Kathy Reichs - Code

Not boarded up. Katelyn’s going to smash that place .

A fractured concrete walk connected the front door to the street. The lawn to either side was patchy and overgrown with weeds. No shrubs. No shade trees.

I pointed to a pair of windows flanking the entrance. “I’ll go left, you go right.”

Hi nodded. We sloshed forward, Coop by my side. At the window I dropped to a crouch beneath the sill.

Cautiously wiping grime from the unscreened glass, I examined what lay on the other side. Couch. Coffee table. Two armchairs. TV stand. Bare walls.

The room was dark. No one was in it.

I stepped back and signaled Hi. Sticking close to the building, we stole around to a gravel driveway on its opposite side. Sensing our need for stealth, Coop loped silently at my knee.

A chain-link fence bounded the property, running along the far edge of the gravel. A single window overlooked the drive from the house’s rear corner.

We crept forward, heads lowered, muscles tense.

I can’t see anything in this downpour. I could stumble right into him .

At the window, Hi boosted me with his hands. I peeked into a tiny chamber containing a bare mattress and a large black trunk. Lights off. Vacant.

When I stepped down, Hi cupped his hands over my ear. “What now?”

I pointed to the yard. “Truck.”

We found Ben and Shelton hunkered behind the Ford’s rear bumper. Glancing into the backyard, I saw a wheelbarrow, a stack of bricks, and a dilapidated storage shed in the near corner. Then I peered over the empty truck bed at the row house.

We were facing a screened-in porch, its wooden door banging in the shifting gale.

Ben pointed to three tiny windows lined up to the left of the porch. “Kitchen,” he yelled as we ducked back down. “No lights on, nothing moving.”

“Same for the living room and bedroom,” Hi shouted.

“So nobody’s home.” Shelton couldn’t hide his relief.

Coop chose that moment to shake vigorously, spraying us with doggie castoff.

Ben glared at the wolfdog, then nodded back the way he and Shelton had come. “I think there’s another room on that side. No windows.”

“Then we have to go in.” Sounding braver than I felt. “Make absolutely sure.”

Ben nodded, face tense. He started to rise but I snagged his elbow.

“Wait. It’s time.”

“Thank God,” Shelton breathed. “Now?”

“Now.”

SNAP.

The transformation came easily. No struggle. No battle for concentration.

The power flowed as though I’d flipped a switch.

Heat seared through my blood vessels. My irises ignited with golden fire.

Every sense blasted into hyperdrive. Sight. Smell. Hearing. Taste. Touch.

The surrounding maelstrom took on a thousand new dimensions. My brain could detect the tiniest details with laser precision. I was no longer blinded by the storm, wasn’t overwhelmed by nature’s savage fury.

I glanced at Coop, found him staring back at me.

He knew I’d unleashed the wolf inside me. That his pack was now fully alive.

With Coop so close the sensations were stronger, every faculty more supercharged. My flare power felt sharper than ever before.

Full strength. This is how it feels .

The boys looked at me with blazing yellow eyes. I felt their amazement.

“Whoa.” Hi blinked. “It’s like flaring on crack.”

Shelton removed his glasses and stuck them in his pocket. “Intense.”

Ben cracked his knuckles.

We were ready.

I’m coming for you, Gamemaster .

“Now,” I whispered, no longer needing to shout.

I bounded onto the porch, reached the door, and quietly turned the knob. Slipping inside the kitchen, I sidestepped along the wall so the others could follow.

Every sense was on high alert.

No movement. No sound of alarm.

Moving silently, Ben crept through a door on the left, Coop on his heels. A second later they were back, Ben shaking his head.

Anxious to retain the advantage of surprise, I tiptoed down a short hallway leading to the front. My pack followed in a noiseless line.

Bedroom. Bathroom. Living room.

All unoccupied. The five of us were alone in the house.

But a small blaze crackled in the fireplace.

“What should we do?” Hi whispered. “There’s a fire. The Gamemaster’s truck’s still here. He must be coming back.”

“Where would he go?” Shelton cracked open a door. Closet. Empty. “The city’s a ghost town. It’s not like he could pop out for a Whopper.”

“Guys, look!” Hi pointed to a Dell laptop lying on the couch.

I set the computer on the coffee table and booted. The boys sat beside me. Lacking tech skills, Coop began a nasal inspection of the drapes.

“ Please have something we can use.” Shelton was dry-washing his hands.

A background image appeared—the man I’d met as Eric Marchant, shirtless, loading a giant marlin into his truck.

The Gamemaster.

I wanted to punch his smirking face.

The desktop held a single folder. Double-clicking the icon launched a slideshow.

Images began scrolling. Crime scene photos. Scanned newspaper clippings. Pictures of flipped cars and fire-gutted buildings. Obituaries. Autopsy reports.

Each item related to an accident or crime.

I paused the slideshow to scan several articles. Detected the theme.

Every crime was unsolved. Every accident was freakish and unexplained.

Many incidents had numerous victims. Some were grisly. All were terrible.

One after another the entries flashed on-screen. A few settings were identifiable. Seattle. New York City. Las Vegas. The majority were unrecognizable.

Shelton turned to me. “So what, he’s into police reports? Disaster stories?”

“They’re his work.” My stomach churned with revulsion. “Everything on here. This must be the Gamemaster’s private archive. A diary of his twisted games.”

“Trophies.” Hi’s voice was hushed. “His collection. Every serial killer has one.”

Ben’s fist slammed the coffee table. “I’ll kill this sick freak!”

Suddenly the screen went blank. There were sounds like a videogame, then a new program opened.

The Gamemaster’s face appeared.

“Hello, Tory.” He smiled. “Welcome to my humble home.”

CHAPTER 55

HAZEL EYES. STRONG chin. Features I’d encountered twice before.

“It’s a shame I can’t see you, but the audio functions both ways, so we can chat. Frankly, I’m stunned you’re all still alive.”

The Gamemaster was indoors, out of the storm. He wore an odd brown robe, and his thin brown hair lay dry and flat against his scalp. His body filled the screen, making it impossible to guess his location. I had the impression he was transmitting from a smart phone.

“Monster,” I hissed, flare powers roiling in response to my anger.

Shelton and Hi were beside me on the couch, staring at the screen, their glowing eyes round with shock. Ben’s face paled, then he popped to his feet and began pacing the room. Sensing the tension, Coop trotted to my side and dropped to his haunches.

“Not so,” the Gamemaster replied calmly. “I’m an artist.”

“Artist?” Hi spat. “We’ve seen your repulsive slideshow. You’re a terrorist!”

The bastard laughed. “ Hardly . I create violent masterpieces. Conduct symphonies of destruction. Your game was simply my latest triumph.”

“Toying with lives is not a game!” I snapped. “You’re psychotic!”

“ Everything is a game.” He spoke patiently, as if instructing a child. “I merely design fantastic examples. It’s a shame you’ll never understand.”

“We beat you,” Hi taunted. “We’re here, alive . The debutante ball wasn’t a massacre—it wasn’t even touched. All you did was murder an innocent scientist. You’re nothing more than a common street thug.”