Code (31 page)

CHAPTER 59

“H
ow long are we stuck in Charlotte?”

Hi tossed a stick across the patio beside Aunt Tempe’s townhouse. It arced through slanting shafts of afternoon sun before vanishing into a stand of magnolias. Coop fired after with delight.

“A few days,” I answered from my deck chair. “The bridge from Folly to Morris washed out, and there’s no power or running water at our complex. Kit says we’re lucky the building is still standing.”

Hi dropped into the chaise longue beside me. “I’m worried about the bunker.”

“So am I. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Hi yawned, stretched. “All in all, we got pretty lucky.”

I nodded. “Katelyn blasted across Charleston in less than three hours.”

The hurricane had moved much faster than anticipated. After unexpectedly turning toward land, she’d accelerated rapidly, catching the prognosticators off guard and disrupting the evacuation. Thousands had been caught in their cars, forced to hunker in while trapped bumper to bumper on bridges and highways. The Morris Island caravan had been part of that unhappy crew.

Katelyn had rolled over the city like a rampaging pachyderm. The damage had been dreadful. Then she’d raced inland, stalled over Columbia, veered northeast, and wobbled through central North Carolina and Virginia. A day later, she was nothing more than an ugly rainstorm dousing New England.

“The weather guy described Katelyn as unstable,” Hi said. “One side of her was way bigger than the other. The skinny edge struck the city first—that’s why the hurricane blew for less than an hour before the eye appeared. Thankfully, the leading edge also had the lower wind speeds. If we’d been caught outside for the trailing half . . .”

No need to finish. The winds that struck as we’d huddled at CMH had topped 130 mph. Safely tucked inside the hospital, we’d been shielded from the worst of the storm.

“It’s cool Tempe took everyone in,” Hi said. “Though we’re crammed like backpackers in a hostel.”

“The parentals are working on that. Your family and the Devers clan are relocating to my uncle Pete’s house. It’s much bigger.”

“Great.” Hi grinned. “You and Whitney can be even closer.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. And Kit just told me her place in Charleston was flattened by a tree. She’s a wreck. Guess who’ll be bunking with us when we get back?”

“Bonding time. Ladies’ nights.”

Hi dodged my foot jab. Coop bounded up and dropped the saliva-coated stick at my feet. I hurled it back into the magnolias.

“How long are you grounded for?” I asked.

“For me, I don’t think there’s such a thing as ‘not grounded’ anymore.”

“Same. This one’s gonna sting.”

Hi leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Anything new on the Gamemaster?”

“Just what we heard last night.” I summarized what Kit had been told by the police. “Simon Rome’s real name is Anthony Goodwin. He was a Marine Corps munitions expert, honorably discharged after sustaining combat injuries in Iraq. He’s already facing dozens of charges. Murder. Attempted murder. Arson. Terrorism. Yada yada yada.”

“Hope he likes living in a box.”

“The authorities haven’t publically identified the body they found in Goodwin’s shed, but everyone’s sure it’s Eric Marchant. No cause of death yet.”

“My money’s on poison. Shelton said
Dateline
is planning a two-hour special.”

“Lovely.”

Coop returned and begged for another round of fetch. I complied.

“I have some new info,” Hi said. “Some blog published Goodwin’s military file. Apparently he was on a routine patrol in Ramadi when one of our smart bombs hit a school. Killed dozens. Goodwin was first on the scene. It was really bad. The villagers turned on him, kept screaming that he was responsible.”

I straightened in my chair. “That’s awful.”

“Then, on his way back to base, his Humvee struck a roadside IED.”

“My God.”

“I know, right? The records say Goodwin was all messed up about it. He had what they described as ‘severe emotional trauma.’ Some kind of personality split. The file used phrases like ‘reversion to childlike state,’ and, ‘periodic disconnect with reality.’ Sounds like he totally lost his marbles. Posttraumatic stress disorder all the way.”

I thought of my meetings with Goodwin. He’d seemed so capable and self-assured in public. But he’d been a different man during our last confrontation. Childish. Erratic. Grandiose. I had no trouble believing Hi’s report.

I examined how this new information made me feel. Decided it changed nothing. The Gamemaster may have experienced horrors, but that didn’t excuse his becoming one.

“What happened to Goodwin after Iraq?” I asked.

“No one knows. He bailed on counseling and dropped off the grid.”

“So he began assuming new identities.” The pieces fit. “Using fake names to travel the country and set up his games. But how could he afford it?”

“Nothing used in The Game was all that expensive,” Hi said. “And Goodwin had a steady paycheck.
I’m
curious about those machines he built. He must’ve developed the expertise in the service.”

“Makes sense. I guess we’ll learn more at his trial.”

“Whoopee.”

The boys and I would almost certainly be called to testify, with Ben as star witness.

Ben.

Nope. Not ready for that.

“How’d Goodwin get a job on Loggerhead, anyway?” Hi asked.

“LIRI hired—” I used air quotes, “—‘Simon Rome’ as an assistant mechanic four months ago, during the period last summer when the institute had no director. Kit said he didn’t know much about it. I guess they didn’t run a background check.”

“Goodwin was probably using a stolen social security number. If so, he’d have passed the basic check for a mechanic’s job. I bet Goodwin had a whole set of false Simon Rome papers.”

“Isn’t that hard to pull off?”

“Naw. Don’t you watch
Cops
? Faking an identity is easier than you think.”

“Still, Kit’s having Hudson revamp the institute’s screening procedures.”

“Security Chief Hudson.” Hi made a face. “What a douche.”

“Kit admitted having Hudson spy on us. He suspected we were up to something when we asked for a lab. I tried to get all indignant, but it didn’t fly. Since we really
were
up to something.”

Hi snorted. “Future trips to Loggerhead should be a joy.”

“At least the animals are okay. Kit said every monkey is accounted for, and someone saw Whisper’s pack this morning, sniffing through trash washed up on Turtle Beach.”

The sliding door opened and Shelton stepped out. Coop padded over and offered the slobber-stick. Shelton grimaced, but took the branch and flung it toward the tree line.

“What’d you learn?” I held my breath, afraid of Shelton’s answer.

“Ben isn’t going to be charged.”

I exhaled slowly. “Thank God.”

Shelton plopped down in the last open chair. “The cops believe that he didn’t know about the Gamemaster’s crimes.”

“Of course he didn’t!” Hi said at once.

I looked away.

Shelton and Hi had already forgiven Ben. So far, I couldn’t.

He should have told us.

“Ben’s testimony will be key to the prosecution’s case,” Shelton continued. “He can establish how Goodwin planned The Game, and link him to the original Loggerhead cache. Add in
our
testimony, plus the evidence we collected along the way, and there’s no way Goodwin walks.”

“No charges for Ben,” Hi said. “That’s the important thing.”

Shelton’s eyes dropped. “It’s not all good news.”

“What?” Again the fear.

“I heard my parents talking. Ben’s getting expelled.”

“From Bolton?” Not at all what I’d expected. “That makes no sense.”

“The school’s already contacted Kit, since he manages our scholarships. It’s a done deal.”

“But Ben is cooperating!” I couldn’t believe it. “How can they expel him if he isn’t been charged with a crime?”

“You know the administration,” Shelton said. “Blueblood prigs with giant rods up their butts. They don’t want scandal anywhere close to their
pristine
academy.”

“It’s a private school,” Hi said glumly. “They can do what they want.”

“Kit will fight this.” I’d make him.

“My dad said he already tried. Kit even offered a sizable donation, but Bolton turned it down. Ben’s as good as gone.”

We sat silently, digesting the terrible news.

“So what do we do?” Hi finally asked.

I had no answer.

Ferry rides. Classes. Lunches. I couldn’t imagine them without Ben.

My mind leaped back to the hospital. Our confrontation.

Ben’s brokenhearted confession.

I’d resisted every impulse to consider his words. Or how they made me feel.

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

Not yet.

Now that I was safe, Kit was furious with me. All my worldly possessions might be drenched in seawater. Chance and Jason had seen way too much, and could cause trouble. I’d have to testify at the trial of our insane tormentor, an event sure to trigger a media frenzy.

I had enough problems.

Affairs of the heart would have to wait.

So I leaned back and let the silence linger. The slobber-stick made several more flights.

Then
it
started again.

Something had changed since Marion Square. It’d taken days for me to notice. I didn’t think the boys were aware, though I suspected Coop might be. When the wolfdog looked at me now I could almost hear his thoughts.

Nothing I could point to. Just a knowing. An instinctive understanding. Unlike anything I recalled feeling before.

Was I more sensitive than the rest of my pack? Why?

Because I was Alpha?
Was
I Alpha?

My powers were dormant, tucked away inside my DNA. Still, I felt a . . . connection. Some lingering remnant of the pure union we’d experienced while fighting the Gamemaster.

I sensed the bond to my pack, even now, without a flare.

Hi. Shelton. Coop. Even Ben, somewhere to the southeast.

We’d never be apart again, even when we were. Not anymore.

The realization warmed me.

As I shifted my weight something jabbed me in the leg. I fished in my pocket. Pulled out a red plastic bar.

“Karsten’s flash drive.” Hi shot a quick glance at Tempe’s sliding door. “You keep it on you?”

“Of course. It might have the answers we need. I can’t risk losing it.”

I studied the slim drive lying on my palm. Wondered what secrets it held.

Mapped DNA? The metabolic truth of our mutations? A cure?

“You asked what next, Hi?” I placed the drive on the patio table.

Shelton and Hi turned to face me.

Coop trotted over and sat at my feet.

“We find out what happened to us.” I scratched behind my wolfdog’s ears. “The whole story. Then we figure out what comes next.”

I probed the new awareness swirling in recesses of my mind. Felt tantalizingly close to understanding. Then the feeling slipped away.

“It’s time to discover what makes us Viral.”

EPILOGUE

C
hance Claybourne glared at the man standing before him.

He was sitting at the desk in his study. The colossus reminded him of his father, and he loathed using it, but the gleaming mahogany had a certain intimidation value he found useful.

Right then, he wanted to intimidate.

“Nothing else?” Chance spoke loud enough to be heard over the hammering in the courtyard below.

Claybourne Manor had weathered yet another hurricane. Though Katelyn had not left the property unscathed. Broken windows. Uprooted trees. An outbuilding reduced to a pile of rubble.

But the main house stood, strong as ever. Chance scoffed at the idea of evacuation. He’d lounged in his wine cellar, reading his Kindle, insulated from even the noise of the storm. The whole thing had been much to-do about nothing.

Chance reflected on a prior trip down those steps.

Tory Brennan. I was shot in that cellar, for God’s sake.

The man before him shifted. Chance didn’t offer a seat.

He needed this worm, but didn’t like him.

“They should not have been up there,” Mike Iglehart said. “The only person to ever work upstairs in Building Six was our former director, Marcus Karsten.”

Chance kept his face blank. “Karsten?”

Iglehart nodded. “He’s gone now. Murdered. It was awful.”

Chance regarded the devious scientist with distaste. He was the perfect mole, his allegiance purchased for next to nothing. It still surprised him. Iglehart obviously had some personal grudge against his employer.

“Why is that relevant?” Chance asked.

“I think those brats stole something,” Iglehart answered. “I’m certain the girl was hiding her hands. It might relate to the research Karsten was doing.”

Chance’s pulse quickened, but his tone remained flat. “Research?”

“No one knows. Karsten destroyed all the files.”

Chance considered the new information. Iglehart knew nothing about his connection to the project, or his role in the events surrounding Karsten’s death. Chance intended to keep it that way.

Karsten’s secret research. Tory and her obnoxious friends.

Was there a link? How? What kind?

He thought back to his talks with Madison. To his own odd experiences with those four.

The wine cellar three stories below him.

A deserted beach.

The basement of The Citadel.

Something is amiss.

“Ah . . . Mr. Claybourne?” Iglehart fidgeted. “Is there anything else?”

Chance shook his head tightly. “Dismissed. Keep your eyes open.”

Chance felt anger radiate from the man. Resentment that he, an accomplished scientist, was forced to run and fetch for a boy barely eighteen.

Chance smiled coldly.
Money talks.

When the door closed, Chance opened a drawer and removed a large key ring. Then he rose and crossed to an ancient bureau against the far wall.

His father’s private cabinet.

He’d never seen inside it before the old man went away.

Chance unlocked the door, removed a stack of files, and returned to the desk.

For a long moment he stared at the folders.

His father had never mentioned their existence. He’d found them only a few weeks earlier.

One finger traced the lettering stamped onto each one.

Candela Pharmaceuticals.

Dr. Marcus Karsten—Research Notes.

Top Secret.

“I
will
get answers,” Chance whispered.

He began reading for the hundredth time.