Code

Code by Kathy Reichs





PROLOGUE


97 days earlier





Light breezes swept the dunes of Turtle Beach.

Gentle gusts that spun eddies in the bone-white sand before whistling into the dark woods beyond.

The sky was enormous, black and moonless. Though well past sunset, the air remained muggy, thick, and warm.

Another quiet night on Loggerhead Island.

But not business as usual.

Just past the tree line, beneath the looming hulk of Tern Point, a monkey troop clustered high up in the branches of a longleaf pine.

Silent.

Observing the forest floor.

Below, in a small meadow bordering the tree’s massive roots, a shovel rose, fell, rose again. Fresh dirt landed atop an already knee-high pile.

The digger wore a thick brown cloak, incongruous in the stifling heat. The billowing garment engulfed its owner, hung to the tips of battered black boots.

Sweat glistened on a crinkled brow.

The figure paused, smiled up at the simian audience, content to share the moment.

Years of waiting, then months of meticulous planning.

It was finally time.

The Game was about to begin.

The digger resumed, patient, persistently gouging the rich, black soil. The pit was three feet deep, and growing.

Almost finished.

The digger halted again. Stretched. Breathed deeply, inhaling a heady bouquet of loamy earth, wet grass, and honeysuckle.

A giggle escaped—shrill and birdlike, it lingered for long moments before dying with an atonal squeak.

Above, the primates shifted, nervous, alert to danger. Two young males scampered higher into the shadows of the canopy. But the group stayed. Spellbound. Watching.

Abandoning the spade, the digger reached into a canvas bag and removed a small bundle. Kissed it once. Reverently placed it inside the hole.

The Game was afoot.

“Come and find me,” the digger whispered, heartbeat loud enough to still the frogs.

Humming tunelessly, the digger filled the hole and covered the surface with dead leaves. Stepped back. Located a wristwatch button with one trembling finger. Pressed.

Ding.

The childish giggle sounded once more.

It’s done. The key is buried.

“Time to play.”

Hefting the bag and shovel, the digger stole into the shadows.





PART ONE:

CACHE





CHAPTER 1





The reel screeched, nearly jerked the pole from my fingers.

“Whoa!” I death-gripped my rod. “Got a live one!”

“Go easy.” Ben’s dark brown eyes radiated caution. “The line’ll snap if you’re not careful.”

Tern Point. Loggerhead Island. Ben Blue and I were perched upon a wide stone ledge twenty feet above the Atlantic Ocean. We’d been there an hour, with no bites.

Until now.

“WhatdoIdo?” First time on a spinner, and my mind was blank. I wiped a sweaty palm on my gray polo shirt.

“Both hands on the rod!” I could tell Ben itched to take over but was suppressing the urge. “Let the fish run a bit, reel back slowly, then let it run again. But stay alert. That tackle isn’t designed for sportfishing.”

I followed his instructions, letting my catch tire itself out. Finally, a wiggling silver streak flashed in the surf just below.

Ben whistled as he ear-tucked his shoulder-length black hair. “That’s a big boy. Nice haul.”

“Thanks. Tag in?” My arms were burning from the extended tug-of-war. “This monster’s not a quitter.”

Ben took over, muscles straining beneath his black tee and cutoff khakis. Of all the Virals, he was strongest by far. And the most connected to nature. Ben spent most of his free time outdoors, and had a deep, coppery tan to prove it.

The Blue family claims to have descended from the Sewee tribe, a local Native American group that disappeared from the pages of history three centuries ago. There’s no way to prove it, of course. Just don’t tell Ben that.

Ben’s small boat, Sewee, was our primary means of transportation. He’d used the old sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout to explore dozens of Charleston’s barrier isles. And learned the best fishing spots, like this one.

Moments later a gleaming, flopping captive dangled from the end of my line. Ben reeled it up to eye level.

My catch was silver, a foot and a half long, and covered with small, loose scales. A thin trail of blood leaked from its mouth.

“King mackerel.” Ben removed the hook and lifted the fish by one gill. “Twenty pounds—a pretty good size. Glad he didn’t break loose.”

The beleaguered fish gulped air, futilely searching for oxygen. Our eyes locked.

Suddenly, I wasn’t having so much fun.

“Throw him back.”

“What?” Ben frowned. “Why? This species is good eating. Or we could sell him at the fish market in Folly Beach.”

The mackerel’s jaw continued to work, opening and closing, but with less vigor now. A bubble formed at the tip of its mouth. Burst.

“Throw him back,” I repeated, sharper this time. “Fish-face still has some living to do.”


Ben scowled, but knew better than to argue. Over the past year the boys had come to accept my stubbornness, and the fact that I didn’t lose too many arguments. Not when I dug in my heels. Just like my aunt Tempe.