Exposure

by Kathy Reichs

  “Coop’s paw took a hit, but otherwise he’s unhurt.” I held up my palms in surrender. “Hey, no more arguments here. You three can sleep on my bedroom floor if you want.”

  “You think the attack was random?” Shelton’s gaze slid to the bunker’s entrance, perhaps worried that storm troopers might barrel in at any moment. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Not a chance.” Hi shook his head. “The Gable twins, then Ella. Now you. All Bolton Prep students. But what’s the connection?”

  “Linking me and Ella is easy,” I said, “but what ties either of us to Lucy and Peter?”

  No one had a theory.

  “And your flare actually took you out?” Shelton hugged his knees. “Not cool.”

  I nodded grimly. “Full-blown backfire. I collapsed like a fainting goat. My eyesight even cut out. If Coop hadn’t been there to defend me . . .”

  Ben’s fist hit the table. “Worst possible timing.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “And that weird feeling keeps coming on out of nowhere. Like a ghost. It’s happening more often, and the sensation is getting stronger.”

  “Great,” Shelton huffed. “Another mental health issue to worry about. Still no idea what it is? Why the vibe comes when you’re not flaring?”

  I shook my head helplessly. “None.”

  “That’s background noise.” Hi tapped the table with his index finger. “We gotta catch the psycho kid-grabber. Like, right now. If the bastard came after Tory once, he might do it again.”

  “Let’s go over every scrap of evidence.” Shelton closed his computer. “These emails are going nowhere. If Rex Gable wrote anything else that’s incriminating, he did a better job hiding it than the ransom tape.”

  “We should focus on locations,” Hi insisted. “Find where the kidnapper is holed up.”

  “But how?” Ben rose and leaned against the bunker wall. “We don’t have anything to go on. Should we just drive around, shouting Ella’s name out the windows?”

  “Wait.” A thought was winging in my brain. “We know about the phosphate nodule, but never really investigated its source.”

  “I looked some yesterday.” Hi moved to the computer workstation. “Check this out.”

  Hi pulled up an old map detailing the Charleston Basin and its tributary rivers. Labeled along the riverbanks were the locations of old phosphate mines.

  “You thinking mineshaft?” Shelton watched from over Hi’s shoulder. “Like, they’re being held underground somewhere, near one of the rivers?”

  “That’s not how those operations worked.” On the second monitor, Hi opened a magazine article. “I read this a few nights ago. The phosphates being mined weren’t buried very deep. Maybe six to ten feet. The miners would dig trenches by hand alongside a deposit, then remove the topsoil in layers to expose the rock. Then they’d strip it all out and move to another spot.”

  “So they weren’t underground mines.” Shelton scratched his chin. “What then?”

  A line in the article jumped out at me.

  I pointed. “This says that a major drawback of strip mining was how badly it scarred the land.” I read from the screen. “Dozens of beautiful plantations were destroyed to make way for the phosphate mining operations.”

  Ben glanced at me. “Yeah. So?”

  “These mines were dug on old plantations along the riverbanks. Some of those probably had expensive manor houses. Ornate gates. Fancy kitchens. Sprawling barns.”

  Ben shrugged. “Still not following.”

  “Professor Marzec seemed surprised we’d found such a large nodule. That makes me think these rocks aren’t that common. Maybe the kidnapper found it at a place where phosphates were actually brought to surface, and a few old samples were still kicking around.”

  “Okay.” Shelton was fiddling with his glasses. “So the rock used to attack Ella likely came from near an old phosphate mine. I buy that. But this map shows hundreds of locations.”

  My voice grew excited. “But we have another piece of info as well.”

  Blank stares.

  “The writing on the prison bar in the ransom video! We know who forged the steel.”

  “Philip Simmons!” Hi was already typing. “If we can find a map of his works, then cross-check those locations with old phosphate mining operations—”

  “We can narrow the possible locations.” Ben shook his head in wonderment. “Incredible. It’s nice having a genius around.”

  “It’s only genius if it works.” But I flushed at the compliment.

  “Got it.” Hi had found exactly what we needed—a map of greater Charleston pinpointing the works of legendary ironworker Philip Simmons. “I love Internet more than pizza. Maybe.”

  Hi and Shelton exchanged places without a word.

  We’d entered a Devers area of expertise.

  “I’ll superimpose the Simmons map over the mining chart.” Shelton cracked his knuckles. “Won’t take a minute.”

  Shelton opened GIMP and got to work. I watched impatiently as he merged the two images to create a unified picture.

  When he finished, I stared at the screen, enthralled.

  Only five places overlapped.

  Hi was glancing from map to article. “The three locations on the Stono River are all out. Everything around there was demolished in 1943, to make way for the private airport on Johns Island.”

  “When did phosphate mining stop?” Ben asked suddenly.

  It took a moment for Hi to find the answer.

  “The 1930s,” he said finally. “The industry peaked in the 1880s, then slowly ran out of steam over the next four decades. It was barely limping along by the turn of the century.”

  Ben looked at me. “Simmons wasn’t born until 1912. And he must’ve spent a long time learning his trade, right? He wouldn’t have run his own shop for at least twenty years, probably more. Which means the 1930s.”

  Hi frowned. “So?”

  “Metal bars marked by Philip Simmons probably didn’t even exist during the mining boom,” Ben said. “I bet the bar in the ransom video was formed after all the phosphate mines had shut down.”

  “We should look for a plantation that survived the mining craze!” I blurted, then clapped my hands in excitement. “An estate that was still intact when its mine shut down, and wealthy enough to require expensive ironwork services sometime afterward.”

  “Of course!” Shelton nodded eagerly. “That would account for both a Simmons steel bar and phosphate rocks in the same location.”

  I squeezed Ben’s shoulder. “Who’s the genius now?”

  He snorted, looked away.

  Hi was now shoving Shelton aside. “Leave this part to the birthday boy.”

  Retaking the keyboard, Hi began running searches, pausing now and again to scan an article. Without a way to help, the rest of sat down at the table to wait.

  An eternity later, Hi spun to face us. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  We rushed to his side.

  A website was open, detailing the historic contributions of one Philip Simmons.

  In the mid-1980s, Mr. Simmons repaired iron railings on the riverfront steps during a plantation-wide beatification project. But that was not his first encounter with the estate. As a young man, Simmons knew many of the African Americans living on the plantation, and would visit often and provide what services he could.

  I checked Shelton’s combined map.

  The location was perfect—hard against the Ashley River, a phosphate mining operation had occupied the same grounds from the late 1800s until the early twentieth century.

  I checked the website’s header. Something about the name felt right.

  “Drayton Hall,” I whispered.

  “There are two other possibilities,” Hi pointed out. “A cotton plantation on the Edisto, and a horseback ri
ding retreat a few miles farther inland.”

  Perhaps my head was still scrambled from the night before.

  But I could practically hear Ella calling to me.

  Trust your instincts. Trust yourself.

  “No.” My finger touched the screen. “This is the spot.”

  “And we’re going there. Right now.”

  “A fancy tourist mansion?”

  In the rearview mirror, I could see Hi shaking his head.

  He’d said it before at the bunker, and I’d had the same response.

  “However unlikely, that’s where the evidence points.” I twisted in my seat to catch his eye. “If this isn’t the right spot, then we’ll scout those other two locations.”

  He nodded unhappily. “All I’m saying is, how in the world would a kidnapper hold three high school kids hostage at a place you can buy a ticket for, six days a week?”

  Hi did have a point. Frankly, a strong one.

  “Drayton Hall is a huge plantation.” Shelton was sitting beside Hi. “And some areas aren’t open to the public. Maybe the kidnapper is using one of them?”

  “Gimme facts.” Ben was at the wheel. “I wanna know what we’re getting into.”

  We’d crossed James Island and were driving northeast up Ashley River Road, about fifteen miles beyond downtown Charleston. Civilization slowly fell away—the Explorer cruised through a dense forest of magnolias and live oaks, which hugged the road on both sides, creating a tunnel effect.

  No sound. Little movement outside the confines of our packed SUV.

  The surrounding woods had a creepy, claustrophobic feel, as if the trees intended to keep all human life confined to the narrow two-lane blacktop knifing through their domain. Though the forest had a cold aesthetic beauty, the area didn’t give off a friendly vibe. I couldn’t imagine anyone living out here.

  Shelton read from his iPhone. “Drayton Hall is a classic eighteenth-century Ashley River plantation in the heart of the Lowcountry. Blah blah blah.” He began skimming the description. “A marvelous example of Palladian architecture . . . survived both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars . . . National Historical Landmark. The seven-bay double-pile plantation house was built by John Drayton in the late 1730s . . . completed in 1742 . . . using both free and slave labor. Ugh. C’mon, man. Slaves?”

  “Forget the house,” Ben advised. “What about the grounds?”

  “Don’t rush me.” Shelton scrolled his cell. “Six hundred and thirty acres. The plantation grew rice and indigo. The estate’s been kept in pretty good shape, although some of the oldest buildings are gone. The phosphate mine was close to the river.”

  “That’s our focus,” I said. “Old phosphate nodules probably aren’t scattered over all six hundred acres.”

  “There!” Hi pointed to a narrow road cutting into the forest.

  An elegant wooden sign announced the entrance to Drayton Hall. Ben turned onto the long driveway—a slender black strip in a sea of brown and green. It looked like a path to the end of the world.

  “Man! I thought we lived in the middle of nowhere.” Hi’s nose was pressed to his window. “I’ve changed my mind, Tory. This is the perfect place to hold someone prisoner. I’m keeping it on file.”

  Ben eased down the lane, keeping our speed low.

  I didn’t blame him. It felt like we were invading a foreign country.

  “There’s an administrative center, a library, and a gift shop. Not what we’re looking for.” Then Shelton’s eyes lit up. “But there’s a bunch of stuff near the water. A garden house. Barn. The old mining works.”

  “Perfect.” Pulse racing.

  Could we actually have solved this riddle?

  It seemed like such a long shot, yet something inside me was certain.

  This must be the right place.

  “Can we wander around alone?” Hi asked. “Because I doubt any kidnapping cages will be on the official program.”

  Shelton nodded. “Eight bucks for grounds only.”

  Half a mile in, the woods ended. A trio of ponds slipped by as the road cut sharply left, then back to the right. Ahead, an expansive lawn ran a hundred yards to the foot of Drayton Hall itself.

  The stylish manor house was three stories, brick, with twin front staircases leading up to a white-column-flanked front door. The roof was elegant red tile. A balcony opened on the second level, just above the main entrance.

  A workers’ platform was attached to the building’s left side, with cans of paint stacked on each of its four tiers.

  “Pretty,” I said. “And whoever’s in charge of maintenance is earning their keep.”

  The access road ended in a small parking lot beside the administration center. There were no other cars. We exited the vehicle, and Shelton hustled over to buy four tickets.

  Seconds later his voice called out. “You’re not gonna believe this!”

  We hurried to where he stood by a pair of locked doors.

  A sign was taped to the glass: “Closed for renovations. See you this summer!”

  Ben turned on Hi and Shelton. “All that fancy googling, and you didn’t catch that part?”

  “No, guys!” My eyes widened. “How long has the plantation been shut down?”

  They all took my meaning.

  “Three weeks.” Hi was squinting at his phone. “And it’s out of commission for another two months.”

  Shelton stomped over. “Where’d you see that?”

  “Home page. Clear your cache once in a while, dummy. Is this your first smartphone?”

  “This could be the place.” Ben was suddenly all business. “The timing works.”

  “The river.” My intensity matched Ben’s.

  Ella might be here.

  Trapped in a cage, somewhere on this sprawling estate.

  The thought made me both anxious and determined.

  I would not fail my friend.

  The twins, too. If their stepfather is responsible, we might be their only hope.

  Shelton’s eyebrows rose above the level of his glasses. “Should we . . . you know . . . take the dog out for a walk?”

  I shook my head, avoiding Ben’s eye. “The last time I tried, I nearly lost consciousness. That makes two disasters in a row. We can’t risk it today—this mission is too important.”

  Ben was first to respond. “I’m with Tory. We don’t need superpowers to search the grounds. We can always revisit the issue, if necessary.”

  Hi and Shelton nodded, looking relieved.

  At skipping the flares, or the lack of a fight?

  Shelton scored a map from a nearby bin. “We should start at the house. A wide lane runs from its back door, dividing the property in half.”

  I waved him forward. “Lead the way.”

  We cut through a screen of magnolias, entering the football field of grass that served as the estate’s front yard.

  “Nice digs,” Hi said. “But I’m not mowing this lawn. It’d take days.”

  We walked up to the manor, then circled the building to an arrow-straight path stretching from its rear.

  “It leads to the Ashley.” Shelton peered ahead, hand-shielding his eyes. “This road was how they moved materials and supplies up to the house. Back in the day, the river was the best way in and out of here.”

  We followed the sunken lane toward the water, moving in and out of shadows cast by azalea trees lining both sides.

  I felt hemmed in. Constricted. As beautiful as it was, I didn’t like it there.

  But it’s perfect for hiding something you don’t want found.

  “Eyes peeled,” I warned. “If we’re on target, what we’re looking for will be up ahead.”

  In minutes we reached the riverfront. Beyond a few broken-down sheds and the remains of an ancient garden, we’d seen nothing along the tr
ail.

  Water gently lapped the high bank. Only the occasional birdsong broke the silence.

  The stillness was unnerving. Even on Morris, it was never this quiet.

  “Where is everybody?” Shelton’s shoulders were tense. “This place feels like the dark side of the moon.”

  “There’s not another house for miles.” Hi kicked a pebble into the stream. “I guess that’s what six hundred acres buys you—total isolation. And Sunday must be a day off for the workers.”

  Ben was surveying our surroundings. “You could hide fifty dungeons on this property.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to formulate a plan. “Shelton, you mentioned structures by the river?”

  Repositioning his glasses, Shelton consulted the handout. “Barn and garden house to the left. Mining stuff and cemetery to the right.”

  “Let’s split into pairs,” I said. “Hi and I will check the mine and graveyard. You two take the garden house and barn. We’ll meet back here in twenty.”

  Ben waved away my suggestion. “Shelton and I will check the mine.”

  “You heard her say ‘graveyard,’ too, right?” Shelton squawked. “Not my speciality, Blue.”

  I started to protest, but Ben cut me off. “You were attacked yesterday, Tory. And your flares seem wonkier than the rest of ours. We’ll handle this one. You and Sweet Sixteen can sweep the gardens.”

  Hi tugged my elbow, whispering, “He’s right. Let him have this.”

  I swallowed my pride. “Fine. But promise. If you see anything suspicious, you’ll regroup with us before you act. No exceptions.”

  Ben nodded, looking relieved. “Deal. See you in twenty.”

  Snagging Shelton by the shoulder—who muttered “graveyard?” one more time before relenting—Ben headed west along the riverbank.

  Sighing, I turned to Hi.

  He smiled wide. “Heigh ho, heigh ho, off to the barn we go?”

  “Blargh.”

  We moved eastward and reached the garden house in moments. What was left of it, anyway—three crumbling walls surrounded a few well-tended flowerbeds. A winding path led from it down to the waterfront, which was screened from view by a stand of weeping willows.