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  I glanced back at the beer pong table. Shelton and Hi had finally lost, and were chugging their opponent’s remaining cups. Other players were cheering them on.

  “Those two are going to be wasted.” I tried not to judge. “We’ll have to sneak them by their parents.”

  “They’re acting like idiots.” Ben was glassy-eyed, his voice surly.

  I wondered how many beers he’d downed.

  “You think those people really like us?” Ben blurted. “That we’re all BFFs now? What a joke.”

  “Everyone’s being nice. You could give them a chance.”

  “We’re just tonight’s special entertainment.” He drained his cup and moved to refill it. “The flavor of the week.”

  I sighed, but kept quiet. Once in a funk, Ben stayed funked.

  Then my breath caught.

  Chance Claybourne was walking toward the cabana. And he wasn’t alone.

  Madison Dunkle clung to his arm.

  Seeing them together jolted me. “I have to go.”

  “Whatever.” Ben tipped back his cup, then wandered into the yard. “Go dance for the trust-fund babies.”

  The barb stung, but I ignored him. As casually as possible, I moved closer to Chance and Madison, alarm bells clanging in my brain.

  Madison saw me first. She whispered to Chance, then scurried toward the cabana. I scanned for Courtney and Ashley, but didn’t see them.

  Had Madison and Chance come together?

  I didn’t like what that implied. These were the two people I absolutely did not want comparing notes. Here, or anywhere.

  “Tory.” Chance strolled to my side. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  He arced an arm at the party, which was becoming more rowdy. Shelton was doing a keg stand, skinny legs flapping in the air. Hi was counting off his time.

  Those morons! What are they thinking?

  Chance’s voice pulled me back.

  “Jason mentioned you needed help from the crime lab.” Chance cocked his head. “More covert police work? What this time?”

  My mouth went dry. Head spinning. He sounded offhand, but his questions were too pointed for comfort.

  “It’s nothing. Something for Kit.”

  Chance smiled, dropped his voice. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Oh, I intend to. And I’ll be watching. Cheers.”

  With that, he joined the others in the cabana.

  Enough for me. Time to go.

  Just then I heard pounding feet, followed by a bellowing scream.

  “CANNONBALL!!!!!”

  I turned in time to see Hi launch himself skyward, tuck into a ball, and drop into the pool with an enormous splash.

  Cups went flying as revelers attempted to dodge the spray.

  Shelton was rolling on the grass, laughing hysterically. “He did it! Holy crap! I owe Hiram five bucks!”

  Hi surfaced, spitting water. The party froze. Someone even killed the music.

  “Come on, I nailed that!” Hi raised both fists. “Perfect ten.”

  A beat, then laughter swept the patio, followed by a round of applause.

  A boy from the soccer team leaped into the pool, followed by two others carrying screaming girls. In moments, a dozen drunks were splashing and roughhousing in the water.

  I spied Jason sneaking my way, a wicked glint in his eyes.

  “No you don’t!” I bolted. “I’m not going in!”

  “Oh yes you are!” Jason hurdled deck furniture, chasing me around the pool. “My house, my rules, Brennan!”

  Chance watched with distaste before withdrawing into the cabana.

  We were on our second lap when Ben reappeared.

  I whizzed by, just steps ahead of my pursuer. Startled, Ben grabbed Jason with both arms.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Ben slurred, swaying slightly.

  I stopped dead. “Ben, it’s okay! We’re just messing around.”

  “Out of the way, pal.” Jason pushed Ben’s chest with two hands. “You’re my guest, remember.”

  Ben shoved back. “Don’t touch me!”

  Jason’s eyes gleamed with too much booze and not enough caution.

  Ben never saw the punch.

  He went toppling, but was back up in heartbeat. Then he dove forward, slamming Jason to the bricks. Horrified, I watched them roll into the grass, grappling and punching, neither able to gain the advantage.

  Time slowed.

  Suddenly, Jason went flying.

  Ben’s head came up, irises flaming.

  Nightmare.

  Without thinking, I launched myself at Ben, catching him off guard. The weight of my body knocked him over backward. Never hesitating, I jumped on his chest and started slapping his face.

  “Let it go!” I hissed. “Release your flare!”

  Jason reached to pull me off, but Hi and Shelton got there first.

  They boxed Jason away, grabbed Ben by the shoulders, and hauled him downslope into the yard. Ben tried to get past them, at Jason, but the fire was gone from his eyes. Abruptly he turned and stormed toward the dock.

  “I’m going to kill him.” Jason was red-cheeked and breathing heavily. “This is my house!”

  “Jason, don’t!” I moved to block his pursuit. “Ben’s drunk and didn’t know what was going on. Please just let it go. For me.”

  “Fine.” Jason wiped his nose, checking for blood. “But that jackass isn’t welcome around me anymore. You tell him that.”

  “I will. I have to go now.”

  As Jason stormed away, I fled the watching, whispering attention of the rest of his guests.

  I pointed Sewee into Charleston Harbor, headed for home.

  Ben had balked when I’d demanded the keys, but I’d given him no choice. The boys were wasted. I’d driven Sewee before, and knew the basics. And if I scratched her while docking, let that be a lesson.

  We’d barely set off when Hi emptied his guts over the side. Shelton tried to clean his glasses, but kept dropping them. Ben was slouched in the copilot’s chair, too dizzy to stand.

  “He’s no good for you,” Ben said abruptly. “Doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Just be quiet.” Soft. “We’re almost home.”

  Ben’s eyes were slits. “That guy, he’s …” His hand rose, fell. “Dime a dozen. Doesn’t know anything. About you. The real you.”

  Mercifully, Ben trailed off. In moments he was snoring.

  I tried not to ignore his words. Ben was drunk. Being super-overprotective. And he never missed a chance to put Jason down.

  But he sounds … different. Almost jealous.

  “It’s the booze talking,” I said to myself as I maneuvered Sewee into the harbor. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Not one thing.”

  Then I barked a sour laugh.

  A crazed lunatic was forcing us around the city.

  My father wanted a bimbo to live in our home.

  Chance was watching me, and consorting with Madison.

  Canine DNA was hijacking my nervous system, and I had no idea how to stop it.

  The last thing I needed was Ben’s dating advice.

  “Blargh.”

  I wished life could be simple again.

  Knew it never would be.

  So I motored toward Morris, eager to crawl into bed and fall blissfully asleep. Then I cringed. How would I sneak these dopes past their parents?

  “Double blargh.”

  CHAPTER 27

  BEN WAS BEHIND the wheel of Kit’s 4Runner.

  We were fifteen minutes up Highway 17, heading north through the Francis Marion National Forest. Here, the road traversed a series of sultry, kudzu-draped swamps before reaching the towering woodlands of the park’s interior.

  Nine forty-five a.m. The mood was grim.

  “I wanna die.” Hi was slumped against a backseat window. “It’s sixty-five in this car, but I’m still sweating my face off.”

  Shelton opened his eyes, seemed to consider replyi
ng. Didn’t bother.

  “Serves you right,” I said from the front passenger seat. “Cannonball! You really made an impression.”

  “People loved that cannonball,” Hi whispered. “You can’t take that from me.”

  Shelton coughed, lowered his window, then hawked a loogie into space. Thankfully, his aim was true.

  Given the shape the boys were in, I’d left Coop at home. The hungover trio looked a few jostles short of redecorating the car with their stomach linings.

  Shelton rubbed his face. “Why get drunk if you feel like this afterward? It’s like signing up for food poisoning.”

  “Carpe diem.” Hi’s pallor was a sickly green. “Or something. I dunno, kids like getting bombed. Kids are stupid.”

  “It’s too dangerous for us.” I made sure Ben was listening. “A Viral can’t afford to lose control, not for a second. Not given our … condition.”

  Ben kept his bloodshot eyes on the road. He wasn’t about to apologize, and hated being scolded.

  I didn’t press. We all knew his mistake had been cataclysmic, but no one was anxious to discuss it then. Not with their heads pounding. Not with Ben scowling like an angry grizzly.

  “We dodged a bullet,” I said. “Let’s just avoid any repeat performances.”

  “Not a problem,” Shelton said. “My beer pong career was short.”

  “But epic.” Hi raised a fist, which Shelton bumped weakly.

  Miracle of miracles, no one had been caught. I still couldn’t believe our luck.

  After docking, it had taken some time to roust the boys into semi-presentable form. Then, slurring and stumbling, they’d headed for their doors. I’d held zero hope they’d pass muster.

  But Shelton’s parents had been out, and Tom Blue was asleep. Hi had snuck past his mother by faking a gastrointestinal illness. Gross.

  Kit hadn’t blinked when I’d beelined for my room. I don’t think “coming home intoxicated” was on his radar yet. Which was reasonable, since I was fourteen, had never done anything like that, and hadn’t been drinking anyway.

  Up early the next morning, I’d made a round of calls. Incredibly, the guys hadn’t backed out.

  So there we were, me and three wildly hungover boys, riding in Kit’s SUV.

  I checked the iPad. Just over fourteen hours left.

  Kit was at work, of course, even though it was Saturday. We hadn’t asked to borrow the car. No need for daddy dearest to know I was meeting a stranger at a secluded firing range.

  Ben turned right at Steed Creek and eased onto Willow Hall Road. Around us, the forest of longleaf pines grew denser.

  “I don’t remember anything,” Ben said abruptly. “I blacked out.”

  “You took the whole world and drank it,” Hi mumbled. “Then you tried to fight Jason. And then you—”

  “Let’s discuss last night another time,” I said, hoping to avoid the subject. “Right now, we need to focus on finding the range.”

  Blacked out? I watched Ben from the corner of my eye. I’d never known him to lie, but I got the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest either.

  He remembers. But he’s probably embarrassed about getting all sentimental.

  I let the matter slide. “Blacked out” and forgotten worked fine for me.

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Hi, staring out his window. “There’s nothing here but woodchucks.”

  It was true. The woods pressed close to the road, blocking the sun. I hadn’t seen a building in miles.

  Another half mile, then a wooden sign appeared: “Twin Ponds Rifle Range.”

  Ben pulled into a gravel lot. Only one other vehicle was present—a muddy Ford F-150, black, with oversized tires and a steel gun rack attached to its bed.

  My sneakers hit the ground first. “Let’s find our expert.”

  “Why does the Forest Service operate a shooting gallery?” Shelton leaned against the parked 4Runner, wheezing from the effort of getting out. “Seems weird.”

  “It’s not much, just a designated area for firing weapons.” Hi stretched, rubbed his lower back. “What better place to pop off some rounds than deep in the woods?”

  A series of reports echoed from the trees ahead.

  Hi cocked his ear. “Someone’s popping caps as we speak.”

  I shouldered my backpack and we headed down a short trail toward a long, rectangular structure divided into stalls like an open-air market. Each section had its own bench, rack, and a firing platform facing the open field beyond.

  Fifty yards out, a rough wooden beam crossed the field, designed for propping cans, bottles, and other small objects. Fifty yards beyond the beam was a thick earthen backstop suitable for pinning paper targets.

  Debris littered the field—signs, old washing machines, TVs, and trash cans—all rusted and riddled with bullet holes.

  The range felt neglected. Forgotten by the world. The surrounding forest was deathly quiet. Spooky.

  I was very glad to have company.

  “What a dump.” Ben kicked a pile of casings at the building’s edge.

  “Rednecks like shooting things,” Hi said. “But they don’t like cleaning up.”

  More shots sounded in rapid sequence. I spied a man in military fatigues hunched over in the farthest stall, systematically firing a high-powered rifle. Bullets slammed a target at the edge of sight. There was no else on the property.

  “Mr. Marchant?” I called.

  No response. Of course not. The shooter was wearing earmuffs.

  I waved an arm over my head. He noticed our presence, set down his rifle and headgear, and strode over to greet us.

  The man was tall, with pale skin, hazel eyes, and light brown hair. Younger than I’d expected—no more than thirty-five—he had the wiry physique of a long-distance runner. He wore orange-tinted glasses and jackboots.

  “Mr. Marchant?” I repeated.

  “Call me Eric.” He extended a hand. “You must be Tory. Hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d get in some practice this morning. I don’t get out here too often.”

  Suddenly Ben stiffened. Without warning, he lurched sideways and puked noisily in the bushes.

  The rest of us skittered back in surprise.

  Damn it, Ben. Not now! This guy works for the police.

  Ben wiped his mouth and retreated toward the parking lot. “Sorry. I’m not feeling—” He broke into a trot and disappeared into the woods.

  My gaze whipped to Marchant.

  “Your friend looks a little … worse for wear.”

  Shelton lowered his eyes. “I’ll, uh, make sure he’s okay. You coming, Hi?”

  “Heck no.” Hi pantomimed holding a machine gun. “I wanna see some firepower.”

  “Suit yourself.” Shelton hurried after Ben.

  “Please excuse them.” I donned my most trustworthy face. “There’s a bug going around school.”

  “A bug. Of course.” Marchant let the matter drop. “Did you bring the firearm you found?”

  “Yessir.” Tapping the bag on my shoulder.

  “Great.” He gestured to where he’d been shooting. “Let’s have a look.”

  Marchant wasn’t what I’d expected. On the phone I’d imagined a bookish, squirrely type. This guy was clearly an outdoorsman.

  Tucked inside Marchant’s stall was a veritable arsenal. Three pistols. A shotgun. Two more hunting rifles. And some automatic bullet-spitter whose name I couldn’t guess.

  Hi’s elbow jabbed my ribs. “On the end,” he whispered. “That’s an AK-47.”

  “You know your guns, young man.”

  Marchant looked at me expectantly. Taking the hint, I unzipped my bag and removed the golf course weapon and slugs.

  Marchant’s lips pooched out. “Now isn’t that an odd piece.”

  “Do you recognize it?” I asked.

  “I don’t.” Rotating the gun in his hands. “There are no manufacturer markings, and I don’t see a serial number. This is a designer job, built by someone w
ho knows what he’s doing.”

  His gaze fixed on me. “Tell me what happened.”

  Stepping carefully around the truth, I explained how the gun was set, how it fired, and what we recovered. I only changed the location.

  And never mentioned the Gamemaster, of course.

  “A snare gun.” Marchant grunted. “Rigged to fire when tripped in some fashion. The usual method is to string a wire from the trigger, or use a remote sensor.”

  “Sounds nasty.” Hi was inspecting Marchant’s stockpile.

  “They are,” Marchant agreed. “Snare guns are used to protect livestock from wild animals. They’re also totally illegal, since they’ll shoot anything that trips them. One like this wasn’t purchased in a store.”

  My heart sank. “So it can’t tell you anything?”

  “Maybe not.” Marchant set the weapon aside and picked up a slug. “But the bullet alone might tell the tale.”

  “All ears.” I took a seat on the splintery wooden bench, careful not to jostle any of Marchant’s weapons. The forest was silent. A line of cypress trees blocked all view of the parking lot, making the shooting stand feel like the most isolated place on earth.

  “A bullet has four components—the primer, the casing, gunpowder, and the slug itself.” Marchant handed me a loose round and lifted his Beretta 9mm. “When the trigger is pulled, a firing pin strikes the primer, exploding a powder charge beneath. This causes the larger charge of gunpowder to explode.”

  I turned the ammunition in my fingers. “And that fires the bullet?”

  “Correct. That explosion propels the projectile down the barrel. The slug will then rotate inside the gun barrel, because of tiny grooves along its length. The shell casing remains in the chamber until removed.”

  “Unless it’s a semi-auto,” Hi chirped.

  “True. Then the casing is automatically ejected when the bullet is fired.” Marchant glanced at me. “You said you didn’t collect any casings, right?”

  I shook my head, frustrated. How could I have forgotten to look?

  “No big deal. The grooves on the slug itself are more important.”

  “That’s great you can match a bullet to a gun that way,” Hi said, “but we already have the gun. You’re holding it right now.”

  Marchant smiled. “Hopefully I can do more than that.”