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  Hi’s not fat, but he’s not slender, either. Husky? Plump? You pick. With wavy brown hair and a penchant for floral print shirts, Hi certainly stands out in a crowd.

  That morning, Hi wore a yellow-and-green vine arrangement over tan shorts with a torn left pocket. Uh-oh. Don’t let Ruth see that.

  “You all right now?” I asked. Hi’s face had moved from plum to raspberry.

  “I’m exceptional,” he replied, still short of oxygen. “Wonderful. Thanks for the concern. You complete me.”

  Hi Stolowitski is a master at sarcasm.

  “What possessed you to run all the way up from the dock?” As the words left my mouth, I realized the insanity of my own jogging plan.

  “Ben crashed his boat while fishing for drum in Schooner Creek. He drove too shallow and ran aground.” Hi had finally regained his breath. His distress was evident. “He went airborne and slashed his leg on something. I think it’s bad.”

  Ben Blue lives in our complex, but sometimes stays in Mount Pleasant with his mom. I’d been waiting for Ben and Hi to take me to Folly.

  “How bad? When? Where is he?” Worry made me babble.

  “He got the boat to the bunker, where I was, but then the engine died.” Hi smiled ruefully. “I paddled the old canoe back here to find Shelton. Thought it would be faster. Dumb move. It took forever.”

  Now I knew why Hi was so exhausted. Canoeing in the ocean is hard work, especially against the current. The bunker is only a mile and a half from the complex. He should have walked. I didn’t rub it in.

  “What now?” Hi asked. “Should we get Mr. Blue?”

  Ben’s father, Tom Blue, operates the boat service connecting Morris to Loggerhead Island, and the ferry running between Morris and Charleston proper.

  Hi and I looked at each other. Ben had owned his runabout less than a month. Mr. Blue was a stickler for boat safety. If he found out about the accident, Ben could lose his favorite possession.

  “No,” I said. “If Ben wanted his father’s help, he’d have come back with you.”

  Seconds passed. On the beach, gulls cawed the day’s avian news. Overhead, a line of pelicans rode the wind, wings outstretched to catch the best breeze.

  Decision. I’d try to patch Ben up myself. But if the wound was serious, we’d get medical help. Angry parent or not.

  “Meet me on the path.” I was already hurrying toward my house to grab a first aid kit. “We’ll bike to the bunker.”

  Five minutes later, we were racing north on a strip of hard-packed sand slinking through massive dunes. The wind felt cool on my sweat-slicked skin. My hair streamed behind me in its usual hopeless red tangle.

  Too late, I thought of sunscreen. My pale New England skin offers only two tone options: white or lobster. And sunlight really kick-starts my freckles.

  Okay, full disclosure. Modeling agencies aren’t trying to sign me or anything, but I’m probably not bad looking. I can admit it here. Already five-five and hoping for more, I’m graced with my mother’s tall, slender physique. She left me that much.

  The path we rode swept northwest from our complex to the tip of the island, Cumming’s Point. On the left, high dunes. On the right, sloping beach, then the sea.

  Hi pedaled behind me, panting like a steam locomotive.

  “Should I slow down?” I yelled back over my shoulder.

  “Try it and I’ll run you over,” he called. “I’m Lance Armstrong. I live strong.”

  Sure you are, Hi. And I’m Lara Croft. I eased off gradually so he wouldn’t notice.

  Since much of Morris Island is marsh or dune, only the northern half has ever been suitable for construction. Fort Wagner was built there. Same with the other old military works. Most were simple ditches, trenches, or holes.

  Not our bunker, baby. It’s killer. We stumbled on it while searching for a lost Frisbee. A total fluke. The thing’s so hidden, you have to know where it is to find it. Long abandoned and forgotten, no one else seems to remember it exists. We intend to keep it that way.

  Five minutes more pedaling, then we cut off the path, curved up and around the face of a gigantic sand hill, and plunged down into a trough. Another thirty yards and a wall of the bunker was visible, barely, among the dunes.

  A dozen yards to the right of the bunker’s entrance, a side trail wandered to the beach below. I could see Ben’s motorboat tied up to a half-submerged post at the edge of the surf. It rose and fell with the low waves breaking the shore.

  I dismounted and dropped my bike to the sand. Just then, a muffled curse broke from the bunker.

  Alarmed, I ducked inside.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tight squeeze, then I was in, blinking to adjust my eyes. That first slap of sunlight and shadow is always a shock.

  As hideouts go, ours may be the best ever.

  The main chamber is probably fifteen by thirty. Wood-beamed walls rise ten feet to the ceiling. A window slit runs the length of the wall opposite the entrance, framing a kickass view of Charleston Harbor. A wooden overhang masks any hint of the opening from outside.

  A second, smaller room lies to the left of the first, accessed by a low passageway. Same squeeze as the front door. From that chamber’s back wall, a collapsed shaft leads deeper into the hill. Mongo creepy. No one goes in there.

  Ben slouched on an old bench in a corner of the front room, injured leg propped on a chair. Blood trickled from a gash on his shin.

  He regarded me a moment. Then, “I asked for Shelton.” Ben never wastes words.

  Nice to see you, too.

  Behind me, I sensed Hi shrugging. “Tory found me first. Ever try telling her what to do?”

  Ben rolled his eyes. Nice ones, dark, with lashes I’d die for.

  I arched a brow, revealing what I thought of their comments. “I brought a first aid kit. Let me see your leg.”

  Ben scowled, kept a close watch on my movements. I saw through his macho act. He was afraid I’d hurt him, but couldn’t let on.

  Good. Be nervous, wuss.

  Unlike the rest of us, Ben has reached the magical age of sixteen. Shelton rounds that corner next fall, and Hi just turned fifteen this spring. We are closing out a rough freshman year. Ben is finishing up as a sophomore.

  Instead of buying wheels like a normal person, Ben had just put all his savings into an old, sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout. He calls her Sewee.

  Don’t get the name, right? Neither did I.

  Ben claims to be part Sewee Indian. I’m skeptical, since the Sewee were absorbed into the Catawba tribe over a century ago. How can anyone actually claim ties? But Ben has a temper, so it’s not a point we argue.

  I guess a boat’s better than nothing. A non-wrecked one would be, anyway.

  “Is there a reason you were showboating in the tidal bay?” I was dabbing iodine on Ben’s shin. The wound wasn’t a stitcher, thank God, just ugly.

  “I wasn’t showboating.” Ben sucked in his breath as I tied off the bandage. “I tried to get closer to shore, where the fish were. I misread the depth.”

  “Catch anything?” I asked innocently.

  Ben’s scowl deepened. My guess hit home.

  “And how about putting on a shirt there, pal.” Hi needled.

  Ben’s eyes rolled to him.

  “Hey.” Hi spread his palms. “This is a classy bunker.”

  Having delivered his opinion on clubhouse etiquette, Hi crossed to the room’s only table and sat. The rickety wooden chair listed to port. Reconsidering, Hi moved to the bench.

  Ear-tucking thick black hair, Ben leaned one muscular shoulder against the bunker wall. Of medium height, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Ben’s eyes were brown-black, his skin copper or bronze depending on the season.

  “I thought Shelton could figure out how to fix the runabout,” Ben said.

  Diplomatic. He was trying to apologize without actually apologizing.

  Ben obsesses about his boat. Sensing he was more worried about the damage than he was let
ting on, I accepted the olive branch.

  “If anyone can fix her, Shelton can,” I said.

  Ben nodded.

  Ben’s mother, Myra Blue, lives in a condo near the Mount Pleasant marina. Ben and his dad share a unit on Morris Island. Though the marital status of the senior Blues is unclear, taking our cues from Ben, the rest of us honor a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

  My guess? Ben bought the runabout because it’s easier to zip across the harbor to Mount Pleasant than to drive all the way around.

  “I’ve got my phone,” I said. “I’ll text Shelton.”

  “Good luck scoring a signal,” Hi offered as I headed for the door. Ben remained silent, but I felt dark eyes on my back.

  Hi was right. Cell reception is sketchy on Morris, practically nonexistent at the bunker. After zigzagging the dune-top for a good ten minutes, my message to Shelton finally went through. Descending, I was pleased to hear my phone beep an incoming text. Shelton was on his way.

  Worming through the entryway, I thought about Ben. He was cute enough, but Lord was he moody. I’d moved to Morris six months earlier. Since then we’d had almost daily contact, but still I couldn’t say I understood him.

  Did I like Ben? Did that explain all the verbal sparring? Closet flirting? Or was Ben simply the only option in a very, very small pond?

  Or was I just nuts?

  On that happy note, I popped back inside.

  Hi had dozed off. Ben was still slumped on his bench. Crossing to the window, I hopped onto the ledge and nestled into one of the old cannon grooves.

  Out in the harbor, Fort Sumter looked like a miniature Camelot. Well, a gray and crappy Camelot. My mind wandered. I thought about Arthur and his knights. About Kit. About poor Guinevere.

  About my mother. The accident.

  Deep breath. The memory was still a raw wound I tried not to poke.

  Mom was killed last fall by a drunk driver. A mechanic named Alvie Turnbauer ran a stoplight and T-boned her Corolla. She was driving home from picking up a pizza. Turnbauer was leaving Sully’s Bar and Grill where he’d been downing Coronas all afternoon.

  Turnbauer went to jail. Mom went to Resthaven Memorial Garden. I went to South Carolina.

  Nope. Still too soon.

  I turned my thoughts to other things. Sandals I’d seen at the open market. Paint colors I might like for my bedroom. A rough spot on a molar I feared was a cavity.

  Eventually, a voice boomed from outside the crawl. “Someone call for a mechanic?”

  In popped Shelton, holding a manual and a paper-stuffed folder. Ben perked up immediately.

  Shelton Devers is short and skinny and wears thick, round glasses. His chocolate skin favors his African-American father, but his eyelids and cheekbones hint of his Japanese mother. Shelton’s parents both work on Loggerhead Island, Nelson as the IT specialist, Lorelei as a veterinary technician.

  “So wise to consult an expert.” Shelton raised both arms. “Be at peace, brother Ben. I can save your boat.”

  A beat, then Shelton’s mock-solemn expression morphed into a grin. Snorting laughter, Ben shoved to his feet, anxious to get to work.

  No surprise that Ben wanted Shelton’s help most. He’s a whiz at anything with pieces, parts, or pixels. Shelton loves puzzles, ciphers, and anything with numbers. Computers, too. I guess you could call him our techno guru. It’s what he calls himself.

  Shelton’s weakness? A fear of all things crawly. At his insistence, bug spray is kept in the bunker at all times. He won’t win any athletic awards, either.

  Ben and Shelton spread the manual and papers across the table. Soon they were bickering about the nature of the malfunction and how to fix it.

  Who knows? If they hadn’t repaired the boat, we wouldn’t have gone to Loggerhead that afternoon. Perhaps none of this would have happened.

  But we did.

  And it did.

  CHAPTER 4

  “If you can’t find the problem, just admit it.” Ben’s voice carried a sharp edge. “I don’t want more damage.”

  I could tell Shelton was irked by Ben’s lack of confidence. His body tensed. At least, the south half of it did. His head and shoulders were hidden inside the boat.

  “I’m just running the possibilities, one at a time.” Shelton’s head re-appeared. “Relax, man. I’ll figure it out.” Clutching a schematic, Shelton dove back into the wires of the boat’s electrical system. Ben loomed over him, arms crossed.

  “Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

  “No.” Two voices, one reply.

  Well then.

  While Hi lounged in the bunker and Ben and Shelton argued over the boat, I sat on the beach. Out of the way.

  In front of the clubhouse, a stone outcrop curves into the ocean, creating a small, hidden cove. The rocky spur protects the shoreline, conceals the boat and its tie-up from passing crafts, and, my favorite, isolates a cool little beach just five yards long.

  I glanced at the narrow path ascending to our sanctuary. Even this close, the window was impossible to see. Uncanny.

  Shelton says our bunker was part of a Civil War trench network known as Battery Gregg. Built to guard Charleston Harbor, much of the maze remains uncharted.

  This place is ours. We must keep it secret.

  Strident voices crashed my thoughts.

  “Is the battery switch on?”

  “Of course it’s on. I smell gas—maybe the engine’s flooded. Let’s give it a minute to clear.”

  “No, no, no. Maybe the engine doesn’t have enough gas. Pump the rubber ball.”

  “You can’t be serious. Hey, make sure that silver toggle switch is pushed into the cowling or it’ll never start.”

  Fed up, and feeling useless, I decided to rejoin Hi. No matter the heat outside, the bunker always stayed pleasantly cool. Halfway up the path I heard the outboard roar to life, followed by howls of delight from the amateur mechanics. I turned. Ben and Shelton were high-fiving madly, grinning like fools.

  “Well done, genius squad,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

  Parallel tough-guy nods. Man fix boat! Man be strong!

  “What now?” I asked, hoping to divert the two from actually beating their chests.

  “Let’s take her out, make sure she’s good,” Ben offered. “Maybe run down to Clark Sound?”

  Not a bad idea. Boating had been our original plan for the afternoon. Then I had a sudden thought.

  “What about Loggerhead? Maybe we can locate the wolfdogs. The pack hasn’t been spotted for days.”

  Confession. I am a canine fanatic. I love dogs, maybe more than humans. Heck, no maybe about it. After all, dogs don’t gossip behind your back. Or try to embarrass you because you’re the youngest in your grade. Or drive cars and get killed.

  Dogs are honest. That’s more than I can say for a lot of people.

  “Why not?” Shelton replied. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the monkeys.”

  Ben shrugged, less concerned with the destination than the journey.

  “I can’t believe you jokers fixed it.” Hi was picking his way down to the beach.

  “Believe it, clown. Too much brain power here to fail.” Still pumped, Shelton threw another palm Ben’s way.

  “Oh, I’m sure.” Hi stretched, yawned. “It was something highly technical, I suppose? Something requiring mechanical ability? Nothing as simple as tightening a wire or flipping a switch, right?”

  Ben reddened. Shelton developed an interest in his sneakers.

  Score one for Hi.

  “You up for a run out to Loggerhead?” I asked.

  “Let’s do it. Monkeys are always funny. You pretty much can’t go wrong with a monkey, right?” Hi paused. “Well, unless that monkey wants you dead, or does needle drugs or something. Then it’s wrong, and a bad monkey.”

  Hi dropped into the boat, oblivious to our stares.

  Minutes later we were skimming across the sea. I have to admit, it was wicked cool. Even for someone who spends
as much time on boats as I do.

  I bet I’m the only person you know who ferries to school. Twice a day, straight shot over the harbor. Monday through Friday. Rinse. Repeat. It’s the only reasonable way to get there.

  The gang and I go to Bolton Preparatory Academy in downtown Charleston. Very hoity-toity address, all antebellum homes and Spanish moss-draped trees. With ivy-covered walls and pigeon-pooped statues, Bolton Prep is as pretentious as its neighborhood.

  I shouldn’t complain. Bolton is one of the best private schools in the country. Kit could never afford the tuition, but the university picks up most of the check. Another perk for CU parents working on Loggerhead.

  One tiny problem. No one there likes us.

  The other students are all super rich. Most never let us forget that fact. They know how we got in, and why we arrive each day as a group. I’ve lost track of the things they call us.

  Boat kids. Charity cases. Peasants.

  Trust-fund babies. Elitist jerks. Snobs.

  Frankly, I was happy to be going anywhere that day besides school.

  We Morris Islanders stick together. The guys were already tight when I arrived. Especially Shelton and Ben. Hi’s a bit of an oddity. Sometimes I’m not sure any of us know what to make of him, but he definitely keeps us on our toes.

  The boys accepted me right off. Not enough options to be choosy. Plus—tooting my own horn—it was clear from the get-go how bright I am. Like them.

  Unlike most of our classmates, we actually like learning new things. Must come from our parents. For me, meeting other kids who are into science was like finding buried treasure.

  Kit wasn’t thrilled that my only three friends were boys. I pointed out that no other high school kids live on Morris. And that he knows all their parents. He had no rebuttal. Whitney, Kit’s girlfriend, is the only one playing that song now.

  Though we may have started as friends of convenience, the four of us have really connected. Of course, I had no idea how connected we’d eventually become. Or why.

  Ben took the long way to Loggerhead to avoid shallow water. It adds time, but the shortcut through the sandbars is too risky at low tide. Better to play it safe.