Code(96)

“So he took a shortcut,” Shelton said.

Jason shook his head. “I guessed that, too, but Kirkham doesn’t think so. He said Marchant is very particular and only uses certain equipment. Around the lab they call him the OCD Chuck Norris.”

“Chuck Norris?” I didn’t get it.

“Because of the red hair and beard,” Jason explained. “Kirkham said Marchant’s a nice guy, but kind of a finicky little shrimp. Definitely not the type to miss a week’s work without calling in.”

The world shrank around me.

My blood pressure spiked.

I pictured City Light Coffee. The man sipping an oversized cappuccino across the table from me.

“Red hair?” I clutched Jason’s arm. “Beard?”

“Those were his words.” Jason glanced at the fingers tight around his wrist.

“The man we met was tall, clean-shaven, and had light brown hair.” Hi forcefully ticked off fingers. “No beard, not a ginger, and definitely not a shrimp.”

Chance’s eyebrows rose.

Jason glanced from face to face. “What are you saying?”

I tried to organize my thoughts.

Fact: The man I’d had coffee with wasn’t Eric Marchant.

Question: Then who was he?

The answer stared me in the face.

Oh my God.

My steady voice surprised me. “It seems we’ve met the Gamemaster after all.”

Hi sucked in his breath. Shelton wore a puzzled look. Ben turned abruptly, walked several steps toward the green, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“He was impersonating Marchant.” Hi’s head wagged slowly from side to side. “Holy crap balls.”

Jason’s eyes widened. Shelton nearly choked. Ben’s shoulders tensed, but with his back to me I couldn’t see his face.

“Why would this lunatic pretend to be a lab geek?” Chance asked.

“To get near us.” The insight terrified and disgusted me. “To study his playthings up close and personal.”

“But why Marchant?” Chance glanced at Jason, who shrugged helplessly. “How would the Gamemaster know to assume that identity?”

“He’s been watching us from the beginning.” I was suddenly sure. “Tracking our movements. Our communications. He’s freaking taunting us!”

“Jesus.” Shelton’s hand flew to his mouth. “Red hair! Tory, that means—”

“Yes.” I backhanded an angry tear from my cheek.

My mind cycled through another series of images. A murky crypt. A stone sarcophagus. Deathly pale features below a shock of ruddy hair.

This time, I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. “We know who was inside that coffin.”

I mouthed a silent prayer for the soul of Eric Marchant.





CHAPTER 51





We had no time to ponder the implications.

Kit appeared with a new set of storm-proofing tasks. Nodding to our visitors, he voiced surprise they were so far from home with Katelyn bearing down. Hi theatrically thanked Chance and Jason for bringing over his tuxedo jacket. The two left, promising to meet with us again after the storm.

I followed Kit’s instructions like a zombie. Pack the car. Clean Coop’s cage. Fill a cooler with bottled water.

My mind reeled. I shivered again and again, shaken by how close I’d been to a cold-blooded murderer.

Two hours slipped by in a haze. Finally, Kit signaled that I was done.

I fired a text to the other Virals. Coop and I met them by the dock.

“We have to examine every interaction with the killer,” Hi said. “See if we missed anything. Find the dots, then connect them.”

“He drove a Ford F-150,” Shelton said. “Black, with oversized tires.”

“Complete with a redneck gun rack,” Hi added. “The Gamemaster had an arsenal in his shooting stand. Rifles. Pistols. A shotgun. An AK-47.” He paled slightly while rattling off the firepower.

“What else?” I glanced at Ben, who was sitting with his legs hanging off the edge of the pier. He looked far away, lost in thought.

Coop’s interest fizzled and he began snuffling down the beach. I let him wander—it’d be a while before he could roam the island again.

The sun was dropping in the west. The air was heavy and still, as if the sky held its breath. Rarely had the Atlantic been so flat and glassy. The deceptive calm seemed like a tease by Mother Nature: Come out to sea. Everything’s fine. Pay no attention to the maelstrom behind the curtain.

“We’re wasting our time.” Ben began coiling a line tied to the first berth. “The Gamemaster always covers his tracks.”

“It’s not a waste,” I shot back. “We might have missed something.”

“You think?” Ben snorted. “You had a tea party with that wacko.”

My cheeks burned, but I held my tongue. Why is he being so moody?

Then I remembered. Ben had puked on his shoes that morning at the rifle range. Massively hungover, both he and Shelton had waited by the 4Runner.

Not exactly his One Shining Moment. Ben was probably still embarrassed.

“He’s a skilled marksman.” Hi leaned back against one of the wooden pilings. “I saw his practice targets. All bull’s-eyes. And he knew a ton about ballistics. Whoever we met, he definitely knows his weapons.”