Still nothing.
“Would you like to be one?” I said. “A marshal, I mean. Escort me.”
For a moment, Ben just stared.
“Don’t strain yourself,” I snapped. “You’ll need a tux, and you’ll have to behave around dozens of Bolton trust-funders. Can you handle that?”
Not the approach I’d planned, but his apathy got under my skin.
Ben remained quiet for another long moment. Then, “Sure.”
“Okay, good.” I nodded once, as if agreeing to a treaty. “That’s settled then.”
We began walking toward the cafeteria.
“Who else is going?”
“Shelton and Hi will be my stags. And Jason. He’s co-marshal with you.”
Ben stopped. “Jason?”
“Kit’s girlfriend likes his family,” I said swiftly. “She’s the one making me debut. Plus, Jason knows the ropes, and he’d already asked if he could escort me, so—”
“Hold on.” Ben’s eyes were dark. “Jason asked if he could go? When?”
“At a cotillion thing this summer.” What did that matter? “I never responded, but Whitney’s pushing me hard, so I had to choose.”
I threw my hands up, exasperated. “I don’t even wanna go to this stupid thing!”
Ben’s lips parted, but then he seemed to reconsider. Without a word, he strode off in the opposite direction.
“Ben, wait!”
He halted, but didn’t turn.
“Will you be my marshal or not?”
“Yes.”
Then I was alone outside the cafeteria doors.
“Juuuust great.”
“I need a tux?” Shelton’s eyes widened behind their thick lenses. “What about dancing? I don’t have to dance if I don’t want to, right?”
We were at our usual table, secluded in the far corner by the emergency exit. The area closest to us was empty, which is just how we liked it. Hi and Shelton munched sandwiches while I ate a bowl of she-crab soup. Whitney had started preparing my lunches, an insult I couldn’t bring myself to reject.
Curse her effective bribes! And me for taking them.
Ben was nowhere to be seen.
“Of course not,” I said. “You two don’t have any official functions. Basically, you just show up and hang out. And I’d really appreciate if you did.”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” Hi wiped his mouth with a napkin before continuing. “Free food, free party. What’s not to like? I can break out the robot.” He gave a quick demonstration while sitting at the table.
“Very nice,” I said. “I wasn’t aware break dancing was back in style.”
“Now you are.” Hi tore open a bag of Bugles. “I also do a killer mime.”
“So Ben and Jason are coming, too?” The wide eyes looked naked as Shelton removed and wiped his glasses. “That could get … messy.”
“Jason seems cool, but Ben …” I trailed off. What more to say?
“We’ll smooth him out,” Hi said. “Plus, Ben would never embarrass you on the biggest, most special night of your life. Your one shot to marry well.”
“You’re a riot.” I flung a carrot stick, but Hi dodged.
Shelton leaned forward. “How much time do we have left?”
Looking left, then right, I checked the iPad. T-minus twelve hours, and counting.
“If we don’t solve this by midnight, we lose. Whatever that means.”
“The Gamemaster told us what it means.” Shelton hugged his body with both arms. “Boom. Somewhere. Could be anywhere. Innocent people are gonna get hurt.”
His words chilled me. I’d lost focus on the danger. On what failure could mean.
We have to take this seriously. We have to win.
“Meet after school?” Hi suggested. “Unless you wanna ditch English and leave earlier. I’m fine with skipping old lady Mixon’s dramatic interpretation of John Milton.”
“It’s not worth the risk.” I bagged my trash and set the tray aside. “We don’t want to draw any extra attention. We have all afternoon. That should be enough time.”
“I don’t know, Tor.” Shelton eyed the iPad with apprehension. “I’ve tried a dozen ciphers. None worked, and I’m out of ideas. It might be time to tell the cops. If we can’t break the code, shouldn’t we give them a shot?”
Hi nodded reluctantly. “He’s right. We can’t just twiddle our thumbs while the clock runs out. What if the iPad itself is a bomb?”
“Agreed.” I’d come to the same conclusion. “We’ll give it one last shot at the bunker. If we strike out again, we’ll call the police.”
I glanced back down at the screen.
12:01:57. 12:01:56. 12:01:55 …
CHAPTER 21
“GIVE ME YOUR secrets, dammit!”
Hi slapped the iPad in disgust. Cooper’s ears perked, then he returned to gnawing his Greenie bone.
Two hours had gotten us nowhere. Time was slipping away.
“We’re done.” Shelton sat across the table from Hi and me. “Let’s bring in the law dogs before it’s too late.”
“We can’t break the rules.” Ben spun the computer chair to face us. “Talk, and the Gamemaster will detonate.”
“Since when do you care so much about rules?” Shelton huffed. “And the bomb’s going off anyway, if we can’t crack the puzzle. This picture could be anything!”
I stared at the image: the figure 18, surrounded by letters and numbers, inside a black circle. All within a blue circle, and topped by a K.
What does it mean? What are we missing?
“We need to try something else.” I stood and began to pace. “Another approach. Some new way of looking at the problem.”
“I’ve tried everything,” Shelton said. “There’s no structure. How are we supposed to decode words without a pattern?”
Hi’s gaze found the ceiling. “This is killing me.”
Ben swiveled back to the computer and resumed surfing.
I stopped. “Maybe there isn’t a pattern.”
“No pattern?” Shelton sounded at a loss. “Then forget decoding the message.”
I shook my head, unsure where I was going. “Maybe it’s not a message. At least, not a straightforward one like last time.”
Retaking my seat, I scribbled the letters and numbers on a blank sheet of paper: CH3OHHBRCH3BRH2O. And got nothing. Inspiration failed to arrive. “We should’ve skipped class.”
Hiram shot to his feet. “Chemistry!”
“Relax,” Shelton said. “The paper isn’t due till Monday.”
“No! No!” Hi finger-jabbed my notepad. “Look at the last three characters. H2O! What are we, idiots? That’s the chemical formula for water!”
“You’re right!” Shelton got it instantly. “It’s not a message, it’s a chemical equation!”
“Then let’s solve it.” Digging for my chemistry text. “This must be a list of different compounds. We need to identify them.”
Ben joined us at the table. “Finally, some progress.”
“Sixteen characters.” I drew a line creating two groups of eight. “If you cut the sequence at its midpoint, both halves start with CH3.”
“Methyl,” Hi said confidently. “But it’s usually bonded with something else.”
“O is oxygen, and H is hydrogen. Then another H.” I bit my lower lip. “That must begin a new compound, or else it’d be H2 instead.”
I drew a second line through the first group, dividing CH3OH and HBR.
“The equation has to balance.” Hi was pointing to the second grouping: CH3BRH2O. “Nothing’s lost in a chemical reaction.”
“And we know the last part is water,” Ben added. “H2O.”
Nodding, I drew a third line. “Then that’s it. CH3OH. HBR. CH3BR. H2O. The first two compounds must react to form the second two.”
“Balanced,” Hi agreed. “On paper, it works.”
“First is CH3OH.” I scanned the index of my textbook. Bingo. “Methanol. A simple alcoho
l—light, colorless, flammable. Used as an antifreeze, a solvent, and fuel.”
Shelton took notes as I spoke. “Next?”
HBR. “Hmmm. Not listed.”
“That’s hydrogen and bromine.” Hi ran a search on the computer. “Together they produce hydrogen bromide, a nonflammable gas. Forms hydrobromic acid in water. It’s used to make lots of stuff.”
“Methanol. Hydrogen bromide.” I tapped the last two groups. “These chemicals must result from combining them.”
“Exactly,” Hi answered. “Otherwise the equation doesn’t work.”
“CH3BR and H2O.” Shelton circled them both. “Same elements, just reorganized.”
“Those two chemicals are the products,” Ben said.
“H2O is easy,” Shelton said. “We all know that stands for water.”
“So the third compound must be the point of the reaction,” Hi concluded. “It’s what you’re trying to make by adding methanol to hydrogen bromide, with water as a byproduct.”
“CH3BR.” I tapped the sheet with my index finger. “That’s the answer.”
“BR is still bromine, and I know CH3 stands for methane.” Hi’s forehead creased in thought. “Together, what? Methabromine? Bromethane?”
I rifled the index a second time. Gotcha. “Bromomethane.”
“Nice.” Hi started popping head nods. “Wassup, bromo. Sup, bromo.”
I read aloud. “Bromomethane, known as methyl bromide, is a tetrahedral-shaped, odorless, colorless, nonflammable gas formerly used as a pesticide. Recognized as an ozone-depleting chemical, the widespread use of bromomethane was phased out in most First World countries by the early 2000s.”
“Bugs? That’s all it was used for?” Shelton asked.
“There’s nothing more here.” I bit my lower lip. “Check the interwebs.”
“On it,” Hi called.
Minutes passed, then Hi spoke slowly as he skimmed. “Bromomethane was used to sterilize soil, mainly for seed production … and for things like strawberries and almonds.” Quick glance our way. “Almonds are a crop? Man, I don’t know anything about nuts.”
I considered what we’d learned. “I’m not sure this helps. Anything else?”
Pause. Then, “For a while they used bromomethane in specialty fire extinguishers for electrical substations. On airplanes, too.” Another pause. “That’s all I can find.”
“We’re still missing something,” Shelton said.
“Don’t forget, this equation circles the number eighteen.” Ben pointed to the maddening image on the iPad. “That has to factor somehow. And the K at the top, too.”
I looked to Hi, at a loss.
“Nothing else here,” he said glumly. “I’m stumped.”
Shelton shook his head in frustration.
Then I had an idea.
“If you can spell the last name of the party you are trying to reach, please press one, otherwise, stay on the line and—”
Beep.
I began punching keys. S. U. N. D. B. Shoot. Was the next letter E, or U?
The voicemail system saved me from a guess. “If you are trying to reach ‘Dr. Anders Sundberg’—” his voice interjected, “—press one, now.”
Beep.
“One moment, please.”
Ring-ring. Ring-ring.
“We’re not allowed to ask for help,” Ben argued. “It’s against the rules.”
“This is different,” I insisted. “We aren’t revealing anything about the game.”
Shelton looked uneasy, but Hi nodded his agreement.
“I’m just going to ask about the chemical.”
“What chemical would that be?” a voice inquired on the other end of the line.
I nearly squeaked. “Dr. Sundberg! I’m so glad I caught you in your office.”
“A rarity, but you did just that.” Pause. “This is …?”
“Tory Brennan. Sorry.”
“Tory?” Mild surprise. “What can I help you with?”
“Just a quick question. Regarding our school project.” I wasn’t handling this very smoothly. “Have you ever heard of a chemical known as bromomethane?”
“That’s what we found?” The surprise turned to alarm. “Tory, methyl bromide is a highly toxic substance. You need to trash the swab, then wash anything that—”
“Oh no, sorry again! That wasn’t the substance we pulled off the box. We’re still working on identifying that.”
“Well, thank goodness. Bromomethane is tough stuff. What’s your interest?”
“A case study.” Thinking on my feet. “We’ve been charged with figuring out the possible origin points of a localized contamination.”
“Ah! I see. Interesting project. My high school never did cool stuff like this.”
“Go Griffins,” I said lamely. “So, any ideas?”
“Better. I think I know the answer.” I heard a creak, as if Anders had leaned back in his chair. “Bromomethane was widely used in the Charleston area fifteen years ago, but almost solely for one purpose—golf course maintenance.”
“Golf? Seriously?”
“You bet. It was very effective at controlling Bermuda grass. Especially on the greens. But the pesticide seeped into groundwater, creeks, rivers, and estuaries, resulting in some pretty severe ecological damage. Bromomethane is now banned—the side effects are just too dangerous.”
A bell dinged somewhere deep in my brainpan. What was I missing?
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“I’m a marine biologist, remember? In 1998, we traced a massive fish die-off to pollution by methyl bromide.” Satisfaction coated Anders’ voice. “Not to toot my own horn, but I helped get it banned.”
I paused to digest this info. “Anything else you can think of?”
“Off the top of my head, no. But if that’s your chemical, I’d be surprised if your assignment was pointing anywhere else.”
I thanked Sundberg and hung up. Three faces beamed from across the table. Even Coop seemed to sense excitement. He rose and padded to my side.
“Locally, bromomethane was used to treat putting greens.”
The boys had been listening. In fact, Hi looked pumped enough to wet himself.
His arms spread wide. “And how many holes make up a golf course?”
“Eighteen!” Shelton aimed two shooters at the iPad.
Of course. 18. The centerpiece of the Gamemaster’s image.
Ben’s fist struck the table. “We’re getting close.”
“Golf must be part of the answer!” Shelton insisted.
“Shhh!” I ordered. “Let me think.”
The boys exchanged glances, but complied. I needed to do my thing.
Pesticide. The number eighteen. A golf course. Those parts fit together. Staring at the puzzle with a fresh outlook, I willed other pieces into place.
“The eighteen is within a circle.” I traced it with one finger. “Black, like a hole.”
“Golf again!” Hi interjected. “The eighteenth hole!”
I hand-shushed him. Hi rolled his eyes. Shelton rose and began dancing on the balls of his feet. Ben just watched me.
“The eighteenth hole of a golf course.” My finger moved to the top of the image. “So what does this K mean?”
“A strikeout,” Hi offered. “Or a symbol for the Ku Klux Klan—sorry, Shelton. Maybe a very ‘special’ breakfast cereal?”
Shelton squinted, thinking hard. I cycled the data in my brain, but came up blank. K? Alone? What could it mean?
“What about Kiawah,” Ben offered quietly.
“Could be,” Hi said. “Kiawah Island has incredible golf courses.”
“Maybe.” But I wasn’t sure. Could it be that simple? “We need more to go on.”
Shelton bumped his fists together in a rapid tattoo. “We’re running out of time.”
“Kiawah’s Ocean Course is supposed to be dope,” Hi commented. “It’s hosting the PGA Championship soon. That tourney is extremely hard to get.”
Something clicked.
My gaze dropped to the iPad screen. One element remained.
Surrounding the black circle. A larger, blue circle.
“Like the ocean,” I breathed.
“What the what?” Shelton asked.
Ben smiled for the first time all afternoon. It was nice to see. When he deigned to flash his pearly whites, Ben went from sullen boy to charming young man. I much preferred the latter.
“Guys, we did it.” My hands popped into a roof-raising celebration dance. Even Coop was impressed, and started spinning in little circles.
We’d broken the Gamemaster’s clue. We could still win.
“Kiawah Island,” I proclaimed. “And I know just where to look.”
CHAPTER 22
SEWEE KNIFED THROUGH the surf, tossing spray from her bow.
Ten p.m. We’d waited as long as possible.
We couldn’t poke around the city’s most famous golf course with people still out and about. But time was not on our side.
The clock expired in two hours. Whatever needed doing had to happen before then.
Everyone wore dark-colored athletic clothing. Nothing too sinister—the Ocean Course was famous, and even late at night we might be seen. No sense looking like criminals if we intended to commit a crime.
I sat in the bow, one arm looping Coop’s neck. The wolfdog hadn’t been on the guest list, but his whining had threatened my escape. Kit had continued snoring, but I’d decided not to risk more doggie noise.
Ben piloted, of course. He’d opted for the ocean route rather than risk the twisty, confusing Intracoastal Waterway after dark. Our target was close, a mere two islands to the south.
Hi and Shelton were huddled in the stern. No one spoke. Sneaking out early was trickier than our usual post-midnight jaunts, and the boys seemed on edge.
A crescent moon lit our path down the coast. The breeze was mild, but brisk. I wore a blue LIRI windbreaker, which I’d leave in the boat.
We’d cruised past Folly Beach and reached the Stono Inlet when a dark shadow appeared on the horizon just ahead.
Kiawah is a long, thin barrier island operated primarily as a high-end resort. Exclusive and private, with roughly a thousand permanent residents, the slender strip of land stays relatively quiet. Five world-class golf courses stretch from the densely wooded interior right up to the Atlantic.