Kathy Reichs - Code

“So you spoke to Marchant and then emailed his work account.” Hi was thinking out loud. “But the Gamemaster wrote you back.”

“He was intercepting your communications.” Shelton tugged his earlobe. “Damn. That phone call may have signed Marchant’s death warrant.”

No one spoke for a while.

“At the gun range, you two stayed in the parking lot,” Hi said to Shelton and Ben. “Do you remember anything about the truck? Like maybe the license plate number?”

Shelton frowned. “I wasn’t my best that day. Sorry.”

We waited. Finally, my patience wore thin. “Ben?”

More seconds passed. Then, “There was a G . On the rear window. Purple.”

“What, for Gamemaster?” Shelton pulled a face. “Talk about ego. But that doesn’t help us. Anything else?”

Ben shook his head.

Shelton turned to me. “What about your chat at the coffee shop?”

“I called Marchant’s office and left a message. Less than a minute later my cell rang and March—” I gritted my teeth, “— the Gamemaster asked me to meet him at City Lights Coffee. So I did.”

“So dumb,” Hi muttered. “And it really was a murderer.”

Shelton ignored him. “So he was monitoring Marchant’s voicemail after he … got rid of him. Email too.”

I pictured hazel eyes across a coffee shop table. “We can’t trust anything he told us about the snare gun.”

Shelton’s eyebrows rose. “So the snare gun might not be from LIRI at all.”

“The Gamemaster knows things about us,” I said. “He might’ve been looking for a reaction. More mind games for his sick enjoyment.”

“We can’t say anything about the gun either way.” Hi ran agitated fingers through his hair, which left it standing on end. “This is so frustrating! We have nothing to investigate.”

“Maybe we should let it go.” Ben had abandoned the rope to stare out over the water. “For once. We’re not going to catch him. The police have a better shot.”

“Are you suffering short-term memory loss?” Shelton tapped a temple. “Did you forget the surveillance photographs?”

Hi nodded in vigorous agreement. “That didn’t feel like a bluff.”

Ben shrugged, eyes glued to the horizon.

“We can’t talk. Not yet.” I spun, whistled for Coop, and headed back up to the townhouses. “I’ll think of something.”

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. When I finally dozed off, my dreams were dark and worrisome.

I was alone in the woods at night. Somewhere unfamiliar.

No sounds. Not the slightest chirp of a cricket.

Crack! Crack!

Shots in the darkness. I turned. Marchant—the man I’d thought to be Marchant—was crouched in the shadows, grinning through a mask of peeling clown paint.

I stared down the barrel of his AK-47.

Marchant pulled the trigger. Bullets peppered the dirt at my feet.

I screamed. Ran.

Longleaf pines towered above me, blocking the moonlight. Tangled undergrowth tore at my legs. I stumbled blindly, never looking back.

I heard footsteps giving chase. Maniacal laughter. Every few yards there was a burst of gunfire. Bullets shredded the branches and trunks around me.

I reached a parking lot. Recognized my location. The firing range .

The Gamemaster’s F-150 was parked on my left. I saw the gun rack, the oversized tires, and a glowing purple G on the rear window. Ben was right .

No other cars. No Virals. No 4Runner.

A twig snapped behind me.

I whirled. The Gamemaster was less than a yard away. His hazel eyes burned in the darkness, narrow and unblinking.

Dropping the gun, he pulled a twelve-inch carving knife from his belt. Congealed blood coated its razor-sharp edge.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t call out.

The Gamemaster stepped close. Ran the blade down my cheek.

“Game over, Victoria,” he whispered.

I screamed. Woke.

Drenched in sweat, I sat up, tried to regain control of my heartbeat. The nightmare felt so real. So personal. I rubbed the goose bumps from my arms.

The first morning rays were slanting through my window.

Coop was scratching at my door, in tune with my distress.

I had one foot on the floor when the epiphany hit.

I lunged for my phone.

“The G on the Gamemaster’s truck!” I paced, too wired to stand still. “It must be a parking permit for downtown. They assign a separate letter to each residential zone!”

“And you know this how?” Shelton was still in his Dark Knight PJs.

The boys weren’t excited about a seven a.m. meeting. We huddled on Shelton’s front steps, trying not to shiver in the misty morning air. It was still dark. The sun was struggling to rise through a purple bruise spanning the eastern horizon.

“I dreamed it.”

“Aha! You dreamed it.” Hi yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I think it’s time we get you medicated.”

“I already checked,” ignoring Hi’s barb, “and G permits cover only a four-block area on the western side of the downtown peninsula.” When this failed to elicit the proper reaction, I held up a printout. “The G stickers are purple this year.”

“She could be right.” Ben snatched the page from my hand and studied it closely. “This matches the picture in my head.”

“Fine,” Shelton said. “When we get back in town, we’ll check that district for the Gamemaster’s truck.”

I stared as if he was crazy. “We can’t wait! If we evacuate, we’ll lose two or three days. The Gamemaster will be long gone.” I stepped closer and dropped my voice. “But if we go right now , we can catch him off guard!”

This didn’t play well.

Shelton hooted. “There’s a hurricane coming, Tory!”

“Katelyn is moving way faster than projected,” Hi confirmed. “It’s like she decided to sprint for the coast. The news said landfall is now expected before noon, and maybe much earlier. My dad said we’re all jetting in sixty minutes.”

“Why would the Gamemaster be at home?” Ben asked sharply. “He’ll evacuate too, right?”

“No, he won’t. He’s a thrill seeker. I’m positive he’ll stay for the big show. That’s how he rolls. And that’s how we can nab him!”

“You’re suggesting the impossible,” Shelton argued. “The roads are shutting down. All traffic is going one way—out of town. And our parents expect us in seat belts in an hour.”

“The police are busy clearing tourists,” Hi added. “They won’t bother with our story about a psychopathic gun master with more weapons than Syria. They’ll just lock us into a storm shelter.”

“We don’t even know where he lives!” Shelton finished.

I countered their rant with my own.

“The Gamemaster is a murderer. Maybe a serial killer. But we know how to find him, and we have the skills to catch him.” I glared at Shelton. “If we leave with our parents, we’re gone for days. You know that. The Gamemaster will slip away before we get back! And if he does, how many others might die? Can you live with that?”

I turned on Ben and Hi. “What about you two? Ready to bail? There’s a deranged psycho out there who knows what your mothers eat for breakfast. That cool with you?”

Shelton dropped to the stoop and sighed. “How would you do it?”

“We leave a note. Take Sewee to the city marina, then do a quick sweep of zone G . If we don’t spot the truck, we head to police headquarters and tell them about the Gamemaster. Take our punishment.”