Code (13 page)

CHAPTER 23

T
he pain struck first.

Pins. Needles. Jets of fiery agony, sizzling beneath my skin.

Then came the power.

My vision sharpened to laser clarity. The island’s marshy bouquet divided into an array of recognizable scents. I could hear wind swirling the manicured Bermuda grass. Could feel each individual grain of sand between my toes. I tasted the salt air, reveling in my hyperawareness.

Coop bounded close and licked my face. He always knew.

Hi eagerly grabbed for his flare, Shelton a tad less enthusiastically. Soon golden fires kindled in their eyes. Wordlessly, they surveyed the course, keeping watch.

Ben tensed. Squeezed his lids shut. Surprisingly, the transformation came quickly.

“Be careful,” Ben warned, irises aflame. “The Gamemaster might be insane. His last cache exploded, and that was only a test.”

“That’s why I flared.” Scooping up the trowel. “We need our edge.”

“Work fast.” Ben kept his eyes on the clubhouse. “If we’re caught damaging this course, they’ll burn us at the stake.”

I inspected the ground. Found no defects. Whatever was down there hadn’t been inserted recently. The grass looked uniform in color, height, density, and thickness. The soil at its roots appeared undisturbed.

How could someone bury a cache without leaving any sign?

Cringingly slightly, I dug a larger circle around the perimeter, doubling the size of the hole. The earth was soft and pliable, easy to move.

“Putting should be easier now,” Hi quipped. “Maybe they’ll thank us.”

“Uh-huh,” Shelton grunted. “Right after sentencing.”

I teased off soil, millimeter by millimeter, widening and deepening the opening, the same questions running through my mind.

The Game.

What did it mean? Who was the Gamemaster? Why did he bother?

Elaborate caches. Intricate clues. The pieces were expensive—iPad, puzzle box, even night-vision video equipment.

Remote-controlled bomb. Don’t forget that one.

Hours of planning had gone into this. What kind of person takes the time?

We’d stumbled into an elaborate trap. Become human toys.

Four high schoolers, out goofing around. Yet the Gamemaster clearly didn’t care who’d swallowed his hook. That fact was most frightening of all.

As my thoughts wandered, a new awareness bloomed.

The four of us were huddled together, close enough to reach out and touch. But the nearness was more than just physical. I could
feel
the other Virals in a way I can’t explain.

That had happened before. But now it was
five,
not four.

I could sense Coop as well. The wolfdog’s presence tipped the balance.

“Ever notice how often we dig stuff up?” Hi’s voice intruded. “We should form, like, an excavation company. Get matching hard hats. Blue ones.”

“Be quiet,” Shelton hissed. “We’re exposed out here. There’s too much light from those damn floods.”

I kept digging. Physically. Mentally. My eyes lost focus as I probed the edges of my psyche, the deepening hole at my feet virtually forgotten.

The flaming cords appeared—twisting, fiery ropes that connected the minds of my pack to form a fragile mental network.

Even Coop. Yes! The wolfdog’s proximity heightened the effect.

Tread carefully. Don’t lose control.

I should’ve spoken up. Should’ve told the others what I was experiencing. But the connection was tenuous. Fragile as tissue paper. I knew speaking would severe the link.

Forgive me, boys.

Hands working robotically, I surrendered to my instincts and grasped a cord at random.

Lightning strobed inside my skull. My mind hurtled down the glowing cable.

Consciousness flickered. My perception split.

Two distinct images formed in my brain.

One showed my hands as they continued to shovel dirt.

The other watched a red-haired girl in dark clothes, digging with a trowel.

Me. I’m watching myself. And Coop is the only one at my back.

My breath caught. Sweat pumped from my pores.

I was seeing through Coop’s eyes.

I felt the wolfdog’s ears perk. Coop popped to his feet, momentarily uncertain and afraid. Then, recognizing me, he calmed, accepting my presence in his mind.

It’s so easy for him. Why?

My hands continued their rhythmic tempo. I focused inward, anxious to preserve the connection.

As Coop resumed snuffling the putting surface, powerful odors flooded my brain. Spartina grass. Crickets. Salt. Dried mud.

And something . . .
else.
Harsh. Metallic. The inorganic scent seemed out of place.

Curious, I urged Coop toward the hedge bounding the green. I could sense his reluctance, but he complied.

Something was tucked in the foliage. I tried to drive Coop to investigate, but the wolfdog resisted my will. Suddenly, his attention snagged on a wisp of light rising from the base of the bushes.

The wolfdog was confused. But I wasn’t.

Wire. Perhaps fishing line. Rising from the ground into the shrubs.

Clank.

My trowel struck something solid. The mental connection broke.

The wolfdog yipped as my full consciousness recoiled into my own skull. The dual perception shattered. My head spun, and my stomach nearly emptied.

The episode had lasted mere seconds. The boys hadn’t noticed, their attention riveted on my trowel.

“That sounded like metal,” Shelton squeaked. “Pull it out.”

“Hold on a sec.” Ben reached into the hole. “Whatever’s down here won’t come free. Like it’s tethered somehow.”

I tried to recapture the image from Coop’s brain. We’d seen something important. But what? What was the significance?

My mind felt like mud. I couldn’t shake my paralysis.

“Let me help.” Hi moved beside Ben, his back to the hedge.

That seemed wrong.

“Okay.” Ben cracked his knuckles. “Lift on three.”

Wait. No. Stop.

“Ready?”

Hi nodded.

“Okay. One. Two. Thr—”

My brain finally rebooted.

I threw myself forward into Hi’s chest. We toppled in a heap of elbows and knees. The move startled Ben, who slipped and fell backward.

CRACK! CRACK!

Smoke filled the air. I prayed I hadn’t been too late.

Shelton was in a battle crouch. Ben was flat on his back. I lay atop Hi, panting like a sled dog.

“What the hell?” Hi wheezed. “Why did you jump me?”

“Trap. Wires.” My scrambled wits could barely manage speech. “Anyone hurt?”

“Not me.” Shelton said. “What happened?”

“A crazed female linebacker pummeled my chest,” Hi grumbled. “She’s still pinning me to the ground. And she isn’t as light as she might think.”

I rolled off Hi and got to my feet. “Ben?”

“I’m . . . I’m okay.” He sounded shaken.

“Oh my God.” Shelton pointed.

Coop was dragging a long black object from the bushes. Metal. Smoke spiraled upward from one end.

Ben raced to the wolfdog’s side. “Gun!” He gingerly lifted the weapon. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Two barrels, both single shot, with two triggers.”

A gray filament was tied to each trigger. Ben traced one with his fingers to where it disappeared into the bushes. “Wow.”

My heart spiked. “Where’s the cache?”

“I had it, but something knocked it from my grip.” Ben swallowed. “A bullet, I think.”

A plastic box lay beside the hole, a dime-sized gash in one side. The box was sealed with duct tape. Two lines ran from its base into the ground.

Shelton grabbed an ear. “Holy crap.”

I slipped off my backpack and located my Swiss Army knife. Then, ever so cautiously, I snipped both lines. “We’re taking the gun, too.”

“Uh, Tory.” Hi dropped to his knees by my side.

“Yes?”

Wordlessly, he lifted my pack and pointed to a small tear. The edges were seared, the fibers curled and black.

My stomach did a somersault.

Close. Inches.

Don’t think about it.
“Hi, check our time.”
Don’t think about the bullet.
“Ben, make sure that gun’s empty.”
Don’t think about hot metal punching through your back.
“Shelton, grab Cooper. He’s agitated. I don’t want him barking.”

“You guys aren’t going to believe this.” Hi had dug out the iPad. A smooth, round hole punctured its center.

Shelton’s jaw dropped.

“Does it still work?” Ben asked.

“The timer does. We’ve got twenty minutes.”

“We need to open the cache right now.” I sliced the duct-tape seal. “Here goes nothing.”

The contents were hardly what I’d expected. No drawing, image, or note. Only a heavy bronze figurine—a bearded man in a flowing robe, left arm outstretched as though reaching for the horizon. Chipped and scarred, the peculiar little statue was wrapped in black–and-white cloth.

Deformed metal fragments lay to one side.

Hi whistled. “How about that? Micro-man took the slug dead-on.”

The iPad suddenly beeped. Hi nearly dropped it in fright.

The pictogram disappeared, leaving only the timer. Then a large purple circle appeared.

Text above it read: Task complete? Enter code and press the button.

“Code?” Ben growled. “What code?”

“Here!” Hi pointed to numbers printed on the cache’s lid: 654321.

I hadn’t noticed. “Good eye, Hiram.”

“Don’t press anything!” Shelton yelped. “We fell for that once already.”

“We have to,” I said. “A bomb might explode at zero.”

But something troubled me. Why had the button appeared? How did the iPad know we’d found the cache?

Something cold crawled up my spine. Inside Castle Pinckney, a hidden camera had monitored the Gamemaster’s cache. Were we being watched here as well?

“Tory’s right,” Ben said. “Press it.”

Hi nodded. Shelton moaned, but waved me on.

Taking a deep breath, I input the numbers and tapped the circle.

The iPad went blank, then flashed brilliant white. Trumpets blared. Colored balls bounced across the wounded screen, each decorated by a snarling clown face.

“Wacko,” Hi breathed.

Almost immediately, the bizarre display was replaced by a single large ball eerily centered over the bullet hole.

The timer reappeared: 48:00:00. Began counting down.

Words materialized above it: The Game continues! Complete your next task!

“Oh no.” Shelton pressed fists to forehead. “It’s not over.”

Suddenly, high beams sliced through the darkness in the parking lot, followed by flashing red-and-blue lights.

“Frick! Cops!” Hi turned and sprinted for the beach. “Run!”

Ben and I scrambled to gather our things, then leaped across the dunes and splashed into the surf. Ahead, Hi and Shelton were hauling Coop aboard.

Radio static cut the stillness. Two flashlight beams bobbed toward the green.

“Go!” Shelton hissed as I dragged in the anchor.

Ben needed no prodding. Gunning the engine, he spun
Sewee
in a tight arc and fired through the waves.

CHAPTER 24

M
y phone vibrated and blared Coldplay.

Sighing, I put the figurine aside and glanced at the clock on my bedroom wall. Hours of examination, yet I was nowhere. And Friday was already half gone.

I glanced at the iPad, amazed it still functioned with a hole through its gut. The clock read 33:01:06. A quarter of our time gone, and still no leads.

Grabbing my iPhone, I frowned. The caller ID simply read “private.” I debated letting it roll to voicemail, but yielded to curiosity.

“This is Tory.”

“Tory Brennan?” A male voice.

“Yes.” Cautious. I’d been pranked before, and had no intention of falling for more Bolton Prep immaturity.

“This is Eric Marchant at the CPD crime lab. Someone named—” papers shuffled in the background, “—Jason Taylor left me a message. I’m not sure how he got my office number, but it doesn’t matter. He sent something for analysis.”

“Mr. Marchant!” I stood and began to pace. “Thanks so much for calling.”

“Not a problem, though I must admit the request was a bit odd. I received a cotton swab coated with an unknown substance. It was nothing more than diesel fuel.”

Diesel fuel? Shoot, dead end. You could buy that anywhere.

Marchant’s voice sounded tinny, probably coming from a speakerphone. He had a clipped, precise way of speaking. I imagined a short, bookish man in a tweed jacket with a pocket protector.

“There was something about a cash register?” Marchant prompted.

Sudden thought.

This man was a ballistics expert. Last night, a contraption had fired at us. Someone could’ve been killed. Access to Marchant’s expertise was incredibly fortunate.

A plan formed in my head.

“Jason must’ve been confused, sir. I have a serious issue.” Adding a quaver to my voice. “Someone tried to kill my dog.”

“My goodness.” There was a soft click as Marchant lifted the receiver. “Have you filed an incident report?”

“I haven’t told anyone.” I opted for damsel in distress. “My neighborhood is very isolated, and the local cops hate coming out here. They don’t care at all.”

“Shameful.” Irritation tinged Marchant’s voice. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Some of our more remote sheriffs wouldn’t investigate a fire in their own station house. But why do you think someone wants to harm your pet?”

“My dog’s half wolf, and a few weeks ago these rednecks threatened to shoot him.” I invented details on the fly. “Last night, my friends and I found something buried in the dunes. A metal contraption, with two short barrels. We accidentally set it off, and I was nearly hit.”

“The device
fired
at you?” Incredulous. “A projectile weapon?”

“Yes, sir. I think it’s a gun, but I’m not sure.”

“Of all the
irresponsible
—” I could almost see Marchant straighten in his chair. “Could you locate a bullet fired by the weapon?”

“Oh yessir! I have the weapon and two slugs.”

“Excellent. Did you retrieve any shell casings?”

Why hadn’t I thought of that? “No sir, but I could possibly look again.”

“No need.” Pages flapped. “I’m tied up today, but if you bring those items to me tomorrow, I’d be willing to take a look.”

Jackpot.
“Of course. Could you give me the crime lab’s street address?”

“Certainly. Email [email protected] and I’ll send directions. That way I’ll have your contact info.”

“Absolutely.” I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d just commandeered a ballistics expert to help fight the Gamemaster. Not too shabby. “Thank you so much!”

“Happy to help. I’d like to find whoever set this weapon. It’s an incredibly stupid and dangerous thing to do.”

I thanked him again, hung up, and sent the email.

Marchant replied a few minutes later: Mind is slipping. Lab closed on Saturdays. Could we meet at Twin Ponds Rifle Range? It’s just north of Mount Pleasant on Highway 17. Close to where I live. 10:00 a.m.?

Hmmm.
Trickier. We’d need a car. But I wasn’t about to blow this opportunity.

Can do, I replied. See you there.

Then I shot a text message to the Virals.

We’d caught a break.

Now to take advantage.

My grand strategy lasted less than ten minutes.

I was hustling for the door when Kit stopped me cold. “We’re having dinner with Whitney tonight. No exceptions.”

Ugh.
At least he’d warned me this time. “When?”

“Six o’clock.” Kit’s hazel eyes grew plaintive. He scratched the curly brown hair above his ear. “She’s, uh, bringing a picnic and we’re eating on the beach.”

“The beach,” I repeated. “With the sand. And the wind. And the bugs.”

Kit adopted his long-suffering expression. “Come on Tor, be a sport. It’ll be fun.”

“Right. Fun!”

I headed back upstairs and sent another text. I’d be late to my own meeting.

The boys cracked a few jokes, but agreed to wait in the bunker. I’d get there as soon as I could.

At six sharp, Kit’s voice boomed up the stairwell. “Let’s go!”

Imploring various deities for strength, I trudged down and followed Kit out the door. Coop moved to join us, but I gently shoved him inside. Sadly, no dogs allowed.

A white canopy pavilion fluttered on the beach. Beneath it, fluffy cushions surrounded a sky blue tablecloth. Places were set for three.

The weather was smiling on Whitney—light breeze, sunset sky, temperature hovering at seventy. Some women had all the luck.

Our hostess was removing covered dishes from a cooler. She wore a snug tangerine sundress that accentuated her curves. Her hair was up, one of the few times I could recall it that way. She smiled at our approach.

“Best behavior.” Kit spoke from the side of his mouth.

“This looks like an Usher video,” I whispered back.

“Hello, hell-o!” Whitney waved a hand at the setup. “Do you like?”

“Wonderful!” Kit smiled ear to ear. Looked at me expectantly.

“How great.” I feigned enthusiasm. “What a cute idea.”

Whitney dropped a curtsy, seemingly destined to be a Real Housewife someday. I sat cross-legged on the cushion she indicated. The sun was low, and directly in my face.
Naturally.

“Isn’t this just a
hoot
?” Whitney began dishing out sides from various containers. Corn pudding. Okra. Green beans. Caprese salad. Her usual Lowcountry fare.
That,
at least, was fine by me.

We got all the way to the boiled shrimp before she pissed me off.

“Tory, sweetheart. Are you
sure
the boys you selected are right for the ball?”

The food had put me in an indulgent mood. “Yes, Whitney. They’ll be fine.”

“It’s just—” dabbing her mouth with a blue gingham napkin, “—Jason’s a
fine
choice, of course. But the other three.” She spread her hands. “They aren’t even part of cotillion.”

I set down my fork. “They don’t have to be. I can invite whoever I want.”

“But don’t you think you’d be better off with escorts who are familiar with the event? Boys who know the protocol. Or you could just take Jason, and that way—”

“Enough.” I held Whitney’s eyes. “Ben, Hi, and Shelton are my best friends. If I’m having a party, they’re invited. Always. That’s
my
choice. Understand?”

“Of course.” Kit arm-wrapped the airhead, who seemed about to say more. “It’s completely your decision, kiddo.”

“Certainly.” Whitney did her best to sound cheery. “I’m sure all will work out for the best.”

Issue settled, we resumed our meal. The sun melted into the western horizon, throwing an artist’s palette of reds and oranges across the harbor. I was forced to admit the picnic wasn’t a horrible idea.

I was patting my own back for handling the matter so maturely when disaster struck.

“Tory.”

Kit and Whitney had put down their utensils. He was holding her hand.

“Mmm-hmm?” Mouth stuffed with shrimp.

“We’d like to talk to you about something.”

I nearly choked.
We?
Not good.

“Whitney and I have been discussing our future.” Kit gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Last summer, when we considered leaving Charleston, Whitney made the difficult decision to go with us. Thankfully, we were all able to stay.”

Deer in headlights.

Cornered suspect.

Mouse in the open, owls circling.

“That experience brought us all closer together.”

Kit seemed unable to get to the point. I was very, very close to vomiting.

“We think it’s time our relationship progressed to the next level. So, with your permission, I’d like to ask Whitney to—”

“Oh God.”

“—move in with us,” he finished in a rush.

First reaction—he didn’t say get married! My chest unfroze a tick.

Second reaction—oh no. Oh please, no.

“Won’t it be
so
much fun?!” Whitney clapped her hands like a preschooler. “We can finally spend real time together. Become closer. I know your mother isn’t with us anymore, but I’d like to—”

Something snapped inside me.

“How
dare
you mention my mother?” Quiet. Cold. “What, do you think you can replace her? That it’s an open position, like a McDonald’s fry cook?”

Whitney’s eyes widened. “Sweetheart, no! I only meant—”

“Meant what?” Anger made my voice shrill. “That you’d jump right in and fix me? Be my new best friend? Take care of me when I’m sick, or scared?”

Whitney stared, speechless. Part of me knew I was being unfair, even cruel, but I’d never been more furious. I couldn’t stop the words.

“You’re not my mother, and you never will be.” I shot to my feet. “Next time try thinking before you speak.”

“Tory!” Kit barked. “Watch your tone! Whitney wasn’t implying she’d take anyone’s place. You know that.”

“Oh, spare me.” My eyes burned. “At least you finally had the balls to say something. I figured I’d just keep finding Whitney’s things in our house until one day, poof, she’d never leave!”

Kit flushed scarlet. Whitney burst into tears.

Escape. Now.

“I have to go.” I stormed back down the beach.

“Tory, wait!” Whitney struggled to rise and follow me.

“Let her go.” Kit looped a restraining arm around her waist. “It’ll be okay.”

I broke into a trot. Over the dunes, across the common, and up my front steps. My hands shook as I twisted the doorknob.

Coop trailed me up to my bedroom.

The door shut, then waterworks.

Head buried in my pillows, I let myself sob.

I’d never felt more alone.