Code tb-3 Read online

  Code

  ( Tory Brennan - 3 )

  Kathy Reichs

  Life appears peaceful on Loggerhead Island – rescued from financial disaster, the research institute is flourishing once more. But the tranquility is quickly shattered when Tory Brennan and her technophile gang discover a mysterious box buried in the ground.

  A seemingly innocent treasure hunt soon turns into a nightmarish game of puzzles, as it becomes clear that one false move will lead to terrible, explosive consequences.

  The clock is ticking. Can Tory and the Virals crack the code in time to save the city – and their own lives?

  About the Author

  Kathy Reichs is vice president of the American Academy of Forensic Scientists; a member of the RCMP National Police Services Advisory Council; forensic anthropologist to the province of Quebec; and a professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Her first book, Déjà Dead, catapulted her to fame when it became a New York Times bestseller and won the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel. Her latest novels, Flash and Bones and Virals, were both instant Sunday Times bestsellers. For more information, please visit www.kathyreichs.com.

  Also by Kathy Reichs and Brendan Reichs

  Virals

  Seizure

  Also by Kathy Reichs

  Déjà Dead

  Death du Jour

  Deadly Décisions

  Fatal Voyage

  Grave Secrets

  Bare Bones

  Monday Mourning

  Cross Bones

  Break No Bones

  Bones to Ashes

  Devil Bones

  206 Bones

  Spider Bones (published as Mortal Remains in UK hardback)

  Flash and Bones

  Bones Are Forever

  Brendan Reichs would like to dedicate this book to his beautiful wife, Emily, his perfect newborn daughter, Alice, and his thunderbolt of a son, Henry.

  You are the point.

  Kathy Reichs would like to dedicate this book to her beautiful Irish and Latvian families.

  Tá grá agam duit. Es jūs mīlu.

  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.

  You may have heard of her. Dr. Temperance Brennan, World-Famous Forensic Anthropologist. Some just call her the Bone Lady. She’s my great-aunt, a wonderful fact I learned only after my mother’s accident, when I moved in with my dad, Kit.


  She’s also my role model. My idol. Only everything I ever want to be. I might as well wear a What Would Tempe Do? necklace 24/7. My greatest ambition is to be as good a scientist as Tempe. To solve cases like she does. Leave my mark.

  “Okay, pal.” Ben gripped our captive at both ends. “Count your blessings that my friend here is a total softy.”

  He took one stride and tossed the mackerel back down to the sea. It hit the water and, with a flick of its tail fin, disappeared from sight.

  “We caught him,” I said. “That’s the fun part.” For us, at least. I doubt that fish would agree.

  “Whatever.” Ben began packing our gear. “Let’s go find the others. Hi must’ve given up by now.”

  I secured hooks to poles, then scanned the ledge for trash. It’d been nice fishing alone with Ben. The two of us didn’t spend much one-on-one time together, and he often went mute when Hi and Shelton were around. Probably because those two never let anyone get a word in edgewise.

  Ben was already sixteen, the oldest of the Virals. He even had a driver’s license. That should’ve made him our leader, but he preferred letting me make the decisions. Which was surprising, since I was fourteen and youngest, the only girl, and still learning about our home city of Charleston. But Ben usually let me have my way.

  And he’s a cutie, I had to admit, even though I only thought of him as a brother. Ben fascinated me, but he could be maddening, too. It was often impossible to read what was going on behind that intense gaze. I sometimes felt I understood him the least of my packmates.

  After securing our tackle, we descended to the forest below. I’d barely touched boot to soil when a gray blur rocketed from the foliage.

  “Coop, heel!” I wasn’t anxious for a full-bodied lunge to my midsection. Mindful of his new training, the wolfdog checked his sprint and scampered to sit at my side.

  “Good boy.” Ear scratch. “Where’s your family?”

  Crackling leaves answered the question. I turned to see Whisper crouching by a large cedar at my back. The gray wolf regarded me quietly, then stepped aside for her mate, a German shepherd I’d named Polo. Beyond them, Coop’s brother, Buster, alternated between chomping and shaking a stick.

  “Release,” I said.

  Coop bounded back into the bushes, trailed by his fellow canines. “Hanging around a wolf pack is nuts.” Ben wiped his sweaty brow with a forearm, despite the mild temperature. “Whether it includes your mutt’s mother or not.”

  “Don’t be such a baby,” I teased. “They’re practically lapdogs.”

  “Lapdogs won’t rip your face off. Or eat you.”

  “Hey, we’re a wolf pack, too, remember?” I located the deer run we’d followed to Tern Point and started into the forest. “Why should we be scared of another one?”

  Ben didn’t answer. He still wasn’t comfortable with the truth. Not like me.

  Here’s the deal. Last spring, my friends and I got zapped by a nasty supervirus. Me. Hiram. Shelton. Ben. And my wolfdog, Coop, of course.

  The culprit was a designer pathogen created by Dr. Marcus Karsten, my father’s former boss at the Loggerhead Island Research Institute. In a reckless attempt to strike it rich, Karsten combined DNA from two different types of parvovirus, accidentally creating a brand-new strain. A doozy.

  Unfortunately for us, this vicious little germ was contagious to humans. We were infected while rescuing Coop, who’d been abducted by Karsten for use as a test subject.

  First came the sickness. Headaches. Fevers. Blackouts. You name it.

  The changes followed. We began to evolve. Or devolve.

  Even now, I find it hard to describe. My mind twists and bends, sounding out new depths in my subconscious. My senses blast into hyperdrive, becoming more acute than humanly possible.

  And sometimes I lose control, succumbing to primal instincts. Foreign impulses. Animal urges to hunt, or feed, or fight. It’s the same with the others. Mostly.

  The illness eventually passed, but not the changes. Our bodies had been transformed. The tiny viral invader had rewritten our genetic code, inserting canine DNA into human double helixes.

  Shifting us. Hiding the wolf inside our cellular blueprint.

  Welding us together as a pack.

  Now we’re Viral. To the core.

  Scary thing is, we don’t know if the sickness is truly finished. Or if the alterations are permanent. Could the effects grow more intense? Will they fade over time? No idea. With Karsten gone, so was our only link to the virus.

  That’s not to say we’ve given up. We don’t have the answers, but we intend to find them. How? Still working on that.

  Ben and I continued along the trail to a small clearing.

  Beep! Beep!

  Ben threw me a knowing glance. My eyes rolled in response. Obviously, Hi was still at it.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  Entering the meadow, I heard agitated voices.

  “How much longer?” Shelton Devers pushed black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This stopped being interesting before it started.”

  Shelton is short and skinny, with dark chocolate skin and features common on the streets of Kyoto. Black father. Asian mother. You get the picture.

  Shelton stood in the clearing’s center, arms crossed, boredom etched on his face. He wore a yellow Pac-Man retro hoodie and oversized basketball shorts, which hung from his scrawny frame like clothes on a hanger.

  “Why all the Haterade?” answered Hiram Stolowitski. “We found buried treasure once before, right?”

  “A perfect reason to quit,” Shelton said. “We’ve filled our lifetime quota.”

  “Not yet.” Hi returned his attention to the device in his hands. “The geocache is supposed to be right here. Somewhere. I just have to find it.”

  “So far, all you’ve found are bottle caps, some pliers, and a Diet Coke.”

  “I re-jiggered the settings to ignore trash metal. No more false alarms.”

  “No more anything. It just beeps.”

  Hi wore a jarring arrangement: red Adidas headband, blue Hawaiian shirt, and white board shorts. In his hands was a Fisher Labs F2 metal detector, fresh from the package as of that morning. He’d been combing the clearing for thirty minutes, insisting something was buried there.

  Chubby-faced and red-cheeked, Hi looked like he’d been running sprints rather than carefully walking a grid. No question he could be annoying at times, but we all respected his scientific curiosity. Hi loved experiments and gadgets, figuring things out. Usually I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  That day, not everyone was feeling as charitable.

  “This is stupid.” More a computer guy, Shelton preferred hacking websites to tramping through the woods. “Check the GPS again. We could be in the wrong place. And who’d bury something out here, anyway? It’s private property.”

  Loggerhead Island is a private veterinary research preserve, complete with troops of free-ranging rhesus monkeys. The habitat is almost wholly undisturbed, with no permanent buildings outside the main LIRI complex.

  We visited often. Loggerhead was one of the few places we could be totally alone.

  “The geocaching website listed these coordinates,” Hi repeated stubbornly. “This is the first cache ever posted for Loggerhead, and I intend to find it.”

  “When’d you adopt this wonderful new hobby?” Ben asked.

  “When I ordered the detector. So last month, I guess. Now stop bugging me and let me finish scoping the clearing. The cache is within a hundred-foot radius.”

  Lazy Sunday. With no other plans, we’d selected our default option—messing around on Loggerhead. Our safe haven. We’d taken Sewee, as usual, then hiked over to explore the woods bordering Tern Point, a conical stone peak on the island’s southeastern corner. Hi had insisted.

  “Explain this again,” I asked, not sure I fully understood the concept.

  “I’m searching for a geocache.” Hi, with infinite patience. “It’s a game. Someone bu
ries or hides a box with an object inside, then posts the coordinates online.”

  Shelton, skeptical. “How do you know a box is buried here?”

  Hi continued at his deliberate pace, slowly sweeping the detector back and forth in front of him. “Because my iPhone says we’re on the exact coordinates, and the clue told me to ‘be sure to scratch the surface.’”

  “All in all,” Shelton said, “this is a tremendously dumb game.”

  “You’re a dumb game,” Hi shot back.

  “Let me practice linking while Hi works,” I suggested, knowing they wouldn’t like the idea.

  Three groans. As expected.

  “We have to master our powers,” I insisted. “What’s the point of having special abilities if you can’t control them?”

  Hi grunted, eyes glued to the detector’s LCD screen.

  “It’s creepy.” Shelton shivered despite the warm October afternoon. “Invasive.”

  Ben nodded. “You should stay out of other people’s minds.”

  Exposure to the supervirus had one major … side effect. Benefit? Curse?

  We call it “flaring.” When the changes come, our minds warp and snap, then the powers break free. Our senses shift to impossible clarity. Sight. Smell. Hearing. Taste. Even touch.

  The wolf comes out, making us sharper and stronger.

  Viral.

  But evolution doesn’t follow a single set of rules. The virus affected each of us differently. Perhaps the mutations were unique to our individual genetic sequences. Whatever the reason, our strengths vary. Hiram has eyes like an eagle with Lasik. Shelton can hear feathers flutter as a sparrow flaps its wings. Ben becomes strongest and fastest, like a bull on steroids. My nose gets so sensitive I can sniff out emotion, deception, and fear. And other things you’d rather not consider.

  And, recently, our powers reached a whole new level.

  For me, anyway.

  The boys can’t do it. Don’t like it. But when our pack flares in close proximity, I can sometimes touch the other Virals’ minds. Hear their thoughts, and pass on mine. This talent has come in handy more than a few times. Has saved our lives.