Seizure(70)

“Summer Place Lane is the last turnoff,” Ben said, as we drove past it.

I held my breath.

The Studebaker stuck to our tail.

Everyone groaned.

Ben pulled into the cul-de-sac at the end of the state road. The unlined blacktop leading to Morris Island began just ahead. A yellow sign warned: Private Property—No Outlet.

If the Studebaker followed, it could have only one destination.

Ben pulled onto Morris Island’s private drive, rolled a dozen yards, and stopped. “I want the driver to know we see him.”

Four sets of eyes watched the Studebaker roll into the cul-de-sac. Stop. Idle. Rev its engine.

Seconds ticked by. We hardly dared breathe.

Then the Studebaker circled back the way it came.

Sighs of relief filled the 4Runner.

“Did anyone get a look at the driver?” I asked.

Head shakes. The windows were too dark.

We drove the last mile in hushed uneasiness. Had the wagon been stalking us? My brain was too exhausted to focus.

At dawn, I’d dragged myself out of Charleston Harbor. Then I’d visited the bunker, haggled with Dr. Short, talked to Aunt Tempe, and faced Chance in a mental hospital. All on less than two hours’ sleep.

“Guys,” I yawned. “It’s time to call it a day.”



Coop greeted me at the door.

My luck was holding—Kit wasn’t home. Thank the Lord for small favors.

Collapsing into bed, I nearly whimpered with pleasure. I planned to sleep forever.

Then my cell exploded. I ignored the first three rings, pretended it wasn’t happening.

“Blaaaaargh!”

Reaching blindly, I scooped up the phone. Too late. The call rolled to voice mail. Shortly after, the message icon appeared: Aunt Tempe.

“Sorry I missed you, Tory. Ta suil agam go bhfuil tu i mbarr na slainte. That means, ‘I hope you’re in the best of health!’ I’ve actually been enjoying my assignment. After a rough start, vocabulary started coming back. I’m emailing you my translation now. Let me know if you need anything else, and please call more often. Oíche mhaith. Good night!”

As the message ended, an email appeared in my inbox.

I fully intended to open it.

My eyes just needed a short rest.





THE KNOCKING FINALLY roused me.

“I’ll be at work all day,” Kit called through the door. “I know you’re angry at being grounded, but get moving. Too much sleep is as bad as too little.”

“Wha?” Best I could manage.

Kit’s footsteps retreated. I glanced at the clock. Sunday. Ten forty-five.

“Frick!”

I’d overslept. For my idea to work, we had to go today.

I rushed to my computer, tracked down the Virals, and handed out assignments. The boys grumbled but agreed. As I knew they would. We had no other choice.

Logging off, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d forgotten something.

I reviewed the plan in my head. There were holes, sure, and a few shaky assumptions, but the concept felt sound. Yet the nagging wouldn’t let up.

What?

Coop pushed into my room, tail wagging like a windshield wiper.

“Come on, boy.”

I trudged downstairs to see if Kit had left any coffee.

It was going to be another killer day.



“Eyes peeled,” Ben warned. “We don’t want to run aground.”

Mid-afternoon. We were aboard Sewee, carefully picking our way through the snarl of overgrown swampland surrounding Wadmalaw Island.

It had taken hours, but Shelton finally scored the intel we needed.

Then a sprint to the boat.

Sailing south past Folly and Kiawah, Ben steered into the mouth of the Edisto River, heading inland to the warren of marshes and tidal pools surrounding Wadmalaw Sound.

The channel narrowed as Sewee nosed through tall reeds and thick stands of cordgrass. Blackbirds circled, feasting on insects made drowsy by the afternoon heat. Egrets perched on dry mud banks, alert for movement in the still, brackish water.

My plan was simple.

Escape by car was impossible. Marsh Point had a single access road straddled by a well-manned guardhouse. No driving around it.

Flight on foot was equally unrealistic. The hospital grounds occupied a tiny islet surrounded by muck and open water. The only walking path paralleled the road, and was completely exposed.

That left a waterborne getaway.

By worming through swampland to the lake surrounding the hospital, we could bypass the guardhouse and access the grounds from their unprotected rear.

Ben’s face was tense as he maneuvered the tricky passages. For good reason. If we bottomed out in the shallow swamp, Sewee could be mired for hours.

Ben’s gaze flicked left. His body stiffened.

“Nobody freak,” he said quietly, “but there’s a monster gator ten yards to port.”

Heads whipped sideways.

An eight-foot alligator was lounging on a sandbar, its gray-green scales caked with dried mud. Reptilian eyes opened, regarded us dispassionately, then slowly slid shut again.

“That’s right,” Shelton said in a shaky voice. “Nappy time. We’re not worth your trouble.”

Ben motored down a channel, hit a dead end, reversed, chose a new route. Sweat dripped from his temples as he struggled to navigate the stifling green maze.