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CHAPTER 27

B
en was behind the wheel of Kit’s 4Runner.

We were fifteen minutes up Highway 17, heading north through the Francis Marion National Forest. Here, the road traversed a series of sultry, kudzu-draped swamps before reaching the towering woodlands of the park’s interior.

Nine forty-five a.m. The mood was grim.

“I wanna die.” Hi was slumped against a backseat window. “It’s sixty-five in this car, but I’m still sweating my face off.”

Shelton opened his eyes, seemed to consider replying. Didn’t bother.

“Serves you right,” I said from the front passenger seat. “
Cannonball!
You really made an impression.”

“People loved that cannonball,” Hi whispered. “You can’t take that from me.”

Shelton coughed, lowered his window, then hawked a loogie into space. Thankfully, his aim was true.

Given the shape the boys were in, I’d left Coop at home. The hungover trio looked a few jostles short of redecorating the car with their stomach linings.

Shelton rubbed his face. “Why get drunk if you feel like this afterward? It’s like signing up for food poisoning.”

“Carpe diem.” Hi’s pallor was a sickly green. “Or something. I dunno, kids like getting bombed. Kids are stupid.”

“It’s too dangerous for us.” I made sure Ben was listening. “A Viral can’t afford to lose control, not for a second. Not given our . . . condition.”

Ben kept his bloodshot eyes on the road. He wasn’t about to apologize, and hated being scolded.

I didn’t press. We all knew his mistake had been cataclysmic, but no one was anxious to discuss it then. Not with their heads pounding. Not with Ben scowling like an angry grizzly.

“We dodged a bullet,” I said. “Let’s just avoid any repeat performances.”

“Not a problem,” Shelton said. “My beer pong career was short.”

“But epic.” Hi raised a fist, which Shelton bumped weakly.

Miracle of miracles, no one had been caught. I still couldn’t believe our luck.

After docking, it had taken some time to roust the boys into semi-presentable form. Then, slurring and stumbling, they’d headed for their doors. I’d held zero hope they’d pass muster.

But Shelton’s parents had been out, and Tom Blue was asleep. Hi had snuck past his mother by faking a gastrointestinal illness. Gross.

Kit hadn’t blinked when I’d beelined for my room. I don’t think “coming home intoxicated” was on his radar yet. Which was reasonable, since I was fourteen, had never done anything like that, and hadn’t been drinking anyway.

Up early the next morning, I’d made a round of calls. Incredibly, the guys hadn’t backed out.

So there we were, me and three wildly hungover boys, riding in Kit’s SUV.

I checked the iPad. Just over fourteen hours left.

Kit was at work, of course, even though it was Saturday. We hadn’t asked to borrow the car. No need for daddy dearest to know I was meeting a stranger at a secluded firing range.

Ben turned right at Steed Creek and eased onto Willow Hall Road. Around us, the forest of longleaf pines grew denser.

“I don’t remember anything,” Ben said abruptly. “I blacked out.”

“You took the whole world and drank it,” Hi mumbled. “Then you tried to fight Jason. And
then
you—”

“Let’s discuss last night another time,” I said, hoping to avoid the subject. “Right now, we need to focus on finding the range.”

Blacked out? I watched Ben from the corner of my eye. I’d never known him to lie, but I got the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest either.

He remembers. But he’s probably embarrassed about getting all sentimental.

I let the matter slide. “Blacked out” and forgotten worked fine for me.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Hi, staring out his window. “There’s nothing here but woodchucks.”

It was true. The woods pressed close to the road, blocking the sun. I hadn’t seen a building in miles.

Another half mile, then a wooden sign appeared: “Twin Ponds Rifle Range.”

Ben pulled into a gravel lot. Only one other vehicle was present—a muddy Ford F-150, black, with oversized tires and a steel gun rack attached to its bed.

My sneakers hit the ground first. “Let’s find our expert.”

“Why does the Forest Service operate a shooting gallery?” Shelton leaned against the parked 4Runner, wheezing from the effort of getting out. “Seems weird.”

“It’s not much, just a designated area for firing weapons.” Hi stretched, rubbed his lower back. “What better place to pop off some rounds than deep in the woods?”

A series of reports echoed from the trees ahead.

Hi cocked his ear. “Someone’s popping caps as we speak.”

I shouldered my backpack and we headed down a short trail toward a long, rectangular structure divided into stalls like an open-air market. Each section had its own bench, rack, and a firing platform facing the open field beyond.

Fifty yards out, a rough wooden beam crossed the field, designed for propping cans, bottles, and other small objects. Fifty yards beyond the beam was a thick earthen backstop suitable for pinning paper targets.

Debris littered the field—signs, old washing machines, TVs, and trash cans—all rusted and riddled with bullet holes.

The range felt neglected. Forgotten by the world. The surrounding forest was deathly quiet. Spooky.

I was very glad to have company.

“What a dump.” Ben kicked a pile of casings at the building’s edge.

“Rednecks like shooting things,” Hi said. “But they don’t like cleaning up.”

More shots sounded in rapid sequence. I spied a man in military fatigues hunched over in the farthest stall, systematically firing a high-powered rifle. Bullets slammed a target at the edge of sight. There was no else on the property.

“Mr. Marchant?” I called.

No response. Of course not. The shooter was wearing earmuffs.

I waved an arm over my head. He noticed our presence, set down his rifle and headgear, and strode over to greet us.

The man was tall, with pale skin, hazel eyes, and light brown hair. Younger than I’d expected—no more than thirty-five—he had the wiry physique of a long-distance runner. He wore orange-tinted glasses and jackboots.

“Mr. Marchant?” I repeated.

“Call me Eric.” He extended a hand. “You must be Tory. Hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d get in some practice this morning. I don’t get out here too often.”

Suddenly Ben stiffened. Without warning, he lurched sideways and puked noisily in the bushes.

The rest of us skittered back in surprise.

Damn it, Ben. Not now! This guy works for the police.

Ben wiped his mouth and retreated toward the parking lot. “Sorry. I’m not feeling—” He broke into a trot and disappeared into the woods.

My gaze whipped to Marchant.

“Your friend looks a little . . . worse for wear.”

Shelton lowered his eyes. “I’ll, uh, make sure he’s okay. You coming, Hi?”

“Heck no.” Hi pantomimed holding a machine gun. “I wanna see some firepower.”

“Suit yourself.” Shelton hurried after Ben.

“Please excuse them.” I donned my most trustworthy face. “There’s a bug going around school.”

“A bug. Of course.” Marchant let the matter drop. “Did you bring the firearm you found?”

“Yessir.” Tapping the bag on my shoulder.

“Great.” He gestured to where he’d been shooting. “Let’s have a look.”

Marchant wasn’t what I’d expected. On the phone I’d imagined a bookish, squirrely type. This guy was clearly an outdoorsman.

Tucked inside Marchant’s stall was a veritable arsenal. Three pistols. A shotgun. Two more hunting rifles. And some automatic bullet-spitter whose name I couldn’t guess.

Hi’s elbow jabbed my ribs. “On the end,” he whispered. “That’s an AK-47.”

“You know your guns, young man.”

Marchant looked at me expectantly. Taking the hint, I unzipped my bag and removed the golf course weapon and slugs.

Marchant’s lips pooched out. “Now isn’t
that
an odd piece.”

“Do you recognize it?” I asked.

“I don’t.” Rotating the gun in his hands. “There are no manufacturer markings, and I don’t see a serial number. This is a designer job, built by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

His gaze fixed on me. “Tell me what happened.”

Stepping carefully around the truth, I explained how the gun was set, how it fired, and what we recovered. I only changed the location.

And never mentioned the Gamemaster, of course.

“A snare gun.” Marchant grunted. “Rigged to fire when tripped in some fashion. The usual method is to string a wire from the trigger, or use a remote sensor.”

“Sounds nasty.” Hi was inspecting Marchant’s stockpile.

“They are,” Marchant agreed. “Snare guns are used to protect livestock from wild animals. They’re also totally illegal, since they’ll shoot anything that trips them. One like this wasn’t purchased in a store.”

My heart sank. “So it can’t tell you anything?”

“Maybe not.” Marchant set the weapon aside and picked up a slug. “But the bullet alone might tell the tale.”

“All ears.” I took a seat on the splintery wooden bench, careful not to jostle any of Marchant’s weapons. The forest was silent. A line of cypress trees blocked all view of the parking lot, making the shooting stand feel like the most isolated place on earth.

“A bullet has four components—the primer, the casing, gunpowder, and the slug itself.” Marchant handed me a loose round and lifted his Beretta 9mm. “When the trigger is pulled, a firing pin strikes the primer, exploding a powder charge beneath. This causes the larger charge of gunpowder to explode.”

I turned the ammunition in my fingers. “And that fires the bullet?”

“Correct. That explosion propels the projectile down the barrel. The slug will then rotate inside the gun barrel, because of tiny grooves along its length. The shell casing remains in the chamber until removed.”

“Unless it’s a semi-auto,” Hi chirped.

“True. Then the casing is automatically ejected when the bullet is fired.” Marchant glanced at me. “You said you didn’t collect any casings, right?”

I shook my head, frustrated. How could I have forgotten to look?

“No big deal. The grooves on the slug itself are more important.”

“That’s great you can match a bullet to a gun that way,” Hi said, “but we already have the gun. You’re holding it right now.”

Marchant smiled. “Hopefully I can do more than that.”

“How?” I asked.

“A bullet is marked with the unique signature of the weapon that fired it.” Marchant waved at his collection. “Every barrel is different, even ones produced for the same type of gun, by the same company, in the same factory, on the same day. Each gun comes off the line with a distinct ballistic fingerprint.”

“Why is that?” Hi asked.

“Tiny imperfections are produced during the manufacturing process. Microscopic slivers of metal are pressed into the barrel as it’s being shaped. These flaws create a unique pattern of scrapes on a discharged bullet, called striations.”

“So every bullet fired from the same gun will have the same unique striations.” I followed that far. “And I assume these striations can be detected?”

He smiled. “Just like a fingerprint.”

“Okay, but I still don’t get the point.” Hi pointed. “We
have
the gun. Why do we care about the signature?”

“Because we keep bullet signatures on file.”

Marchant carefully placed the snare gun in a plastic bag. “When the police identify a weapon that might be linked to a crime, they send it to ballistics for analysis. That’s me. First, I’ll shoot air through the barrel to see what comes out. Sometimes tiny bits of matter like hair, skin, or fibers have been sucked in upon firing.”

“DNA. Trace evidence.” Hi nodded sagely. “Nice.”

“Then I’ll fire sample bullets into a trough or ballistics gel, and check the striations against our database. If the gun was used in any other crimes, I’ll find a match.”

“Match the gun, maybe find an owner.” Made sense to me. “It’s a shot, at least.”

“I’ll try our local files, then the South Carolina database. If that doesn’t tell us anything, I can run it through the ATF’s Ballistic Information Network.”

“That’s very generous,” I said. “You’re being incredibly helpful.”

Marchant thumb-hooked his belt. “Snare guns are extremely dangerous. Anything or any
one
can walk into the field of fire. Whoever set that for your dog could just as easily have shot a child. They have to answer for that.”

“So you think we have a chance at an ID?” Hi asked.

“I do.” Marchant checked his watch. “A gun like this reeks of trouble. Give me a week and we’ll know if it’s reared its ugly head elsewhere.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Hi pointed to the AK. “So how’s about me ripping off a banana clip with that bad boy?”

“There’s zero chance of that happening.” Marchant smiled, drawing the sting from his words. “But I’ll let you know what I find.”

Repeating our thanks, Hi and I headed for the lot. I hoped that Wimpy and the Vomitasaurus had gotten their acts together.

“We need one of those fully autos.” Hi cracked his knuckles. “Maybe get one for the bunker, don’t you think? Keep the rabbits in check.”

“Hi, we’re going to have a talk about pushing people’s buttons.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up.” He yawned huge. “I forgive you. Now, much more importantly—do you have any Advil?”

CHAPTER 28

T
he return trip began in silence.

Ben seemed flustered by his retching episode. He clutched the steering wheel in a two-handed death grip, driving faster than usual. Shelton just crawled in back to sleep.

I was happy we’d accomplished our goal, but still worried about The Game. Everything hinged on our solving the next puzzle. The pressure was starting to get to me.

Maybe Marchant would kick something loose. Fingers crossed.

Then Hi cleared his throat. “Time runs out at midnight. Any ideas?”

“We have to ID the figurine,” I said. “It’s our only clue.”

Hi and I discussed a few ideas, planned a strategy for that afternoon. Shelton snored. Ben said nothing, eyes glued to the road.

He’s embarrassed. Or worried he’ll boot in Kit’s ride.

Forty minutes later we arrived home on Morris. Ben pulled into my garage, tossed me the keys, and headed for his unit.

“Ben?” I called after. “Can you help this afternoon? We’re almost out of time.”

“Give me an hour.” Then he hurried off.

“He’s gonna spew.” Shelton burped, grimaced. “Think I’ll join him.”

“But you’re coming back too, right?”

Shelton raised a thumb. “Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”

I turned to see Hi slinking away as well. “Food. Or else I’m done for. I’ll come over when Shelton does.”

And just like that, I was alone.

I entered through the garage and ascended the back stairs. Coop was waiting at the top.

“Hey, boy.”

Coop’s backward glance was my only warning.

“Tory?” Whitney was lurking within.

I took a deep, calming breath, then stepped into the living room.

Whitney was perched on the couch. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.”

“It’s okay,” I said automatically, unsure of how I really felt but anxious to avoid the conversation. “Let’s just forget it.”

“I never meant to upset you.” Placing one delicate hand to her chest. “Truly! Your father and I should
never
have sprung such news.”

“Everything’s fine.” I decided there was no point being angry. “I overreacted.”

“No.” Whitney shook her head firmly. “This is
your
house, too.”

“Look, if you and Kit want to live together—” my palms rose, pushed outward aimlessly, “—it’s not my place to stand in your way.”

Whitney was saying more, but I didn’t hear. I’d noticed something . . . off.

I looked around. “Where’s your stuff?”

The vase, picture, and other foreign articles were missing. I spun. The Blue Dog painting was no longer in the hallway.

“I took my things home. You were one hundred percent correct. It was presumptuous to move them in without your approval.”

“No. Wait. I mean . . .”

A war raged inside me. On the one hand, this retreat was exactly what I’d wanted. Part of me felt like shouting “damn right!” and heading upstairs.

But Whitney was clearly trying to make good. Had gone to a lot of trouble.

For the first time I could recall, she actually seemed to get it.

But I really, really didn’t want her living here.

Blargh.

Dilemma.

Be petulant, selfish, and happy? Or be generous . . . and miserable.

Then something grabbed my attention. I forgot all about the Whitney problem.

An object sat where Whitney’s vase had been.

Small. Weathered. Metal.

The Gamemaster’s figurine.

I bounded to the shelf. “Where’d you get this?”

“The statuette? I saw it on your desk, and thought Saint Benedict would look nice down here.” Whitney’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear. I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

My pulse quickened. “Say again?”

“Darling, I’m so sorry!” Whitney’s face dropped to her hands. “I thought you’d
like
something of yours in place of my vase. I’m just terrible, aren’t I?” She sounded on the verge of tears.

“Whitney, I’m not mad.” I pointed at the figurine. “You said this is who?”

“Saint Benedict, of course.” Whitney drew a fingertip under each watery eye. “I was raised Catholic, as you surely know. When I was a girl, his image hung in our family library. He’s the patron of students.”

I couldn’t believe it. Hours of fruitless searches, and Whitney freaking Dubois just hands me the answer. Odds that long don’t exist.

My mind raced. We had twelve hours to find the next cache.

I needed the boys ASAP.

“I prefer keeping this in my room.” I snatched the figurine and bolted for the stairs. “But I do appreciate the thought.”

“Forgive me.” Whitney stood as I passed her. “I’ll never touch your things again.”

Impulsively, I turned and hugged her. “Not a problem.”

Then I raced up the steps, leaving the stunned Barbie in my wake.

“Got it!” Hi kissed his laptop screen. “Come to Daddy.”

I raised a brow. “Got what?” We’d been searching for thirty seconds.

We sat at my dining room table, waiting for Shelton and Ben. Whitney must’ve left soon after I’d gone upstairs.

I’d sent the boys a demanding text. So far, only Hi had surfaced.

“There’s a Saint Benedict Catholic Church.” He spun his computer for me to see. “In Mount Pleasant. How ya like
them
apples?”

“That’s great.” Could it be that easy?

I glanced at the black-and-white cloth that had covered the statue.

“What about the wrapping?” I tossed the fabric to Hi.

“Could be nothing.” He turned it in his hands. “Did you notice this, though?”

“Notice what?”

Hi held the swatch by a corner, revealing a tiny piece of embroidery on its back.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I was getting sloppy. And at the wrong time.

I snatched the square back from Hi. The small and neat stitching formed a half circle with four squiggly lines rising from it.

“Looks like a sunrise,” I said. “What could
that
mean?”

“Who knows? The fabric could just be protective packaging.”

“Maybe.” But something bothered me. “Don’t you think this was too easy?”

Hi was already headed for my kitchen. “Too easy how?”

“Compared to the other tasks.” I hugged my knees to my chest. “The other clues were hard. Intricate. They involved codes, puzzles, things like that.”

Hi returned with a box of Wheat Thins. “Maybe we got lucky this time.”

Perhaps. Probably.

No.

I didn’t buy it.

“So far, the Gamemaster hasn’t included
anything
in a clue that wasn’t relevant.” I tapped the fabric. “There’s a shape here. And why is it black and white? This cloth has to factor somehow.”

Hi sighed. “So you need my brilliance again.”

“I do.”

“Fine.” Dropping the Wheat Thins on the table. “These are ‘reduced fat’ anyway. Blech.”

We ran search after search. Shelton arrived and added his thoughts to the mix. Thirty minutes later we still had nothing.

“We’re going in circles,” Hi complained. “And where the heck is Ben?”

“AWOL.” Shelton glanced at the clock. “He looked terrible this morning. I bet he lay down and passed out.”

“Let’s start over.” I cleared the history and typed. “Saint Benedict. Charleston.”

Familiar results. Every hit involved the Mount Pleasant church.

Was I overthinking this? I could be wasting precious time.

Trust your instincts. Keep looking.

“What if we remove that church from the results?” Shelton suggested.

“Do it.” I yielded the keyboard.

Shelton’s fingers danced as he adjusted search functions.

“Hell-o. What’s this?”

I hunched over his shoulder. The screen contained a pleasant image of a country road lined with giant oaks. In the corner was a soft logo, white on black.

Mepkin Abbey.

“A monastery.” Hi was leaning in close beside me. He did not smell tremendous.

“Monks?” Shelton snorted. “Seriously? In South Carolina?”

The website was organized and professional. A link at top read: “Who We Are.”

“Click that.”

Shelton did. The next page contained a mission statement and group portrait.

“These guys pray all day,” Hi said. “And they don’t talk.”

Shelton chuckled. “You’d never make it.”

“Weird.” Hi was scanning text. “They also sell produce, tend gardens, and operate a modern library. And the grounds are open to visitors every day.”

“Mepkin Abbey is a Trappist monastery,” Shelton read aloud. “These guys follow something called the Rule of Saint Benedict. That’s news to me, but it fits our search.”

I ignored their banter, eyes glued to the photo. “Nice robes, don’t you think?”

“Ah-ha!” Hi crowed.

Shelton nodded. “Nice catch, Tor.”

The picture showed twenty monks in two rows, standing in a beautiful flower garden. All were smiling. The average age appeared to be north of sixty.

But that wasn’t what had me grinning.

The men wore identical robes.

Identical
black-and-white
robes.

I kissed my index finger and pressed it to the screen.

“Gotcha.”