Code (26 page)

CHAPTER 49

H
i was first to deliver the news.

Kit and I were eating Saturday breakfast when he pounded on our door.

Coop bounded over to investigate. Spotting Hi through the glass, he returned to his doggie bed and settled down to nap.

“Hurricane Katelyn took a hard left,” Hi said breathlessly. “She’s now on a collision course with Charleston.”

Kit began searching for the TV remote. “What are local officials saying?”

“There’s an evacuation order for downtown and the barrier islands, including Morris. Pretty much the whole Lowcountry.”

“Blargh.” A thousand things ran through my mind. “How soon?”

“We have to be gone by tomorrow noon.” As Hi snagged half my English muffin, he gave me a meaningful look. Our time was suddenly very short. “I’ve gotta run. My mother has me sounding the alarm.” Hi rubbed Coop’s head, then fired back outside.

Kit was frowning at CNN. “Katelyn picked up strength overnight. She’s now a Category Four, with sustained winds over 131 miles per hour.”

“Ouch.”

“Tell me about it. A Cat Four hasn’t hit South Carolina since Hugo in ’89. Before that, you’d have to go all the way back to Hazel in ’54. This is bad.”

I powered my laptop and scanned the National Weather Service homepage, then checked Weather Underground. “This state hasn’t been hit by
any
hurricane for almost a decade. Guess we’re due.”

“They’re saying the storm surge shouldn’t be like Katrina.” Kit was surfing the 24-hour news channels, bouncing between overcaffeinated meteorologists analyzing the coming tempest. “Because of how she’s spinning or something. No more than ten feet. But her wind speeds are fierce.”

I felt a stab of worry. “Is Loggerhead ready?”

Kit grunted. “As much as it can be. We prepared for this possibility. The monkeys have shelter available, and they’re smart enough to use it. Same with Coop’s family. LIRI buildings were designed to withstand winds over 150 miles per hour, but we’ll see. We’ll be needing a new fence for sure.”

Kit went upstairs to make calls. I stayed at the table to stew.

Hurricane Katelyn was ruining my plans.

My gut said we had a narrow window to catch the Gamemaster. A forced evacuation would destroy our chance.

What chance? We have no leads, no evidence. Nothing.

“Arrgh!”

I cleared the table, then walked out to the front steps and sat.

The breeze was light, the sky gray. I smelled the brackish odor of the salt marsh just down the road. The honeysuckle crawling along the Stolowitskis’ trellis.

The Atlantic appeared unnaturally calm. But I knew that somewhere over the horizon, a maelstrom was barreling toward my little island home.

Morris sits at the mouth of Charleston Harbor. Beyond it lies nothing but open sea.

I examined the construction of our row of townhouses. Sun-baked brick walls. Wooden trim. Stone foundation. My lips whispered a quiet prayer for the old fort. It was about to get smacked.

Kit stuck his head out the door. “I’m heading down to Folly. Nelson Devers bought a load of plywood, but needs help hauling it back. Then we’re all going to pitch in boarding up the units.”

“I’ll be here.”

“If anyone from LIRI calls, give them my mobile number.”

“Will do.”

Kit left. I lingered on the stoop, stuck in a funk.

We’d foiled the attack at The Citadel, but that didn’t feel like enough. As things stood the Gamemaster would escape unpunished. The thought made me sick.

And I worried.

Everything about The Game pointed to obsession. The planning. The expense. All those crafty twists. The fanatical attention to detail.

It added up to a pair of inescapable conclusions: The Gamemaster had done this before. Perhaps many times. And if he’d done it before, he’d do it again.

My anger built. The lunatic could already be plotting his next game. Building deadly traps. Designing lavish clues.

How many geocaches had he buried? How many lives had he ruined?

He’d never stop.

Unless
we
shut him down.

I thought of the body in the crypt. The poor soul whose life had ended mere minutes before we found him. We’d never even learned his name.

The Gamemaster was a psychopath. A merciless, narcissistic predator. Maybe even a serial killer.

We couldn’t let him escape. Couldn’t let him hurt more people.

I’m not letting this go.

“You look ready to chew nails.” Shelton grinned at me from his own stoop.

“There’s a certain murderer I’d like to chat with.”

“Not me.” Shelton descended to the sidewalk. “I wanna bust the lunatic, not spend time with him. Who knows? Crazy might be catching.”

I joined Shelton and we ambled toward the docks.

“Heard your dad scored some primo storm supplies,” I said.

“Had to go three places. Katelyn’s another cat I’d prefer to avoid.” Shelton gestured toward the horizon. “It’s creepy. You can’t even tell she’s out there.”

“We need to lock down the bunker.”

“I know. Think everything will fit in the back room?”

I nodded. “If we seal both windows, plug the crawl, and nail the interior door shut, things should be okay. The real pain will be getting the solar array inside.”

“I hope you’re right. We don’t have the cash to replace everything if the equipment gets soaked.”

“The bunker’s way up the hill,” I said hopefully. “No surge can reach that high.”

“Careful what you say. We’ve tempted fate enough this week.”

At the dock we looked for
Sewee,
but the runabout wasn’t in her berth. We turned and started back up the hill.

“Have you seen Ben?” I asked.

“Not since last night. I think he’s still mad we went to Claybourne Manor after the ball.”

I shook my head in exasperation. “Did he think we could just go home, without explaining things? Jason and Chance were in that basement. They had a right to know.”

Shelton raised both palms. “No argument here.”

“If you see Ben first, tell him the bunker needs attention. We have to sneak out there sometime today and lock it down.”

“Sounds like a fun couple of days.” Shelton glanced around, then lowered his voice. “You got anything on the Gamemaster? I racked my brain, but can’t think of a single angle to pursue.”

“Working on it.” I wasn’t ready to admit the same. Not yet.

“You’ll think of something. You always do.” Shelton yawned. “I’m gonna take a nap before my Pops gets back and turns this block into
Extreme Home Makeover: Hurricane Edition.
”

“Adios.”

Coop blitzed me at the front door, upset that I’d gone strolling without him.

“Ya snooze ya lose, dog face.”

CHAPTER 50

I
cursed and dropped my hammer.

“Owie owie owie!” Waving the thumb didn’t help, so I stuck it in my mouth.

“Construction is not your forte,” Hi said from the base of the ladder.

I shot him a look. “My nails are straighter than yours.”

“True. But I haven’t bashed my hand. You’re like a cartoon character.”

We were securing a plywood sheet over the Stolowitskis’ bay window. Neighbors worked all around us, everyone pitching in to fortify the ten lonely townhouses perched on the neck of Morris Island.

The mood was cooperative, but with an undercurrent of tension. Katelyn was a monster. Morris was exposed and sitting smack in her path. No one really knew if our homes—built on the remnants of a Civil War outpost—could withstand a Category Four beat down.

Like it or not, we’d soon find out.

“You okay, Tor?” Shelton had a sandbag on one shoulder, hauled up from the beach. “We don’t have time for an ER run.”

“We could amputate,” Hi suggested. “Shelton, get the whiskey.”

“Comedians, the both of you.” I descended the rungs and hopped onto the ground.

I glanced at my unit. Coop’s nose pressed against our bay window. He yapped, scratching at the glass with his paws.

Sorry, boy. You’ve gotta hang inside today.

“That’s the last one,” Hi said. “Does Kit still need us to stow the grill?”

“Your dad took care of it,” Shelton replied. “I think we’re almost done.”

“Thank God.” Hi plopped down on his front steps. “My body’s not designed for manual labor.”

I resisted the opening. But he was right. It had been a long afternoon.

We’d had a neighborhood meeting to coordinate weatherproofing efforts, and to make sure everyone had transportation off the island. Then the boys and I had snuck out to the bunker. It took three sweaty hours, but our clubhouse was sealed tight. We hoped.

Back at the compound, dozens of tasks needed doing. Boarding windows. Securing garage doors. Moving deck furniture inside. Ben and his dad were running boats to the leeward side of Isle of Palms. Only their two vessels,
Hugo
and
Sewee,
were still docked at our pier.

Having chosen her target, Hurricane Katelyn was picking up speed. Each new report confirmed a direct hit on Charleston.

Our parents worked quickly, trying to hide their anxiety. Departure was first thing the following morning. Kit had been forced to ride out a hurricane before, and had no wish to repeat the experience.

My conscience ate at me all day long. Every hour we’d wasted hammering plywood should’ve been spent hunting the Gamemaster. But the tasks had to be done. It had been impossible to get away.

Threats or no threats, I was starting to feel very guilty about not calling the police. If the Gamemaster escaped, was it
our
fault?

I was icing my hand when two figures rounded the corner of our building. The surprise made me forget my throbbing thumb.

“What are
they
doing here?” Hi hissed.

“Not good.” Shelton reached for his earlobe. “Whatever they want, I’m not going to like it.”

Spotting me, Jason hurried over. Chance followed at a leisurely pace.

I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Jason replied. “But we thought you should know right away.”

“Know what?” My eyes flicked to Chance, but his face revealed nothing.

“I slept at Chance’s place last night. My phone died, and I didn’t recharge it until I got home this morning. That’s when I noticed a message from Greg Kirkham, the guy I called last week about the swab you wanted analyzed.”

“Okay.” But I didn’t see why Kirkham mattered. Eric Marchant had already contacted me and determined the accelerant was diesel fuel.

“Kirkham works in the crime lab with Marchant.” Jason’s forehead crinkled. “Get this—he’d called to apologize for not getting back to me about the swab. He said Marchant hadn’t been to work for a week.”

“That doesn’t make sense. I spoke to Marchant on Monday. Met him, actually.”

Hi squinted at me. “When did Marchant first contact you?”

“Last Friday, the day of Jason’s party. He called and told me the swab from the Castle Pinckney cache was coated with diesel fuel. Then we went to the firing range the next morning and gave him the snare gun and bullet fragments.”

I turned back to Jason. “I called Marchant’s office on Monday, but he didn’t answer so I left a message. But he called right back, and I met him at the coffee shop.”

Jason looked uneasy. “Kirkham said Marchant hadn’t been at the lab all this week. Said he isn’t returning calls or emails. Yesterday someone went by his apartment where he lives alone. He wasn’t home and his mailbox was overflowing.”

At that moment, Ben came striding up the hill from the dock. Frowning at Jason and Chance, he tugged Shelton’s elbow and drew him aside. I ignored their whispered conference, perplexed by Jason’s report.

“Why would Marchant skip work?” I asked. “I
personally
saw him on Monday, and he didn’t say anything about taking time off or leaving town.”

Hi began to fidget. “How’d he analyze our swab without using the crime lab?”

Good point.
Something wasn’t right.

Glancing at Chance, I saw a frown that mirrored my own.

“I asked Kirkham that,” Jason answered. “He said there’s no record of any analysis. He said normally that wouldn’t raise eyebrows, since the test is inexpensive and the project was off the books. But Kirkham claimed that Marchant
always
logs his machine time.”

“So he took a shortcut,” Shelton said.

Jason shook his head. “I guessed that, too, but Kirkham doesn’t think so. He said Marchant is very particular and only uses certain equipment. Around the lab they call him the OCD Chuck Norris.”

“Chuck Norris?” I didn’t get it.

“Because of the red hair and beard,” Jason explained. “Kirkham said Marchant’s a nice guy, but kind of a finicky little shrimp. Definitely not the type to miss a week’s work without calling in.”

The world shrank around me.

My blood pressure spiked.

I pictured City Light Coffee. The man sipping an oversized cappuccino across the table from me.

“Red hair?” I clutched Jason’s arm. “Beard?”

“Those were his words.” Jason glanced at the fingers tight around his wrist.

“The man we met was tall, clean-shaven, and had light brown hair.” Hi forcefully ticked off fingers. “No beard, not a ginger, and definitely not a shrimp.”

Chance’s eyebrows rose.

Jason glanced from face to face. “What are you saying?”

I tried to organize my thoughts.

Fact: The man I’d had coffee with wasn’t Eric Marchant.

Question: Then who was he?

The answer stared me in the face.

Oh my God.

My steady voice surprised me. “It seems we’ve met the Gamemaster after all.”

Hi sucked in his breath. Shelton wore a puzzled look. Ben turned abruptly, walked several steps toward the green, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“He was impersonating Marchant.” Hi’s head wagged slowly from side to side. “Holy crap balls.”

Jason’s eyes widened. Shelton nearly choked. Ben’s shoulders tensed, but with his back to me I couldn’t see his face.

“Why would this lunatic pretend to be a lab geek?” Chance asked.

“To get near us.” The insight terrified and disgusted me. “To study his playthings up close and personal.”

“But why Marchant?” Chance glanced at Jason, who shrugged helplessly. “How would the Gamemaster know to assume
that
identity?”

“He’s been watching us from the beginning.” I was suddenly sure. “Tracking our movements. Our communications. He’s freaking
taunting
us!”

“Jesus.” Shelton’s hand flew to his mouth. “Red hair! Tory, that means—”

“Yes.” I backhanded an angry tear from my cheek.

My mind cycled through another series of images. A murky crypt. A stone sarcophagus. Deathly pale features below a shock of ruddy hair.

This time, I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. “We know who was inside that coffin.”

I mouthed a silent prayer for the soul of Eric Marchant.