Kathy Reichs - Code

“I will. I have to go now.”

As Jason stormed away, I fled the watching, whispering attention of the rest of his guests.

I pointed Sewee into Charleston Harbor, headed for home.

Ben had balked when I’d demanded the keys, but I’d given him no choice. The boys were wasted. I’d driven Sewee before, and knew the basics. And if I scratched her while docking, let that be a lesson.

We’d barely set off when Hi emptied his guts over the side. Shelton tried to clean his glasses, but kept dropping them. Ben was slouched in the copilot’s chair, too dizzy to stand.

“He’s no good for you,” Ben said abruptly. “Doesn’t deserve you.”

“Just be quiet.” Soft. “We’re almost home.”

Ben’s eyes were slits. “That guy, he’s …” His hand rose, fell. “Dime a dozen. Doesn’t know anything. About you. The real you.”

Mercifully, Ben trailed off. In moments he was snoring.

I tried not to ignore his words. Ben was drunk. Being super-overprotective. And he never missed a chance to put Jason down.

But he sounds … different. Almost jealous .

“It’s the booze talking,” I said to myself as I maneuvered Sewee into the harbor. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Not one thing.”

Then I barked a sour laugh.

A crazed lunatic was forcing us around the city.

My father wanted a bimbo to live in our home.

Chance was watching me, and consorting with Madison.

Canine DNA was hijacking my nervous system, and I had no idea how to stop it.

The last thing I needed was Ben’s dating advice.

“Blargh.”

I wished life could be simple again.

Knew it never would be.

So I motored toward Morris, eager to crawl into bed and fall blissfully asleep. Then I cringed. How would I sneak these dopes past their parents?

“Double blargh.”

CHAPTER 27

BEN WAS BEHIND the wheel of Kit’s 4Runner.

We were fifteen minutes up Highway 17, heading north through the Francis Marion National Forest. Here, the road traversed a series of sultry, kudzu-draped swamps before reaching the towering woodlands of the park’s interior.

Nine forty-five a.m. The mood was grim.

“I wanna die.” Hi was slumped against a backseat window. “It’s sixty-five in this car, but I’m still sweating my face off.”

Shelton opened his eyes, seemed to consider replying. Didn’t bother.

“Serves you right,” I said from the front passenger seat. “ Cannonball! You really made an impression.”

“People loved that cannonball,” Hi whispered. “You can’t take that from me.”

Shelton coughed, lowered his window, then hawked a loogie into space. Thankfully, his aim was true.

Given the shape the boys were in, I’d left Coop at home. The hungover trio looked a few jostles short of redecorating the car with their stomach linings.

Shelton rubbed his face. “Why get drunk if you feel like this afterward? It’s like signing up for food poisoning.”

“Carpe diem.” Hi’s pallor was a sickly green. “Or something. I dunno, kids like getting bombed. Kids are stupid.”

“It’s too dangerous for us.” I made sure Ben was listening. “A Viral can’t afford to lose control, not for a second. Not given our … condition.”

Ben kept his bloodshot eyes on the road. He wasn’t about to apologize, and hated being scolded.

I didn’t press. We all knew his mistake had been cataclysmic, but no one was anxious to discuss it then. Not with their heads pounding. Not with Ben scowling like an angry grizzly.

“We dodged a bullet,” I said. “Let’s just avoid any repeat performances.”

“Not a problem,” Shelton said. “My beer pong career was short.”

“But epic.” Hi raised a fist, which Shelton bumped weakly.

Miracle of miracles, no one had been caught. I still couldn’t believe our luck.

After docking, it had taken some time to roust the boys into semi-presentable form. Then, slurring and stumbling, they’d headed for their doors. I’d held zero hope they’d pass muster.

But Shelton’s parents had been out, and Tom Blue was asleep. Hi had snuck past his mother by faking a gastrointestinal illness. Gross.

Kit hadn’t blinked when I’d beelined for my room. I don’t think “coming home intoxicated” was on his radar yet. Which was reasonable, since I was fourteen, had never done anything like that, and hadn’t been drinking anyway.

Up early the next morning, I’d made a round of calls. Incredibly, the guys hadn’t backed out.

So there we were, me and three wildly hungover boys, riding in Kit’s SUV.

I checked the iPad. Just over fourteen hours left.

Kit was at work, of course, even though it was Saturday. We hadn’t asked to borrow the car. No need for daddy dearest to know I was meeting a stranger at a secluded firing range.

Ben turned right at Steed Creek and eased onto Willow Hall Road. Around us, the forest of longleaf pines grew denser.

“I don’t remember anything,” Ben said abruptly. “I blacked out.”

“You took the whole world and drank it,” Hi mumbled. “Then you tried to fight Jason. And then you—”

“Let’s discuss last night another time,” I said, hoping to avoid the subject. “Right now, we need to focus on finding the range.”

Blacked out? I watched Ben from the corner of my eye. I’d never known him to lie, but I got the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest either.

He remembers. But he’s probably embarrassed about getting all sentimental .

I let the matter slide. “Blacked out” and forgotten worked fine for me.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Hi, staring out his window. “There’s nothing here but woodchucks.”

It was true. The woods pressed close to the road, blocking the sun. I hadn’t seen a building in miles.

Another half mile, then a wooden sign appeared: “Twin Ponds Rifle Range.”

Ben pulled into a gravel lot. Only one other vehicle was present—a muddy Ford F-150, black, with oversized tires and a steel gun rack attached to its bed.

My sneakers hit the ground first. “Let’s find our expert.”

“Why does the Forest Service operate a shooting gallery?” Shelton leaned against the parked 4Runner, wheezing from the effort of getting out. “Seems weird.”

“It’s not much, just a designated area for firing weapons.” Hi stretched, rubbed his lower back. “What better place to pop off some rounds than deep in the woods?”

A series of reports echoed from the trees ahead.

Hi cocked his ear. “Someone’s popping caps as we speak.”

I shouldered my backpack and we headed down a short trail toward a long, rectangular structure divided into stalls like an open-air market. Each section had its own bench, rack, and a firing platform facing the open field beyond.

Fifty yards out, a rough wooden beam crossed the field, designed for propping cans, bottles, and other small objects. Fifty yards beyond the beam was a thick earthen backstop suitable for pinning paper targets.

Debris littered the field—signs, old washing machines, TVs, and trash cans—all rusted and riddled with bullet holes.

The range felt neglected. Forgotten by the world. The surrounding forest was deathly quiet. Spooky.

I was very glad to have company.

“What a dump.” Ben kicked a pile of casings at the building’s edge.

“Rednecks like shooting things,” Hi said. “But they don’t like cleaning up.”

More shots sounded in rapid sequence. I spied a man in military fatigues hunched over in the farthest stall, systematically firing a high-powered rifle. Bullets slammed a target at the edge of sight. There was no else on the property.