Kathy Reichs - Code

A second insight occurred to me.

“The Gamemaster’s message was coded,” I said. “Maybe the numbers are, too.”

“It’s possible,” Shelton agreed. “I can test some numerical ciphers tonight.”

“Wait.” Ben glanced from face to face. “We’re actually going to pursue this nonsense? We suddenly care what this fruitcake hid in a box somewhere?”

Ben’s question caught me off guard. When had I decided to play?

From the moment you read the letter .

“I’m in,” I said. “I’ll admit it, I want to solve the puzzle.”

“Me too,” Hi said quickly. “Let’s take Mr. Creepy Clowns down to Chinatown.”

Shelton shrugged. “Could be fun. I like breaking codes.”

Ben shook his head. “Whatever.”

I looked again at the Gamemaster’s challenge.

The numerical string. The mysterious picture.

So we’d passed The Test, and were invited to play The Game?

Like I could turn that down.

“Bring it on,” I whispered.

CHAPTER 10

A BUZZ IN my pocket startled me.

Text. Kit. Get my butt home for dinner.

“Gotta run, guys. Someone scan and email that image. I want to study it tonight.” I looked pointedly at Hi. “And remember to secure the bunker door. We can’t let the humidity get too high in here.”

“One time,” Hi mumbled, feeding paper into the printer. “I’ll never live it down.”

“Can you run me back?” I asked Ben, who nodded. Hi and Shelton would have to walk the mile and a half back to our complex.

“Don’t sweat it, ya’ll.” Shelton flexed his scrawny biceps. “I’ll have this nut cracked by morning.”

“I have no doubt.” Flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Coop, Ben, and I crawled outside and descended to the cove. Fifteen minutes later we’d secured Sewee to the Morris Island dock.

“Later, Tor.” Ben headed for the townhouse he shared with his father. “I’ll take a look at those numbers, too. Shelton’s not the only one with ideas. Stay logged on.”

“Will do. Thanks for the ride.”

Patting my side for Coop to follow, I walked to our front door. Paused.

“What do you think, boy?” I scratched his muzzle. “Will Kit inflict us with her company again tonight?”

Coop cocked his head. A soft, pink tongue dropped from his mouth.

“Unfortunately, I agree. Gotta go inside anyway.”

Our canine instincts were dead-on. Whitney was swishing around the dining room in a yellow sundress, setting the table.

At least the food will be good .

“Whitney. Great to see you.” I plopped onto the couch. Cooper curled at my feet. “It’s been, what, twenty-four hours?”

Whitney smiled, her sarcasm detector broken as usual.

Kit hadn’t missed it. “Tory, get cleaned up. Now.”

Eyes rolling, I trudged upstairs. Stopped midway. Turned. Hanging on the wall beside me was a large white canvas depicting an oddly shaped blue dog.

“What is this?”

Whitney appeared at the bottom of the steps. “Oh! That, Sweetie, is my favorite painting. It’s a Blue Dog, by Dan Kessler. Don’t you just adore it?”

Actually, I did like it. But a single question was looping in my head.

What is it doing here? What is it doing here? What is it doing here?

I continued up in silence.

As I washed my face, unpleasant facts coalesced. A painting. The vase. Pink and green pillows. Whitney, alone in the townhouse, unannounced.

Like mold in a cellar, Kit’s bimbo girlfriend was quietly invading my domain.

Do. Not. Like.

I stared into my bathroom mirror. My reflection stared back. Impasse.

“Tory!” Kit sounded annoyed. “We’re waiting on you!”

“Blargh.”

I reached the table just as Whitney unveiled her menu. Crab cakes, corn on the cob, collard greens, peach cobbler.

Freaking delicious.

The adults tried to draw me into conversation, but the sneaky buildup of Whitney’s belongings had weirded me out. After scarfing my meal, I bolted for my bedroom and locked the door.

My Mac was awake, with a new message blinking on-screen. Ben. Requesting videoconference. I booted iFollow and found I was last to arrive.

Ben filled the top left quadrant of my monitor. As usual, he was lounging in sweats in his father’s rec room, which was an actual wreck. Old magazines, boat parts, camping gear, and fishing tackle were stacked in precarious piles all around him.

Shelton’s bespectacled face hung to Ben’s right, framed by the two Avatar posters on his bedroom wall. Though barely six o’clock, he was already sporting PJs.

Hi occupied the frame below Shelton. He was sitting at his desk, wearing a “Wolfman’s Got Nards!” T-shirt, and eating a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. My own image peered back from the final square.

“She’s here.” Shelton sounded impatient. “ Now will you tell us what’s up?”

“I wasn’t going to repeat myself,” Ben replied, but his dark eyes sparked with eagerness.

“Then talk,” Hi said. “I’m missing Man v. Food .”

Ben got right to the point. “I solved the coordinates.”

“Did not!” Shelton looked shocked, and a little jealous. “How?”

A thin smile stole across Ben’s face. “For once, I had the flash of brilliance.”

“Go on.” Ben had my full attention.

“I was thinking about what Hi said earlier.”

“Smart,” Hi quipped.

“Not usually,” Ben continued, “but in this case you were right. The numbers have to be coordinates. Problem is, they don’t make sense.”

“Not unless we go dune-surfing in Africa,” Shelton joked.

Ben ignored him. “How much do you guys know about coordinate systems?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “I know that a specific longitude and latitude cross at a single point on a map, but that’s about it.”

“That’s right,” Ben said. “Coordinates are just sets of numbers used to denote an exact location. The most commonly used system is longitude, latitude, and height.”

“Latitude runs east-west,” Hi contributed. “Longitude goes north-south, from pole to pole.”

Ben nodded. “Now, for any system to work, there must be agreed-upon starting points. The reference planes defining latitude and longitude are the equator and the prime meridian.”

“Everyone knows that.” Shelton wiped and replaced his glasses. “The equator divides north from south. The prime meridian separates east and west.”

“Doesn’t the PM run through some observatory in England?” Hi asked.

“Greenwich,” Ben agreed. “That’s zero longitude. How far east or west a location is on a map is measured from that city.”

“In degrees, right?” I ventured. “East is positive and west is negative.”

“Gold star,” Ben said. “That’s how you calculate longitude—the number of degrees east or west of Greenwich.”

“Latitude works the same way,” Hi added. “North is positive, south is negative.”

“But you have to understand—” Ben leaned forward toward his screen, “—choosing the prime meridian wasn’t scientific. It’s not like the equator, which must be equidistant from the poles, and therefore can only be in one place. For the prime meridian, cartographers simply agreed to use an old English telescope as the universal reference point.”

“Really?” That surprised me. “When?”

“The 1880s.” Hi mumbled through a mouthful of Doritos. Of course he knew. “The United States held a conference, and most countries voted for Greenwich. It’s stuck ever since.”

“The point is,” Ben went on, “the choice was completely arbitrary. Before that conference, mapmakers had used dozens of other places as zero longitude. Rome. Paris. Rio. Mecca. Most countries just picked their own prime meridian.”