by Kathy Reichs
“I think they have to charge now,” Ben said.
I flinched. “Yikes.”
Abruptly, Hi shook off his helpers and retreated a step. Dropped to one knee.
“Quit now, Hiram,” Shelton urged under his breath. “You’re gonna lose your head.”
Hi’s portly frame shook. He dropped to all fours, shoulders heaving. Then, as two of his teammates rushed over, he bounced nimbly to his feet and jogged to the group. Hi waved off the offered assistance, his chest rising and falling as if he were breathing hard.
I felt an electric tingle crawl my skin.
“Oh crap!” All three of us at once.
“How about that?” Ben’s eyes widened with surprise. “Who knew doofus had the stones.”
Hiram was flaring.
“I’ll kill him,” I hissed. “Twice.”
“Come on, Tor.” Shelton shifted uncomfortably beside me. “He is wearing a helmet. And you did throw him into a freaking sword fight.”
True. But still.
Ben’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Help him.”
“What?” I stepped back. “How?”
But I knew.
You see, my friends and I have a secret.
Months ago, the four of us were infected by a canine supervirus. The vicious little pathogen was created in a secret lab, during an illegal experiment, and somehow made the leap to human carriers. We caught it while freeing the original test subject, my wolfdog, Cooper.
We were sick for days, then had to battle our own bodies as canine DNA infiltrated our human double helixes. When the dust settled, my friends and I had been forever altered, down to the core. We became a pack. We have the wolf buried deep inside.
And sometimes, the wolf comes out to play.
We don’t know what will happen next. Primal canine genes now lurk inside our genetic blueprint. At times we lose control. Lose ourselves.
But our condition is not without certain . . . benefits.
“Watch his back.” Ben caught and held my gaze. “Send him signals. You’re the only one who can.”
“You’re as crazy as he is!” I spat. “I don’t even have my sunglasses.”
Ben arced a hand at the crowd. “Look around you, Tor. You don’t need to hide your eyes. Not here. Half the jokers at this convention are wearing goofy contacts. I’d help Hi myself if had the ability. But I don’t. Only you can link to our minds.”
Crap. He was right.
In this crowd, glowing yellow eyes would get me applause, not suspicion. My biggest worry would be people wanting to take my picture.
Shelton tugged my elbow. “Help him, Tor. You can pull it off.”
I looked back at Hi. Recalled the hammer blow he’d taken to the head.
I did send him out there.
“Blargh.” Deep breath. “Fine.”
Eyes closed. Gates open.
SNAP.
I trembled as the power burned through me.
Fire. Ice. Lightning bolts traveling my spine.
Raw energy unfolded inside me like a flower. Blasting my senses into hyperdrive.
My eyes opened. Gleamed with molten yellow light.
I flared. Hard.
The feeling is indescribable. The battlefield shifted into crystalline detail. I heard the slightest clink of armor, the faintest tickle of a lute string. My nose erupted with a mixture of heady scents. Boiled leather. Cut grass. Hot dogs. Sweat. I felt the slightest puff of breeze on my arms, could taste yesterday’s rain on the wind.
Every muscle in my body burned with caged energy. Intensity. Focus.
Yet I’d never felt more exposed. More acutely aware of a crowd around me.
But Ben was right. Though several people looked directly at me, their eyes didn’t linger. A girl in a Wonder Woman tank with yellow eyes was barely noteworthy in a fantasy land of costumed knights, superheroes, and comic-book characters. When it came to sensational, in this crew I just didn’t rate.
A wave of screams rolled from the battlefield.
“It’s on,” Shelton warned.
I spotted Hi lurking near the edge of his group. This time, however, he’d dropped into a battle crouch, halberd up, one foot bouncing impatiently.
I only had a moment.
Closing my eyes, I visualized a glowing line connecting me to Hi.
It immediately sprang to life in my subconscious. Surprised and pleased, I wrapped the fiery cord with my thoughts. The cord became a tunnel. I drove my conscious mind inside, firing down its length.
Hiram.
—I’m gonna whack that big bastard with this goofy ax if it’s the last thing I do. Think you’re so tough, Mister Stupid Medieval Death Jackass? Well, Hiram’s got a surprise for you, ninja style! It’s about to get REAL out here in the Dork Wars, you smug—
HIRAM!
Hi jumped, then spun to face me.
Tory? What are you—
The horns sounded. There was no more time.
Sweat dampened my hairline as I sent. I’m with you. Be careful.
The horns died. Hi’s company began loping toward their foes.
I dropped to a knee, my entire concentration on strengthening our link. Finding that final level of completeness. I pushed, somehow, willing the last mental barrier to crumble, and found myself looking through Hiram’s eyes.
“Wow,” I murmured. “I’m in. All the way, this time.”
Shelton and Ben shifted anxiously, but didn’t speak. Despite their urgings, I knew the telepathy made them uncomfortable.
Hi was bounding full-speed across the grass. He could barely see anything—the visor’s vertical slats severely limited his forward vision, while the helmet’s sides blocked his periphery. I backed out of his eyes, sensing I could help more from my own vantage point.
Worry about what’s in front of you, I instructed. I’ll watch your back.
Okay. Grim determination flowed through our link. This sucks, by the way. Thanks for the terrible assignment.
The attackers reached the defensive line.
All hell broke loose.
The fighting splintered into individual duels as sweaty warriors tattooed each other’s shields. Occasional breakthroughs forced the touched combatant to drop theatrically in a mock agonizing death.
Hi was on the right, trading blows with a short, fat dude in what appeared to be a bearskin. Moving with flare-induced dexterity, he slipped inside his opponent’s guard and fake-gouged his belly. The man fell with a bloodcurdling wail. Hi dropped his cumbersome halberd and grabbed his victim’s sword, a better weapon for close-in fighting.
A knight in plate armor appeared over Hi’s shoulder, weapon raised.
Behind you! Spin left and low.
Hi reacted instantly, dodging a falling ax as it swished through the space he’d just vacated. Then it was a simple matter for Hi to poke the man’s back.
TWO! Hi thundered inside my head.
Watch out. Dive right.
Once again, Hi moved on command, narrowly avoiding another blow. Rolling to his feet, he drew a surprised ooh! from the crowd. There was a smattering of applause.
Hi turned, found himself face-to-face with the titanic red-bladed demon.
You! I felt Hi’s lips curl into a snarl. I owe you something, pal. Come get it.
Easy, tiger, I cautioned. Your back is clear.
Most of the combatants were down, leaving ample space for single combat.
“Dare you defy Lord Mace!?” Connors screamed, holding aloft the massive scarlet broadsword. “Fool! You shall taste the bite of Oathbreaker.”
“This freaking guy.” Ben shook his head.
“Too much Lord of the Rings,” Shelton agreed. “He’s gone mental.”
I stayed focused, nestled inside Hi’s mind like a hitchhiker.
Watch his hips.
I’m watching that freaking head-smasher! Hi sent back.
He’s going to feint, I warned. Concentrate on his torso. You can’t fake with that.
On
cue, Connors jabbed left, then spun in a tight circle, swinging Oathbreaker as hard as he could. Hi barely avoided the arcing blade. A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.
Okay. So. Even flaring, Hi was breathing hard. Pretty sure this guy is trying to kill me.
Hi. Do this. Unable to explain in words, I sent him an image from my brain.
Lord Mace was circling left, forcing Hi right. Following my instruction, Hi leaped forward, tucked into a ball, and then popped up close to his opponent’s shield arm.
Stick him in the side! I mentally squealed.
Hi struck like a cobra, chopping at the unprotected flank.
But Lord Mace had the answer. Sidestepping deftly, he dodged the strike, then bashed Hi in the face with his shield. Roaring manically, Connors shoulder-charged Hi to the ground. Oathbreaker landed on his chest a second later.
The crowd oohed a darker note. Then roared with approval.
Ouch. Hi lay sprawled on his back. That didn’t work, Tor.
Sorry! I cringed. Didn’t know you could hit with the shield thingie.
As Hi lay dazed on the grass, Lord Mace stood over him, shaking his weapon in triumph.
Suddenly, Hi stiffened. Tory. Look.
What? I stepped back into Hiram’s eyes. He was staring at his enemy’s boot.
Coarse brown fibers curled from its metal rivets.
Gotcha.
We met Tempe in a dimly lit control room.
Three tiers of sleek modular workstations dropped, stadium style, to a window-wall overlooking the exhibit hall floor below. Each station was jammed with hard drives, monitors, microphones, and other high-tech equipment used to keep an eye on the convention.
Tempe was huddled with a small group on the second level. Officer Flanagan was there, along with the stone-faced woman in the navy pants suit, the T-800’s owner in his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, Jenkins the Joker, and a security technician.
Video was playing on one of the screens. No one looked happy.
I hurried to join them, the boys trailing at my heels.
“Did you arrest Connors?” I asked.
Tempe nodded, face troubled.
“Mr. Connors has been temporarily detained at Dr. Brennan’s request,” Flanagan answered. “But I’ve discussed the situation with Director Ahern—” Flanagan glanced at Pants Suit, “—and we’ve decided to cut him loose.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “Did you check his bag? It was in the . . . knights’ locker room.”
Ahern’s voice was ice cold. “We searched Mr. Connors’s possessions, as we are permitted to do by contract with any vendor operating at the convention. There was nothing of interest.”
She snapped her fingers at Jenkins, who’d found time to wipe off most of his face paint. The boy read from a folded piece of paper in a quavery voice. “Two empty sandwich bags, an empty water bottle, iPod with earbuds, and a box cutter. Duct tape, too, but that was next to the bag, not inside.”
“Any vendor here can obtain tape of that kind.” Ahern pursed her lips in disgust, then turned to stare down at the stage. “We hope Mr. Connors will be understanding of our mistake.”
I followed Ahern’s gaze. Connors was sitting on a folding chair beside Officer Palmer, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He had an enormous head, with close-cropped, spiky brown hair, a pug nose, and small, angry eyes. Connors still wore his bulky chain-mail armor, but thankfully not the sword.
Connors drilled Officer Palmer with a disdainful sneer, which clearly made the gangly officer uncomfortable. He didn’t appear worried in the least.
Not good.
“The glass,” I said quickly. “It led us to the armor room, where we found tape identical to that used on the ransom note. Then Hi spotted brown fibers caught in Connors’s boots. Did you compare them with King Kong?”
“We did.” Tempe turned to Hawaiian Shirt. “Mr. Fernandez?”
“The hairs match, no question.” The man seemed anxious, his fingers tugging at the hem of his bongo shirt. “But Connors helped position Kong last evening, and claims he wore the same shoes. He also says he overslept this morning. Jenkins says that Connors cut out early last night as well. He’s out of a job—I won’t abide shirkers on my team—but there’s nothing pointing to him as the thief. Or anyone else, for that matter,” he finished wearily.
“But that’s why we’re here, right?” I looked to Tempe for support. “To check the surveillance video and see who moved the T-800. It has to be Connors. No one else fits the evidence.”
“What evidence?” Flanagan scoffed. “Come see for yourself.”
The officer nodded to the security technician, who began typing. He had a long greasy ponytail, black fingernails, and letters tattooed across each knuckle. Ouch.
The screen reset. Shelton, Hi, and Ben crowded close behind me to get a look.
“Here’s the main floor at six a.m.” The tech tapped another key.
The exhibit hall appeared, still and silent. The shot panned back and forth, taking five-second intervals to cover the bottom third of the massive chamber. The stage was visible during each pass. The T-800 stood menacingly between Kong and Shrek, as intended.
“Badass,” Hi whispered.
“Play it from here at four-times speed,” Ahern instructed.
The image fast-forwarded. A handful of workers appeared, scurrying down the aisles at comic speeds. The tech halted the video just as Jenkins arrived.
“I got there right at six thirty,” Jenkins said nervously. “On time. This is me waiting for Connors. At six forty-five, I gave up, and started setting the curtains up by myself.”
“Move it along,” Ahern said. The tech sped up the scene. As a group, we watched Jenkins linger impatiently, then begin rigging a massive curtain array that eventually enclosed the entire stage. At precisely 6:58 a.m., he tied off the last rope and left.
“That’s it, folks.” The tech spun his chair in a lazy circle. “Nothing else until the reveal at ten a.m. By then the robot was gonezo.” He sped the tape to 8X. Each pass of the camera took only an instant as the room filled with workers, security, and, eventually, excited conventioneers.
The curtains never parted.
At the 10:00 a.m. mark the tech slowed the tape to normal speed. We watched Jenkins appear in his Joker costume, followed by Skipper as RoboCop, who pumped up a gathering throng before pulling the curtains with a dramatic flourish.
Only problem: Shrek was chopped up, and the T-800 was gone.
I didn’t get it. “I don’t get it.”
“Join the gang.” Flanagan sighed. “The damn thing just disappeared.”
“It certainly did not,” Fernandez hissed, tugging at his thick white hair. “It must’ve been taken in one of the moments when the camera panned away!”
“The intervals are less than five seconds.” Tempe shook her head. “I could maybe see the thief sneaking onto the stage without being recorded, if he knew which camera to avoid. But to get the T-800 offstage, then all the way to an exit? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Well, it didn’t just vanish!” Fernandez snapped.
“Of course not.” Tempe peered through the window at Connors. “I still think he’s our guy. Maybe Connors snuck under the stage and popped the hatch, then took the robot apart and removed it.”
“Impossible.” Fernandez shook his head vehemently. “The T-800 has over 500 parts, and most are welded together. You couldn’t dismantle the Terminator without destroying it.”
“I know.” Tempe gave him a sympathetic look.
Fernandez’s face went sheet white. “You think my machine is already destroyed?”
Tempe took a deep breath. “We have to consider the possibility.”
“Then why break the case?” Hi wondered aloud, surprising everyone. “Or slash up poor Shrek?”
“To send a message, of course.” Ahern made no effort to hide her irritation. “The bastard wants everyone to know what he’ll do if he isn’t
paid. And the police can’t even trace the account.”
“In two hours?” Flanagan chuckled without humor. “That’s way too small a window for all the parts involved. This guy knows what he’s doing.”
“The manufacturer assured me that case was unbreakable,” Fernandez seethed. “Yet no one heard a thing? No one found an implement? I tell you, this must be a conspiracy!” His eyes darted around the room, as if considering a whole new possibility.
Flanagan sighed, stroking his bristly mustache. “In any case, we’ve got nothing to hold Connors on. I’ll have to cut him loose.”
“Let him go?” Fernandez raised his wristwatch helplessly. “The deadline is forty minutes from now!”
“Sorry.” The officer shrugged. “I’ve got no legal basis to hold him.”
I listened with a sick feeling in my gut as Flanagan radioed down to his partner by the stage. The younger officer nodded, then said something to “Lord Mace,” who rose and stretched dramatically. Connors glanced directly at us, flicked a mock salute, then began sauntering away.
The queasy feeling amplified. “Connors knows where we are.”
Tempe nodded. “He probably knows where the cameras are, too.”
“Well, this has been a debacle.” Director Ahern rounded on me. “On to the next matter. Care to explain how you accessed several restricted areas of this convention center?”
I was saved by a sharp voice.
“Wait.”
Surprisingly, it was Shelton.
He was watching the screen, where the surveillance tape was still looping. “Don’t let Connors go yet! There’s something weird going on here.”
“You sure?” Tempe whispered.
Shelton nodded rapidly, his thick lenses gleaming in the monitor’s reflected light.
“Officer Flanagan?” Tempe called. “Please hold Mr. Connors for one more minute. We may have something.”
Flanagan frowned, but radioed down to Palmer, who hurried to stop Connors and direct him back to the chair. Lord Mace’s posture conveyed pure outrage, but he complied.
“What is it, son?” Ahern was at the end of her patience.
Shelton looked to the tech, who hadn’t moved from his chair. “May I?”