Code (12 page)

CHAPTER 21

“G
ive me your secrets, dammit!”

Hi slapped the iPad in disgust. Cooper’s ears perked, then he returned to gnawing his Greenie bone.

Two hours had gotten us nowhere. Time was slipping away.

“We’re done.” Shelton sat across the table from Hi and me. “Let’s bring in the law dogs before it’s too late.”

“We can’t break the rules.” Ben spun the computer chair to face us. “Talk, and the Gamemaster will detonate.”

“Since when do you care so much about rules?” Shelton huffed. “And the bomb’s going off anyway, if we can’t crack the puzzle. This picture could be anything!”

I stared at the image: the figure 18, surrounded by letters and numbers, inside a black circle. All within a blue circle, and topped by a
K.

What does it mean? What are we missing?

“We need to try something else.” I stood and began to pace. “Another approach. Some new way of looking at the problem.”

“I’ve tried everything,” Shelton said. “There’s no structure. How are we supposed to decode words without a pattern?”

Hi’s gaze found the ceiling. “This is
killing
me.”

Ben swiveled back to the computer and resumed surfing.

I stopped. “Maybe there
isn’t
a pattern.”

“No pattern?” Shelton sounded at a loss. “Then forget decoding the message.”

I shook my head, unsure where I was going. “Maybe it’s not a
message.
At least, not a straightforward one like last time.”

Retaking my seat, I scribbled the letters and numbers on a blank sheet of paper: CH3OHHBRCH3BRH2O. And got nothing. Inspiration failed to arrive. “We should’ve skipped class.”

Hiram shot to his feet. “Chemistry!”

“Relax,” Shelton said. “The paper isn’t due till Monday.”

“No! No!” Hi finger-jabbed my notepad. “Look at the last three characters. H2O! What are we, idiots? That’s the chemical formula for water!”

“You’re right!” Shelton got it instantly. “It’s not a message, it’s a chemical equation!”

“Then let’s solve it.” Digging for my chemistry text. “This must be a list of different compounds. We need to identify them.”

Ben joined us at the table. “Finally, some progress.”

“Sixteen characters.” I drew a line creating two groups of eight. “If you cut the sequence at its midpoint, both halves start with CH3.”

“Methyl,” Hi said confidently. “But it’s usually bonded with something else.”

“O is oxygen, and H is hydrogen. Then another H.” I bit my lower lip. “That must begin a new compound, or else it’d be H2 instead.”

I drew a second line through the first group, dividing CH3OH and HBR.

“The equation has to balance.” Hi was pointing to the second grouping: CH3BRH2O. “Nothing’s lost in a chemical reaction.”

“And we know the last part is water,” Ben added. “H2O.”

Nodding, I drew a third line. “Then that’s it. CH3OH. HBR. CH3BR. H2O. The first two compounds must react to form the second two.”

“Balanced,” Hi agreed. “On paper, it works.”

“First is CH3OH.” I scanned the index of my textbook.
Bingo.
“Methanol. A simple alcohol—light, colorless, flammable. Used as an antifreeze, a solvent, and fuel.”

Shelton took notes as I spoke. “Next?”

HBR. “Hmmm. Not listed.”

“That’s hydrogen and bromine.” Hi ran a search on the computer. “Together they produce hydrogen bromide, a nonflammable gas. Forms hydrobromic acid in water. It’s used to make lots of stuff.”

“Methanol. Hydrogen bromide.” I tapped the last two groups. “
These
chemicals must result from combining them.”

“Exactly,” Hi answered. “Otherwise the equation doesn’t work.”

“CH3BR and H2O.” Shelton circled them both. “Same elements, just reorganized.”

“Those two chemicals are the products,” Ben said.

“H2O is easy,” Shelton said. “We all know that stands for water.”

“So the
third
compound must be the point of the reaction,” Hi concluded. “It’s what you’re trying to make by adding methanol to hydrogen bromide, with water as a byproduct.”

“CH3BR.” I tapped the sheet with my index finger. “That’s the answer.”

“BR is still bromine, and I know CH3 stands for methane.” Hi’s forehead creased in thought. “Together, what? Methabromine? Bromethane?”

I rifled the index a second time.
Gotcha.
“Bromomethane.”

“Nice.” Hi started popping head nods. “Wassup, bromo. Sup, bromo.”

I read aloud. “Bromomethane, known as methyl bromide, is a tetrahedral-shaped, odorless, colorless, nonflammable gas formerly used as a pesticide. Recognized as an ozone-depleting chemical, the widespread use of bromomethane was phased out in most First World countries by the early 2000s.”

“Bugs? That’s all it was used for?” Shelton asked.

“There’s nothing more here.” I bit my lower lip. “Check the interwebs.”

“On it,” Hi called.

Minutes passed, then Hi spoke slowly as he skimmed. “Bromomethane was used to sterilize soil, mainly for seed production . . . and for things like strawberries and almonds.” Quick glance our way. “Almonds are a crop? Man, I don’t know anything about nuts.”

I considered what we’d learned. “I’m not sure this helps. Anything else?”

Pause. Then, “For a while they used bromomethane in specialty fire extinguishers for electrical substations. On airplanes, too.” Another pause. “That’s all I can find.”

“We’re still missing something,” Shelton said.

“Don’t forget, this equation circles the number eighteen.” Ben pointed to the maddening image on the iPad. “That has to factor somehow. And the
K
at the top, too.”

I looked to Hi, at a loss.

“Nothing else here,” he said glumly. “I’m stumped.”

Shelton shook his head in frustration.

Then I had an idea.

“If you can spell the last name of the party you are trying to reach, please press one, otherwise, stay on the line and—”

Beep.

I began punching keys.
S. U. N. D. B.
Shoot. Was the next letter
E,
or
U
?

The voicemail system saved me from a guess. “
If you are trying to reach
‘Dr. Anders Sundberg’—” his voice interjected,
“—press one, now.”

Beep.

“One moment, please.”

Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

“We’re not allowed to ask for help,” Ben argued. “It’s against the rules.”

“This is different,” I insisted. “We aren’t revealing anything about the game.”

Shelton looked uneasy, but Hi nodded his agreement.

“I’m just going to ask about the chemical.”

“What chemical would that be?” a voice inquired on the other end of the line.

I nearly squeaked. “Dr. Sundberg! I’m so glad I caught you in your office.”

“A rarity, but you did just that.” Pause. “This is . . . ?”

“Tory Brennan. Sorry.”

“Tory?” Mild surprise. “What can I help you with?”

“Just a quick question. Regarding our school project.” I wasn’t handling this very smoothly. “Have you ever heard of a chemical known as bromomethane?”

“
That’s
what we found?” The surprise turned to alarm. “Tory, methyl bromide is a highly toxic substance. You need to trash the swab, then wash
anything
that—”

“Oh no, sorry again! That wasn’t the substance we pulled off the box. We’re still working on identifying that.”

“Well, thank goodness. Bromomethane is tough stuff. What’s your interest?”

“A case study.” Thinking on my feet. “We’ve been charged with figuring out the possible origin points of a localized contamination.”

“Ah! I see. Interesting project. My high school never did cool stuff like this.”

“Go Griffins,” I said lamely. “So, any ideas?”

“Better. I think I know the answer.” I heard a creak, as if Anders had leaned back in his chair. “Bromomethane was widely used in the Charleston area fifteen years ago, but almost solely for one purpose—golf course maintenance.”

“Golf? Seriously?”

“You bet. It was very effective at controlling Bermuda grass. Especially on the greens. But the pesticide seeped into groundwater, creeks, rivers, and estuaries, resulting in some pretty severe ecological damage. Bromomethane is now banned—the side effects are just too dangerous.”

A bell dinged somewhere deep in my brainpan. What was I missing?

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I’m a marine biologist, remember? In 1998, we traced a massive fish die-off to pollution by methyl bromide.” Satisfaction coated Anders’ voice. “Not to toot my own horn, but I helped get it banned.”

I paused to digest this info. “Anything else you can think of?”

“Off the top of my head, no. But if that’s your chemical, I’d be surprised if your assignment was pointing anywhere else.”

I thanked Sundberg and hung up. Three faces beamed from across the table. Even Coop seemed to sense excitement. He rose and padded to my side.

“Locally, bromomethane was used to treat putting greens.”

The boys had been listening. In fact, Hi looked pumped enough to wet himself.

His arms spread wide. “And how many holes make up a golf course?”

“Eighteen!” Shelton aimed two shooters at the iPad.

Of course.
18. The centerpiece of the Gamemaster’s image.

Ben’s fist struck the table. “We’re getting close.”

“Golf
must
be part of the answer!” Shelton insisted.

“Shhh!” I ordered. “Let me think.”

The boys exchanged glances, but complied. I needed to do my thing.

Pesticide. The number eighteen. A golf course. Those parts fit together. Staring at the puzzle with a fresh outlook, I willed other pieces into place.

“The eighteen is within a circle.” I traced it with one finger. “Black, like a hole.”

“Golf again!” Hi interjected. “The eighteenth hole!”

I hand-shushed him. Hi rolled his eyes. Shelton rose and began dancing on the balls of his feet. Ben just watched me.

“The eighteenth hole of a golf course.” My finger moved to the top of the image. “So what does this
K
mean?”

“A strikeout,” Hi offered. “Or a symbol for the Ku Klux Klan—sorry, Shelton. Maybe a very ‘special’ breakfast cereal?”

Shelton squinted, thinking hard. I cycled the data in my brain, but came up blank.
K
? Alone? What could it mean?

“What about Kiawah,” Ben offered quietly.

“Could be,” Hi said. “Kiawah Island has incredible golf courses.”

“Maybe.” But I wasn’t sure. Could it be that simple? “We need more to go on.”

Shelton bumped his fists together in a rapid tattoo. “We’re running out of time.”

“Kiawah’s Ocean Course is supposed to be dope,” Hi commented. “It’s hosting the PGA Championship soon. That tourney is extremely hard to get.”

Something clicked.

My gaze dropped to the iPad screen. One element remained.

Surrounding the black circle. A larger,
blue
circle.

“Like the ocean,” I breathed.

“What the what?” Shelton asked.

Ben smiled for the first time all afternoon. It was nice to see. When he deigned to flash his pearly whites, Ben went from sullen boy to charming young man. I
much
preferred the latter.

“Guys, we did it.” My hands popped into a roof-raising celebration dance. Even Coop was impressed, and started spinning in little circles.

We’d broken the Gamemaster’s clue. We could still win.

“Kiawah Island,” I proclaimed. “And I know just where to look.”

CHAPTER 22

S
ewee
knifed through the surf, tossing spray from her bow.

Ten p.m. We’d waited as long as possible.

We couldn’t poke around the city’s most famous golf course with people still out and about. But time was not on our side.

The clock expired in two hours. Whatever needed doing had to happen before then.

Everyone wore dark-colored athletic clothing. Nothing
too
sinister—the Ocean Course was famous, and even late at night we might be seen. No sense looking like criminals if we intended to commit a crime.

I sat in the bow, one arm looping Coop’s neck. The wolfdog hadn’t been on the guest list, but his whining had threatened my escape. Kit had continued snoring, but I’d decided not to risk more doggie noise.

Ben piloted, of course. He’d opted for the ocean route rather than risk the twisty, confusing Intracoastal Waterway after dark. Our target was close, a mere two islands to the south.

Hi and Shelton were huddled in the stern. No one spoke. Sneaking out early was trickier than our usual post-midnight jaunts, and the boys seemed on edge.

A crescent moon lit our path down the coast. The breeze was mild, but brisk. I wore a blue LIRI windbreaker, which I’d leave in the boat.

We’d cruised past Folly Beach and reached the Stono Inlet when a dark shadow appeared on the horizon just ahead.

Kiawah is a long, thin barrier island operated primarily as a high-end resort. Exclusive and private, with roughly a thousand permanent residents, the slender strip of land stays relatively quiet. Five world-class golf courses stretch from the densely wooded interior right up to the Atlantic.

The Ocean Course is the most famous of the lot.

Ben motored along the shoreline, passing a series of manicured holes. Minutes later we spied a large structure rising just beyond the first row of dunes.

“I’ll pull as close as possible,” Ben said in a low voice.

“Eighteen is right on the beach,” Hi whispered. “Near the clubhouse. No one should be in there this late, so we shouldn’t be spotted.”

The three-story clubhouse was U-shaped, with massive, towering windows facing the ocean. Exterior lights burned, revealing a putting green at the base of the building. Between the halogens and the moonlight, visibility was excellent.

“We’d better
hope
nobody’s home,” Shelton said. “Anyone in there will have a front-row seat.”

Ben cut the engine and dropped anchor. We slipped off our shoes and waded ashore, Coop splashing along beside me. Cresting a low sandbank, I was relieved to note an absence of residences close by. So long as the clubhouse was empty, we’d be okay.

The green was flat, oval, and groomed to perfection. A deep sand trap ran along its far side. A short hedge at its tip was all that screened it from the clubhouse.

Hi moved directly to the hole and reached inside.

“Nothing.” He pounded his leg with a fist. “What a letdown.”

I double-checked, hoping Hi was somehow mistaken. Ridiculous, but I was
sure
this was the place.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” said Shelton. “Let’s bounce before security shows up.” Hi nodded, but neither Ben nor I moved.

“It has to be here,” I insisted. “The clue led directly to this spot.”

“
If
we read it right,” Shelton countered. “And who knows, maybe the whole game is a put-on. The Gamemaster might be full of crap.”

He’s not. And I’m not wrong. We’re in the right place. I can feel it in my bones.

Something didn’t add up. But what?

Ben was watching me. “What are you thinking?”

“The timer gave us seventy-two hours.” The problem crystallized as I spoke. “But we could’ve solved the puzzle at any time. What if we’d cracked it earlier, and come during the day? The Gamemaster couldn’t just leave something inside the hole. People golf here all day, every day.”

“That’s true.” Hi pursed his lips. “So what are you thinking?”

“We’re not wrong.” I peered into the hole. “We just need to go a little deeper.”

“Don’t tell me you want to dig up this green!” Shelton stomped a foot. “Don’t say it! I’m begging you.”

“Whoa.” Hi ran a hand over his scalp. “Tory, that’s some pretty hefty vandalism. These greens take
years
to mature. They’re worth tens of thousands of dollars.”

Ben kept silent, face inscrutable. But his body was as taut as a snare drum.

“The clue points to the hole itself,” I said. “That’s all we need to excavate.”

“Wait!” Hi’s face lit up. “My metal detector is still in the boat!”

Ben snapped off a nod. “Grab it. We can scan the turf before doing any damage.”

“Good idea,” I agreed. “Go.”

As Hi lumbered back over the dunes, Ben trotted to the clubhouse and peered inside. Coop ran beside him, quiet now, in stealth mode.

With nothing to do, Shelton and I sat on the green. For minutes I heard nothing but waves crashing on the beach and the whine of mosquitoes.

Shelton slapped his arm. Scratched. “If Hi doesn’t find anything—”

“We leave it alone.” I raised both palms. “Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that. No sense trashing the place just because we’re frustrated.”

Ben and Coop reappeared first, and dropped down beside us.

“The coast seems clear.” Ben rubbed Coop’s ears. “The hound agrees. At least, he didn’t act like anyone was inside.”

Moments later Hi returned, device in tow.

“Scan the area around the hole,” I instructed. “If that strikes out, we’ll sweep the whole green.” My eyes found Shelton’s. “If
that
doesn’t work, we call it a night.”

“I like it.” Hi fiddled with the dials, then positioned the wand. “If anything’s down there, this baby should—”

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Everyone jumped. Coop barked once.

“That was easy.” Hi took several steps back and the noise ceased.

I felt a surge of excitement. “Whatever’s dinging is directly beneath the hole.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” Hi powered off the detector.

Shelton exhaled the mother of all sighs. “So we’re really going to dig?”

“Just inside the hole,” I promised. “If we’re careful, we won’t cause any damage.”

“Then let’s
be
careful.” Shelton’s gaze swept the landscape. “Coop might’ve just triggered some unwanted attention.”

“I’ll get the trowels.” Ben loped toward
Sewee.

Coop moved to follow, but I called him back. Shelton was right—that yap hadn’t helped our cause.

Ben returned moments later with my pack. I dug out a trowel, then slipped the bag on my back, ready for a quick getaway should the need arise.

“Avoid enlarging the circumference,” Ben said. “If you can.”

Prodding gently, I worried inside the hole until the cup came loose, exposing the earth beneath. Then I scratched with my trowel, hoping for something close to the surface. No such luck.

“The space is too tight to maneuver. I’ll have to expand it the
tiniest
of bits.”

Shelton groaned. Ben shifted his feet. Hi placed both hands on his head.

“There’s no other way?” Shelton asked.

“None. But I know how to make this go smoother.”

Eyes closed.

Mind clear.

I reached.

SNAP.