Kathy Reichs - Virals

I knew the formula. To get girlfriends I had to fake interest in the silly things the fluffbrains found important. Boys. Shopping. Reality shows starring rich dimwits devoid of talent.

On second thought, being friendless gave me ample opportunity to read.

So I ranked low on the social totem pole? So what?

On third thought, cotillion offered monthly events leading up to the November ball. Hanging with the debs might score me some friends with double X chromosomes.

But then Whitney would win. I couldn’t allow that . Could I?

I leaned back on my pillows, worries elbowing for center stage in my mind. Coop. Whisper. Kit. Whitney.

Thoughts about Whitney were always painful. They led to thoughts about Mom.

My mother, Colleen Brennan, grew up in a tiny New England town called Westborough. She and Kit met at a sailing camp on Cape Cod. They were both sixteen. Maybe he noticed Mom because her last name was the same as his mother’s family. Maybe not. Brennan is common enough. It may have been because Mom was gorgeous. That works for most guys.

Kit and Colleen must have determined they were not related, because they hooked up. Big time. I came along nine months later.

I don’t know why Mom kept my existence secret from Kit. She never saw him again. Probably didn’t consider him prize parenting material. Who knows? She may have been right.

For a while Mom and I lived with her parents, but they passed away when I was a toddler. All I remember is gray hair and cookies, and the smell of cigarettes. Both had lungs like Swiss cheese but still smoked. Don’t get me started.

Raising a kid solo must have been tough on Mom. She never finished high school, I suppose because of me. She waited tables, worked at a Walmart, a movie theater briefly, but then that closed. Meanwhile, I was taking advanced classes because my teachers thought I was a genius. Mom never let on that it bothered her.

Lost in memories, I missed the first half of my ringtone. Startled, I dug through the bedding, finally found the phone. Clicked on.

Too late. The call had rolled to voicemail.

I checked the screen: Missed call—Jason Taylor .

My heart pumped faster.

Other than my island pals, Jason was the closest thing to a friend I had at Bolton Prep. We shared two classes, which likely explained the call. Always fleeing at the bell, Jason usually forgot details of homework assignments.

I was surprised Jason was thinking about school at eight thirty on a Saturday night. He was an A-lister. Why wasn’t he at some party way too cool for me?

With his blond hair and blue eyes, Jason could have been cast as a Norse God. The Mighty Thor. He was also a lacrosse star, a starting attacker. Not bad for a sophomore.

In other words, Jason was out of my league. No biggie. He wasn’t really my type. Don’t know why. Just no spark.

Jason was a genuinely nice guy, though. In class, he listened when I spoke. And not the spiteful, mocking attention of the other popular kids. He seemed to actually value my input.

My cell phone beeped an incoming text.

Tory. Party @ Charleston Harbor Marina. Chance boat. Interested? J

Jason again. Whoa.

I re-read the words. Yep, still there. The message was real.

I’d just been invited to a party. A popular person party. Unexpected, to say the least. Astounding.

I flew to my Mac, searched the location. Patriot’s Point, Mount Pleasant. Damn, damn, damn! I had no way to get there.

Kit would drive me if I asked, but getting dropped off by my father wasn’t an acceptable option. Plus, the trip would take forty-five minutes by car. No good.

Could I get Ben to run me over there in the boat?

And what, leave him standing on the dock?

Cold. Out of the question.

I was so busy crunching the numbers on transport that it took a second for the rest of the message to sink in.

I read the text again. Chance boat ? What, like gambling? One of those casino ferries that drives out to international waters so yuppies can play craps?

Then it hit me. Of course!

Chance Claybourne’s boat. The party must be on his father’s yacht, docked at the marina.

So, this wasn’t just a party, it was the party.

And I couldn’t get there. Crushing.

And, honestly, a huge relief.

It took me thirty minutes to compose my reply. I read the final copy out loud. “Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Don’t have too much fun, smiley face, exclamation point.”

After final consideration, I hit send. Ten seconds later, I really, really regretted the smiley face. Ten more seconds, and I hated the whole damn message.

I was busy searching for a recall feature when a new message beeped in. Rattled, I dropped the device. Then I dove on it, fearing the worst.

Boo! Next time then ;).

Winky face?

“What the flip?” I smiled, feeling better. “Dork!” I meant both of us.

Then I frowned. Wait. Was Jason hitting on me?

Get a grip! Stop over-analyzing a one-line text .

I looked for the TV remote, anxious for distraction. Like the phone, it eluded me, hiding somewhere in my covers. As I rolled to check between the bed and the wall, something sharp jabbed my butt.

I checked my pocket, pulled out the crusty dog tag.

“We meet again.”

Crossing to my bathroom, I filled the sink with warm water, deposited the tag, and added a half bottle of Body Shop papaya-scented hand soap. Classy.

Back in my bedroom, I turned on the Discovery Channel. Shark Week . Nice!

An hour of sea carnage later, I remembered the dog tag. The sink now contained a chocolate-colored puddle. Ew.

I pulled the plug and sludge swirled down the drain. The tag lay on the porcelain, still coated dark brown, indecipherable.

I ran the water as hot as I could stand, and gently scraped the metal under the flow. No go. Even under my desk lamp, the letters were unreadable.

Hmmm.

I could’ve used my rotary tool, but I didn’t want to scratch the metal. And the sandblaster might damage the lettering. This task required something more delicate.

I could have let it go right there. Thrown the thing away. But I didn’t. I wanted to know what the tag said, pure and simple. Had to know.

I get like that.

I kicked into research mode, and, a few minutes later, confirmed my hunch. A LIRI lab had everything I needed. The process would take twenty minutes, tops.

I posted a tweet on the gang’s private page. Minutes later I had three replies, all affirmatives. We would go early the next morning.

Time for a stealth mission.

PART TWO:

INFECTION

CHAPTER 11

Damp gusts tugged at my flimsy Gap poncho. A steady drizzle tapped techno beats on the hood drawn over my head. Once more, I wished I’d worn my North Face jacket. Too late. I was soaked.

Sodden hair clung to my face and shoulders, wilted by the rain, humidity, and stifling heat. My sweat faucets were working overtime.

Ignoring my discomfort, I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Surveillance.

Crouched behind a boulder on Turtle Beach, Kit’s binoculars in hand, I studied the back entrance to the Loggerhead compound. Inside the fence, forty yards distant, the grounds appeared abandoned.

“All clear,” I called.

The boys emerged from the rocks, one by one.

The early morning sky and roiling Atlantic were both the color of pewter. The sun had yet to penetrate the low-hanging fog.

Lousy weather, but excellent cover. Perfect for espionage.

Choppy surf had nearly scrubbed the mission. But the weather channel had predicted only passing squalls and ruled out the possibility of a major storm. If we hadn’t gone that day, it meant a week until our next opportunity.