Kathy Reichs - Code

Kit stuck his head out the door. “I’m heading down to Folly. Nelson Devers bought a load of plywood, but needs help hauling it back. Then we’re all going to pitch in boarding up the units.”

“I’ll be here.”

“If anyone from LIRI calls, give them my mobile number.”

“Will do.”

Kit left. I lingered on the stoop, stuck in a funk.

We’d foiled the attack at The Citadel, but that didn’t feel like enough. As things stood the Gamemaster would escape unpunished. The thought made me sick.

And I worried.

Everything about The Game pointed to obsession. The planning. The expense. All those crafty twists. The fanatical attention to detail.

It added up to a pair of inescapable conclusions: The Gamemaster had done this before. Perhaps many times. And if he’d done it before, he’d do it again.

My anger built. The lunatic could already be plotting his next game. Building deadly traps. Designing lavish clues.

How many geocaches had he buried? How many lives had he ruined?

He’d never stop.

Unless we shut him down.

I thought of the body in the crypt. The poor soul whose life had ended mere minutes before we found him. We’d never even learned his name.

The Gamemaster was a psychopath. A merciless, narcissistic predator. Maybe even a serial killer.

We couldn’t let him escape. Couldn’t let him hurt more people.

I’m not letting this go .

“You look ready to chew nails.” Shelton grinned at me from his own stoop.

“There’s a certain murderer I’d like to chat with.”

“Not me.” Shelton descended to the sidewalk. “I wanna bust the lunatic, not spend time with him. Who knows? Crazy might be catching.”

I joined Shelton and we ambled toward the docks.

“Heard your dad scored some primo storm supplies,” I said.

“Had to go three places. Katelyn’s another cat I’d prefer to avoid.” Shelton gestured toward the horizon. “It’s creepy. You can’t even tell she’s out there.”

“We need to lock down the bunker.”

“I know. Think everything will fit in the back room?”

I nodded. “If we seal both windows, plug the crawl, and nail the interior door shut, things should be okay. The real pain will be getting the solar array inside.”

“I hope you’re right. We don’t have the cash to replace everything if the equipment gets soaked.”

“The bunker’s way up the hill,” I said hopefully. “No surge can reach that high.”

“Careful what you say. We’ve tempted fate enough this week.”

At the dock we looked for Sewee , but the runabout wasn’t in her berth. We turned and started back up the hill.

“Have you seen Ben?” I asked.

“Not since last night. I think he’s still mad we went to Claybourne Manor after the ball.”

I shook my head in exasperation. “Did he think we could just go home, without explaining things? Jason and Chance were in that basement. They had a right to know.”

Shelton raised both palms. “No argument here.”

“If you see Ben first, tell him the bunker needs attention. We have to sneak out there sometime today and lock it down.”

“Sounds like a fun couple of days.” Shelton glanced around, then lowered his voice. “You got anything on the Gamemaster? I racked my brain, but can’t think of a single angle to pursue.”

“Working on it.” I wasn’t ready to admit the same. Not yet.

“You’ll think of something. You always do.” Shelton yawned. “I’m gonna take a nap before my Pops gets back and turns this block into Extreme Home Makeover: Hurricane Edition .”

“Adios.”

Coop blitzed me at the front door, upset that I’d gone strolling without him.

“Ya snooze ya lose, dog face.”

CHAPTER 50

ICURSED AND DROPPED my hammer.

“Owie owie owie!” Waving the thumb didn’t help, so I stuck it in my mouth.

“Construction is not your forte,” Hi said from the base of the ladder.

I shot him a look. “My nails are straighter than yours.”

“True. But I haven’t bashed my hand. You’re like a cartoon character.”

We were securing a plywood sheet over the Stolowitskis’ bay window. Neighbors worked all around us, everyone pitching in to fortify the ten lonely townhouses perched on the neck of Morris Island.

The mood was cooperative, but with an undercurrent of tension. Katelyn was a monster. Morris was exposed and sitting smack in her path. No one really knew if our homes—built on the remnants of a Civil War outpost—could withstand a Category Four beat down.

Like it or not, we’d soon find out.

“You okay, Tor?” Shelton had a sandbag on one shoulder, hauled up from the beach. “We don’t have time for an ER run.”

“We could amputate,” Hi suggested. “Shelton, get the whiskey.”

“Comedians, the both of you.” I descended the rungs and hopped onto the ground.

I glanced at my unit. Coop’s nose pressed against our bay window. He yapped, scratching at the glass with his paws.

Sorry, boy. You’ve gotta hang inside today .

“That’s the last one,” Hi said. “Does Kit still need us to stow the grill?”

“Your dad took care of it,” Shelton replied. “I think we’re almost done.”

“Thank God.” Hi plopped down on his front steps. “My body’s not designed for manual labor.”

I resisted the opening. But he was right. It had been a long afternoon.

We’d had a neighborhood meeting to coordinate weatherproofing efforts, and to make sure everyone had transportation off the island. Then the boys and I had snuck out to the bunker. It took three sweaty hours, but our clubhouse was sealed tight. We hoped.

Back at the compound, dozens of tasks needed doing. Boarding windows. Securing garage doors. Moving deck furniture inside. Ben and his dad were running boats to the leeward side of Isle of Palms. Only their two vessels, Hugo and Sewee , were still docked at our pier.

Having chosen her target, Hurricane Katelyn was picking up speed. Each new report confirmed a direct hit on Charleston.

Our parents worked quickly, trying to hide their anxiety. Departure was first thing the following morning. Kit had been forced to ride out a hurricane before, and had no wish to repeat the experience.

My conscience ate at me all day long. Every hour we’d wasted hammering plywood should’ve been spent hunting the Gamemaster. But the tasks had to be done. It had been impossible to get away.

Threats or no threats, I was starting to feel very guilty about not calling the police. If the Gamemaster escaped, was it our fault?

I was icing my hand when two figures rounded the corner of our building. The surprise made me forget my throbbing thumb.

“What are they doing here?” Hi hissed.

“Not good.” Shelton reached for his earlobe. “Whatever they want, I’m not going to like it.”

Spotting me, Jason hurried over. Chance followed at a leisurely pace.

I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Jason replied. “But we thought you should know right away.”

“Know what?” My eyes flicked to Chance, but his face revealed nothing.

“I slept at Chance’s place last night. My phone died, and I didn’t recharge it until I got home this morning. That’s when I noticed a message from Greg Kirkham, the guy I called last week about the swab you wanted analyzed.”

“Okay.” But I didn’t see why Kirkham mattered. Eric Marchant had already contacted me and determined the accelerant was diesel fuel.

“Kirkham works in the crime lab with Marchant.” Jason’s forehead crinkled. “Get this—he’d called to apologize for not getting back to me about the swab. He said Marchant hadn’t been to work for a week.”