Code(111)

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.”