Kathy Reichs - Code

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

MY 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?”