Kathy Reichs - Code

He didn’t reply, but suddenly I’d had enough.

“Ben, stop the boat.”

He looked at me funny. “We’re in the middle of the ocean, Victoria.”

“Stop the damn boat!”

Ben rolled eyes, but eased off the throttle. Sewee decelerated until we just bobbed along with the current.

“Did you want to jump in?” Ben asked dryly. “Water’s pretty cold in October.”

“I want to know why you’ve been such a jerk lately.”

My anger caught him off guard. “I have not.”

“Ben, enough! We never used to fight. But now it’s like a storm cloud follows you twenty-four/seven.” My voice softened. “What is it? Tell me.”

I saw a flicker of something in his brown-black eyes. For a moment he seemed almost … stricken. Panicked, even. Then he looked away.

Seconds ticked by. Ben seemed about to speak. Instead, his features hardened.

“I hate that douchebag Jason, all right?” With a jerk of his wrist, Ben restarted the engine. “He’s a classic silver-spoon asshat, yet you can’t get enough of him. It’s pathetic.”

Sudden flashback. Ben’s drunken rant after the pool party. I knew that lately his problem with Jason had reached a boiling point.

But for some reason, I was certain Ben had been about to say something else. I didn’t know what, exactly, but I felt it in my bones.

One last effort .

“Jason’s my friend,” I said quietly, “but he’s not a Viral. He’s not part of my pack. He’ll never mean as much to me as you do.”

Ben’s eyes snapped to meet mine. He stared intently. I felt my cheeks burn.

“And Hi and Shelton, of course,” I added quickly.

“Of course.” Ben goosed the throttle and we lurched forward.

Whatever opening might’ve existed was gone. The stone mask was back in place.

The trip proceeded in silence, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Uncomfortable ones.

How did I feel about what Ben said that night? His slurred declarations about Jason and me. I’d never answered that question. Like I was hiding the issue from myself.

Am I any less confused than he is?

“I’m in.” I searched for Spotter on the LIRI network. “Shelton said the program was buried in a subfolder.”

“There.” Ben tapped an icon halfway down the list of applications. “Capital S .”

There’d been no more talk of feelings. Thankfully, focusing on our task dispelled the lingering tension. We had a job to do. We needed to work together.

Our entrance had been trouble free. We’d strolled through the gate and over to Building Six. Finding the lobby empty, we’d scurried upstairs. Alone in the stripped-down lab, we’d exchanged an awkward high five.

Best buds, right?

I opened Spotter and clicked “prior searches.” A sparrow with giant binoculars informed us that our query was complete.

“Here we go.” I tapped the link.

A stop sign flashed on-screen. The cartoon sparrow frowned: No Matches.

“Damn!” My disappointment was incalculable.

“Told you.” Ben shook his head. “These programs never work.”

I clicked “More Information.” A text box stated that the sample image was of insufficient quality to find a match.

“My pic was bad?” I slammed a fist on the desktop. “Why didn’t the program say that before running a three-day search!?”

Ben straightened. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” My attention was fixed on hating the developers of Spotter.

“Something rattled, or fell, when you … I think you knocked something loose.”

“Whatever.” Sulky. Couldn’t help it.

Muttering four-letter words, I moved to my second task—tracking the permit Marchant had mentioned. There had to be a record somewhere.

Ben was opening and closing desk drawers. Loudly.

“What are you doing?” I snapped, still irked by our failure.

“I swear I heard something. These drawers were empty when I checked three days ago.” Ben paused. “Why not ask your dad about the guns?”

“My interest might be a little hard to explain, don’t you think?”

“True.”

My second query was another dead end. I checked dozens of LIRI folders. Procurement. Supplies. Acquisitions. Inventory. Even a subfolder entitled “Weaponry,” which listed several animal control devices but no snare guns.

I tried to open the security subfolder. Access was denied.

Hudson. Registered weapons must fall under his jurisdiction .

Ben interrupted my thoughts. “Check it out!”

The lining of the left-hand drawer had dislodged, revealing empty space beneath.

“A false bottom.” Ben wedged a key into the newly exposed gap. “I knew I heard something.”

Ben levered upward, then used his fingers to remove the panel. A single object lay in the shallow compartment beneath. A red flash drive.

Tiny words were printed on its side: “Property of Dr. Marcus Karsten. Private and Confidential.” The drive was stamped with a bright yellow C .

“Oh my God.” I could hardly breathe. “This belonged to Karsten.”

“Concealed in a hidden compartment, in his private desk, in his secret lab.” Ben’s eyes were Frisbees. “What did we just find, Tor?”

My pulse thumped. I’d thought all hope of learning more about our affliction had died with Karsten. Yet because I’d pounded a stupid desk, we might’ve stumbled onto … everything.

Another realization struck. “The logo! That C is a trademark of Candela Pharmaceuticals!”

Ben whistled. “The company that underwrote Karsten’s secret parvo experiments. Chance Claybourne’s company,” he added unnecessarily.

“This is huge.” All thoughts of the Gamemaster had been blasted from my mind. “This drive might hold the key to understanding our condition. Our prognosis. If there’s any chance of cure!”

“Plug it in!” For once, Ben sounded as wired as I was.

Hands shaking, I inserted the drive into a USB port and clicked it open. A single folder appeared: MK.

A text box demanded a password.

“Frick.” I chewed my thumb in agitation. “Any ideas?”

Ben gave me a flat look. “How would I know Karsten’s private password?”

Footfalls sounded in the hall. My heart went hummingbird. I yanked and pocketed the drive an instant before the door banged open.

“What are you two doing in here?” Mike Iglehart wore an eye-blistering white lab coat and a surly expression. “This isn’t some teenage make-out room.”

My face flushed scarlet. “Excuse me?”

“We were using the computer!” Ben barked. “That’s it.”

Iglehart smirked. “I’m sure. Which reminds me this terminal needs to be removed. We can’t waste bandwidth so you kids can play Angry Birds.”

I rose, furious, intending to storm out.

“Does your father know you’re here?” Iglehart’s brows formed a V above his nose.

“He said we could use a lab.”

Half true. Kit’s prior approval hadn’t been date specific.

“Yes, I heard you were grubbing up my workspace a few days ago.” Iglehart spread his arms to encompass the room. “But this is clearly not a lab. I’ll be sure to inform Kit you’ve been sneaking into empty spaces unchaperoned. I’ll brief Hudson as well.”

My cheeks burned, but I kept my mouth shut. There was nothing to be gained by arguing. Ben just stared at the floor.

We weren’t doing anything wrong, Ben. Not like he’s implying .

Yet Ben looked like a kid caught stealing.

Iglehart escorted us down to the lobby, where Dr. Sundberg was waiting impatiently.