Authors: Kathy Reichs

Seizure (27 page)

BOOK: Seizure

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“Give it a rest,” Chance said. “The Human Spirit Award? I only agreed to this farce because I wanted to see who was yanking Guzman’s chain. I’ll admit, you surprised me.”

“I needed to talk. It worked.”

“Like my new home?” Chance waved an arm. “I always wanted to live in a castle. Does it count if I’m a prisoner?”

“You’re not a prisoner,” I said. “You’re a patient.”

“I can’t leave, so what’s the difference?” He winked. “But at least I dodged jail.”

“Don’t worry, charges will be waiting when you’re deemed mentally fit.”

“You think so? I doubt the DA will bother pursuing a few petty misdemeanors. They already got the big fish.” Chance smirked. “Otherwise, I could be looking at six whole months of probation. Not sure I could bear it.”

“So this is all a big act? You’ve got them all fooled?”

“Of course.” The dark eyes narrowed. “I’m not crazy. I was stressed for a bit, I admit, but I’m much better now. Sound as a pound.”

Despite the bravado, Chance seemed edgy. His hands darted from place to place. One foot tapped incessantly, as if on its own accord.

“Take advantage of the rest,” I said diplomatically. “I remember that night. After what Hannah—”

Chance slammed the table with both fists.

“
Do NOT mention that name!
”

I jumped back, astonished by the outburst. Ben charged back into the room.

“It’s okay!” I waved Ben away. “Watch the hall.”

Ben looked hard at Chance, withdrew.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Chance was examining his nails. I noticed the cuticles were red and raw.

“Fifteen years ago, Hollis Claybourne bought an artifact at auction.” I chose my words carefully. “I thought you might know something about it.”

“My father buys lots of artifacts. I can’t possibly recall every one.”

“He purchased a rare Celtic cross. It’s distinctive. The top portion curves to the right.”

Chance paused, as if weighing possible answers. “Why do you want it?”

“So you do remember the cross?” I pressed.

Chance folded his arms. “Why should I help you? I’m
in here
because of you.”

“That’s not true, Chance.” I spoke quietly, but firmly. “Think what you like of me personally, but you know I’m not responsible for . . . this.”

Chance opened his mouth, seemed to change his mind.

“This cross,” he said. “You need it for some reason?”

“Yes.” No point being coy.

“I remember it. Even better, I know where it is.”

“Will you tell me?”

“So you can steal it?” He chuckled. “No Tory, I’ve seen firsthand your lack of respect for Claybourne family property.”

Chance leaned forward. “But I’ll do you one better. I’ll
take
you to it.”

“Take me?” I didn’t like where this was going. “How can you do that?”

“Because I’m leaving.” A wicked gleam danced in his eyes. “You and your pals are going to help me escape.”

CHAPTER 43

D
ebate raged on our drive home.

“No way.” Ben passed the guardhouse and turned onto the highway. “Chance is a total ass-clown. Why should we help him?”

“Because he can deliver Bonny’s cross,” I said. “He can actually take us to it.”

“Chance isn’t a map you can stuff down your pants,” Shelton argued from the backseat. “How would we spring him? That place is a fortress.”

“In the middle of a lake,” Ben added.

Hi poked his head between the front seats. “The staff will notice the minute he’s gone. Then Guzman will put two and two together and call Bolton. And the police.”

“We aren’t student council,” Ben said. “And you used your real name.”

No reminder necessary. If we helped Chance, I was almost certain to get caught. It was a desperation move.

“Why can’t Chance just run away?” Shelton asked.

“The only road out leads past that guardhouse,” I said. “Not that it matters, because he doesn’t have a car.”

“He’d be legitimately crazy to try the marshes on foot.” Hi shuddered. “They must be crawling with alligators. Might as well wrap yourself in bacon.”

“A fortress,” Shelton repeated. “We can’t get a car past the guardhouse, either.”

“Plus, how can we trust him?” Ben aimed the question at me. “He’s a whacko.”

“We
did
just leave an insane asylum,” Hi agreed. “For all we know, Chance spends his nights dancing naked with sock puppets, plotting to invade Canada.”

“I don’t think so.” I raised a hand to forestall Hi’s reply. “Chance is emotional, and
definitely
has issues, but he isn’t nuts. Just . . . upset. And maybe a little scared. You heard Guzman say he’s not a danger to anyone.”

“Then Chance is playing us.” Shelton changed tack. “He’s probably never even seen Bonny’s cross. Did you ask him to describe it?”

“There was no time.”
Shoot.

“Guzman said we’re his first visitors.” Shelton wouldn’t let it go. “Chance would’ve said anything to get our help.”

We rode several miles in silence, reached James Island, and turned south onto Folly Road. Twenty-five minutes from home.

I made my choice. “Until we translate Bonny’s poem, the cross is our only lead. Chance holds all the cards. I’m willing to risk it.”

At first, no one responded.

“Suppose we decided to help Chance,” Ben said slowly. “How would we do it?”

It was the opening I needed.

“We do it our way,” I said. “No guardhouse, no bulky SUV.”

“Crap!” Hi was peering out the back window. “Crap crap crap!”

“What?” Hi’s melon head blocked my sight line. “Was there a wreck?”

“Red Studebaker! Three cars back.”

“Are you sure?” Ben punched the accelerator. “Is it following?”

As I turned, a red wagon darted into the left lane, passed two vehicles, and swerved back to avoid an oncoming truck. Horns blared in protest.

“It’s keeping pace!” Shelton was staring out the back window. “Not good!”

“How long has it been there?” Ben’s eyes shifted between his mirrors and the road. “Since the hospital?”

“No idea,” Hi said. “I just noticed.”

We crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and entered Folly Beach, then turned left on Ashley. Ben slowed as we passed through the busy residential area.

“The wagon’s following!” Shelton exclaimed.

Traffic thinned as we neared the northern edge of town. Ahead lay nothing but a long strip of beach houses and the crossing to Morris Island.

“Still there.” Hi’s voice was up an octave. “The windows are tinted. I can’t see inside.”

“There’s
zero
chance that car just happened to be headed this way,” Shelton said. “None.”

Water now bordered both sides of the narrow street. There were fewer than a dozen beach homes ahead, and beyond them only the unmarked pavement to our little enclave.

“Summer Place Lane is the last turnoff,” Ben said, as we drove past it.

I held my breath.

The Studebaker stuck to our tail.

Everyone groaned.

Ben pulled into the cul-de-sac at the end of the state road. The unlined blacktop leading to Morris Island began just ahead. A yellow sign warned:
Private Property—No Outlet
.

If the Studebaker followed, it could have only one destination.

Ben pulled onto Morris Island’s private drive, rolled a dozen yards, and stopped. “I want the driver to know we see him.”

Four sets of eyes watched the Studebaker roll into the cul-de-sac. Stop. Idle. Rev its engine.

Seconds ticked by. We hardly dared breathe.

Then the Studebaker circled back the way it came.

Sighs of relief filled the 4Runner.

“Did anyone get a look at the driver?” I asked.

Head shakes. The windows were too dark.

We drove the last mile in hushed uneasiness. Had the wagon been stalking us? My brain was too exhausted to focus.

At dawn, I’d dragged myself out of Charleston Harbor. Then I’d visited the bunker, haggled with Dr. Short, talked to Aunt Tempe, and faced Chance in a mental hospital. All on less than two hours’ sleep.

“Guys,” I yawned. “It’s time to call it a day.”

Coop greeted me at the door.

My luck was holding—Kit wasn’t home. Thank the Lord for small favors.

Collapsing into bed, I nearly whimpered with pleasure. I planned to sleep forever.

Then my cell exploded. I ignored the first three rings, pretended it wasn’t happening.

“Blaaaaargh!”

Reaching blindly, I scooped up the phone. Too late. The call rolled to voice mail. Shortly after, the message icon appeared: Aunt Tempe.

“Sorry I missed you, Tory.
Ta suil agam go bhfuil tu i mbarr na slainte
. That means, ‘I hope you’re in the best of health!’ I’ve actually been enjoying my assignment. After a rough start, vocabulary started coming back. I’m emailing you my translation now. Let me know if you need anything else, and please call more often.
Oíche mhaith
. Good night!”

As the message ended, an email appeared in my inbox.

I fully intended to open it.

My eyes just needed a short rest.

CHAPTER 44

T
he knocking finally roused me.

“I’ll be at work all day,” Kit called through the door. “I know you’re angry at being grounded, but get moving. Too much sleep is as bad as too little.”

“Wha?” Best I could manage.

Kit’s footsteps retreated. I glanced at the clock. Sunday. Ten forty-five.

“Frick!”

I’d overslept. For my idea to work, we had to go today.

I rushed to my computer, tracked down the Virals, and handed out assignments. The boys grumbled but agreed. As I knew they would. We had no other choice.

Logging off, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d forgotten something.

I reviewed the plan in my head. There were holes, sure, and a few shaky assumptions, but the concept felt sound. Yet the nagging wouldn’t let up.

What?

Coop pushed into my room, tail wagging like a windshield wiper.

“Come on, boy.”

I trudged downstairs to see if Kit had left any coffee.

It was going to be another killer day.

“Eyes peeled,” Ben warned. “We don’t want to run aground.”

Mid-afternoon. We were aboard
Sewee
, carefully picking our way through the snarl of overgrown swampland surrounding Wadmalaw Island.

It had taken hours, but Shelton finally scored the intel we needed.

Then a sprint to the boat.

Sailing south past Folly and Kiawah, Ben steered into the mouth of the Edisto River, heading inland to the warren of marshes and tidal pools surrounding Wadmalaw Sound.

The channel narrowed as
Sewee
nosed through tall reeds and thick stands of cordgrass. Blackbirds circled, feasting on insects made drowsy by the afternoon heat. Egrets perched on dry mud banks, alert for movement in the still, brackish water.

My plan was simple.

Escape by car was impossible. Marsh Point had a single access road straddled by a well-manned guardhouse. No driving around it.

Flight on foot was equally unrealistic. The hospital grounds occupied a tiny islet surrounded by muck and open water. The only walking path paralleled the road, and was completely exposed.

That left a waterborne getaway.

By worming through swampland to the lake surrounding the hospital, we could bypass the guardhouse and access the grounds from their unprotected rear.

Ben’s face was tense as he maneuvered the tricky passages. For good reason. If we bottomed out in the shallow swamp,
Sewee
could be mired for hours.

Ben’s gaze flicked left. His body stiffened.

“Nobody freak,” he said quietly, “but there’s a monster gator ten yards to port.”

BOOK: Seizure

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