Code(45)

Taking a deep breath, I input the numbers and tapped the circle.

The iPad went blank, then flashed brilliant white. Trumpets blared. Colored balls bounced across the wounded screen, each decorated by a snarling clown face.

“Wacko,” Hi breathed.

Almost immediately, the bizarre display was replaced by a single large ball eerily centered over the bullet hole.

The timer reappeared: 48:00:00. Began counting down.

Words materialized above it: The Game continues! Complete your next task!

“Oh no.” Shelton pressed fists to forehead. “It’s not over.”

Suddenly, high beams sliced through the darkness in the parking lot, followed by flashing red-and-blue lights.

“Frick! Cops!” Hi turned and sprinted for the beach. “Run!”

Ben and I scrambled to gather our things, then leaped across the dunes and splashed into the surf. Ahead, Hi and Shelton were hauling Coop aboard.

Radio static cut the stillness. Two flashlight beams bobbed toward the green.

“Go!” Shelton hissed as I dragged in the anchor.

Ben needed no prodding. Gunning the engine, he spun Sewee in a tight arc and fired through the waves.





CHAPTER 24





My phone vibrated and blared Coldplay.

Sighing, I put the figurine aside and glanced at the clock on my bedroom wall. Hours of examination, yet I was nowhere. And Friday was already half gone.

I glanced at the iPad, amazed it still functioned with a hole through its gut. The clock read 33:01:06. A quarter of our time gone, and still no leads.

Grabbing my iPhone, I frowned. The caller ID simply read “private.” I debated letting it roll to voicemail, but yielded to curiosity.

“This is Tory.”

“Tory Brennan?” A male voice.

“Yes.” Cautious. I’d been pranked before, and had no intention of falling for more Bolton Prep immaturity.

“This is Eric Marchant at the CPD crime lab. Someone named—” papers shuffled in the background, “—Jason Taylor left me a message. I’m not sure how he got my office number, but it doesn’t matter. He sent something for analysis.”

“Mr. Marchant!” I stood and began to pace. “Thanks so much for calling.”

“Not a problem, though I must admit the request was a bit odd. I received a cotton swab coated with an unknown substance. It was nothing more than diesel fuel.”

Diesel fuel? Shoot, dead end. You could buy that anywhere.

Marchant’s voice sounded tinny, probably coming from a speakerphone. He had a clipped, precise way of speaking. I imagined a short, bookish man in a tweed jacket with a pocket protector.

“There was something about a cash register?” Marchant prompted.

Sudden thought.

This man was a ballistics expert. Last night, a contraption had fired at us. Someone could’ve been killed. Access to Marchant’s expertise was incredibly fortunate.

A plan formed in my head.

“Jason must’ve been confused, sir. I have a serious issue.” Adding a quaver to my voice. “Someone tried to kill my dog.”

“My goodness.” There was a soft click as Marchant lifted the receiver. “Have you filed an incident report?”

“I haven’t told anyone.” I opted for damsel in distress. “My neighborhood is very isolated, and the local cops hate coming out here. They don’t care at all.”

“Shameful.” Irritation tinged Marchant’s voice. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Some of our more remote sheriffs wouldn’t investigate a fire in their own station house. But why do you think someone wants to harm your pet?”

“My dog’s half wolf, and a few weeks ago these rednecks threatened to shoot him.” I invented details on the fly. “Last night, my friends and I found something buried in the dunes. A metal contraption, with two short barrels. We accidentally set it off, and I was nearly hit.”

“The device fired at you?” Incredulous. “A projectile weapon?”

“Yes, sir. I think it’s a gun, but I’m not sure.”

“Of all the irresponsible—” I could almost see Marchant straighten in his chair. “Could you locate a bullet fired by the weapon?”

“Oh yessir! I have the weapon and two slugs.”

“Excellent. Did you retrieve any shell casings?”

Why hadn’t I thought of that? “No sir, but I could possibly look again.”

“No need.” Pages flapped. “I’m tied up today, but if you bring those items to me tomorrow, I’d be willing to take a look.”

Jackpot. “Of course. Could you give me the crime lab’s street address?”

“Certainly. Email [email protected] and I’ll send directions. That way I’ll have your contact info.”

“Absolutely.” I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d just commandeered a ballistics expert to help fight the Gamemaster. Not too shabby. “Thank you so much!”

“Happy to help. I’d like to find whoever set this weapon. It’s an incredibly stupid and dangerous thing to do.”

I thanked him again, hung up, and sent the email.

Marchant replied a few minutes later: Mind is slipping. Lab closed on Saturdays. Could we meet at Twin Ponds Rifle Range? It’s just north of Mount Pleasant on Highway 17. Close to where I live. 10:00 a.m.?