by Kathy Reichs
That was back when Chance had been an adversary. Before he’d become Viral, like me.
So what was he now? What were we now?
Things change so fast.
But the familiar statue wasn’t what had grabbed my attention.
“What happened here?” I whispered, shoving my nose close to the first shot.
The other boys shuffled over, forming a loose circle around the desk as we tried to make sense of the images.
“As you can see, my ancestor was painted red.” Chance frowned, thumb-scratching the side of his nose. “Except for his eyes, which are blacked out with shoe polish.” He reached under the desk and pulled out a grocery bag. “And if that isn’t delightful enough, I found this hanging around Uncle Milton’s neck.”
Chance removed a torn cardboard square, punctured on both ends by a knotted shoelace. Painted on its face were three black wolf heads—red eyed and bordered in white—hanging over a single word.
Simple, direct, and to the point.
TRAITOR
“It’s them.” I could barely breathe. “Virals.”
Chance laid the sign beside the photos. “We don’t know for sure there’s more than one.”
“Maybe you don’t.” I hugged my arms to ward off a chill. “But I know what I saw on the beach that night, Chance. There were three sets of red eyes in those dunes, not just yours.”
Ben glared at Chance. “And you know nothing about that, huh?”
“I’ve told you a dozen times,” Chance snapped defensively, “I was there on Morris Island that night, but I didn’t see the attack. Then a flare erupted out of nowhere and I could barely control it. By the time I spotted Tory, it was just her and the wolfdog. She looked right at me, so I bolted.”
“You were there all right,” Ben growled. “Stalking Tory like a psychopath.”
Chance’s tone grew sarcastic. “That morning I’d discovered I possessed mutant superpowers. Excuse me for thinking I had a right to pry.” Then he shot me a guilty look. “But I didn’t see anyone else that night, and no one was with me. If you saw other eyes in the dunes, the bastards must’ve been following me. And avoiding me.”
“Like your buddy Speckman?” Ben needled. “Was your partner in crime in the bushes, too?”
“He’s not my buddy!” Chance snapped. “And I told you, I don’t know.”
I held up a hand. “Enough.”
Chance had explained this all before, and I’d accepted his story. More or less.
Ben, however, likely never would.
“I saw three sets of red eyes,” I said firmly. “You make one pair, which means there were two other Virals in those dunes.”
Hi pointed to the primitive symbols painted on the cardboard. “The vandals painted three wolf heads on this sign. Seems specific. I’m guessing a trio of bad boys.”
Chance shook his head reflexively, but didn’t respond.
The chill in my arms spread throughout my body.
Besides Chance, how many new Virals were out there? How did they catch the virus?
We only know of one.
Shelton tapped the nearest photo. “This all went down inside your house. Don’t you lock your doors at night?”
“Locked and dead-bolted, with the alarm engaged.” Chance blew out an exasperated breath. “My security system is military grade, with motion sensors, cameras, even laser harmonic sensors. Good enough to protect a freaking bank. And yet . . .”
“What do you think the message means?” Hi tapped the lone word on the sign.
Chance snorted. “It means, Hiram, that whoever did this thinks I’m a traitor.”
“Join the club,” Ben said.
“We know who did this,” I cut in, unwilling to endure another macho pissing match. “It’s obviously Will Speckman. Who else but the lab tech that worked with you?”
Chance nodded unhappily. “He’s the only person that makes any sense. But it’s been months since we accidentally infected ourselves. Why he would suddenly make such an elaborate . . . whatever this is . . .” Chance trailed off, waving a hand at the photographs.
“Months since Speckman was infected,” Ben pressed, refusing to let up. “Yet we first heard about him a few weeks ago.”
“I didn’t know before then,” Chance shot back. “I’m not psychic!”
Shelton tugged his earlobe, a nervous habit. “This isn’t a love note, y’all. It’s a warning. Maybe even a challenge. Why would this dude—and who knows who else—break into your palace and vandalize a damn statue? How pissed was this guy when you fired him?”
Chance’s expression soured. “Extremely.”
“I’m no psychologist,” Hi said, crossing his arms, “but this seems like the actions of someone both super–pissed off and not right in the head. That’s a bad combo, especially if he can sneak into your house like a ghost.”
“Not just Speckman,” I repeated. “There are at least two of them.”
“Well, I can only identify one,” Chance replied irritably. “Will Speckman worked for me at Candela. I knew him from Bolton Prep. When I began Brimstone I was trying to keep the project quiet, and wanted to use only outside people. Speckman was at Charleston University by then. He seemed perfect, so I hired him part-time. He was the only person besides me who came into direct contact with the new supervirus. No one else touched it. No one.”
“Which means Speckman must’ve infected someone else.” I caught and held Chance’s eye. “Maybe more than one person. For all we know, lots of people could’ve accidentally caught the bug. You could be spreading it, too.”
Chance shook his head firmly, but his eyes were troubled. “It’s not possible.”
I didn’t let him wriggle off the hook. “There are at least two others out there. Red-eyed Virals, just like you. I saw them. Coop saw them. It happened, Chance. You need to accept the truth.”
“If Will were . . . if we were . . . contagious—” Chance grimaced, barely able to say the word, “—there’d be more evidence of it. People getting sick. Patients going Viral. I’ve been monitoring the hospitals every single day, and nothing like my symptoms has been reported. Our experimental parvovirus strain was specifically designed to transmit only through blood-to-blood contact.”
“I think we can safely dismiss whatever you guys ‘designed’ at this point,” Hi countered. “Things clearly didn’t go as planned.”
Chance gave him a hard look. Then he seemed to fold, slumping back in his chair with a frown. “We tried a different formulation than Karsten’s. Our experiment still used Parvovirus B19, the human form, but we tweaked the canine strain slightly. We thought the newer hybrid would be more stable, and more palatable to a host’s immune system. Of course, we didn’t know what Karsten’s creation actually did. The odds of two different designer viruses, both suddenly capable of making the jump to human hosts . . . it . . . it boggles the mind.”
Chance took a deep breath, then met each of our eyes in turn. “I screwed up. I admit it. I didn’t know what I was dealing with and jumped in too soon, with too little caution. But I knew something was wrong with you guys. After everything I’d seen—everything you’d done—Karsten’s experiment was the only thing I could guess at.” His lips tilted in a sheepish smile. “You have to give me a little credit for making the right connection.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”
Chance half rose, but I waved him back into his seat.
I wheeled on Ben. Spoke calmly and coolly. “We are trying to solve a problem right now. Either help, or leave.”
Ben flushed scarlet. His jaw worked, but he only nodded.
“Good.” Turning back to Chance. “We need to focus on finding Speckman.”
“I haven’t been sitting around playing Candy Crush.” Chance yanked open a drawer and removed a dog-eared folder. “William Thomas Speck
man. Born in Goose Creek, attended Palmetto Scholars Academy, a local charter school for gifted children. Transferred to Bolton Prep his junior year to join our lacrosse team.” Chance dropped the folder onto his desk. “He was a year ahead of me, but I knew Will was studying molecular biology and had the rep of a computer whiz. When I decided to investigate Karsten’s files, I hired him in Special Projects as my primary lab tech on Brimstone.”
“Great screening work.” Hi flashed a thumbs-up.
“I knew Will,” Chance replied flatly. “I wanted a tight ship, was new to Candela, and figured I’d better limit the number of Candela personnel who could figure out what I was up to. Hiring an old teammate part-time seemed perfect.”
Shelton sighed. “Until he got infected.”
Chance nodded. “It must’ve happened early in the process. I didn’t experience symptoms until much later. By the time I suspected the virus, Will was already gone.”
“You mean fired,” Ben said.
“Yes.” Chance shifted in his chair. “Will became unreliable near the end. He stopped coming to work on time, but would appear at odd hours, acting strangely in the lab and attempting to access files he wasn’t cleared to see. I had to let him go. A few weeks later, when I realized I’d been infected, I tried to contact him. By then he’d stopped answering my calls and texts. He’d even moved out of his dorm. Will never contacted his parents—I inquired discreetly, not wishing to set off any alarms. But as far as I can tell, he just blew town.”
“But now we know different.” My eyes strayed to the vandalized statue.
Ominous, empty black eyes. And why paint the rest red?
What happened to Will Speckman?
“Too true.” Chance laughed without humor. “It seems Will paid me a visit, while I slept.”
I arched a brow. “Or the other did. Or both.”
Chance said nothing. Silence stretched as I considered our next move.
“The lab work will be ready this week?” I said finally.
Chance shrugged. “I had to be cautious, but that’s my best guess.”
“What does that matter?” Ben sneered at the photos. “Obviously, we have to deal with this nonsense first, thanks to our master scientist.”
“Enough!” Chance shot to his feet. “If you four hadn’t lied to me at every turn, messing with my head, making me think I was crazy, this never would’ve happened.” His voice went ice cold. “Would you have let it go, Blue? Would you have walked away?”
Ben looked away. Then, ever so slightly, he nodded.
“Okay, then!” Hi flashed a used-car-salesman smile. “So we’ll look into this little piece of modern art. Suggestions?”
Eyes slid to me.
Of course, I have to figure it out.
“Take samples of the paint,” I said. “And bag the cardboard.”
Chance nodded.
A thought struck me. “You said Speckman was enrolled at CU?”
“Up until a month ago.” Chance opened the folder and shuffled through papers until he located a student transcript. “That’s where I convinced him to come work for me.”
“Then we start there.” Spoken with more confidence than I felt. “Let’s meet after school tomorrow and check out his dorm room.”
“Do we need disguises?” Hiram’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “I’ve got one of those sweatshirts that just says ‘College,’ and we could buy some croakies or something.”
“Street clothes will be fine, Hi.”
Shelton’s hand fluttered nervously. “And what do we do if we find him?”
Great question.
“We need to know who broke into Chance’s house.” I crossed the room and scooped up my backpack. “And why they called him a traitor.”
I brushed hair from my face, steeling my voice.
“We need confirm that Speckman is Viral. Identify the others.”
“And if these puppies make trouble?” Ben asked. “If they want to play loose with our secrets?”
I looked him dead in the eye. “We persuade them otherwise.”
Coop was up on his hind paws, wet doggie nose smushed against the glass.
“Back it up!” I pushed inside and closed the front door behind me. Then I wrapped my arms around the frisky wolfdog. “I missed you, too, dog face. But Whitney’ll freak when she sees that snout print.”
Ben had driven us the thirty minutes home to Morris Island. Thankfully, that night he was sleeping at his dad’s place, just seven doors down our lonely block of townhouses. Most nights Ben stayed with his mother in Mount Pleasant, a trip of almost an hour.
Shelton had just gotten his license, but didn’t have a car. Hi had yet to take the test. Still only fifteen, I didn’t even have a learner’s permit. So we relied on Ben to cart us around—either in his beat-up Ford Explorer, or across the waves in a sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout currently tied up at the neighborhood dock.
“That you, kiddo?”
I climbed three steps, found Kit lounging on the couch, watching Through the Wormhole on the Science Channel. Muting the TV, my father patted the spot next to him. “Come veg out with me. Morgan Freeman is explaining how aliens might think.”
A last scratch behind Coop’s ears, then I dropped my bag on the floor and flopped down beside my father. Coop trotted to his doggie bed, circled three times, and lay down. In seconds he was sound asleep—a light-switch napping ability I thoroughly envied.
“Everything good on Loggerhead?” I asked.
My dad is director of the Loggerhead Island Research Institute, one of the world’s most advanced veterinary research facilities. I loved visiting the place, but hadn’t been out there in weeks. Loggerhead Island is even more remote than Morris, and lately I’d had less than zero free time.
“Same old,” Kit replied lazily, eyes on the screen. “We had a weird rash break out among the rhesus monkeys, but it seems to have tapered off. The wolves got into a storage shed and ruined the seed for the bird feeders, but I blame myself for relying on an old padlock.”
Outside of the fenced LIRI facility, Loggerhead Island is a giant nature preserve. Birds. Alligators. Sea turtles. Rhesus monkeys living free in the interior forest. It’s as close to paradise as you can find.
I was about to follow up when a singsong voice floated from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready! I made enchiladas.”
My eyes rolled. Then darted to Kit, but he hadn’t noticed.
Kit paused the DVR, popped up from the couch, and hurried to the table. “Looks like we’re the big winners tonight!”
“Oh yes,” I muttered. “Big winners.”
Whitney DuBois glided into the room, a serving tray effortlessly balanced on her slender arm. She wore a springy tangerine sundress that complimented her figure. Perfect blonde curls formed a bun that appeared casual, haphazard, and insanely complex all at once.
My father’s girlfriend was undeniably beautiful. A woman of impeccable Southern taste.
She drove me bonkers. We couldn’t have been more different.
“Welcome home, darling.” Whitney flashed a megawatt smile. “Did you have a productive study group?”
Was there the slightest whisper of a doubt?
Kit never asked questions about my after-school SAT prep course. But Whitney did.
Can’t say I blame her. When it comes to accounting for my whereabouts, I don’t have a great track record. And, being honest, I’m always slightly disappointed in Kit for being so gullible.
“Yeah.” Taking my seat. “We covered analogies, which I’m already good at.”
This cover story was airtight. The class existed. I was enrolled. There was no method of taking attendance. Perfect.
“Of course you are,” Whitney said agreeably.
“I’m really waiting for the math portion. Need to brush up on my geome
try.”
“Side-angle-side,” Kit announced, draping a napkin across his lap. “A squared plus B squared equals C squared. That’s all you need to know, right?”
Whitney giggled as she finished setting the table. “You’ve lost me already.”
I plastered on a smile. Gotta make the best of things.
“I just hope it’s worth three afternoons a week,” Whitney murmured, her tone carefully neutral. “We’ve missed you here at Casa de Howard.”
“I’m a Brennan anyway,” I quipped, but the joke fell flat, even to my ears.
I’d come to live with my father a year ago, after my mother was killed by a drunk driver. Prior to the accident, Kit Howard and I hadn’t known the other existed, but fate can deal strange hands. Before I could process the loss of one parent, I learned of the existence of another.
Good-bye, Massachusetts. Hello, South Carolina.
Moving to Mars would’ve been less of a culture shock.
After some initial disasters, Kit and I had settled into routines that worked. We’d grown to like each other, and to enjoy spending time together. The faint tinglings of family began to flourish. To my continual surprise, Kit and I actually see most things eye to eye.
Except Whitney. On that point we did not agree, and having my dad’s ditzy gal-pal force me into debutante life hadn’t improved the situation. Even so, over the previous year we’d managed to strike a balance.
Until Hurricane Katelyn destroyed Whitney’s home and moved her into mine.
I now had the pleasure of her company 24/7.
Joy.
Kit broke the awkward silence. “This looks delicious, honey. You’ve done it again.” Grinning, he raised his fork in a mock salute.
My dad, the dork.
I suppressed a sigh. If this silly, white-gloved dingbat made my father happy—and I knew she did—it was my solemn duty as his progeny to suffer it.
“Now, Tory,” Whitney began, distributing salad with giant metal tongs, “your committee assignment for the Magnolia League came in the mail today. And I have good news!”