Code(33)

Hi began repacking our evidence, talking the whole time. “I think we’ve made some real progress here. Dynamite stuff. First place in the . . . homework . . . contest should be ours for the taking. We’ll get matching jackets, maybe with a sweet periodic table arm patch . . .”

I tuned him out.

Chemical analysis was a tall order. Only one idea sprang to mind.

Despite his über-wealthy background, as a young man Jason’s father had bucked Taylor family tradition and chosen to protect and serve. After years working as a homicide detective, he’d eventually been promoted to head the violent crimes unit for the Charleston Police Department.

Should I try that angle? It didn’t go so well last time, and what story would Jason believe? When it came to odd requests, my credibility had grown suspect. Even with my own father.

“Do you know who specializes in this type of analysis?” I asked casually.

“The police,” Sundberg answered. “We’ve got better equipment, but they’ve got the expertise.” A strange look crossed his face. “Why do you ask?”

“For the assignment. We’re supposed to . . . we’ve got a list of forensic questions to answer. I think we’re supposed to interview an expert.”

“Oh, no problem.” Anders tapped his chin, thinking. “There’s a guy downtown at the CPD crime lab named Eric Marchant. Actually, Hudson knows him pretty well, if you can stomach talking to that guy. From what I’ve heard, Marchant is one of the city’s go-to forensic experts. A ballistics ace.”

Hmm. It’s a start.

“Thanks so much for the help.” Hi chucked Anders’s shoulder, which seemed to startle him. “We’ll be sure to acknowledge you when our paper wins the Nobel Prize for Awesome Research. We’ll even drop you a footnote.”

“You’re too kind.” Dryly. “Can I tell Kit that you’ve finished in here?”

“Yep.” Hi swiveled to me. “Ready to rock, Tor?”

I nodded. “Thanks, Anders.”

“Always a pleasure.” He departed with a lazy wave.

“At least we found something, right?” Hi recovered the Gamemaster’s letter and shoved it in his backpack. “Not a total waste.”

“Not at all. Let’s get home and tell the others.”

Heading for the door, I had a bit more pep in my step. No answers yet, but we had a place to start. Progress.

For the first time since Coop was injured, I felt a measure of control. The humiliating feeling of being pushed around had lessened. It hadn’t disappeared—we still had to dance to the Gamemaster’s strings—but the bite wasn’t quite as strong.

Watch your back, Gamemaster.

I almost smiled as we waited for the elevator.

You picked the wrong mark.





CHAPTER 17





Security Chief Hudson flipped on the lights.

Halogens flared overhead, bathing Lab Two in surreal brightness. The radiance gleamed off his polished name tag and wristwatch.

Hudson walked to the room’s center. Rotated a slow three-sixty. Stopped. Rubbed his closely shaved chin.

This is pointless.

But his instructions had been clear. Watch the Brennan girl. Track her movements on the island. Discover if she was poking into things she shouldn’t be.

So here he stood, inspecting an empty laboratory. Grasping at straws.

The girl doesn’t leave a magic vapor trail to follow.

Hudson did a quick circuit, hoping for some clue to what Brennan and the fat kid had been doing. No luck. They’d cleaned up after themselves.

Hudson had learned a few things. Brennan was working with Dr. Sundberg. His ID locator hadn’t budged from Lab Two while the girl was there.

What was that connection?

Hudson paced the room, idly running a finger along the metal counter bolted to the wall. Once more he scanned the cabinets, drawers, and jars, inspected the gadgets and machines. Looked for anything ajar, disturbed, used, or out of place.

Nothing. Like they’d never been there.

Perhaps the visit was harmless.

The kid was always out here, her and those boys. Underfoot, traipsing around the island like those blasted monkeys. Some whispered they’d befriended the pack of wild dogs! Hudson couldn’t fathom why Director Howard allowed those animals to roam free.

Or his daughter, for that matter.

Hudson sighed. He’d simply report what he knew. Which, frankly, was zip. But a thin report was better than none. He couldn’t botch this one.

One last glance, then Hudson slapped off the lights and headed out the door.





CHAPTER 18





The menu offered sloppy joes with a diced vegetable medley.

Even the best schools have terrible food days, and Bolton was no exception. Which is why I usually packed a lunch. That day, it was a cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwich, SunChips, and Diet Coke. I never claimed to be a health nut.

“I’m telling you, we don’t need him.” Ben wouldn’t let it go. “And he’s not going to help anyway.”

We sat in our usual corner. Around us, the cafeteria echoed with clattering trays, clinking silverware, and gossiping students. I barely noticed. My focus was on the three sets of skeptical eyes across the table.