Kathy Reichs - Virals

And I planned to pop in and search the place by myself. Tremendous.

A ten-foot wall surrounds the two-acre property. Spikes top it, and ornate iron gates block access to the driveway.

I studied the gates as I walked by. A tourist, intrigued.

Centered in the scrolly wrought iron was the Claybourne family crest, a gray shield with three black foxes surrounded by black and red vines. The family motto arced above the crest: Virtus vincit invidiam . Virtue overcometh envy.

Please.

I peered through the bars.

A guard hunched inside a booth beside the drive, attention focused on a small black-and-white TV. Without breaking stride, I continued down the block.

Twenty yards past the gate, the wall turned a corner and shot back the length of the lot. The next-door neighbors had planted sumac to block their view of the brick. A narrow trail ran between the Claybourne’s wall and the shrubs.

I took a deep breath, looked both ways, then scurried down the trail. Fifteen yards from the sidewalk I reached a small service gate.

Right where it’s supposed to be.

I dropped to my knees and wiggled the bricks underlying the gate. One felt loose. A sharp tug and it lifted. A key lay in the dirt.

I smiled ear to ear. Cheshire cat style.

The things you can learn in class, if you listen. Thanks, Jason.

As quietly as possible, I swung open the gate. Ahead lay the manor’s formal gardens. Replacing the key, I stepped inside.

No turning back now. I was trespassing on private property. Again.

Dogwoods lined a cobblestone walk directly before me. To both sides of the trees stretched neatly trimmed lawn. Statues dotted the grass, unsmiling witnesses to generations of Claybourne picnics, garden parties, and croquet matches.

Lacking a better plan, I followed a branching path toward a naked cherub rising from a colossal stone fountain. Water arced from its oversized horn. A leaf covered its genitals. Classy.

The fountain was centered in a small courtyard from which paths led toward the four compass points. I’d entered from the east. The path to my left cut south, back toward the front door. I scurried north, toward the rear of the house.

So far, no alarm. I was still operating below the radar.

The path wound deeper into the grounds. Six-foot hedges cropped up, creating a narrow walking lane. Smaller paths intersected mine, giving the garden a mazelike feel. I soon lost my bearings.

My heart kicked up a notch. Yes, I was hidden. But I couldn’t see a thing. I could blunder into someone at any turn.

I reached another fountain. Three dolphins, water shooting from their mouths, koi swimming below. Stone benches faced in from three sides. A towering hedge surrounded the whole deal.

Which way to go?

I turned left, hoping I was still moving toward the back of the manor. The path widened, then ended at small lawn bordering the rear of the house.

Bingo. Door. Dead ahead.

I paused to look around. The coast was clear.

I scampered forward and pressed my back against the warm brick of the main building. I quickly tried the knob, which turned.

Deep breath.

I slipped inside Claybourne Manor.

CHAPTER 62

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust.

I stood at the end of a narrow service hall. Shelves and storage closets lined both sides.

I hurried forward, ears on high alert. No Claybourne would use this corridor, but their servants would. Explaining my presence would be tricky, to say the least.

The passage ran thirty feet, turned right, then ended at a four-foot-high entryway.

Feeling like Alice, I cracked the tiny door and peered out. Before me lay the famous entrance hall.

Sunlight glinted off the white marble floor, and prismed from the crystal chandeliers hanging twenty feet up. Gold gilt tables lined the walls, holding statues, vases, and sculptures, each probably worth more than Kit’s portfolio. The open space was enough to accommodate a family of Wookiees.

To my left loomed the front doors, gigantic oak behemoths that could survive a missile strike. To my right the white marble shot the center of the house like a four-lane highway.

I closed the undersized door behind me. It sealed with a click, blending seamlessly into the wall. I couldn’t tell how it opened.

According to the website, the main staircase stood at the far end of the entrance hall. To reach the second floor, I first had to navigate the marble interstate.

Here goes nothing.

I crept forward, passing a formal dining room, a drawing room, and an observatory containing a Steinway grand piano. The walls were hung with portraits of dead Claybournes, each looking more dour than the next.

My heart hammered and my eyes never stopped moving. This was definitely the danger zone.

The hall ended in a circular foyer topped by a magnificent stained glass dome hanging seventy feet above me. Rainbow colors danced the marble. Murals adorned the walls, bordered by painted frescoes and carved molding. The room looked like something out of the Vatican. For a moment I gaped like a tourist.

An eight-foot statute stood centered beneath the dome. Milton Claybourne, the manor’s architect. Milton frowned, face bandaged, musket in hand.

“You’re a fun one,” I whispered. “Modest, too.”

At the far end of the hall, a Versailles-sized staircase swept upward between polished wood banisters. I scurried to it.

The second-floor corridor ran parallel to the hall below. Doors lined both sides.

The passage was deep night compared to the bright daytime below. Mahogany-paneled walls. No windows. Dim lights, spaced far apart. Shadows hid the corners and lay thick on the dark red carpet.

My target was specific. Hollis Claybourne’s private study. My instincts told me it was up there somewhere.

A door opened somewhere down the hallway.

I scrambled, heart banging, frantic for cover.

The first place I tried was a linen closet. No room to hide.

The unseen door closed.

I yanked a second knob.

Creak !

The hinges sounded like a scream in the stillness.

I barreled inside and shut the door. Froze. Shaking hands covered my mouth.

I heard movement in the hall. The clank of china. Then, far off, another door opening, closing.

Air exploded from my chest. Close. Too close.

I turned to examine my sanctuary. Relief turned to alarm. Then excitement.

I was standing in Chance’s bedroom.

No doubt about it. The walls were covered with pictures. Chance in London, Paris, Venice. Chance suited up for baseball, tennis, golf. Hannah and Chance on a blanket at the beach.

A massive bookcase held trophies and memorabilia. A framed picture enjoyed pride-of-place on the dresser. Hannah, in a white dress, holding a single rose. It looked like a gift. She looked stunning.

Blech.

I peeked in the closet. Bolton Prep uniforms hung from a jumble of mismatched hangers. Italian leather shoes lay heaped on the floor. Expensive silk ties sat balled on a built-in shelf.

“Chance,” I whispered. “Quite the slob. Surprise, surprise.”

Next, I poked through the books. Mostly nonfiction.

I stayed out of the dresser. Even I have limits. And if the door swung open, the last thing I wanted to be caught holding was Chance Claybourne’s underpants.

Finally, I arrived at the desk. Disconnected cords awaited the return of a laptop. Papers and books lay haphazardly tossed. A printer sat next to a scanner, neither plugged in. A Citadel mug held pens and highlighters.

A manila envelope caught my eye. Originally sealed with red tape, one end was sliced open. I noted a logo with the acronym SLED.

South Carolina Law Enforcement Division.