Code(18)

“Shoot.” Hi scratched his temple. “The numbers don’t match a listed cache.”

Hi blew out his lips, then clicked “display coordinates.” A world map appeared, with a red flag pinpointing the exact location.

Northern Algeria.

“Err.” Hi grimaced. “Geeh.”

Ben snorted. “Should I track down my passport?”


“I’m not down with hiking the Sahara,” Shelton said. “So unless you know a good place for camel-riding lessons, I think we can rule this out.”

“But these must be coordinates.” Hi knuckle-rapped the desk in frustration. “It’s the correct number of digits for longitude and latitude. The second set is negative, for Pete’s sake! That can’t be a fluke.”

“Agreed.” I distrust coincidence. “We’re obviously missing something.”

“This Gamemaster’s not even playing right,” Hi grumbled. “You’re supposed to list caches separately, not send players from one to the next. That’s a completely different game, and even then you’d put the log in the last box, not the first.”

“Dude’s playing you,” Shelton said. “It’s a wild-goose chase.”

“I doubt that.” Hi’s fingers shot through his hair, forming a mohawk. “I mean, why bother? Why put all this together for no reason? Leaving things to be found is the whole point of the game.”

A second insight occurred to me.

“The Gamemaster’s message was coded,” I said. “Maybe the numbers are, too.”

“It’s possible,” Shelton agreed. “I can test some numerical ciphers tonight.”

“Wait.” Ben glanced from face to face. “We’re actually going to pursue this nonsense? We suddenly care what this fruitcake hid in a box somewhere?”

Ben’s question caught me off guard. When had I decided to play?

From the moment you read the letter.

“I’m in,” I said. “I’ll admit it, I want to solve the puzzle.”

“Me too,” Hi said quickly. “Let’s take Mr. Creepy Clowns down to Chinatown.”

Shelton shrugged. “Could be fun. I like breaking codes.”

Ben shook his head. “Whatever.”

I looked again at the Gamemaster’s challenge.

The numerical string. The mysterious picture.

So we’d passed The Test, and were invited to play The Game?

Like I could turn that down.

“Bring it on,” I whispered.





CHAPTER 10





A buzz in my pocket startled me.

Text. Kit. Get my butt home for dinner.

“Gotta run, guys. Someone scan and email that image. I want to study it tonight.” I looked pointedly at Hi. “And remember to secure the bunker door. We can’t let the humidity get too high in here.”

“One time,” Hi mumbled, feeding paper into the printer. “I’ll never live it down.”

“Can you run me back?” I asked Ben, who nodded. Hi and Shelton would have to walk the mile and a half back to our complex.

“Don’t sweat it, ya’ll.” Shelton flexed his scrawny biceps. “I’ll have this nut cracked by morning.”

“I have no doubt.” Flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Coop, Ben, and I crawled outside and descended to the cove. Fifteen minutes later we’d secured Sewee to the Morris Island dock.

“Later, Tor.” Ben headed for the townhouse he shared with his father. “I’ll take a look at those numbers, too. Shelton’s not the only one with ideas. Stay logged on.”

“Will do. Thanks for the ride.”

Patting my side for Coop to follow, I walked to our front door. Paused.

“What do you think, boy?” I scratched his muzzle. “Will Kit inflict us with her company again tonight?”

Coop cocked his head. A soft, pink tongue dropped from his mouth.

“Unfortunately, I agree. Gotta go inside anyway.”

Our canine instincts were dead-on. Whitney was swishing around the dining room in a yellow sundress, setting the table.

At least the food will be good.

“Whitney. Great to see you.” I plopped onto the couch. Cooper curled at my feet. “It’s been, what, twenty-four hours?”

Whitney smiled, her sarcasm detector broken as usual.

Kit hadn’t missed it. “Tory, get cleaned up. Now.”

Eyes rolling, I trudged upstairs. Stopped midway. Turned. Hanging on the wall beside me was a large white canvas depicting an oddly shaped blue dog.

“What is this?”

Whitney appeared at the bottom of the steps. “Oh! That, Sweetie, is my favorite painting. It’s a Blue Dog, by Dan Kessler. Don’t you just adore it?”

Actually, I did like it. But a single question was looping in my head.

What is it doing here? What is it doing here? What is it doing here?

I continued up in silence.

As I washed my face, unpleasant facts coalesced. A painting. The vase. Pink and green pillows. Whitney, alone in the townhouse, unannounced.

Like mold in a cellar, Kit’s bimbo girlfriend was quietly invading my domain.

Do. Not. Like.