Kathy Reichs - Code

“This has to be a scam,” Ben said. “How can a program search the entire web?”

“It’s legit, noob.” Shelton dragged my image to the search window. “The software measures facial features and dimensions, converts them to data form, then cross-checks thousands of databases in a blink. It’s bawse.”

“Which features?” Hi pointed to his own face. “A manly schnozz?”

“Not only that.” I’d done some research myself. “Every face has landmarks—various peaks and valleys that compose our appearance. Spotter identifies seventy of them as focal points. Things like the distance between your eyes, the length of your jawline, the structure of your cheekbone, or the shape of your eye sockets. Those points are translated into a numeric code called a faceprint. Once calculated, the program searches the net for a match.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Ben scoffed. “These programs never work.”

“Watch and learn, punk.” Shelton clicked the mouse.

An hourglass appeared, rotated, was replaced by an estimated time to completion.

Shelton ripped off his glasses. “Seventy-four hours!?”

Ben smirked. “Told you. What do you wanna bet it comes back with nothing?”

“Can we narrow the parameters?” Hi asked. “Search smaller, somehow?”

Tempting, but I didn’t want to miss anything. “Will this keep running if we exit the program?”

Shelton nodded. “We can check back later, but we have to use a LIRI terminal.”

“Then we should let it work. We need to be as thorough as possible.”

“Seventy-four freaking hours,” Shelton muttered as he logged out. “I could buy a handgun in less time.”

“I’ll shut this down.” Ben nudged Shelton from the seat before the terminal and took his place.

“You know how this system works?” Shelton asked skeptically. “It takes a while to exit all these programs.”

Ben nodded. “You guys check the lobby. We don’t want any surprises.”

“Yes, sir!” Hi gave a mock salute, but headed for the door. Shelton and I followed on his heels.

The three of us snuck downstairs to the ground floor. The coast remained clear.

Minutes later Ben appeared and we slipped from the building, heading for the front gate. We were halfway across the courtyard when I spotted trouble.

“Crap. It’s Hudson.”

The security chief made straight for us from Building One. Unable to avoid him, we halted by a pair of wooden benches.

“Act natural.”

“Right,” Hi whispered. “That always works.”

“State your business.” Sunlight glinted off Hudson’s silver shades.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hudson.” I didn’t bother with fake smiles. “We came to look for conchs on Turtle Beach, but Ben just remembered we have choir practice. We’re leaving now.”

“You failed to sign in at the security desk.”

“I know. We forgot. We’re very sorry.”

“You must sign in each and every time you visit Loggerhead Island.”

“Understood. It was an oversight.”

“There are no exceptions to this rule. Not even for family.”

“Won’t happen again.” I edged around his looming figure. “We’re out of here, so don’t worry about us. Have a good one.”

Hudson pivoted slowly as we moved past him toward the gate.

“Conch shells? Do you think I’m stupid, Miss Brennan?”

The question startled me. “Of course not, sir.”

Hudson peered in the direction of Lab Six. “Conch shells, huh?”

“Right.” My sweat glands kicked into gear. “But we didn’t get a chance. We have to go home.”

“Well then, Miss Brennan.” The reflective lenses hid Hudson’s eyes, making him impossible to read. “By all means, be on your way.”

Uneasy, I turned and herded the boys toward the front entrance. Hudson stood statue still, watching our departure.

“That guy has it in for us,” Hi swore as we hustled down the trail. “He’s like that second Terminator, the liquid metal one. I bet his arms turn into knives.”

“‘Choir practice’?” Ben rolled his eyes. “Perhaps your worst cover story ever.”

“Not my best,” I admitted. “Feel free to step up next time.”

Casting nervous backward glances, we hurried for the dock.

CHAPTER 34

“IT HAS TO mean something!”

Hi slapped a knee in frustration. Shelton glanced up from his iPhone, but when Hi didn’t elaborate he resumed surfing.

Ben had Sewee aimed toward home. The open ocean between Morris and Loggerhead can be unnerving. At the midpoint, both islands disappear from view, and for a short span one seems adrift in the endless Atlantic. It’s my least favorite part of the voyage.

“Care to elaborate?” I was sitting between Hi and Shelton in the stern. “Or was that a yoga move I don’t know?”

“The hard deadline still bugs me. Friday at nine p.m. Why so specific?”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Shelton leaned closer so Hi and I could hear over the wind. “Everything the Gamemaster has set up seems meticulously planned. Agreed?”

“Absolutely,” Hi said. “Some of his toys are expensive, too.”

“I think your instincts are dead-on, Hi.” Shelton shifted to face us. “Here’s my theory. The Gamemaster began setting this game up a long time ago. Did serious planning. I’m talking weeks, maybe months.”

“Or even years,” I said. “How’d he run those wires beneath the eighteenth green?”

Shelton nodded rapidly. “I’ve been meaning to check when Kiawah’s Ocean Course was last resurfaced. But you get my point.”

“Yes. But not where you’re going.”

“We found that first cache—the Loggerhead one—right after it was registered online.” Shelton pointed to Hi. “You said it’d been on the geocache site less than a week.”

“Okay.” Hi wasn’t following either.

“Then we were forced into a series of tasks with varying time limits—Castle Pinckney was untimed, we had forty-eight hours to locate Kiawah, and then seventy-two to find Mepkin.”

“And now we have a specific deadline—Friday at nine.” I tried to calculate the total hours, but gave up. “More than five whole days. It makes no sense.”

“ Unless ,” Shelton said, “the endgame was always going to be Friday at nine.”

Deep in my brainpan, a faint bell began jingling. “Keep going.”

“Maybe, for some reason, the game has to end then.” Shelton made a chopping motion. “ Right then. No matter how much time the earlier legs might’ve taken us.”

“Because the early legs were variable.” I felt a rush of insight. “We could’ve taken much longer to find Pinckney, since it didn’t have a time limit. And though we came down to the wire that night on the golf course, we still had hours remaining at the abbey when we found the … last clue.”

Corpse . Why couldn’t I say it?

“Exactly.” Shelton slid from the bench to crouch before Hi and me. “So the upshot is this—the Gamemaster couldn’t know how long it would take us to reach this particular point. He had to allow enough flexibility in his sick schedule for his pawns to complete all the tasks.”

“Assuming we didn’t get killed along the way,” Hi grumbled.

“So he couldn’t use a timer.” It all made sense. “Not if the final task requires a specific hour and date. Because he couldn’t know when we’d actually get to the crypt.”

“That’s why the last note is different. The Gamemaster just needed us to have reached the crypt before Friday at nine, when he obviously has something planned. If that left seven days, five days, or two days, so what? We’d still be on pace for his timetable.”