD ME TO STOP HIM! Shelton mind-shouted, his voice jagged as a live wire. What was I supposed to do, politely ask him to wait in the lobby!?!

  No. Right. I tried to sound reassuring, though my arm hairs were standing on end. Good job.

  Then to Ben: Oh my God. If I’m wrong about him, we’re in serious trouble.

  I heard that! Shelton yelled. I knew this was crazy! I’m now officially a kidnapper.

  Speeches are done! Hi sent from the ballroom. Whitney is waving a giant knife.

  “Crap.” I couldn’t rush my shading work without compromising the results. I need five more minutes, Hi. Stall them.

  You’ve got sixty seconds, he replied tersely. Whitney’s jabbering right now, but she’ll be ready to slice and dice at any moment. Hey, if everyone else takes a piece, there’s no reason why I can’t have one, is there?

  Ben slapped his forehead. It might be poisoned, you moron!

  All life is risk.

  I jumped as Shelton burst into the room. “Biggs is pounding the bathroom door!”

  Ben covered his face. “He’s probably a bit upset. I’d be.”

  Shelton’s hands flew up. “What were my other options!? Tackle him? Hogtie him in the handicapped stall? He washed the bowl, flushed the note, and was about to bail. There was nothing else I could do except just let him go!”

  “Everyone zip it!” I finished the last pencil strokes and gently blew excess graphite from the page. Two cursive lines were now legible.

  Two parts per thousand into the icing

  Ipecac commercial syrup—1/14 extract roots/rhizomes

  “Oh mamma,” Shelton moaned. “There is something in the frosting!”

  “But what?” Ben said. “Some kind of syrup? That doesn’t sound bad.”

  Time’s up! Hi’s voice was as tense as barbed wire. They’re cutting the cake together.

  My mind blanked. I stared at the notepad without any idea what to do next. The second line was a total mystery. What the heck was commercial syrup?

  Whitney and Kit have the first slice, Hi reported.

  “Ipecac commercial syrup,” I mumbled, thinking furiously. “Made from . . . plant roots?”

  “I feel like I’ve heard of that before,” Shelton muttered.

  My head whipped to him. “What? Which word?”

  “Ipecac.” Then Shelton snapped his fingers, eyes rounding like dinner plates. “I remember now! My cousin Dudley! One time when we were kids, he drank a bunch of Windex on a dare. My grandmother found out, started screaming for that stuff. Ipecac. The word stuck with me. She had some in her medicine cabinet.”

  I was practically bouncing up and down. “Why would Biggs put medicine in . . .”

  My eyes popped as the answer hit me. Ipecac.

  Forks are out! Hi sent. Repeat: forks are out! The photographer is lining up a picture!

  I took a running step toward the double doors. Realized I’d never make it in time.

  Hi, you have to stop them! I sent urgently.

  I think that ship has sailed, Tor.

  Do whatever it takes! The frosting is spiked!

  What am I supposed to do, freeze time? I’m not an X-Man!

  HIRAM! This is SERIOUS! STOP THEM!

  Raw panic from Hiram. How the heck am I—

  JUST DO IT!

  ALL RIGHT ALREADY!

  Adrenaline flooded the bond. Shelton, Ben, an
d I shuddered with the force of it.

  Shelton reached for his earlobe. “What’s he doin—?”

  Something crashed in the ballroom. Followed by screams.

  A voice boomed through the double doors. “Somebody stop him! He’s crazy!”

  “Ho boy,” Ben breathed.

  Shelton winced. Removed his glasses.

  I shook my head, bereft of speech.

  As one, we barreled into the reception.

  Flustered guests had formed a circle on the dance floor.

  Someone was lying facedown in the middle of it.

  “Well,” Ben began, but didn’t follow up.

  Shelton swallowed.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He didn’t have a lot of alternatives.”

  Hi was sprawled out on the hardwood, covered in crumbs and icing. The rolling cart was upended to one side. Plates and forks littered the parquet around him. He’d clearly thrown himself onto the cake, knocking everything over in a desperate attempt to prevent it from being eaten.

  “HIRAM!” Kit was still holding his fork, mouth hanging open, his face a rare shade of purple. Whitney stood beside him, dumbstruck, gripping a now-empty plate. Everyone was staring at my friend, clearly unable to comprehend why this insane teenager had thrown himself atop a perfectly good wedding cake.

  “This will be difficult to explain,” Ben whispered.

  Shelton giggled involuntarily. “That’s an understatement.”

  I rushed over to Hi, who’d rolled onto his back and wasn’t moving. “Are you okay?”

  “I even got the slice in Whitney’s hand,” he mumbled through a layer of icing coating his face. He rose to an elbow, wiping sugar from his eye sockets. Sighed. I could tell he was trying to come to grips with what he’d just done. He lay back down on his back. “I’m gonna need some help smoothing this one over, Tor. Plus a gurney. I broke my everything.”

  “My . . . my . . . wedding cake!” Whitney stifled a sob, her hands shooting toward the wreckage on the dance floor. “It’s ruined!”

  Best Man Eric elbowed a path through the crowd, red-faced and struggling for balance. “You’re dog-meat, pal!” he slurred. “You ruined my sister’s big day!”