Code(68)

“I know. It’s just, I have nothing to do, and it makes more sense to study than to stare at the wall.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Warnock set his book aside. “I’ve taught at Bolton for over two decades, and have never understood this policy. We all could be making better use of our time. But rules are rules.”

“My locker’s just down the hall.” Hopeful look. “I won’t tell if you won’t?”


Warnock regarded me for a moment. “You’re the one who wrote that letter to the school paper, aren’t you?” He nodded to the empty kitchen behind him. “The op-ed about childhood obesity, criticizing the nutritional value of our lunch menus?”

“Yes, sir.” Hesitant smile.

“For that fine piece of work, you get a hall pass. I’ve been complaining for years about ketchup counting as a vegetable. Glad someone agrees.”

“Thanks. I promise I won’t be long.”

“See that you aren’t.” He handed me a pass. “Though why I’m supposed to imprison one of our brightest students I’ll never understand. Hurry now.”

Speeding from the cafeteria, I ducked into the closest ladies’ room, locked myself in a stall, and dialed Marchant’s number.

Four rings. Then a robotic voice asked me to leave a message.

Damn.

“Good morning, Mr. Marchant. This is Tory Brennan, calling about the issue we discussed last weekend. If you could get back to me, I’d love an update. And thanks again for your help. Bye-bye.”

I hung up, regretting the childish “bye-bye,” but unable to take it back. I slipped back into the hall and hurried for my locker.

Something dropped as I opened the door.

A thick white envelope, my name in calligraphy on its face.

Chance’s invitation.

“Nope nope nope.” Yet I jammed the envelope into my bag.

I was almost back to the cafeteria when my phone buzzed. No caller ID. Pumping a fist, I ducked back into the restroom and answered.

“Sorry I missed you,” Marchant said, “department meetings seem to eat up all of my time.”

“Oh no, don’t worry.” Backing into a stall, sitting, and locking the door. “I appreciate you returning my call so quickly.”

“I found something interesting,” Marchant continued. “Are you free to meet? I’m headed out for a caffeine fix in thirty minutes.”

Um, what? Did this guy not understand I was fourteen? Bolton wasn’t big on students popping out for midday lattes.

But the Gamemaster was my top priority. The Roman Empire could sit tight until tomorrow.

“Sure. Where?”

Marchant gave me an address and the line went dead.

Uncertain what I’d gotten myself into, I returned to the cafeteria, cracked my text, and killed the last fifteen minutes reading about Caligula. Dude was a wacko.

After the bell, I slipped out a side door and through the front gates. Hustling down Broad Street, I crossed my fingers that I hadn’t been observed.

I felt guilty not telling the other Virals about the meeting. They’d probably worry after back-to-back missed classes. But I wasn’t calling the shots. I’d fill them in at lunch.

City Lights Coffee is a relaxed, hipster café on Market Street, in the heart of the tourist district. An easy ten-minute walk. Marchant was sitting at a window table, sipping from an oversized mug.

He waved as I entered. “Glad you could make it. Would you like something?”

“No, thank you. I can only stay a few minutes.”

“Of course.” Marchant noted my uniform with obvious embarrassment. “You’re in school today. What was I thinking?”

“I’m on my lunch break,” I lied. “It’s okay, we’re allowed to leave.”

“Regardless, that was incredibly stupid of me.” Shaking his head, Marchant slid a file across the table. “But I think you’ll find this interesting.”

I opened the file. “Were you able to ID the gun’s owner?”

“Yes and no. The weapon is registered to a business entity, not an individual.”

My eyes rose to meet his. “A business? Which one?”

Marchant reached over and flipped to the file’s last page.

I stared in disbelief.

Four words had been typed on the line marked, “Registrant’s Name.”


Loggerhead Island Research Institute.

“What the hell?”

“That was my reaction as well,” Marchant said. “Apparently, it’s an extremely high-tech facility based on an island just off the coast. A nonprofit, focused on veterinary medicine. Someone in its security department submitted the snare gun for a permit exception.”

“But I thought these guns were totally illegal?”

“So did I.” Marchant stirred his cappuccino. “I wasn’t aware an exception existed, and I work for the police.”

“Why would . . . this place need this type of weapon?” For some reason, I was hesitant to reveal my connection to LIRI.

“The application states that snare guns are necessary to protect bird-nesting areas from predators. Since the whole island is private property, with no human inhabitants, the request was approved. The institute applied for two such permits.”