Seizure:

by Kathy Reichs

  “How can you be sure?” Ben asked.

  “I checked under my microscope.” Hi pointed to a red-brown husk on the table. “The leaf blade is divided into two parts: a flat, heart-shaped stalk, then a pair of terminal lobes hinged at midrib, forming the trap. Stiff hairlike protrusions called cilia fringe the edges.” He shrugged. “That was all I needed. Not much can be confused with a Venus flytrap. A monkey could’ve nailed it.”

  “Gotta love a plant that eats bugs,” Shelton quipped.

  “Flytraps are awesome.” Hi made a V with his hands. “Their leaves are like small mouths that snap shut when a fly enters. Inside the mouth, tiny sensors distinguish between living prey and other things, like raindrops. If a bug taps two sensors in a row, or the same one twice, boom!” His fingertips snapped together. “The jaws close, trapping the insect inside. Then the plant digests at its leisure.”

  “That’s wild,” I said. “How did that evolve?”

  “Flytraps grow in areas with lousy dirt, like swamps and bogs. The species developed a badass way to make up for the lack of nutrients.”

  “Very interesting,” Ben cut in. “But how does this bountiful plant lore help us?”

  “It helps a lot,” Hi replied. “Venus flytraps are incredibly rare. These days they only grow wild in a forty-mile area around Wilmington, North Carolina. It’s very unlikely that two or three dead ones accidentally got into that chest.”

  “Excellent work, Hi. Gold star. And you, good sir?”

  “I also hit paydirt.” Shelton held up a pebble. “These buggers are limestone.”

  “Explain.”

  Shelton read from a printout. “Limestone is a sedimentary rock composed of calcite and aragonite, which are the crystal forms of calcium carbonate.” He looked up. “Basically, it forms from the skeletons and shells of dead marine organisms, like coral.”

  “All limestone looks like this?” I picked up one of the pebbles.

  “Nope.” Shelton’s eyes dropped to his notes. “Impurities like clay, sand, or dead sea critters create variations in form and color. Limestone is extremely common, and has been used extensively in architecture. They built the Great Pyramid with it.”

  “So how did you make the ID?” Ben asked.

  “Easy.” Big smile. “I emailed a pic to a geologist at CU. It took him about two seconds.”

  “Nice work,” I deadpanned. “When does your Ph.D. arrive?”

  “What do I know about rocks? But I get results.” Shelton dropped his notes onto the tabletop. “Also, he told me to dunk the pebble in vinegar and listen for fizzles and pops. Check and check. It’s limestone. No doubt.”

  “Can you say where the pebbles originated?”

  He shook his head. “From what I read, the stuff’s too common. But it’s doubtful that three identical limestone pebbles were just rolling around on Boneyard Beach.”

  “So that’s two oddities,” I said. “Plant and rock, neither native to Bull Island.”

  “Fine,” Ben said. “Those things got into the chest somehow. That doesn’t make them clues.”

  “Humor me. Pretend the items were placed deliberately. Where do they lead?”

  “Google time.” Hi began tapping his iPhone. “I’m using key words ‘flytrap,’ ‘limestone,’ and ‘South Carolina.’” Pause. “Only one decent hit.”

  “Edge of my seat here, Hiram.” Had I been sitting.

  “Keep your pants on. Let me read.”

  Agonizing seconds ticked by.

  “Yep.” Hi spoke without looking up. “Dewees Island. According to this nature website, flytraps used to grow there. Gone now, but they might’ve been around in the 1700s.”

  “That’s great!” I clapped my hands in excitement.

  “It gets better,” Hi said. “There are no cars on Dewees, so the roads aren’t paved. Instead, they’re lined with crushed limestone mined from a local quarry.”

  “That means nothing,” Shelton scoffed. “Limestone is almost everywhere. Your search is too random.”

  “Dewees is the only place that checks both boxes,” Hi replied.

  “It’s at least worth a look,” I said. “Bonny might’ve inserted these items to show the way.”

  Shelton was not on board. “You wanna go all the way to Dewees because it has an ultra-common rock, and a rare plant grew there once upon a time?”

  “Yes. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “How do we even use that information? Once on Dewees, will the treasure come find us?”

  Fighting my irritation, I kept a civil tone. “We should explore all possibilities.”

  “This is pretty weak,” Ben said. “Even if you’re right, we don’t have the first clue where to look.”

  “How many islands are we up to now?” Shelton squawked. “Wadmalaw. Bull. Sullivan’s. Half a dozen more, coming and going! And now you want Dewees. It never stops!”

  I refused to respond. I’d made my position clear. The boys would have to decide for themselves.

  Hi came to my rescue.

  “Hell, let’s do it!” He threw up his hands. “Let’s go out to Dewees and goof around. We’ve got nothing better to do, and a boat trip beats sitting around here, playing patty-cake. I’m in, all the way.”

  Ben and Shelton remained obstinate.

  Hi elbowed Shelton’s ribs. “Keep the faith, right?”

  “Okay.” Ben sighed. “Why not? The Virals set sail for Bonny one last time.”

  “I told you guys.” Shelton looked to the heavens. “You can’t let her start talking. I’ll go pack my hang glider.”

  I RAN HOME to feed Coop before we left.

  Phone check. Kit hadn’t called or emailed. I thanked the powers that be for my father’s naïveté. In a small way, I actually felt sorry for him.

  I was heading back out the door when Coop fired past me and raced down the front steps.

  “Coop! Stop! No roaming today!”

  A bushy tail rounded the complex, heading for the rear driveway.

  “Blargh!”

  I found Coop standing beside the mailboxes, his attention focused on something in the woods.

  “Let’s go, pal.” I grabbed his collar.

  Coop glanced at me, then turned and barked, legs splayed, fur bristling along his spine.

  A feeling of uneasiness swept over me. Was someone out there? Senses on high alert, I scanned the nearby trees.

  Chance stepped from the bushes.

  My pulse spiked, but I tried to force myself calm.

  What to say to him? What had he seen?

  As these questions swirled in my brain, my traitorous wolfdog trotted over and licked our visitor’s hand. Chance dropped to a knee and stroked Coop’s back.

  “Tory. Good morning.” Still stunned, I said nothing.

  “What’s that?” Chance cocked an ear, pretending to consider words I hadn’t spoken. “Why, I’m fine! Thank you for asking.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay. How’d you get home?”

  “Home?” Chance smirked. “I’m between those at the moment. I caught a few hours’ sleep at my father’s cabin, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How’d you get off Bull Island?”

  “The morning ferry. Nine a.m. sharp.” Chance thumped Coop’s side, then stood. “I gave the captain quite a scare, emerging from the brush and demanding a ride. I’m not looking my best.”

  It was true. Chance’s face was blotchy and pale. A violet half moon underhung each eye. A tic in one cheek suggested barely controlled tension.

  Chance had found a change of clothes—an old Citadel sweatshirt and outdated cargo pants—but the grit of a night outdoors still covered his skin.

  Most frightening of all, Chance’s speech was somehow … off. His words sounded high and stretched, and came in short bursts like static from a squad-car radio.

  I kept my face blank, my tone neutral. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course. We were all concerned w
hen you ran away.”

  “Never mind that.” He changed the subject. “Where is Bonny’s treasure? What was inside the chest?”

  I almost didn’t have the heart.

  “Nothing, Chance. It was empty.”

  The tic went into overdrive.

  “You lie.” A whisper.

  “I don’t.” I waved toward Shelton’s garage. “The chest is sitting in there. See for yourself, if you like. We struck out.”

  Chance stared past me to a point out in space. His eyes had an odd look, as if he was battling inner demons.

  “That is … disappointing.”

  “It sucks,” I said. “We got a raw deal.”

  Chance’s hands rose slowly and rubbed his cheeks. His brow furrowed.

  “I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately,” he said. “My breakdown. Father’s public humiliation. The trial. While I’ve been locked away in that asylum, the Claybourne name has been dragged through the mud.”

  I said nothing. I’d played a pivotal role in those events, a fact of which Chance needed no reminder.

  “I’m concerned that perhaps I’m not … well. Not fully rested.”

  “What do you mean?” Like I didn’t know.

  “I think I might be seeing things that aren’t really there. Last night, for example.”

  “It was late,” I said. “Dark. We were exhausted. Then everything happened so fast.”

  “No!” His fingers curled into fists. “It was more than that!”

  Chance drilled me with a look.

  “I saw, Tory. Your eyes changed. Became golden. Like the wolves that attacked on the beach.”

  I searched for a reply, came up blank.

  “This wasn’t the first time, either. In my basement, the night Hannah—”

  Chance flinched as if burned. It was a very long moment before he continued.

  “That night, I was on the ground. There was blood everywhere, and the pain was indescribable. But I watched. You moved too fast!”

  You were hurt,” I said. “Confused. And we were fighting for our lives.”

  “No!” He shook his head. “I know what I saw!”

  Chance’s breath became ragged. A sheen of sweat appeared on his brow.

  “I’d assumed it was my imagination. After all, I’d been shot. Betrayed. Even now those memories are unbearable.”

  Chance’s fist struck his open palm. “But the same thing happened last night. Your eyes turned golden. You moved with amazing speed. It was incredible.”

  What to say? Chance knew. There was nothing I could do to persuade him otherwise.

  Then he threw me a lifeline.

  “Am I crazy?” His voice had a desperate quality. “Suddenly I don’t trust my own senses. My dreams are haunted. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  Chance’s hand shot out and grabbed mine.

  “Is it real, Tory? Do your eyes change? Or am I in worse shape than I thought?”

  Guilt battered me in waves.

  I hated to lie. Worse, to chip away at Chance’s grip on reality.

  But I had to protect myself. Protect my friends.

  In the end, there was no choice to be made.

  “My eyes don’t glow, Chance.” I wrapped my hands around his. “They’re green, as always.”

  I held his gaze, hoping the deception wasn’t naked on my face. I had to convince Chance I wasn’t lying. Wasn’t hiding anything. I needed him to believe.

  “I think you’re unwell.” I felt disgust for myself. “Stressed out. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  “Tricks,” he repeated numbly.

  “It’s all in your head,” I whispered, driving the dagger home.

  “Of course.” Chance seemed to wilt.

  Coop nuzzled Chance’s side, then turned and yipped at me. The wolfdog seemed to know I was warping his new friend’s fragile psyche. And did not approve.

  I felt lower than pond scum.

  “Perhaps I should check back into Marsh Point for a bit,” Chance said. “My … work there isn’t done. They probably miss me by now.”

  Neither of us smiled at his attempt at levity.

  He’s better off back at the hospital. Chance still isn’t well.

  “Let us take you,” I said. “Ben can drive.”

  “I didn’t walk here, Tory.” He waved to a black motorcycle parked down the drive. “There are lots of toys at my father’s cabin.”

  “Will you get into trouble?”

  “Trouble?” Chance’s smirk suggested some of his old swagger. “I’m a Claybourne. For all I know, my family owns that hospital. I expect a discrete reunion.”

  I walked him to the bike, a Kawasaki Z1000. Sleek and aerodynamic, the thing looked like a spaceship on crack. After strapping on a helmet, Chance reached down and petted Coop one last time.

  Then he looked at me. “I’ll see you again, I’m sure.”

  Hammering back guilt, I kept my voice steady.

  “Just get better, Chance.”

  He nodded, straddled the bike, and was gone.

  “POOR BASTARD.”

  Shelton took the seat beside me in Sewee’s stern. “But you did the right thing, Tory. The pack comes first. And Chance needs treatment anyway.”

  “He’s right,” Ben said. “You had to lie. Chance can’t know the truth about our powers.”

  “I know.” I finished stowing my gear under a bench. “It had to be done.”

  Then why did I feel so awful?

  “Don’t beat yourself up.” Shelton patted my shoulder. “Messing with Chance’s mind is terrible, but we’ve got to look out for ourselves. Our freedom’s at stake. Maybe our lives.”

  “I know,” I repeated. “But Chance was a part of this. We wouldn’t have found the chest without his help. And how do I repay him? By convincing him he’s bonkers. Awesome karma.”

  Ben shrugged. “What choice did you have?”

  “None.” Shelton said firmly.

  I tried to focus on the task ahead. “Let’s just get going.”

  I’d make it up to Chance somehow. Some way.

  “Where’s Thick Burger?” Ben complained. “We said fifteen minutes.”

  “Here he comes.” Shelton rose to his feet. “And something must be wrong, because he’s running full tilt.”

  It was true. Hi was flying down the hill. He hit the dock staircase and nearly tumbled down, then descended as fast as his legs could pump. Five more seconds of sprinting brought him alongside Sewee.

  “Guys!” Hi puffed and wheezed, his face gone scarlet. “Guys!”

  “Calm down,” I said. “Take deep breaths. You’re going to pass out.”

  “Radio.” Hi gasped, hands on his knees. “Turn. On. Radio. News.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ben reached for the dashboard and switched on Sewee’s sound system. “Just don’t stroke out. Any particular station?”

  “News 12,” Hi croaked as he crawled into the boat. “Now!”

  Ben tuned the dial. A scratchy voice boomed from the speakers.

  Recapping our top story, a police spokesman has released the names of the two victims of last night’s single-car accident on the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge. While department sources won’t confirm specific details about the incident, the spokesman identified the deceased as Chris and Sallie Fletcher of the Radcliffeborough area of downtown Charleston. According to unconfirmed reports, a 2010 Toyota Prius belonging to the couple was found at approximately five forty-five this morning after apparently driving off the road near the Highway 17 interchange. The car had crashed into a bridge abutment and burst into flames. In a News 12 exclusive, we’ve learned that the deceased were graduate students at Charleston University and curators of the Charleston Museum. We’ll have more on this breaking story as information becomes available. In finance, Wall Street took another hit today, as stock prices—

  Ben powered off the radio with shaking fingers. “Oh my God.”

  “Dead?” Shelton’s brows were almost at his hairline
. “Dead? As in, the Fletchers died last night?”

  “It’s all over the news.” Hi’s breathing was back to normal. “I was tying my shoes when the story flashed on TV.”

  “Dead?” Shelton repeated. “For real?”

  “They must’ve woke up on the beach, then left Bull Island by boat and reached their car.” Ben stopped, paled. “Driving home, they would’ve been tired, maybe a little woozy …”

  “It’s not our fault,” Shelton blurted. “They attacked, and we defended ourselves. I’m sorry they got killed, but we are not responsible.”

  I didn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say. I thought of Sallie’s friendly banter at the museum info booth. Chris schmoozing tourists outside the old market. The two of them smiling as they related ghost tales in the soft lamplight of Charleston’s streets. They were so young. Their deaths were horrifying.

  Then I remembered Boneyard Beach. Chris’s coldness. Sallie’s gun, aimed at my head. The senselessness of their deaths made me sick, but a part of me couldn’t help but feel … relieved. And for that, I was ashamed.

  That wasn’t all. Ben’s theory was plausible, and the timeline certainly worked. But my instincts screamed something else.

  Foul play.

  Hi had the same notion. “Chris said they drove a Prius, and that’s the type of car they wrecked in. Meaning someone else was following us in the Studebaker.” Pause. “You don’t think that—”

  “Hold on!” Shelton was nervously shirt-cleaning his glasses. “The news guy said the crash was an accident. There’s no reason to think it wasn’t.”

  Hi shrugged. “It just smells funny to me. Did the Fletchers strike you as the type to drive off a bridge? I can’t see it.”

  “Me either.” My hand shot up to forestall Shelton’s reply. “I’m not saying it wasn’t simply an accident. But we need to be careful. Hi’s right about the Studebaker. That had to be someone else, and they might still be trailing us.”

  Hi nodded. “We don’t want to have an ‘accident’ ourselves.”

  “Are we still going to Dewees?” Ben asked.

  “Yes.” I didn’t hesitate. “Shelton’s also right. In all likelihood, the wreck is exactly as reported—a tragic driving mishap. We can’t abandon our search for paranoid reasons. Too much is riding on it.”