Kathy Reichs - Code

“Is this going somewhere?” Shelton stifled a yawn. “We already tried the digits as coordinates. They pointed to the freakin’ Sahara Desert, remember?”

“Say these are coordinates.” Ben lifted his copy of the clue. “The first number would be latitude. 32.773645. The second would be longitude. -00.065437.”

“And the closest town is—” Hi glanced down, face smeared with orange debris, “—Bou Semghoun. An oasis village in the Ghardaia region of southern Algeria. Think they get DirecTV?”

Ben’s eyes twinkled. “Guess what else is at latitude 32.773645?”

“What?” I felt goose bumps prickle my skin.

“Downtown Charleston,” Ben smacked his hands together. “Booyah!”

“Get out!” Hiram’s eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”

“Fishing.” Ben wore a smug grin. “If I find a good spot, I bookmark the location in Sewee ’s GPS system. I’ve seen latitude 32.77 hundreds of times. I should’ve recognized it as soon as I saw the clue, but the rest of the string threw me.”

“But we still need a longitude,” Shelton pointed out. “We can’t find anything without both numbers.”

Ben’s smile widened. “Got that, too.”

“Spill it,” I demanded.

“That’s why I brought up the prime meridian,” Ben said. “Zero degrees longitude doesn’t have to be fixed to Greenwich . Not like zero latitude, which is always fixed to the equator and can’t move.”

I saw were Ben was going. “So this longitudinal coordinate could rely upon some other prime meridian. A totally different starting point!”

Ben leaned back, hands behind his head. “Bingo.”

“But that could be anywhere,” Shelton whined. “Literally any point on earth.”

“Wait, wait!” In his excitement, Hi spilled nacho chips onto his keyboard. “This clue was hidden inside the geocache. On Loggerhead! And that’s the only fixed location the Gamemaster gave us.”

“Hi figured it out,” Ben grumbled. “Sometimes I hate how smart you guys are.”

Alone in his bedroom, Hi raised the roof.

“So we use the first number as a normal latitude.” Dots were connecting for me. “Then we assume the second coordinate is for longitude, but with the Loggerhead cache location as the prime meridian.”

Ben nodded. “That’s our new zero longitude.”

“Ben, that’s brilliant!”

Suddenly, the boy was all blushes. “No big deal. Easy, really.”

“So where does—” I scanned quickly, “—longitude -00.065437 lead now?”

“You’ve got mail.” Ben tapped his mouse.

The message arrived almost instantly. I opened the lone attachment and loaded a JPEG onto my desktop.

And knew.

CHAPTER 11

“CASTLE PINCKNEY?” SHELTON’S voice was skeptical. “It’s abandoned, has been for years.”

“These coordinates are dead-on,” Ben said firmly. “No way that’s by accident.”

“But there’s nothing out there.” Shelton frowned into his webcam. “Just a beat-up pile of old rocks.”

“Part of the building still stands.” Hi’s gut filled a quarter of my screen as he searched above his desk. “I’ve got a book here, somewhere.”

“Sounds like a good spot to hide something.” I pulled up images as I spoke. “What do we know about the castle?”

“Hold on a sec,” Hi called from off camera. “Must be in my closet.”

My search results were not inviting.

Castle Pinckney was definitely deserted, and the neglect showed. A gnarly tumble of broken masonry and chest-high weeds, the dilapidated fort occupied a tiny atoll in the middle of Charleston Harbor.

The main building was circular, with a high curtain wall facing the harbor mouth. Scrub forest grew close, like a wild, tangled beard. Dark vines covered the crumbling gray stone, locking the fortress in a choking, shadowy embrace.

Though the isle sat a mere thousand feet from the downtown peninsula, the ruined battlements seemed lost in time. No one ever went there.

“At first, the British hanged pirates out there.” Hi was back on camera, skimming some sort of military encyclopedia. “Then, in 1781, George Washington ordered the construction of a fort.” Page flip. “The Confederate Army used Castle Pinckney as a POW camp. After that, the island became an artillery position, eventually a lighthouse.”

“Now, mothballs.” Shelton made a wipe-away gesture. “Ghost town.”

“I’ve cruised by there dozens of times,” Ben said. “Dumpsville.”

“The perfect hiding place.” Hi clicked his tongue. “Well played, Señor Gamemaster.”

“Fine.” Shelton sighed from the depths of his toes. “Put a visit on our to-do list.”

My eyes drifted back to the images on my screen. Castle Pinckney had a brooding, ominous feel. Lonely. Foreboding.

I was hooked.

Watch check: six fifteen p.m. Plenty of daylight left.

“Meet me at the dock in ten,” I said.

“Done!” Hi swiveled his chair, propped a foot, and started lacing his Adidas.

“Wait! What?” Shelton raised both hands. “Tonight? Why?”

“We’ve got over an hour before dark.” I yanked my hair into a ponytail. “Let’s show Mr. Gamemaster how quickly Virals solve puzzles.”

Ben took a moment to consider, then shrugged. “I’ll get Sewee ready.”

“We’ve got to work on our decision-making process.” Shelton was shaking his head. “Right now, we just follow Tory over every cliff.”

“Oh, boohoo,” I mocked. “Get moving.”

“You’re going down , clown!” Hi slapped his hands together. “Tory, don’t forget the clue. We still don’t know how that image factors.”

“Got it.”

Three faces winked out as I slapped my laptop shut.

“I’m taking Coop for a walk!”

Kit’s head popped from the kitchen. “Now?”

I nodded, hoping he wouldn’t ask more questions.

Kit didn’t disappoint. “Okay, but be back before dark. It’s a school night.”

“Promise, bye!”

Coop and I shot down the front stairs and beelined to the dock. I heard another door open, turned to see Shelton hurrying from his unit.

“I’m serious, Brennan.” Shelton had changed into white Nike gym shorts and a black Walking Dead hoodie. “My foot’s coming down. No more last-minute hijacks of my evenings.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Believe that.” He let the matter drop.

I didn’t take Shelton too seriously. Though none of them would ever admit it, I think the boys secretly liked me bossing them around. Most of the time. Every snake needs a head.

Hi and Ben were already aboard. We cast off, rounded Morris Island, and entered Charleston Harbor.

The evening was pleasantly warm. Seagulls rode the thermals high above our heads, mirroring Sewee ’s progress as we passed Fort Sumter and headed toward downtown.

A tiny islet materialized just short of the peninsula. Low and rocky, its shore consisted of a dismal stretch of sand running a few hundred yards before melting into the waves. A weathered stone structure occupied a stretch of high ground at the island’s north end. Castle Pinckney.

What was left of it, anyway.

Loose stones littered the uneven ground. Whole trees grew from the crumbling mortar of the outer wall. Everything was soaked in pelican poop, and looked on the verge of collapse.

“What a dump,” Ben grunted as he eased the runabout closer to shore.

“How come no one ever restored it?” I asked. “Aren’t you Southerners crazy for preserving Civil War monuments?”

“I think you mean the War of Northern Aggression,” Hi deadpanned in a prim Southern voice. “When ruthless Union troops invaded our sacred homeland to rob poor Dixie of her freedom. Being from Boston, it’s mostly your people’s fault.”