Code

CHAPTER 27

BEN WAS BEHIND the wheel of Kit’s 4Runner.

We were fifteen minutes up Highway 17, heading north through the Francis Marion National Forest. Here, the road traversed a series of sultry, kudzu-draped swamps before reaching the towering woodlands of the park’s interior.

Nine forty-five a.m. The mood was grim.

“I wanna die.” Hi was slumped against a backseat window. “It’s sixty-five in this car, but I’m still sweating my face off.”

Shelton opened his eyes, seemed to consider replying. Didn’t bother.

“Serves you right,” I said from the front passenger seat. “Cannonball! You really made an impression.”

“People loved that cannonball,” Hi whispered. “You can’t take that from me.”

Shelton coughed, lowered his window, then hawked a loogie into space. Thankfully, his aim was true.

Given the shape the boys were in, I’d left Coop at home. The hungover trio looked a few jostles short of redecorating the car with their stomach linings.

Shelton rubbed his face. “Why get drunk if you feel like this afterward? It’s like signing up for food poisoning.”

“Carpe diem.” Hi’s pallor was a sickly green. “Or something. I dunno, kids like getting bombed. Kids are stupid.”

“It’s too dangerous for us.” I made sure Ben was listening. “A Viral can’t afford to lose control, not for a second. Not given our … condition.”

Ben kept his bloodshot eyes on the road. He wasn’t about to apologize, and hated being scolded.

I didn’t press. We all knew his mistake had been cataclysmic, but no one was anxious to discuss it then. Not with their heads pounding. Not with Ben scowling like an angry grizzly.

“We dodged a bullet,” I said. “Let’s just avoid any repeat performances.”

“Not a problem,” Shelton said. “My beer pong career was short.”

“But epic.” Hi raised a fist, which Shelton bumped weakly.

Miracle of miracles, no one had been caught. I still couldn’t believe our luck.

After docking, it had taken some time to roust the boys into semi-presentable form. Then, slurring and stumbling, they’d headed for their doors. I’d held zero hope they’d pass muster.

But Shelton’s parents had been out, and Tom Blue was asleep. Hi had snuck past his mother by faking a gastrointestinal illness. Gross.

Kit hadn’t blinked when I’d beelined for my room. I don’t think “coming home intoxicated” was on his radar yet. Which was reasonable, since I was fourteen, had never done anything like that, and hadn’t been drinking anyway.

Up early the next morning, I’d made a round of calls. Incredibly, the guys hadn’t backed out.

So there we were, me and three wildly hungover boys, riding in Kit’s SUV.

I checked the iPad. Just over fourteen hours left.

Kit was at work, of course, even though it was Saturday. We hadn’t asked to borrow the car. No need for daddy dearest to know I was meeting a stranger at a secluded firing range.

Ben turned right at Steed Creek and eased onto Willow Hall Road. Around us, the forest of longleaf pines grew denser.

“I don’t remember anything,” Ben said abruptly. “I blacked out.”

“You took the whole world and drank it,” Hi mumbled. “Then you tried to fight Jason. And then you—”

“Let’s discuss last night another time,” I said, hoping to avoid the subject. “Right now, we need to focus on finding the range.”

Blacked out? I watched Ben from the corner of my eye. I’d never known him to lie, but I got the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest either.

He remembers. But he’s probably embarrassed about getting all sentimental.

I let the matter slide. “Blacked out” and forgotten worked fine for me.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Hi, staring out his window. “There’s nothing here but woodchucks.”

It was true. The woods pressed close to the road, blocking the sun. I hadn’t seen a building in miles.

Another half mile, then a wooden sign appeared: “Twin Ponds Rifle Range.”

Ben pulled into a gravel lot. Only one other vehicle was present—a muddy Ford F-150, black, with oversized tires and a steel gun rack attached to its bed.

My sneakers hit the ground first. “Let’s find our expert.”

“Why does the Forest Service operate a shooting gallery?” Shelton leaned against the parked 4Runner, wheezing from the effort of getting out. “Seems weird.”

“It’s not much, just a designated area for firing weapons.” Hi stretched, rubbed his lower back. “What better place to pop off some rounds than deep in the woods?”

A series of reports echoed from the trees ahead.

Hi cocked his ear. “Someone’s popping caps as we speak.”

I shouldered my backpack and we headed down a short trail toward a long, rectangular structure divided into stalls like an open-air market. Each section had its own bench, rack, and a firing platform facing the open field beyond.

Fifty yards out, a rough wooden beam crossed the field, designed for propping cans, bottles, and other small objects. Fifty yards beyond the beam was a thick earthen backstop suitable for pinning paper targets.

Debris littered the field—signs, old washing machines, TVs, and trash cans—all rusted and riddled with bullet holes.

The range felt neglected. Forgotten by the world. The surrounding forest was deathly quiet. Spooky.

I was very glad to have company.

“What a dump.” Ben kicked a pile of casings at the building’s edge.

“Rednecks like shooting things,” Hi said. “But they don’t like cleaning up.”

More shots sounded in rapid sequence. I spied a man in military fatigues hunched over in the farthest stall, systematically firing a high-powered rifle. Bullets slammed a target at the edge of sight. There was no else on the property.

“Mr. Marchant?” I called.

No response. Of course not. The shooter was wearing earmuffs.

I waved an arm over my head. He noticed our presence, set down his rifle and headgear, and strode over to greet us.

The man was tall, with pale skin, hazel eyes, and light brown hair. Younger than I’d expected—no more than thirty-five—he had the wiry physique of a long-distance runner. He wore orange-tinted glasses and jackboots.

“Mr. Marchant?” I repeated.

“Call me Eric.” He extended a hand. “You must be Tory. Hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d get in some practice this morning. I don’t get out here too often.”

Suddenly Ben stiffened. Without warning, he lurched sideways and puked noisily in the bushes.

The rest of us skittered back in surprise.

Damn it, Ben. Not now! This guy works for the police.

Ben wiped his mouth and retreated toward the parking lot. “Sorry. I’m not feeling—” He broke into a trot and disappeared into the woods.

My gaze whipped to Marchant.

“Your friend looks a little … worse for wear.”

Shelton lowered his eyes. “I’ll, uh, make sure he’s okay. You coming, Hi?”

“Heck no.” Hi pantomimed holding a machine gun. “I wanna see some firepower.”

“Suit yourself.” Shelton hurried after Ben.

“Please excuse them.” I donned my most trustworthy face. “There’s a bug going around school.”

“A bug. Of course.” Marchant let the matter drop. “Did you bring the firearm you found?”

“Yessir.” Tapping the bag on my shoulder.

“Great.” He gestured to where he’d been shooting. “Let’s have a look.”

Marchant wasn’t what I’d expected. On the phone I’d imagined a bookish, squirrely type. This guy was clearly an outdoorsman.

Tucked inside Marchant’s stall was a veritable arsenal. Three pistols. A shotgun. Two more hunting rifles. And some automatic bullet-spitter whose name I couldn’t guess.

Hi’s elbow jabbed my ribs. “On the end,” he whispered. “That’s an AK-47.”

“You know your guns, young man.”

Marchant looked at me expectantly. Taking the hint, I unzipped my bag and removed the golf course weapon and slugs.

Marchant’s lips pooched out. “Now isn’t that an odd piece.”

“Do you recognize it?” I asked.

“I don’t.” Rotating the gun in his hands. “There are no manufacturer markings, and I don’t see a serial number. This is a designer job, built by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

His gaze fixed on me. “Tell me what happened.”

Stepping carefully around the truth, I explained how the gun was set, how it fired, and what we recovered. I only changed the location.

And never mentioned the Gamemaster, of course.

“A snare gun.” Marchant grunted. “Rigged to fire when tripped in some fashion. The usual method is to string a wire from the trigger, or use a remote sensor.”

“Sounds nasty.” Hi was inspecting Marchant’s stockpile.

“They are,” Marchant agreed. “Snare guns are used to protect livestock from wild animals. They’re also totally illegal, since they’ll shoot anything that trips them. One like this wasn’t purchased in a store.”

My heart sank. “So it can’t tell you anything?”

“Maybe not.” Marchant set the weapon aside and picked up a slug. “But the bullet alone might tell the tale.”

“All ears.” I took a seat on the splintery wooden bench, careful not to jostle any of Marchant’s weapons. The forest was silent. A line of cypress trees blocked all view of the parking lot, making the shooting stand feel like the most isolated place on earth.

“A bullet has four components—the primer, the casing, gunpowder, and the slug itself.” Marchant handed me a loose round and lifted his Beretta 9mm. “When the trigger is pulled, a firing pin strikes the primer, exploding a powder charge beneath. This causes the larger charge of gunpowder to explode.”

I turned the ammunition in my fingers. “And that fires the bullet?”

“Correct. That explosion propels the projectile down the barrel. The slug will then rotate inside the gun barrel, because of tiny grooves along its length. The shell casing remains in the chamber until removed.”

“Unless it’s a semi-auto,” Hi chirped.

“True. Then the casing is automatically ejected when the bullet is fired.” Marchant glanced at me. “You said you didn’t collect any casings, right?”

I shook my head, frustrated. How could I have forgotten to look?

“No big deal. The grooves on the slug itself are more important.”

“That’s great you can match a bullet to a gun that way,” Hi said, “but we already have the gun. You’re holding it right now.”

Marchant smiled. “Hopefully I can do more than that.”

“How?” I asked.

“A bullet is marked with the unique signature of the weapon that fired it.” Marchant waved at his collection. “Every barrel is different, even ones produced for the same type of gun, by the same company, in the same factory, on the same day. Each gun comes off the line with a distinct ballistic fingerprint.”

“Why is that?” Hi asked.

“Tiny imperfections are produced during the manufacturing process. Microscopic slivers of metal are pressed into the barrel as it’s being shaped. These flaws create a unique pattern of scrapes on a discharged bullet, called striations.”

“So every bullet fired from the same gun will have the same unique striations.” I followed that far. “And I assume these striations can be detected?”

He smiled. “Just like a fingerprint.”

“Okay, but I still don’t get the point.” Hi pointed. “We have the gun. Why do we care about the signature?”

“Because we keep bullet signatures on file.”

Marchant carefully placed the snare gun in a plastic bag. “When the police identify a weapon that might be linked to a crime, they send it to ballistics for analysis. That’s me. First, I’ll shoot air through the barrel to see what comes out. Sometimes tiny bits of matter like hair, skin, or fibers have been sucked in upon firing.”

“DNA. Trace evidence.” Hi nodded sagely. “Nice.”

“Then I’ll fire sample bullets into a trough or ballistics gel, and check the striations against our database. If the gun was used in any other crimes, I’ll find a match.”

“Match the gun, maybe find an owner.” Made sense to me. “It’s a shot, at least.”

“I’ll try our local files, then the South Carolina database. If that doesn’t tell us anything, I can run it through the ATF’s Ballistic Information Network.”

“That’s very generous,” I said. “You’re being incredibly helpful.”

Marchant thumb-hooked his belt. “Snare guns are extremely dangerous. Anything or anyone can walk into the field of fire. Whoever set that for your dog could just as easily have shot a child. They have to answer for that.”

“So you think we have a chance at an ID?” Hi asked.

“I do.” Marchant checked his watch. “A gun like this reeks of trouble. Give me a week and we’ll know if it’s reared its ugly head elsewhere.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Hi pointed to the AK. “So how’s about me ripping off a banana clip with that bad boy?”

“There’s zero chance of that happening.” Marchant smiled, drawing the sting from his words. “But I’ll let you know what I find.”

Repeating our thanks, Hi and I headed for the lot. I hoped that Wimpy and the Vomitasaurus had gotten their acts together.

“We need one of those fully autos.” Hi cracked his knuckles. “Maybe get one for the bunker, don’t you think? Keep the rabbits in check.”

“Hi, we’re going to have a talk about pushing people’s buttons.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up.” He yawned huge. “I forgive you. Now, much more importantly—do you have any Advil?”