Kathy Reichs - Virals

“Sorry to be a pain,” I soothed. “We’d just like to know what happened to Katherine. We got caught up in the old newspaper articles. Can you show us where to find more of her story?”

“No, I cannot. I’m very busy. I thought you were doing schoolwork.” A bony finger pointed to the exit. “Please leave. You’ll have to return another time.”

We exchanged glances. Limestone was shutting us down. Bewildered, we gathered our things and hustled from the building.

Outside, I glanced back at the library. Limestone stood inside the door, watching us intently.

“What was that?” I asked. “An evil twin? The guy couldn’t cut us some slack?”

“For real,” agreed Shelton. “The minute I ask for something, he’s a grade-A dick.”

“Librarians,” remarked Hi. “Always hatin’ on the brothers. Good thing I didn’t open my Jew mouth.”

“No doubt.” Shelton chuckled. “Probably donning his bedsheet and hood as we speak, saluting a Nazi flag! Racist.”

I grinned. “He’s not a big fan of women, either.”

We were joking, of course. Whatever had gotten into Brian Limestone, it wasn’t bigotry.

When our amusement faded, anxiety settled in its place. The librarian’s sudden change of attitude was unnerving.

I remembered Limestone’s face just before he’d morphed into a jerk.

His expression.

Had that been . . . fear?

CHAPTER 20

My body dozed on the boat ride home.

Not so my brain. It kept a half-open eye on my surroundings, and on my bench position between Hi and Shelton.

We’d barely caught the last ferry. Thankfully, Ben’s dad had waited an extra ten minutes before making his final run from the city.

Dusk gave way to night as we bounced across the chop obscuring the shoreline, the harbor, and Fort Sumter.

My sleeping psyche meandered through visions and memories. Dreaming, but aware at the same time.

In my dream I wandered deep woods at night. Alone. The midnight air infused me with a bone-deep chill.

I wasn’t afraid, but felt an urgent compulsion to search. Though undefined, the drive was all-consuming. A massive, essential something was missing, and everything depended on my finding it. I needed, but didn’t know “what.”

Knee-high fog wafted among the trees, thick and soupy. Pale moonlight struggled, but failed to penetrate the gloom. Direction-blind, I lurched through the vapor, eyes probing my surroundings, sifting for clues. Nothing.

The formless urge grew stronger—to trace, to determine, to ask. But what was the question?

After stumbling a few more yards, I halted. Recognized the terrain. I was in Y-7’s clearing. Right where we’d found the dog tag.

My mind wandered the heart of Loggerhead Island.

Something called out from deep in my subconscious. Saying what? I couldn’t catch the message.

Instinctively, I scanned the ground. Dense, rolling fog hid the forest floor. I needed to see beneath, to inspect the earth.

I can’t find anything in this soup.

As if on cue, the mist parted and rolled from the clearing. I froze, confused. Then comprehension dawned.

I’m dreaming. I can do anything I want.

I considered exiting the fantasy. Knew I could. Some instinct told me to remain, hinted that my unconscious was trying to tell me something.

My mind searched the dreamscape. The field looked as I remembered it. I crisscrossed the open space, seeking anything that might spark my interest. Nada.

The clearing itself?

I launched myself skyward. Fifty yards up I pivoted to face the ground. Perched upon nothing, I hovered in midair, gazing down.

Too dark.

I summoned daylight. Bright sunshine scattered the shadows. Bathed in glowing rays, the ground now looked as it had during our weekend visit.

This was fun.

Like a bird of prey, I scanned the terrain, hoping for dots to connect in my brain. But what was I looking for?

I ramped up my concentration. Details registered. The shape of the ground. The varied greens of the vegetation. Y-7’s agitation.

My mind circled, clutched. What did these things mean?

Abruptly, gravity reasserted control and plunged me earthward. I flailed, flapped my arms. Useless. I dropped like a rock. The ground hurtled up to greet me.

A scream echoed in my ears. Mine?

Hi danced backward, yanking his hand from my shoulders.

“Jeez, Tor! We’re here.”

My head snapped up. Disoriented, I glanced around.

The Morris Island dock. Shelton. Hi. A very startled Mr. Blue.

“Sorry, Hi. I passed out a bit.”

“No problemo. You hit like a girl.”

Hi dropped his voice so Ben’s father wouldn’t overhear. “I’m going to relieve Ben. I’ll let you know how Coop’s doing.” He lumbered down the plank. “Toodles!”

Shaking cobwebs, I said goodnight to Shelton and Mr. Blue, who motored off to collect the last stragglers from Loggerhead. Kit included, I assumed.

I trudged toward my house.

Hours later, sleep wouldn’t come. Over and over, snatches of the dream replayed in my head.

The clearing. Why did I keep seeing the clearing?

Restless, and Red Bull-awake, I powered up my Mac, accessed Google Earth, and pulled up satellite photos of Loggerhead Island. An aerial survey took time, but eventually I identified a likely spot.

Zooming in, I recognized the tree Hi and I had used for cover during Y-7’s smackdown. Excitement fizzed in my chest. I had the right location.

By maxing the magnification, I got picture clarity that was spectacular. Even more amazing, the image mirrored the setting of my dream.

What is it that bugs me?

I cataloged the scene. Circular clearing, roughly twenty-five yards in diameter. My stalwart oak standing alone on the left. Ground grassy, with a slight depression at center.

So why the mental Psst ?

The depression?

I studied it. The indentation was roughly six feet in diameter and appeared to be overgrown by vegetation darker than the surrounding grass.

Or was that merely shadow?

Okay. So what? The ground dipped. Water pooled at the low point. Higher moisture in the soil attracted different plants.

I rubbed my eyes, preparing to forget the whole thing.

Wait!

The subliminal message fired into my conscious inbox.

Ground slump. Vegetative change. Six foot radius.

Oh my God .

For a hot moment I forgot to breathe. Then I sucked in six or seven deep gulps, hyperventilating.

Could it be? What to do?

Obvious. Go find out.

I opened Twitter and buzzed my crew: CHAT ROOM NOW!

Then I logged on to our webpage and stared at the screen, waiting.

Come on. Come on.

My fingers drummed the desk. Five minutes. Ten. Finally, the gang was convened.

I posted: Back to Loggerhead tomorrow afternoon. Highest importance! Will explain at school.

The boys responded quickly, succinctly, and in total accord with each other. Ben typed that returning to the scene of our crime was wildly risky. Foolhardy. Shelton and Hi agreed, Hi using all caps to drive the point home.

I hadn’t wanted to share my fears online, but their opposition left me no choice. I launched a flurry of posts, firing my suspicions into the ether.

Finished, I sat with eyes glued to the monitor, awaiting reactions. I needed their support. This was too big to handle alone.

For a good half minute, zero response. Then Ben and Shelton said they’d think about it. Following an impressive string of profanities, Hi consented to sleep on it.