Code(17)

Hi glanced at the monitor. “Currently, over 1.5 million. With five million players, worldwide.”

“For real?” Shelton shook his head. “That’s crazy!”

“Soooo many dorks,” Ben muttered, his coal-black eyebrows forming a steep V. “A giant nerd army, digging up plastic boxes they hide for each other.”


“Like everything you do is cool,” Hi snorted. “Still have that ninja costume you wore to my twelfth birthday party?”

“Go back to what you said earlier,” I insisted. Their trash-talking was wearing thin. “What isn’t normal about this?”

“Let me show you.” Hi spun back to the keyboard. “I’ll record our discovery of the Loggerhead cache.”

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, we crowded around the workstation.

“Enter a place-name, address, whatever, and the site compiles a list.” Hi’s fingers flew as he spoke. “Nearby caches are mapped. Last week I searched our zip code, and found a surprise.”

A satellite image of Morris Island filled the screen. He pointed to a single red icon dotting the southwestern point.

“There. Someone planted a cache inside the Morris Lighthouse. I found it a few weeks ago, tucked under the spiral stairs.”

“That’s trespassing.” Ben sat back down at the table and began examining the decoded message. “The lighthouse is off-limits to the public.”

“Never stopped us,” Shelton replied with a grin.

Hi shrugged. “Anyone can log a cache into the database. The site doesn’t police where a box is hidden, or if a player has permission to be there.”

“What led you to Loggerhead?” I asked. “It doesn’t even have a zip code.”

“I figured, why not check? Maybe some LIRI guys play among themselves.”

Using the cursor, Hi dragged the edge of the map eastward into the Atlantic until an outline of Loggerhead Island appeared. As on Morris, a lone red marker glowed, positioned near the base of Tern Point.

“This Gamemaster didn’t include much information.” Hi double-clicked the icon. “There’s no difficulty rating. No size info. Not even a user name, which I didn’t think was possible. Just an exact set of GPS coordinates and a clue: ‘Be sure to scratch the surface.’”

“Here’s how it should look.” Hi moved back to Morris Island and moused over the lighthouse box. “See? This one has complete info. ‘Danger Mouse’ buried his prize three months ago, and rated the difficulty, terrain, and cache size all as fours on a one-to-five scale. There’s also a page-long clue. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“What did Danger Mouse hide?” I was curious.

“Toy sailboat,” Hi said. “He didn’t want exchanges, so I signed the log and put the cache back where I found it. Later I logged on here, reported a successful find, and posted a comment.”

“Why bother?” Ben quipped. But I could tell he was paying attention.

“The website tracks your stats. How many you’ve found, how many times a cache has been located, stuff like that. It’s cool, noob. Get on board.”

“Anyone find the Loggerhead box before us?” I asked. “This letter could be old news.”

“Nobody,” Hi said. “At least, no one’s recorded it online, which almost every player does. It’s a pride point when you crack a new geocache.”

“So you had to find it.” Shelton wasn’t asking.

“Um, yeah. In fact . . .” Hi navigated back to the Loggerhead cache. “I’m claiming first blood right now.”

“How’d you know the cache would be buried?” I asked.

“The clue.” Hi grinned. “And I really just wanted to use my metal detector. The coordinates indicated that clearing, so it seemed likely the cache would be underground.”

“Wait a second.” Shelton’s brow furrowed. “You need a GPS device for this, right? To check the coordinates, make sure you’re on target?”

Hi nodded.

Ben leaned forward and gave Hi a hard look. “So when you’re out playing hide-and-seek, you’re being tracked the whole time. That program must know you’re here, right now. In our secret, hidden clubhouse.”

That got my attention. Bad memories tumbled through my mind. Hi’s game risked revealing the bunker’s location. The thought made me nervous.

“Not true,” Hi replied. “I log out when I’m not playing, so the GPS isn’t active. Don’t worry, I’m careful.”

“You’d better be,” Ben warned. “We’ve got too much invested in this place.”

Uncomfortable with the sudden tension in the room, I glanced at the other piece of paper lying on the table. The smile-like image remained a mystery, but the numbers running beneath it jumped out at me: 32.773645 -00.065437.

A synapse formed.

“Guys.” I scooped up the sheet. “If the Gamemaster’s into geocaching, wouldn’t he leave more coordinates to follow?”

Hi shot from the astro-chair. “Of course! We can plug those numbers into the database.” He made “gimme” hands. I complied.

Hi punched in the digits and hit search.

No hits.