Code(97)

I replayed that first meeting in my mind. Nothing seemed out of order.

The imposter at the range had been friendly. Eager to help. For the zillionth time I wondered how the Gamemaster knew we’d contacted Marchant.

“On the very first call,” Shelton asked me, “who do you think it was? Marchant or the Gamemaster?”

“The real Marchant.” I’d considered this point, and felt sure. “When we met at the range, I remember being surprised at his appearance. He wasn’t at all what I’d pictured. But I didn’t give it a second thought. That happens all the time.”

A chill passed through me as another domino fell.

“My email.”

“What about it?” Hi asked.

“I’d almost forgotten. During the first call Marchant and I originally agreed to meet at his lab. I emailed his work account so he could send directions. A few minutes later I got a reply—Marchant wanted to switch locations to the shooting range.”

“So you spoke to Marchant and then emailed his work account.” Hi was thinking out loud. “But the Gamemaster wrote you back.”

“He was intercepting your communications.” Shelton tugged his earlobe. “Damn. That phone call may have signed Marchant’s death warrant.”

No one spoke for a while.

“At the gun range, you two stayed in the parking lot,” Hi said to Shelton and Ben. “Do you remember anything about the truck? Like maybe the license plate number?”

Shelton frowned. “I wasn’t my best that day. Sorry.”

We waited. Finally, my patience wore thin. “Ben?”

More seconds passed. Then, “There was a G. On the rear window. Purple.”

“What, for Gamemaster?” Shelton pulled a face. “Talk about ego. But that doesn’t help us. Anything else?”

Ben shook his head.

Shelton turned to me. “What about your chat at the coffee shop?”

“I called Marchant’s office and left a message. Less than a minute later my cell rang and March—” I gritted my teeth, “—the Gamemaster asked me to meet him at City Lights Coffee. So I did.”

“So dumb,” Hi muttered. “And it really was a murderer.”

Shelton ignored him. “So he was monitoring Marchant’s voicemail after he . . . got rid of him. Email too.”

I pictured hazel eyes across a coffee shop table. “We can’t trust anything he told us about the snare gun.”

Shelton’s eyebrows rose. “So the snare gun might not be from LIRI at all.”

“The Gamemaster knows things about us,” I said. “He might’ve been looking for a reaction. More mind games for his sick enjoyment.”

“We can’t say anything about the gun either way.” Hi ran agitated fingers through his hair, which left it standing on end. “This is so frustrating! We have nothing to investigate.”

“Maybe we should let it go.” Ben had abandoned the rope to stare out over the water. “For once. We’re not going to catch him. The police have a better shot.”

“Are you suffering short-term memory loss?” Shelton tapped a temple. “Did you forget the surveillance photographs?”

Hi nodded in vigorous agreement. “That didn’t feel like a bluff.”

Ben shrugged, eyes glued to the horizon.

“We can’t talk. Not yet.” I spun, whistled for Coop, and headed back up to the townhouses. “I’ll think of something.”




That night, sleep wouldn’t come. When I finally dozed off, my dreams were dark and worrisome.

I was alone in the woods at night. Somewhere unfamiliar.

No sounds. Not the slightest chirp of a cricket.

Crack! Crack!

Shots in the darkness. I turned. Marchant—the man I’d thought to be Marchant—was crouched in the shadows, grinning through a mask of peeling clown paint.

I stared down the barrel of his AK-47.

Marchant pulled the trigger. Bullets peppered the dirt at my feet.

I screamed. Ran.

Longleaf pines towered above me, blocking the moonlight. Tangled undergrowth tore at my legs. I stumbled blindly, never looking back.

I heard footsteps giving chase. Maniacal laughter. Every few yards there was a burst of gunfire. Bullets shredded the branches and trunks around me.

I reached a parking lot. Recognized my location. The firing range.

The Gamemaster’s F-150 was parked on my left. I saw the gun rack, the oversized tires, and a glowing purple G on the rear window. Ben was right.

No other cars. No Virals. No 4Runner.

A twig snapped behind me.

I whirled. The Gamemaster was less than a yard away. His hazel eyes burned in the darkness, narrow and unblinking.

Dropping the gun, he pulled a twelve-inch carving knife from his belt. Congealed blood coated its razor-sharp edge.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t call out.

The Gamemaster stepped close. Ran the blade down my cheek.

“Game over, Victoria,” he whispered.

I screamed. Woke.

Drenched in sweat, I sat up, tried to regain control of my heartbeat. The nightmare felt so real. So personal. I rubbed the goose bumps from my arms.

The first morning rays were slanting through my window.

Coop was scratching at my door, in tune with my distress.