Seizure tb-2

by Kathy Reichs

  “This is a rip-off, dude.” Shelton scooped up a sheet. “Twenty pages, and I still don’t know what these people do. But here’s a JPEG OF A DIAMOND RING. VERY HELPFUL.”

  “You sell their products or something,” Hi said. “‘Just as good as available in stores.’ I pay a small start-up fee and find three people to work for me. Then those people—you guys—each find three more people—”

  “That’s a pyramid scheme, you dope!” Ben smirked. “It’s a scam.”

  Shelton shook his head. “Oldest trick in the book.”

  Hi flipped through his index cards, selected one from the back.

  “I’m sensing you might be hesitant to embark on this new phase of your life,” he began. “But don’t let fear of the unknown—”

  Hi ducked as his folder sailed inches above his head and exploded against the far wall. “Hey!”

  Coop shot to his feet, startled, growling everywhere at once. I arm-wrapped his neck to calm him.

  “Great.” Hi began gathering the strewn papers. “You just ruined our marketing department. That’s more overhead.”

  “Oops,” Ben said.

  “It’s a classic rip-off, Hi.” I corralled the last few pages. “We won’t make any money. Get-rich-at-home programs never pan out.”

  “Fine.” Red-faced, Hi pulled off his tie, untucked his shirt. “But we need to raise cash somehow.”

  “We need to make money,” Ben said, “not lose our own in the process.”

  “And we need a lot of it,” I muttered, stroking Coop’s back. “Millions.”

  I told the others what Kit said over breakfast. “What about bank robbery?” Hi scratched his chin. “I mean, how hard could it be? We’re pretty good at breaking into places, sneaking around. Plus we have superpowers. Sort of.”

  “Try again.” Ben.

  “Bank heists are a little out of our league,” Shelton agreed. “I don’t want to move away, but a prison cell? No thanks.”

  “Well we need some kind of plan,” Hi said. “We can’t allow ourselves to be split up. I don’t want to be a freak alone. Been there, done that. I like having friends.”

  His voice dropped. “And this virus terrifies me.”

  For a moment, I felt as hopeless as Hi sounded. What could four teenagers possibly do?

  “Stop whining, hippie.” Ben crossed to Hi and mussed his hair. “We’ll figure something out. But no spazzing inside the bunker. I won’t allow it.”

  Hi swatted Ben’s hand away. “Why, because that’s your specialty?” But he was grinning. Sometimes, Ben knew exactly what to do.

  “I got an email from a Nigerian prince.” Shelton kept his face straight. “Apparently I just send him my bank account info, and he deposits a bunch of money. Can’t see how it could go wrong.”

  “The lottery,” Ben said. “Let’s just play Powerball.”

  “Vegas?” Hi suggested. “I’ve got forty bucks and a fake moustache.”

  “Great ideas all around,” I deadpanned. “But we do need to come up with something. We have to fight this.”

  The others nodded, but offered no serious suggestions. They were just as stumped as I was.

  “And now I have to go.” I sighed. “Keep me in the loop.”

  “Now?” Shelton asked. “You just got here.”

  My eyes rolled on their own accord. “I have a cotillion event. Some yacht-club charity fundraiser thingy. Whitney is insisting, and Kit took her side.”

  Three wide smiles.

  “Oh shut up.”

  HALF AN HOUR later, a surprise waited at the dock.

  Ben. With Sewee primed and chugging.

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  Unexpected. When I’d left the bunker, Ben hadn’t indicated any interest in my afternoon. But he’d readied the boat while I changed.

  Down the pier, Ben’s father sat in a lawn chair beside his vessel. With Kit at work, Tom had agreed to ferry me into town.

  But now Ben was here. For some reason.

  “Fine by me.” A wry smile crossed Tom Blue’s lips. “But you don’t have to ride with my boy if he’s bothering you, Tory.”

  Ben scowled, reddened, but kept quiet.

  “No, that’d be great,” I said quickly. “Thanks, Ben. Thanks anyway, Tom!”

  Ben cast off with more haste than usual. I could hear his father chuckling as we began to pull away.

  “Where to?” Ben asked.

  “Palmetto Yacht Club. On East Bay.”

  “I know where it is,” he said curtly.

  Okay then.

  We rounded Morris Island and motored into Charleston Harbor. As we passed the point, I tried to spot our bunker among the sand hills. And failed, as always. Good.

  Ben picked our way through a tangle of sandbars. Since he practically lived in his boat, I let him choose the route. He seemed to know his way around every islet in the Lowcountry, and there were dozens. Hundreds.

  It was midday, and blazing hot, so I was thankful for the ocean breeze. The sharp tang of saltwater filled my nose. Seagulls circled over us, squawking. A pair of dolphins cavorted in Sewee’s wake. God, I love the sea.

  “You look nice,” Ben said stiffly, keeping his eyes on the horizon.

  “Thanks.” Awkward.

  I was wearing the Katey dress by Elie Tahari. White, with golden metallic floral embroidery. Trendy, expensive, and not mine. Another designer number I could never afford.

  What can I say about the grand southern tradition of cotillion? Defined as a social-education program for young people, it’s really a suffocating nightmare engaged in by elitist brats. At least, that’s been my experience.

  We were supposed to be learning the fundamentals of courtesy, respect, communication, and etiquette, along with the art of social dance. Instead, silver-spoon prigs lounged around comparing price tags and munching pâté.

  Cotillion also presented endless wardrobe problems, and I lacked the necessary firepower. Kit’s insufferable girlfriend, Whitney Dubois, had so far solved the dilemma by borrowing dresses from her friend’s boutique. The accompanying jewelry—this time a sterling silver charm bracelet and matching Tiffany necklace—belonged to the salon-tanned wonder herself.

  I hated playing dress up, but at these fêtes it was best to blend in. Even if it meant accepting Whitney’s pricey, stylish attire.

  Blargh.

  Ben throttled down to pick up speed. “How many of these events do you have, anyway?”

  “Not sure. I think maybe two or three a month.”

  As part of the nightmare, I was scheduled to make my debut next fall. Thanks to Whitney, my fate was sealed. I was doomed to rub elbows with the city’s junior elite not just at school, but also on my own time.

  Double blargh.

  As we shot across the harbor, passing Fort Sumter on the right, Ben kept a careful watch for larger vessels. Sewee is a sturdy boat—a sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout—but against a cargo ship she’d be kindling.

  We reached the peninsula in just under half an hour.

  “There’s your snob warehouse.” Ben pointed to the yacht club. “I’ll drop you as close as I can get without a trust fund.”

  Wonderful. If this ticked him off so much, why offer me a ride in the first place? I didn’t want to be here, either.

  Ben was being even more moody than usual. Sullen. Almost angry. I couldn’t understand why. If I hadn’t known better I’d have said he was jealous, but Ben Blue had zero interest in attending a lame cotillion party. So why the attitude?

  My iPhone beeped, sparing me the need to reply to Ben’s comment.

  Text. Jason. He’d meet me on the dock.

  “That the blond meathead?” Ben asked.

  “Jason’s not a meathead. What’s your problem with him anyway? He’s helped us before.”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m allergic to jackasses.”

  We glided into the marina in frosty silence.

  As surreptitiously as possible, I glanced over at Ben. He sat
in the captain’s chair, his long black hair dancing in the breeze. He wore his standard black T-shirt, cutoff khaki shorts, and a scowl that seemed permanently locked in place. With his dark eyes, copper skin, and muscular frame, he had the sleek, toned look of a jungle cat.

  It occurred to me that Ben was an attractive guy, even when brooding.

  Hell, especially when brooding.

  “There’s the dork now.” Ben’s voice snapped me back to reality.

  Standing on the pier was Jason Taylor. Tall and athletic, he had white-blond hair and sky-blue eyes. The Viking-god type. Pure Scandinavia.

  Jason was Bolton’s star lacrosse player, and superwealthy—his family owned a ritzy estate in Mount Pleasant. He could’ve been an elitist jag, but his open, honest personality made him one of the most popular kids in school.

  Basically, my polar opposite.

  One of my lab partners from last semester, Jason inexplicably had taken a special interest in me. While flattered—and, frankly, stunned—I wasn’t sure if his attention pleased me or not.

  Don’t get me wrong, Jason’s great. He’d step in when the cool kids mocked me or the other Virals. Still, he didn’t haunt my dreams or anything.

  I should probably throw myself at Jason. Dating him would keep the Tripod at bay. Of course, that would mean being around them all the time. No thanks.

  “Nice tie on Thor,” Ben said. “Guy looks like a cell phone salesman.”

  One thing I did know for sure: Jason and Ben did not get along. I’d never understood why, but these two were oil and water. Every time I’d brought it up, Ben just changed the subject. Boys.

  Was Ben jealous of Jason for some reason?

  The contrast between the two could not have been starker. Night and day. Literally.

  So which do you prefer?

  The thought was startling. Prefer? Where did that come from?

  “Tory!” Jason strode to the boat. “Ah, and Ben.” Tight smile. “Always good to see you.”

  “Ditto.” Ben flipped a line at Jason’s head. “Make yourself useful.”

  “Sure.” Jason ducked, but deftly caught the rope. “But why tie up? I assume you’re not staying.”

  Ben’s scowl darkened. Jason didn’t usually go there.

  Holding the line in one hand, Jason offered me the other. When I’d stepped onto the dock, he flung the rope back onto Sewee’s deck.

  “Adios.” Jason had already turned his back. “Safe ride.”

  Wordlessly, Ben reversed engine and chugged Sewee away from the pier.

  “Thanks, Ben!” I called. “See you later!”

  Without turning, he threw me a wave.

  Jason took my arm. “Shall we?”

  I didn’t move. “Can you two try to play nicer? This is getting ridiculous.”

  “Sorry about that.” Jason grimaced, embarrassed by the lack of manners he’d just displayed. “But you saw him throw the rope at me. Plus, it’s baking out here. Let’s get inside; the buffet just opened.”

  “You and food.” I allowed myself to be led. “Is that the only reason you attend these parties? Free apps?”

  “One of them.” Half smile. “Now march.”

  The Palmetto Yacht Club was tucked away on the eastern edge of Charleston’s downtown peninsula, where East Bay Street became Battery. Four sturdy piers jutted into the water, hosting a swarm of seven- and eight-figure pleasure vessels. The club’s main building was a majestic three-story horseshoe of old brick and new stucco. Its wings surrounded a long, manicured lawn with a spectacular harbor view.

  The day’s fundraiser was an outdoor event. Though the mid-August heat was stifling, ancient magnolias and ocean breezes kept the spacious common reasonably cool.

  For most, anyway. I was already sweating. Naturally. Tory Brennan, Olympic-level sweater.

  As I walked beside Jason, I peeked inside several of the white canvas tents that formed two rows on the lawn. Art auction. Raffle. Each venue had its own theme. Based on the level of activity, the American Heart Association could expect a healthy deposit.

  Expertly coiffed debutantes mingled with their upper-class beaus as well-monied parents looked on approvingly. The atmosphere reeked of privilege, extravagance, and self-satisfaction.

  I couldn’t have felt more out of place.

  Jason beelined to one of the trestle tables, presumably worried that shrimp cocktail was a scarce commodity. And I was alone again. Of course.

  I pulled sunglasses from my purse and slipped them on, hoping polarized lenses would mask my misery. Determined to make the best of a crappy situation, I walked a slow circuit, searching for friendly faces.

  Found zip. In fact, things were worse than usual. I recognized classmates, but none said hello.

  I could feel eyes on my back. Sensed whispered exchanges. I moved faster, as if a quicker pace had some tangible benefit. But there was nowhere better to go.

  Distracted, I nearly took out a waitress. She stumbled, one arm flailing, crab cakes shifting wildly on her tray. I hopped backward, shades falling to the grass.

  “Sorry!” I snatched my glasses, trying for invisible.

  Massive fail.

  Behind me, I heard snickers. Snuck a quick look.

  Three junior boys, all lacrosse players.

  Blood rushed to my head. My face burned with embarrassment.

  Flash.

  Bang.

  SNAP.

  Damn.

  THE FLARE STRUCK hard.

  My senses vaulted into hyperdrive, exploding all at once, like a car started with the stereo on full blast. System overload.

  Pain slammed my frontal lobe, dissolved. I breathed a barely audible whimper. Sweat glistened on my skin.

  My heart rate quadrupled.

  Terrified of discovery, I slammed my sunglasses into place. Golden eyes hidden, I checked for open mouths and pointing fingers. Listened for frightened screams.

  No one so much as glanced at me.

  A waiter passed, hoisting a platter of veggies. Two tents away, the lacrosse guys were discussing a prize wheel. Nearby, a gaggle of blue-haired ladies compared hats while sipping from champagne flutes.

  The party rolled on, oblivious.

  Hands shaking, I smoothed my hair and resumed my circuit around the yard.

  They can’t see your eyes. No one can tell.

  This hadn’t happened before. I’d never burned in the open. Hell, in a freaking crowd. Madness. Suicide.

  To flare so easily, without a spark? Triggered by nothing more than a bump and a few snickers? Why here, why now?

  This was incredibly dangerous. From now on, I’d carry sunglasses everywhere, day and night. What if I hadn’t brought them today? What would have happened?

  My haphazard wandering brought me to the clubhouse entrance at the end of the lawn. To my left, a garden bench was tucked among a stand of dogwoods. I hurried to it and sat. Perhaps alone, in the shade, I could pull myself together.

  Calm. Breathe.

  Data bombarded from all directions, demanding attention. The world was etched in crystalline detail. Slowly, carefully, I sifted through the sensory muddle.

  I could see individual blades of grass, the stitching on my classmates’ clothing. Could smell a perfume of oleanders, human sweat, iced shellfish, and bruschetta. Could hear whispers, the clink of silverware, the crunch of gravel underfoot. Could taste ocean spray on the wind. Could feel the gentle weight of the sliver necklace hanging from my neck.

  It was incredible.

  For the first time that day, I didn’t feel overwhelmed by insecurity. These snobs couldn’t do what I could. Couldn’t even fathom the experience.

  Confidence restored, I decided to take another spin around the yard.

  Without straining, my ears teased snippets of conversation from the general din. Had anyone noticed my fit? Was anyone watching my movements?

  No and yes. Though my flare had gone undetected, plenty was being said about me. Classmates spoke behind their hands.
The words weren’t pleasant.

  My good mood evaporated.

  To be fair, I’ve never been part of the “in” crowd. No Viral is. Bolton preppies mock us relentlessly. They call us things like peasants, or island refugees. They know we aren’t rich, and never let us forget it.

  Tuning in that afternoon, I discovered that recent events had made me even less popular, which I hadn’t thought possible.

  To many Bolton students, I was “that girl.” As in, “that girl who broke into Claybourne Manor.” Or “that girl who got Chance arrested.” But I had other titles as well. “The young girl” or “the little kid.” Or my favorite: “the science weirdo.”

  From what I could eavesdrop, I was practically a villain. The blue bloods were horrified that a boat kid from Morris had taken down members of their circle.

  Stories reached me, burned my ears. Wild tales straying far from the truth. I couldn’t believe some of the rumors. Everyone had an opinion, none complimentary.

  Disheartened, I tried to shut out the whispers.

  Focus on another sense. Try your nose.

  I drew air through my nostrils, careful not to snort. Usually I could ferret a few scents from the breeze. Fresh-cut grass. A cloying perfume. Creed? Sweaty underarms. Melting butter.

  Good. Safe, familiar scents.

  Then the odors changed. New smells entered my perception. Trace odors, lurking just below the top layer. Undefined and faint, the aromas were difficult to pin down. Yet recognition danced on the tip of my consciousness.

  My mind tried to dissect the new olfactory input. Failed. To put it more clearly: my nose stopped making sense.

  That sour tang wafting from the red-dressed debutante talking with her boyfriend. Was that … nervousness?

  And the dull vinegary smell oozing from the toddler by the koi pond, the one randomly dropping pebbles into the water. If forced to pick a label, I’d go with … boredom.

  I couldn’t explain it, but I smelled … something. And my brain was insisting on the connections. I dug deeper.

  A door banged open in my brain. Thousands of trace scents poured through.

  Dropping to a knee, I grabbed my head with both hands. The torrent of information was more than I could bear. Straining and quivering, I tried to shake off my flare. I had to make it stop.