Kathy Reichs - Code

“That doesn’t make sense. I spoke to Marchant on Monday. Met him, actually.”

Hi squinted at me. “When did Marchant first contact you?”

“Last Friday, the day of Jason’s party. He called and told me the swab from the Castle Pinckney cache was coated with diesel fuel. Then we went to the firing range the next morning and gave him the snare gun and bullet fragments.”

I turned back to Jason. “I called Marchant’s office on Monday, but he didn’t answer so I left a message. But he called right back, and I met him at the coffee shop.”

Jason looked uneasy. “Kirkham said Marchant hadn’t been at the lab all this week. Said he isn’t returning calls or emails. Yesterday someone went by his apartment where he lives alone. He wasn’t home and his mailbox was overflowing.”

At that moment, Ben came striding up the hill from the dock. Frowning at Jason and Chance, he tugged Shelton’s elbow and drew him aside. I ignored their whispered conference, perplexed by Jason’s report.

“Why would Marchant skip work?” I asked. “I personally saw him on Monday, and he didn’t say anything about taking time off or leaving town.”

Hi began to fidget. “How’d he analyze our swab without using the crime lab?”

Good point . Something wasn’t right.

Glancing at Chance, I saw a frown that mirrored my own.

“I asked Kirkham that,” Jason answered. “He said there’s no record of any analysis. He said normally that wouldn’t raise eyebrows, since the test is inexpensive and the project was off the books. But Kirkham claimed that Marchant always logs his machine time.”

“So he took a shortcut,” Shelton said.

Jason shook his head. “I guessed that, too, but Kirkham doesn’t think so. He said Marchant is very particular and only uses certain equipment. Around the lab they call him the OCD Chuck Norris.”

“Chuck Norris?” I didn’t get it.

“Because of the red hair and beard,” Jason explained. “Kirkham said Marchant’s a nice guy, but kind of a finicky little shrimp. Definitely not the type to miss a week’s work without calling in.”

The world shrank around me.

My blood pressure spiked.

I pictured City Light Coffee. The man sipping an oversized cappuccino across the table from me.

“Red hair?” I clutched Jason’s arm. “Beard?”

“Those were his words.” Jason glanced at the fingers tight around his wrist.

“The man we met was tall, clean-shaven, and had light brown hair.” Hi forcefully ticked off fingers. “No beard, not a ginger, and definitely not a shrimp.”

Chance’s eyebrows rose.

Jason glanced from face to face. “What are you saying?”

I tried to organize my thoughts.

Fact: The man I’d had coffee with wasn’t Eric Marchant.

Question: Then who was he?

The answer stared me in the face.

Oh my God .

My steady voice surprised me. “It seems we’ve met the Gamemaster after all.”

Hi sucked in his breath. Shelton wore a puzzled look. Ben turned abruptly, walked several steps toward the green, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“He was impersonating Marchant.” Hi’s head wagged slowly from side to side. “Holy crap balls.”

Jason’s eyes widened. Shelton nearly choked. Ben’s shoulders tensed, but with his back to me I couldn’t see his face.

“Why would this lunatic pretend to be a lab geek?” Chance asked.

“To get near us.” The insight terrified and disgusted me. “To study his playthings up close and personal.”

“But why Marchant?” Chance glanced at Jason, who shrugged helplessly. “How would the Gamemaster know to assume that identity?”

“He’s been watching us from the beginning.” I was suddenly sure. “Tracking our movements. Our communications. He’s freaking taunting us!”

“Jesus.” Shelton’s hand flew to his mouth. “Red hair! Tory, that means—”

“Yes.” I backhanded an angry tear from my cheek.

My mind cycled through another series of images. A murky crypt. A stone sarcophagus. Deathly pale features below a shock of ruddy hair.

This time, I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. “We know who was inside that coffin.”

I mouthed a silent prayer for the soul of Eric Marchant.

CHAPTER 51

WE HAD NO time to ponder the implications.

Kit appeared with a new set of storm-proofing tasks. Nodding to our visitors, he voiced surprise they were so far from home with Katelyn bearing down. Hi theatrically thanked Chance and Jason for bringing over his tuxedo jacket. The two left, promising to meet with us again after the storm.

I followed Kit’s instructions like a zombie. Pack the car. Clean Coop’s cage. Fill a cooler with bottled water.

My mind reeled. I shivered again and again, shaken by how close I’d been to a cold-blooded murderer.

Two hours slipped by in a haze. Finally, Kit signaled that I was done.

I fired a text to the other Virals. Coop and I met them by the dock.

“We have to examine every interaction with the killer,” Hi said. “See if we missed anything. Find the dots, then connect them.”

“He drove a Ford F-150,” Shelton said. “Black, with oversized tires.”

“Complete with a redneck gun rack,” Hi added. “The Gamemaster had an arsenal in his shooting stand. Rifles. Pistols. A shotgun. An AK-47.” He paled slightly while rattling off the firepower.

“What else?” I glanced at Ben, who was sitting with his legs hanging off the edge of the pier. He looked far away, lost in thought.

Coop’s interest fizzled and he began snuffling down the beach. I let him wander—it’d be a while before he could roam the island again.

The sun was dropping in the west. The air was heavy and still, as if the sky held its breath. Rarely had the Atlantic been so flat and glassy. The deceptive calm seemed like a tease by Mother Nature: Come out to sea. Everything’s fine. Pay no attention to the maelstrom behind the curtain .

“We’re wasting our time.” Ben began coiling a line tied to the first berth. “The Gamemaster always covers his tracks.”

“It’s not a waste,” I shot back. “We might have missed something.”

“You think?” Ben snorted. “You had a tea party with that wacko.”

My cheeks burned, but I held my tongue. Why is he being so moody?

Then I remembered. Ben had puked on his shoes that morning at the rifle range. Massively hungover, both he and Shelton had waited by the 4Runner.

Not exactly his One Shining Moment. Ben was probably still embarrassed.

“He’s a skilled marksman.” Hi leaned back against one of the wooden pilings. “I saw his practice targets. All bull’s-eyes. And he knew a ton about ballistics. Whoever we met, he definitely knows his weapons.”

I replayed that first meeting in my mind. Nothing seemed out of order.

The imposter at the range had been friendly. Eager to help. For the zillionth time I wondered how the Gamemaster knew we’d contacted Marchant.

“On the very first call,” Shelton asked me, “who do you think it was? Marchant or the Gamemaster?”

“The real Marchant.” I’d considered this point, and felt sure. “When we met at the range, I remember being surprised at his appearance. He wasn’t at all what I’d pictured. But I didn’t give it a second thought. That happens all the time.”

A chill passed through me as another domino fell.

“My email.”

“What about it?” Hi asked.

“I’d almost forgotten. During the first call Marchant and I originally agreed to meet at his lab. I emailed his work account so he could send directions. A few minutes later I got a reply—Marchant wanted to switch locations to the shooting range.”