Exposure (36 page)

I shook my head to clear it.

Kit couldn’t know what just happened. Ella needed me. The last thing I could afford right then was my father restricting my movements.

“I’m just tired.” Feigning a yawn. “I’m trying to think of how we’ll get Cooper upstairs.”

Kit’s face fell. “Tory, I’m not sure I can manage that. I nearly died just now.”

Sensing the issue, Coop rose. Limped to my side. Nipped at my palm.

Against all odds, it triggered a smile. I knelt and hugged my dog, ruffling his fur.

“We’ll go slow. One step at a time.”

No matter what, I wasn’t leaving Coop downstairs, alone.

Not tonight. My protector deserved better.

Bu as we maneuvered my wolfdog up the stairs, riser by riser, the dark thoughts returned.

I’d been targeted. Someone had come for me in the night.

And there could only be one explanation.

I didn’t know how or why. I couldn’t fathom the connection.

But the truth was as plain as the smashed nails on Cooper’s swollen paw.

The Zodiac kidnapper was now after
me.

Sunday

W
e reassembled in the bunker ten hours later.

I’d asked Ben to pick us up in
Sewee,
not wanting to walk across Morris that morning. I knew my attacker wouldn’t still be hiding in the sand hills, but those glowing red eyes were fresh in my memory.

If they actually existed. If my brain hadn’t gone fishing after the flare disaster.

But Coop had seen them, too. And gone ballistic.

Coop saw
something,
but he was injured. It could’ve been the kidnapper considering a second pass.

I’d left my canine protector at home that morning. His bum wheel needed bed rest.

Coop hadn’t liked the idea, but I’d been firm.

“I’m on high alert,” I’d assured him. “I’ll be safe with the boys.”

“Gift cards?” Hi’s complaining brought me back to the present. “Why not just hand me a note that says: I don’t care enough to make an effort.”

April 7. Hiram Stolowitski’s sixteenth birthday.

“When exactly were we supposed to shop?” Shelton was scrolling Rex Gable emails on his laptop. “It’s been a hectic week, bro.”

“I bought you
Assassin’s Creed
six weeks before
your
birthday,” Hi shot back. “Waited in line all afternoon. The guy behind me smelled like fish tacos, but
I
stuck it out.”

Ben clapped Hi’s shoulder. “If it helps, I didn’t remember to get you any gift. Tory and Shelton picked that up. I signed the card though. See? Ben. Right there.”

“These are the memories that scar,” Hi huffed. “I’m gonna be so complicated when I grow up. I’ll probably film documentaries.”

I sat forward at the table. “Okay, so . . . like, don’t freak out.”

That got their attention.

“About?” Ben took the seat across from me, next to Hiram.

“There was an incident last night.” Oh so calm. “I’m perfectly okay, but on the way home someone attacked me on the beach.”

“What?!” Three stunned voices.

“
That’s
why you didn’t text,” Ben muttered.

Keeping my emotions in check, I described the chain of events. All but the part about mysterious red eyes. I needed to gnaw on that one. Were they even real?

“That’s the
last
time you walk home alone.” Ben’s voice simmered with anger. “Thank God for the mutt. He’s okay?”

“Coop’s paw took a hit, but otherwise he’s unhurt.” I held up my palms in surrender. “Hey, no more arguments here. You three can sleep on my bedroom floor if you want.”

“You think the attack was random?” Shelton’s gaze slid to the bunker’s entrance, perhaps worried that storm troopers might barrel in at any moment. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Not a chance.” Hi shook his head. “The Gable twins, then Ella. Now you. All Bolton Prep students. But what’s the connection?”

“Linking me and Ella is easy,” I said, “but what ties either of us to Lucy and Peter?”

No one had a theory.

“And your flare actually took you out?” Shelton hugged his knees. “Not cool.”

I nodded grimly. “Full-blown backfire. I collapsed like a fainting goat. My eyesight even cut out. If Coop hadn’t been there to defend me . . .”

Ben’s fist hit the table. “Worst possible timing.”

I rubbed my eyes. “And that weird feeling keeps coming on out of nowhere. Like a ghost. It’s happening more often, and the sensation is getting stronger.”

“Great,” Shelton huffed. “Another mental health issue to worry about. Still no idea what it is? Why the vibe comes when you’re
not
flaring?”

I shook my head helplessly. “None.”

“That’s background noise.” Hi tapped the table with his index finger. “We gotta catch the psycho kid-grabber. Like, right now. If the bastard came after Tory once, he might do it again.”

“Let’s go over every scrap of evidence.” Shelton closed his computer. “These emails are going nowhere. If Rex Gable wrote anything else that’s incriminating, he did a better job hiding it than the ransom tape.”

“We should focus on locations,” Hi insisted. “Find where the kidnapper is holed up.”

“But
how
?” Ben rose and leaned against the bunker wall. “We don’t have anything to go on. Should we just drive around, shouting Ella’s name out the windows?”

“Wait.” A thought was winging in my brain. “We know about the phosphate nodule, but never really investigated its source.”

“I looked some yesterday.” Hi moved to the computer workstation. “Check this out.”

Hi pulled up an old map detailing the Charleston Basin and its tributary rivers. Labeled along the riverbanks were the locations of old phosphate mines.

“You thinking mineshaft?” Shelton watched from over Hi’s shoulder. “Like, they’re being held underground somewhere, near one of the rivers?”

“That’s not how those operations worked.” On the second monitor, Hi opened a magazine article. “I read this a few nights ago. The phosphates being mined weren’t buried very deep. Maybe six to ten feet. The miners would dig trenches by hand alongside a deposit, then remove the topsoil in layers to expose the rock. Then they’d strip it all out and move to another spot.”

“So they weren’t underground mines.” Shelton scratched his chin. “What then?”

A line in the article jumped out at me.

I pointed. “This says that a major drawback of strip mining was how badly it scarred the land.” I read from the screen. “Dozens of beautiful plantations were destroyed to make way for the phosphate mining operations.”

Ben glanced at me. “Yeah. So?”

“These mines were dug on old plantations along the riverbanks. Some of
those
probably had expensive manor houses. Ornate gates. Fancy kitchens. Sprawling barns.”

Ben shrugged. “Still not following.”

“Professor Marzec seemed surprised we’d found such a large nodule. That makes me think these rocks aren’t that common. Maybe the kidnapper found it at a place where phosphates were actually brought to surface, and a few old samples were still kicking around.”

“Okay.” Shelton was fiddling with his glasses. “So the rock used to attack Ella likely came from near an old phosphate mine. I buy that. But this map shows
hundreds
of locations.”

My voice grew excited. “But we have another piece of info as well.”

Blank stares.

“The writing on the prison bar in the ransom video! We know who forged the steel.”

“Philip Simmons!” Hi was already typing. “If we can find a map of his works, then cross-check
those
locations with old phosphate mining operations—”

“We can narrow the possible locations.” Ben shook his head in wonderment. “Incredible. It’s nice having a genius around.”

“It’s only genius if it works.” But I flushed at the compliment.

“Got it.” Hi had found exactly what we needed—a map of greater Charleston pinpointing the works of legendary ironworker Philip Simmons. “I love Internet more than pizza. Maybe.”

Hi and Shelton exchanged places without a word.

We’d entered a Devers area of expertise.

“I’ll superimpose the Simmons map over the mining chart.” Shelton cracked his knuckles. “Won’t take a minute.”

Shelton opened GIMP and got to work. I watched impatiently as he merged the two images to create a unified picture.

When he finished, I stared at the screen, enthralled.

Only five places overlapped.

Hi was glancing from map to article. “The three locations on the Stono River are all out. Everything around there was demolished in 1943, to make way for the private airport on Johns Island.”

“When did phosphate mining stop?” Ben asked suddenly.

It took a moment for Hi to find the answer.

“The 1930s,” he said finally. “The industry peaked in the 1880s, then slowly ran out of steam over the next four decades. It was barely limping along by the turn of the century.”

Ben looked at me. “Simmons wasn’t born until 1912. And he must’ve spent a long time learning his trade, right? He wouldn’t have run his own shop for at least twenty years, probably more. Which means the 1930s.”

Hi frowned. “So?”

“Metal bars marked by Philip Simmons probably didn’t even exist
during
the mining boom,” Ben said. “I bet the bar in the ransom video was formed after all the phosphate mines had shut down.”

“We should look for a plantation that survived the mining craze!” I blurted, then clapped my hands in excitement. “An estate that was still intact when its mine shut down, and wealthy enough to require expensive ironwork services sometime afterward.”

“Of course!” Shelton nodded eagerly. “That would account for both a Simmons steel bar
and
phosphate rocks in the same location.”

I squeezed Ben’s shoulder. “Who’s the genius now?”

He snorted, looked away.

Hi was now shoving Shelton aside. “Leave this part to the birthday boy.”

Retaking the keyboard, Hi began running searches, pausing now and again to scan an article. Without a way to help, the rest of sat down at the table to wait.

An eternity later, Hi spun to face us. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

We rushed to his side.

A website was open, detailing the historic contributions of one Philip Simmons.

In the mid-1980s, Mr. Simmons repaired iron railings on the riverfront steps during a plantation-wide beatification project. But that was not his first encounter with the estate. As a young man, Simmons knew many of the African Americans living on the plantation, and would visit often and provide what services he could.

I checked Shelton’s combined map.

The location was perfect—hard against the Ashley River, a phosphate mining operation had occupied the same grounds from the late 1800s until the early twentieth century.

I checked the website’s header. Something about the name felt right.

“Drayton Hall,” I whispered.

“There are two other possibilities,” Hi pointed out. “A cotton plantation on the Edisto, and a horseback riding retreat a few miles farther inland.”

Perhaps my head was still scrambled from the night before.

But I could practically hear Ella calling to me.

Trust your instincts. Trust yourself.

“No.” My finger touched the screen. “This is the spot.”

“And we’re going there. Right now.”

“A
fancy tourist mansion?”

In the rearview mirror, I could see Hi shaking his head.

He’d said it before at the bunker, and I’d had the same response.

“However unlikely, that’s where the evidence points.” I twisted in my seat to catch his eye. “If this isn’t the right spot, then we’ll scout those other two locations.”

He nodded unhappily. “All I’m saying is, how in the world would a kidnapper hold three high school kids hostage at a place you can buy a ticket for, six days a week?”

Hi did have a point. Frankly, a strong one.

“Drayton Hall is a huge plantation.” Shelton was sitting beside Hi. “And some areas aren’t open to the public. Maybe the kidnapper is using one of them?”