text:
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Published by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2013 by Brennan NextGen LLC.

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ISBN 978-0-698-16077-4

Version_2
To the die-hard fans of Comic-Con. Thanks for taking us in. —Kathy Reichs and Brendan Reichs

# Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

ALSO BY KATHY AND BRENDAN REICHS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

SPECIAL EXCERPT
Also by Kathy Reichs and Brendan Reichs

VIRALS

SEIZURE

CODE

and the Penguin eSpecial

SHIFT: A VIRALS ADVENTURE

It's safe to say I'd never seen anything like it.

Comic-Con.

Nerd Nirvana. Geek Paradise.

The entertainment event of the year, every year.

And the boys and I were at ground zero, strolling the packed exhibit hall floor.

"Check out _that_ guy." Ben nudged my arm, nodded toward a gawky teenager dressed in a puzzling assemblage of red-and-blue-cardboard boxes. The pimple-faced boy was leaning against one of the room's massive pillars, scarfing a slice of pizza. "I didn't know Optimus Prime was a fan of pepperoni."

My nose crinkled at the sight. "Robots need fuel, too, I guess."

Ben shook his head, a smirk framing his dark brown eyes. "No. Just, no."

I was forced to jump aside as a gaggle of black-robed ninjas stormed past us, intent on a free T-shirt line forming at the video-gaming station just ahead. My fourth near-trampling of the morning.

"This place is crazy!" Edging farther from the cavernous chamber's main thoroughfare, I ran fingers through my tangled red hair. "I might buy one of those _Hunger Games_ bows for personal protection."

"Crazy _awesome,_ you mean." Hi's voice. Somewhere behind me. "I'm never leaving this convention. Ever. Tell my mother. I live here now. How come no one ever mentioned Comic-Con before? This is the sum total of everything cool in the universe."

I sighed, turned. Abandoned my effort to make it look like we weren't together.

Hi's chubby face beamed as he took in the fanboy glory surrounding us. He wore an unlicensed Iron Man costume purchased online. The full-body red-and-yellow spandex left little to the imagination. A dozen people had asked for his picture already.

Shelton stood beside Hi, in a daze, dressed like Obi-Wan Kenobi: tan robes, black leather utility belt, flowing brown cloak. And his boxy black specs, of course. We'd just passed the Lucasfilm floor display—complete with Han Solo frozen in carbonite—and he'd yet to recover the ability to speak.

Ben rubbed his face with both hands. "I told you guys not to talk to me in those . . . outfits." He was wearing his standard jeans and plain black tee. Shocker.

Hi snorted. "This is Comic-Con, bro. _You're_ the one that looks out of place."

Frankly, he was right.

The exhibit hall was packed, with more visitors rocking cosplay than not. The giant room had been divided into sections, then rows, then booths, each packed with the weirdest stuff imaginable. I'd never seen so many bizarre things crammed into one place. "Geek Paradise" was putting it lightly.

I'd made a token effort in the wardrobe department: Wonder Woman tank, blue shorts.

I'll fly my freak flag, but only a smidgen.

After all, the whole reason we were there was to see Tempe.

Can't look the fool in front of Dr. Temperance Brennan. No, ma'am.

We'd stopped beside a wooden pirate ship rising twenty feet from the floor, complete with swashbuckling actors brandishing cutlasses and handing out promotional hats. Across the aisle, zombies in prison uniforms were locked inside a chain-link fence, mumbling about the new season of their show, returning Sundays at ten.

We'd been there an hour and barely crossed a third of the convention floor. The room stretched on and on, jammed by endless rows of comic-book vendors, TV and film promotions, memorabilia displays, novelties sales, and every other oddity under the sun.

More madness per square foot than any other place on earth.

And 100,000 people to go crazy over it, of course.

I was about to forge back into the herd of wide-eyed weekend superheroes when noise exploded around me. Lights began flashing at one of the towering movie studio booths just ahead. Ominous piano music boomed from its massive speakers as celebrity faces appeared on a bank of giant TV screens: the cast of some vampire show on cable.

"Nobody move!" I warned, my danger sense tingling.

Sure enough, a herd of teenage girls thundered down the walkway, fangs exposed, black leather jackets flapping, their white-painted faces contorted by screams of ecstasy.

"Let's get out of here," Ben shouted through cupped hands to be heard over the thumping music. "Where are we meeting your aunt Tempe?"

"Her panel ended ten minutes ago." I pointed beyond the crush of jabbering supernatural creatures to a less congested area of the exhibit hall. "She's signing books at her publisher's booth, somewhere over there."

Tempe had spoken in one of the conference rooms upstairs, where the lunacy was slightly more contained. The second floor of the convention center hosts earnest discussions on topics of all kinds: YA fiction. The legal rights of zombies. LARPing. How to master Dungeons & Dragons. You name it. And that's not even _mentioning_ the bigger ballrooms, which present the major TV show panels, movie launches, and celebrity appearances. But those events are next to impossible to get into, so we didn't bother. No way I'd stand in line all day. Not when there was so much else to see.

"I'm making a break for it." Tucking his black hair behind his ears, Ben shouldered his way into the crowd. "See you on the other side."

I waved at Hi and Shelton, who'd stumbled into a group of costumed superheroes.

"Let's go." I pointed beyond the bloodsucker traffic jam.

"I just photo-bombed the Avengers!" Hi cried, red-faced and glowing.

Thumbs up. I try not to be a hater.

Tempe's presence at the convention explained ours. A year earlier, she'd written a section of a nonfiction book examining the exploding popularity of forensic science in pop culture. To everyone's surprise, the work had become a national bestseller.

Attempting to maintain sales momentum, the publisher had booked Tempe for a Comic-Con panel entitled "Forensic Science in Entertainment: The Effects of New Scientific Principles on Old-School Mystery Writing."

A free trip to San Diego isn't something my great-aunt will turn down.

After some googling, Hi had _insisted_ we tag along.

Surprisingly, Kit had agreed. Or perhaps not so surprisingly—a few days without the daughter around must've appealed to Dad. His girlfriend, Whitney, had seemed positively delighted at the prospect.

Hi's mother took some convincing, and Shelton's parents made him promise to call twice a day, but both eventually granted permission. Ben had no trouble at all. So Tempe secured the badges, and here we were. Sunny San Diego in mid-July. The epicenter of media rollouts.

We wormed into the slow-moving press of bodies, pausing occasionally to whisper and point. I swear, some girls will use _any_ event as a chance to show too much skin—if I never see another slave Princess Leia costume again, it'll be too soon. Though I doubt my male companions would agree.

Eventually, we reached the book section, a slightly quieter neighborhood.

"Look!" Hi elbowed Shelton's ribs. "Those chicks are dressed like Khaleesi! The Mother of Dragons! _We. Need. That. Pic._ "

"Those are Night's Watch dudes with them." Shelton raised both arms, smiling ear to ear. "That crew might be our best friends!" The two took off without a backward glance.

I glanced at Ben, who shrugged. "I'm a Sansa man."

My eyes rolled. "Let's just find Tempe. You can hunt cosplay fantasies later."

Ben's eyebrows quirked into an "innocent-man" look. " _I_ didn't just run off to Westeros. Lead the way. Maybe Tempe's in that Ewok village up ahead."

Weaving through a throng of steampunkers, I finally spotted Tempe, sitting at a folding table, chatting with fans and signing books. The line stretched around the corner and out of sight. Behind her stood an officious-looking man in a charcoal gray suit. He was grinning broadly, no doubt tabulating the number of books sold. Tempe's appearance was clearly a success.

Angling toward the booth, Ben and I were halted by a burly-armed woman in a yellow "Event Staff" polo. "Sorry," she huffed, pointing in the opposite direction, "but the line ends two rows over, near those Batman stuffed animals."

I smiled politely. "Thank you, but we're actually with the author."

"Of course you are, dear." Skeptical. "You have special passes . . . or some such thing?"

I shuffled my feet, somehow feeling awkward even though I was right. "No, ma'am. I don't think there _are_ passes for that." I edged sideways to see around the woman's shoulder. "If I could just . . ."

I waved for Tempe's attention. Failed to snag it.

Ben stepped in. "Dr. Brennan is family. She's expecting us."

"Yes. Yes, of course." But the woman didn't move. "You're her . . . ?"

"Niece and nephew," Ben said firmly, easing the two of us past the still-hesitant line monitor. "We just need to grab her attention."

We hurried forward. The yellow shirt spun to watch us.

"Nephew?" I whispered.

"What, you don't see the family resemblance?"

"Uncanny."

Just then Aunt Tempe glanced up, spied us, and signaled for us to join her. The guard returned her attention to the queue, eyes hunting for new line-jumping transgressors.

"Hey, kiddos!" Tempe's face was flushed, from exertion or all the attention, I wasn't sure. "See anything cool?"

"There's a life-sized Superman made of Legos." I slid around to Tempe's side of the table. Several impatient autograph seekers watched with jealous eyes. I guess the book really _was_ a hit.

"I never had enough patience for Legos." Then Tempe nodded to a mountain of gray drawstring pouches stacked near the end of her table. "Be sure to take a swag bag."

I scooped one and tugged it open. "Oh, neat idea!"

Inside was a rudimentary CSI kit: an LED penlight, two rubber gloves, a tiny magnifying glass, and a pocket-sized booklet on proper crime scene investigative techniques.

Ben mumbled a quiet hello, eyes glued to his sneakers. For some reason Tempe made him uncomfortable. Although, to be fair, almost all adult interactions had the same effect on Ben.

Tempe greeted the next person in line, answered a question, then signed her name on the title page. "Where are Hi and Shelton?" she asked, without looking up.

"Not sure." Then I spotted them, being held up by the same insufferable guard lady.

"On it." Ben scooted off to the rescue.

"How long are you going to sign here?" I asked Tempe.

"As long as books keep selling, right, Dr. Brennan?" Hovering at Tempe's elbow, the gray-suited man flashed an obsequious smile.

"Yes, Miles," Tempe replied pleasantly. "I'll sign them all. No need to fret."

"No worries at all," the man said smoothly, raking his comb-over with long, spindly fingers. "This is simply _wonderful,_ Dr. Brennan. Things are going even better than I'd hoped."

"So glad I could help," Tempe quipped, but I noticed a twinkle in her eyes.

She was enjoying herself. Everyone loves a taste of fame.

The man extended a manicured hand. "Miles Stanwick, publicist, nonfiction."

"Tory Brennan. Grandniece. High school."

Stanwick's grip was like a dead fish, clammy and limp.

I resisted an urge to wipe my palm.

The boys arrived, Hi chattering nonstop. "We posed on the bridge of a replica Starship _Enterprise._ That's a genre cross-up, but who cares? I'm gonna Facebook the crap out of these pics!" Then he noticed Tempe was paying attention. "Oh. Err. Please excuse me, Dr. Brennan. I didn't know that you . . . like . . . listened when we talk."

"Not a problem." Tempe smiled as a nervous college girl approached with a hardback. "And for the last time, call me Tempe. I plan on Facebooking some shots myself."

As the boys pocketed gift bags, I rose to my tiptoes and peered down the aisle. At least a hundred people were waiting, with varying degrees of patience.

Tempe followed my sight line. "You guys should go. I'll meet you when I'm done."

"You sure?" I checked my watch. "The _Bones_ panel begins in thirty. I was hoping to check it out."

"You didn't see the line," Shelton groused, shaking his hooded head. "Imagine Space Mountain, but times a billion. Ain't happening."

"Wait." Stanwick raised a well-manicured finger. "I was given a few VIP passes. I won't be using them, so . . ."

Shelton and Hi closed in like jackals.

"You have passes?" Hi's fingers dug into the sides of his costume. "That we can have?"

"For Ballroom Twenty?" Shelton. All business. "For _realsies_?"

"Yes." Stanwick produced four tickets from his jacket pocket. "Enjoy."

I knew he was trying to get rid of us, but didn't care. Stanwick was offering the most coveted thing at Comic-Con: access. We were all for that.

Hi literally yanked the passes from Stanwick's hand. Then he winced. "Sorry. I just . . . this is big-time."

"Understood. Now go have fun." The man actually shooed us a little.

We spun, searching for the closest exit. The panel was upstairs, in the convention center's second-largest venue.

Passing the overzealous guard, Hi stopped and waved the tickets. "Got those passes you were wondering about," he announced in an overly loud voice. "Heading up to Ballroom Twenty."

The lady nodded irritably. Others in the crowd cast envious glances. Hi ate it up.

I was about to scold him for showboating when a piercing scream rose above the exhibit hall's usual din. Shouts erupted, followed by a hundred voices whispering at once.

Ben's head swung left, then right. "What in the—"

A second bloodcurdling cry cut across the room. I finally located the source: Two rows over, a mob was ballooning in front of a large stage.

Something about the excited whispers. The craning necks. The flurry of camera flashes.

Whatever was happening didn't feel scripted.

I glanced back at Tempe. She'd stopped signing, was studying me, a curious look on her face. "Something's up," I mouthed, pointing toward the hubbub.

Tempe rose and, despite startled protestations from Stanwick, slipped around the table to join me. A third howl split the air just as she arrived.

"Trouble?" Tempe asked.

"Think so," I replied. "But who knows, here? Could be we're all getting punked."

One of her eyebrows rose. "Want to check it out?"

"Um, _yeah._ "

The man was dressed as RoboCop, armored head to foot by interlocking metal panels.

Impressive, had he not been the one screaming hysterically like an eight-year-old girl with a spider in her hair.

The throng behind him swelled, pointing and murmuring in hushed tones. Tempe and I cut through the gawkers, the boys on our heels, jockeying for a clear look.

RoboCop, visibly shaken, was staring up at the stage with both hands on his helmet. A younger man in a Joker costume stood dumbstruck at his side, mouth open and breathing hard.

"The T-800 is gone." RoboCop's voice cracked as he grabbed the Joker by his purple suit lapels. "Missing! _Taken!_ How is that possible!?"

"I don't know." His companion backpedaled, palms flying up. " _I_ didn't touch it!"

Edging closer, I could see broken glass glinting onstage.

Tempe spoke at my ear. "Something was stolen."

"And it wasn't small." Shimmying sideways so the boys could see, I pointed to the center of the platform. "Whatever got swiped was the focal point of that huge glass house."

We were bunched before a towering display that occupied space enough for five regular booths. It was styled to resemble a 1950s movie theater, with plush red carpet covering the floor and a neon "Movie Magic" sign hanging overhead. The stage itself was large and elevated—the type used for outdoor concerts—and set with famous memorabilia from films throughout history. Metal side staircases served as entrance and exit.

Parked on the platform's near side was Ecto-1, the iconic red-and-white 1959 Cadillac ambulance-hearse combo driven by the Ghostbusters. On the opposite end was the A-Team van, black and gray with its vintage red stripe and eighties spoiler.

Between the vehicles rose chest-high pillars topped by Lucite boxes. One held Luke Skywalker's original lightsaber from _Return of the Jedi._ Another contained the ruby-red slippers Dorothy wore while off to see the Wizard. A third box sported a scale model of the first Starship _Enterprise._ There were a dozen more dotting the stage.

But everyone was staring at the platform's centerpiece: a giant, house-sized glass case backed by a bloodred wall. Inside the enclosure, on the left, was a puffy, foam-rubber replica of Shrek, standing at least ten feet tall. On the right side loomed an equally gargantuan King Kong.

The two figures loomed menacingly, frowning down at the convention, their hulking forms flanking a raised central dais.

Which was empty.

Except for broken glass.

Hence RoboCop's panicked shrieks.

Yellow-shirted event staff were gathering at the foot of the stage. Their leader appeared to be a hefty blond man with a curly beard. He yelled into a walkie-talkie, his finger jabbing up toward the shattered case. Then, holstering his radio, he gestured for three staffers to follow as he stomped toward the metal steps.

"Oh no." Tempe shot forward to intercept Curly Beard.

Ben poked between my shoulder blades. "What's she doing?"

"Telling that guy to leave the crime scene alone," I answered. "He probably doesn't have any forensic training. Tempe does."

Then I was knifing through the crowd, headed for my aunt's side.

"Tory!" Shelton barked. "Hold up!"

_Not a chance._

If Tempe managed to wiggle her way into this investigation, I was coming along for the ride.

"Wait for me!" Hi shouted, attempting to muscle through the crush of onlookers.

"Hang back a sec," I yelled over my shoulder. "This may not work."

Ben placed a restraining hand on Hi. "Let's leave this one to the geniuses."

"I'm pretty freaking smart, too," Hi grumbled.

"Just be cool." Shelton tugged his ear. "For all we know, they'll both get arrested."

Tempe had Curly Beard cornered, was ticking fingers as she spoke.

RoboCop spotted Tempe and stomped over, arriving just as I did.

"Who are you and why are you interfering?" Red-faced, the man seemed on the verge of passing out. The Joker hung back, eyes wide behind his garish face paint.

"My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan," she replied patiently, "and I was telling this gentleman that he shouldn't contaminate the crime scene. I'm assuming something was stolen?"

"Yes!" RoboCop shrilled, removing his helmet to reveal a mass of stringy black hair. He was younger than I'd thought, somewhere in his mid-twenties. "They took the T-800! It's gone!"

Tempe frowned. "The T-what?"

"The _Terminator_!" RoboCop squeezed his eyes shut, as if gathering his strength. After several deep breaths he continued in a slightly calmer tone. "Not the one Arnold played, obviously, but the robot from the sequel's opening sequence. It's the _only_ full-sized Terminator machine ever wholly constructed of metal. It's _priceless._ "

"Priceless?" I instantly regretted speaking.

RoboCop fixed me with a baleful glare. "Yes, little girl. Well, no actually—I suppose it _has_ a price. This T-800 was purchased at auction for _five hundred thousand dollars._ "

Curly Beard whistled. Then he unclipped his walkie-talkie and shouted into it.

RoboCop began peeling off his costume, layer by layer. "Who are you anyway? Why am I discussing this with convention guests?" The Joker moved to assist with the dismantling, but was angrily waved away.

"Dr. Brennan is one of the foremost forensic scientists in the world." I couldn't keep the edge from my voice. "She can help process your crime scene. You're lucky to have her."

"Yes. Well." He seemed to regain a sliver of composure. "Thank you, then. I'm Lawrence Skipper. I'm responsible for this display. Until they fire me, anyway."

I noticed a ripple in the crowd. "Aunt Tempe. Police."

Two uniformed officers broke through the ring of onlookers and joined us by the stairs. "Who's in charge here?" asked the older of the two. He had thick gray hair and a handlebar mustache. The younger cop was tall and painfully thin, with a long, narrow nose and tiny mouth.

"I am." Skipper had shed the last vestiges of his costume, looked slightly ridiculous in a tight black turtleneck and wrinkled athletic shorts. "Lawrence Skipper, Multi-Media Magic Properties. We've been robbed. Although for the life of me I can't figure out how."

Young Cop flipped open a notepad. Old Cop turned to Tempe. "And you are?"

"Dr. Temperance Brennan." She produced an official-looking ID from her pocket. "I'm a board-certified forensic anthropologist, and consult for the medical examiner's offices of both North Carolina and Quebec. I'm here promoting a book on forensic investigation techniques in film, and noticed the commotion. I'd be happy to assist with the crime scene."

Old Cop gave Tempe an appraising look, then spoke softly to his partner, who was scribbling furiously. Young Cop nodded, took Tempe's ID, then moved off and began speaking into his shoulder radio.

"Name's Flanagan." Old Cop extended his hand, which Tempe shook. "If you've got CSI experience, I'm glad for the help. We don't have a team stationed at the convention, and won't be able to secure this area very long. Too many people. But I'll need your daughter to step aside while we work."

"I'm her assistant," I blurted before my aunt could speak. "We're a package deal."

_You will_ not _shut me out of this, copper._

"That's correct," Tempe agreed. "Things will go a lot smoother if you allow Tory to assist me."

"Very well." But I could see the disapproval in Flanagan's eyes. "Please wait a moment while I get this sorted. I need an okay from my sergeant before you touch anything."

The boys snuck to my side while Tempe and the officers conferred.

"You getting arrested?" Hi asked, sweaty beneath his Iron Man leotard.

"Not yet," I replied. "They might even let Aunt Tempe and me work the scene."

Hi dropped his voice an octave. "What's the story?"

I quickly relayed what we'd learned.

"A real T-800?" Shelton's eyes widened behind his lenses. "Oh man, I'd _kill_ to see that."

Ben's face grew pensive. "A thing like that would be big, right? Heavy?"

Shelton and Hi nodded in unison.

"So how'd the crook get it out of here?" Ben waved a hand at the cavernous chamber surrounding us. "There must be a hundred thousand people at Comic-Con."

I shrugged. Then a wheedling voice caught my attention.

"I _can't_ explain it." Skipper was pacing behind me, a cell phone to his ear. "Jenkins and I did a final check at six this morning. _Everything_ was accounted for and show ready. I left Jenkins to drape the stage for the big reveal at ten." Pause. "No, Connors didn't show up. I'm sure he was off playing war games, or whatever he does. Jenkins and I did it without him."

_Jenkins? Connors?_ My gaze slid to the Joker, leaning dejectedly against a stanchion.

_He must be one or the other._

Skipper massaged his forehead as he spoke into the phone. "I didn't even know the T-800 was gone until I pulled the curtains. It makes no sense. How could anyone haul a six-foot Terminator machine out of the exhibit hall undetected? It weighs two hundred pounds. And at least a dozen other vendors were setting up close by."

Skipper winced at whatever was said in response. "Understood, sir. I'll do my best."

He clicked off. Covered his eyes. Then, exhaling deeply, Skipper hurried over to Tempe and the officers.

"So people were around all morning." Hi shaded his eyes to peer up at the stage. "Yet someone busted open that glass house and carted away a life-sized robot. Ballsy."

"Crazy, more like." Shelton wiped his glasses on his Jedi robe. "And stupid. If the thing really is one of a kind, how you gonna sell it? Sounds like a surefire way to get busted."

I heard my name called. Glanced at Tempe, who waved me toward the stairs.

"I'll keep you posted," I told them, hurrying to join her.

"Get what you can," Officer Flanagan instructed as Tempe and I climbed to the platform. "You've only got a few minutes before that glass will have to be cleaned up. It's a clear safety hazard. There's too much commotion in here to effectively seal the area, anyway. We've had two assaults and an attempted arson since breakfast, and the day is still young. I don't have personnel to spare."

Skipper's face purpled. "But we have to find the T-800! My boss—"

"Has been contacted," Flanagan interrupted. "He's not happy, but that's not my problem." The grizzled cop turned to us. "Five minutes, then maintenance."

"Understood." Tempe nodded for me to follow her across the stage.

We weaved through the display pillars, alert for anything overtly suspicious, then reached the enclosure at center stage. I felt eyes upon me—dozens of people on the convention floor had stopped to watch, chattering excitedly.

I blocked them out. Focused on the task at hand.

_I'm assisting Tempe. My wildest dream come true. Don't screw it up!_

The display case was a fifteen-by-ten glass rectangle backed by a red wall. Three large panes faced forward, with the left and right sections still intact. The center pane, however, was completely shattered. Shards of glass littered the enclosure floor.

I glanced at Shrek and started. "Aunt Tempe, look."

The giant troll had been hacked to pieces, leaving a carpet of green foam-rubber chunks inside the display case. My head whipped left—King Kong, at least, seemed to have been spared the same indignity. The hulking gorilla glowered down at me, appearing fully intact. A placard indicated it was a theatrical prop from an old Broadway musical.

Between the two was a massive, obvious void. The dais was empty.

My eyes darted to the rear wall.

Specifically, to a hand-scrawled message taped there.

"Well, well." Tempe ran a hand over her mouth. "Someone's talking."

Together we stepped inside the case, carefully avoiding the pools of glass fragments.

The note was short and to the point:

We have the T-800.

Transfer $50,000 to the Paypal address below, BY NOON TODAY, or the machine will be destroyed. Shrek was only the beginning.

Tempe and I shared a glance.

"You have one of those grab bags from my signing?" she asked.

I tapped my pocket. "Right here." Then I snapped a pic with my iPhone.

Tempe checked her watch. "The deadline is less than two hours from now."

"Guess they're in a hurry." But something nagged at me. I stepped closer to the ransom demand. "How much did RoboCop say this thing was worth?"

"Half a million." Tempe tapped her lip, considering. "The low demand is shrewd. Small enough for the owner to obtain quickly, and not too much to risk to save the investment. But still a hefty chunk of change."

I nodded, but my uneasiness persisted. "But why not at least _try_ to sell the Terminator on the black market? Even at half its value, they'd net five times as much money. If you're capable of getting that thing out of here undetected, why not take a shot at a bigger score?"

"Got me." Tempe did a slow 360, surveying the rest of the enclosure.

"See anything of use?" I asked, duplicating her move.

"Nothing obvious, and we don't have time to do this properly." Tempe pointed to the note. "One sheet of blank copy paper, affixed to the wall with blue-green duct tape. The tape is sloppily cut, as though done in a hurry, or maybe even ripped by teeth."

"Could it be tested for DNA?" I suggested.

"For a smash-and-grab robbery?" Tempe shook her head. "Probably not in the budget. But the tape itself might tell us something. Tape can usually be identified by manufacturer, and fibers within a roll can be matched microscopically."

"But we'd need to find the specific roll used." I looked out at the sea of vendors and booths. "How many rolls are floating around this exhibit hall? Hundreds? Thousands? I doubt we have that kind of time."

"Agreed." Tempe frowned, eyes still surveying the stage. "Other than the note, there's almost zilch to work with here. I wouldn't bet on finding fingerprints. Seems too professional."

I nodded, feeling deflated. "Other than the glass."

"True."

Tempe removed a swag bag from her pocket and pulled on rubber gloves. Then she squatted and selected a shard the size of her fingernail. "This is tempered glass. Very strong, and safety-designed to fragment upon impact. Similar to what's used in car windshields. Expensive. It takes a lot of force to break this stuff. Almost like . . ."

She rose. Scrutinized the red backstop of the case.

"What are you looking for?" I asked, spinning to follow her gaze.

"Bullet holes. A gunshot seems the most likely way to shatter one of these panes. I could whack at this glass all day with a golf club, and still get nowhere."

We examined the enclosure's rear wall top to bottom. No bullets. No holes. Then we scanned the floor for shells or casings. _Nada._

"I guess that's out." Tempe's brow crinkled. "So how in the hell did the perp break in?"

I removed the gloves from my gift bag, snapped one on, then reached down and snagged a block of lime-green foam rubber. "Shrek sure took a beating."

Tempe nodded, hands on her hips. "It's weird. One figure slashed, one stolen, and one untouched."

"Maybe they're making a movie critique," I joked lamely. "No more CGI."

"Dr. Brennan?" Flanagan was outside the enclosure, looking impatient. "That's all the time I can spare. This debris is a public safety hazard, and the scene is drawing eyeballs like flies. Officer Palmer and I can't secure the area alone regardless. I have to let the staff clean up."

Tempe gave him a level look. "At least have your partner snap some photos."

"Will do." Flanagan barked new orders into his radio. A staticky voice responded.

Tempe carefully removed the ransom note, then began digging in her swag bag. "Who knew these suckers would be so handy?"

"You're always thinking ahead," I quipped.

Tempe snorted. "Thank my publicist, who'll likely kill me for abandoning my post. Can you fill your other glove with glass fragments, and then find a plastic bag in your kit? It's empty. Please gather a few sponge-rubber samples in there."

I did as instructed. Then, when Tempe wasn't looking, I slipped a few of each into my pocket. You never know.

Tempe placed the ransom note inside her own plastic bag, then handed it to me. "Tie off that glove, then seal and date the two baggies, please."

Which I did. But not before tearing a scrap of tape off the note.

I can't help myself.

"Okay, ladies." Flanagan shifted unhappily. The lanky officer appeared at his back, digital camera in hand. "Let's go. Palmer will shoot the scene, as you requested."

Tempe shrugged. "Best we can do, I guess. Come on, Tory."

With a last look at Shrek and Kong, I followed her from the case.

Three Yellow Shirts fired across the stage, toting brooms, dustpans, a vacuum cleaner.

Below, the Joker and a rail-thin woman in a navy pants suit were roping off the stage area. The looky-loos began to dissipate, drawn by more exciting action springing up elsewhere on the convention floor.

As Tempe and I descended, I spotted the boys waiting impatiently behind the cordon.

Skipper closed in like a falcon. "Find anything?"

Tempe handed Officer Flanagan the ransom note. His mustache actually bristled as he read the message.

Skipper, reading over his shoulder, paled, then yanked out his iPhone.

"Is there another way onto that stage?" Tempe asked.

Skipper answered in a strangled voice, offhandedly tugging at his turtleneck. "There's a trapdoor at stage center, but it's kept locked, and is barely large enough for someone to crawl through anyway. No one could steal the T-800 that way. Jenkins has the only key." He gestured toward the Joker.

_Interesting._

Tempe must've had the same thought. "Mr. Jenkins?" she called.

The Joker turned and raised a shaky hand. Tempe waved for him to join us. He complied, though his every step oozed reluctance.

"Do you have the key to the trapdoor?" Tempe asked.

Jenkins nodded, not meeting her eye. "Locked it last night, after we sealed the display case. Did it alone, because my partner bailed early. It's still secure. Just checked."

_Only key, and alone. Veeeery interesting. But where was the other guy?_

Tempe opened her mouth to say more, but Flanagan interrupted. "Can you give me your report, Dr. Brennan?"

Seizing on the diversion, Jenkins slunk away to the front of the stage.

Tempe watched his retreat thoughtfully. Then she began to relay our findings, which were essentially nothing. Whoever snatched the Terminator had covered their tracks.

The pants-suited lady joined Tempe's circle, along with a white-bearded senior in a Hawaiian shirt. I slipped away to my friends behind the rope. Hi and Shelton were fidgeting impatiently, like dogs waiting to be unleashed.

Hi waved the VIP tickets at me. "Fifteen minutes until the _Bones_ panel starts."

"They don't let you in late," Shelton warned.

Ben yawned, covering his mouth. "Anything interesting?"

"There's a ransom note." That got their attention. "If the owner doesn't fork over fifty K by noon, the robot gets it. Zero clues. No sign how or where it was taken."

Ben tucked his hair behind his ears. "How'd they break the glass?"

"Couldn't tell." I glanced at my aunt, now holding court to a rather large audience. "Tempe said it'd take a tremendous amount of force. We even looked for evidence of gunshots, but struck out."

Ben crossed his arms. "Something's bothering you." A statement, not a question.

I grunted, half lost in thought. "Whatever shattered that glass must've been loud. Yet no one seemed to hear it."

Hi pursed his lips, curious despite himself. "The note was handwritten?"

"Short and scribbled." I recited the exact wording of the message. "I think the author intentionally disguised his or her penmanship. The paper was secured by ragged pieces of blue-green duct tape."

"That won't help," Shelton mused. "Half these booths are held together by that stuff."

"True." Hi spoke slowly. "But the T-800 _had_ to leave this room somehow. Which means a door. And if there were people around, even just a few—"

"The exit point would have to be nearby." I rose to my tiptoes. "How many do you see?"

Shelton pointed across the room. "Two on the far wall, but you'd have to pass the Marvel Comics area. Too risky. Plus those doors lead to the lobby. Aren't people usually lined up outside by six o'clock?"

Hi nodded. "Way earlier than that."

I jabbed a finger at the opposite wall. "They must've gone _that_ way, into the bowels of the convention center. Otherwise they'd have wheeled the thing by hundreds of witnesses."

"Two doors," Ben noted. "Both off-limits to visitors."

I clapped my hands, energized. "That's where we start."

Hi looked stricken. "But . . . but . . . _Bones . . ."_

"We've got passes, Tory." Shelton, almost pleading. " _Passes._ "

Ben glanced at Tempe's knot of listeners. "Why not just tell those cops?"

I tilted my head, brow furrowed. "I don't even know how to answer that question."

"Here we go." Shelton buried his face in his hands. "Even on vacation we're gonna break the law. I might as well _burn_ this costume. This isn't how a Jedi Master acts."

"How do we get through the gatekeeper?" Ben pointed to a yellow-clad female staffer monitoring the doors. "I don't think Hi's magic tickets will get it done."

"Wasted tickets," Hi muttered.

I chewed my lower lip. "We improvise. But first I have to throw Tempe off our scent."

That part was blessedly easy.

Tempe was surrounded by the two police officers, a gaggle of Yellow Shirts, and the iron-faced woman in the navy pants suit. Skipper was nearby, his RoboCop helmet tucked under an armpit as he whispered to the grandpa in the Hawaiian shirt. Both were scowling at Jenkins, who was removing his Joker makeup over by the steps.

Spotting me, Tempe extricated herself from the dour-faced company. "Sorry, but I'm stuck here awhile. That note has everyone riled up." She leaned close, pointed to the woman. "That lady runs the exhibition hall. She's furious about the incident, but doesn't have a clue what to do. The guy in the tacky bongo-drum shirt is the T-800's owner. I think he's been phoning his bank."

That surprised me. "He's going to pay?"

Tempe drummed her fingers on her leg. "I'd call it a coin flip. Officer Flanagan wants to trace the money, but I doubt they get set up in time—the deadline is in less than ninety minutes. I think he'd rather pay than lose his property. The short timetable has everyone jumpy."

My hands found my head. "This is so crazy."

Tempe nodded. "But you guys shouldn't waste your whole day with this. Go have fun. I'll text you when I can shake loose of this fiasco."

_Perfect._ "Okay. We'll watch that panel, then wander a bit, maybe check out . . ."

I trailed off. Had spotted the solution to my next problem.

Two event-staff badges were sitting on the stage steps. Unattended.

Tempe missed my distraction. "Let's grab lunch downtown after I'm done. I hear the Zombie Walk is an absolute riot. We could eat outside and watch."

"Yes." Eyeing the badges. "Good idea."

"Dr. Brennan?" Pants Suit was pointedly looking at her watch.

Tempe squeezed my hand. "See you later."

"Bye."

_Go time._

Feigning nonchalance, I drifted toward the stage. Breezy. Natural. Nothing to see.

I leaned against the steps. Casually placed both hands behind my back.

The boys watched in total consternation. Ben squinted at me, then raised both palms.

_Hold on a minute, doofuses._

Groping blindly, I snagged the badges and shoved them into my shorts. Fake yawn. Shirt tug. Then I strolled away, face blank, desperately hoping I hadn't been spotted, and that the badges wouldn't fall out along the way.

Thankfully, neither happened. I walked stiffly over to the boys.

"Let's go," I whispered needlessly, then attempted to melt into the crowd.

"Tory?" Hi's voice called from behind. "Did you get hit in the head?"

Ignoring him, I hurried ahead, crossing three aisles before ducking into a relatively quiet corner. When the boys caught up, I was practically dancing with impatience.

"Why the stealth sprint?" Shelton whined, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

Hi adjusted the waistband of his garish tights. "Not gonna lie, Brennan. You get weird sometimes."

"Zip it." I flashed the staff badges. "Lookie."

"Oooh." Hiram's eyes widened. "Very nice, but only two?"

"Best I could manage." I gave Hi and Shelton an appraising look. "I doubt your costumes would fly anyway. I'm planning to impersonate event staff."

"I look fabulous and you know it." Hi cocked his chin toward Ben. "You think taking _him_ is a good idea? He's not exactly smooth with the cover stories, if you know what I mean. Meanwhile, that's kinda my wheelhouse."

Ben glared at Hiram, but I spoke first. "He's right, actually. Like it or not, this is Hi's specialty. And you _do_ get that guilty look."

Ben snorted. "You think they're letting this—" he waved a hand at Hi's outfit, "—disaster back there? No chance."

Ben wheeled on Shelton. "What about you?"

"About me not sneaking around the bowels of this building?" Shelton lifted both palms. "I'm _fine_ with that, believe me." Then he dodged Ben's eye. "Hi should be the one."

Ben looked from face to face, incredulous. "How is that going to work? Hi didn't pack a change of clothes, did he?"

Hi smiled. "No. I didn't."

Shelton's gaze remained glued to the floor.

I shuffled sideways. "You see, the thing is . . ."

Ben's eyes widened. He took a step back. "Oh no. Not in this lifetime."

"Ben, be reasonable," I said. "Hi can't wear what—"

"I'm not putting on those tights." Ben looked ready to bolt. "They're ridiculous. And he's been wearing them all damn morning. That's disgusting!"

"I resent that," Hi said primly. "I took a long shower at the hotel, plus I Gold-Bonded up to reduce chafing. The AC's been pretty strong in here, so everything's nice and dry—"

"I'll wear the Jedi stuff!" Ben's voice edged toward panic. "Hi can have my clothes, I take Shelton's, and _he_ wears the tights."

Shelton scoffed. "My gear won't fit you, man. You're, like, twice my size. But you and Hiram aren't too far off, though he won't be needing your belt."

"Then let's just forget it," Ben pleaded. "Who cares about this stupid robot anyway?"

"Ben," I said sternly. "We have to help Tempe investigate. Stop being so sensitive."

I crossed my arms. "Now, are you a team player or not?"

• • •

Hi emerged from the men's room, cuffing Ben's jeans and straightening the black tee. "The fit's not too bad," he reported. "Baggy, but kinda gangster."

"Where is he?" I asked.

"Oh, Ben's not coming out." Hi chuckled. "Not until you're gone."

Then Hi whipped out his iPhone. "Don't worry, I snapped a shot when he wasn't looking and ran. Related note: Ben legitimately might kill me later. I'll need your help with that."

I giggled at the pic. Ben was squeezed into Hi's absurd red-and-yellow leotard, a horrified expression on his face. He looked a thousand shades of miserable.

He also looked . . . good. _Very_ good, to be honest.

The spandex stretched tightly over his muscular frame. Ben might feel like a clown, but he'd turn a few heads in that getup. If he ever left the bathroom, that is.

I pushed the thought from my mind.

"You ready?"

Hi smiled broadly. "Just follow my lead."

I felt a spike of anxiety, but choked it down. "Okay, Hiram. But remember, we're investigating a crime, not demonstrating how clever you are."

"Why can't we do both?"

Hi slipped a badge around his neck and walked briskly toward the door.

The Yellow Shirt held up a hand as we approached.

She was no older than twenty—a short, squat woman squeezed into crumpled tan slacks and the ubiquitous event-staff polo. Square-cut bangs framed beady eyes that blinked behind a pair of banged-up wire-rim glasses. The rest of her lank brown hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail.

"Restricted area." She had a surprisingly high-pitched voice. "Staff only."

Hi smiled, held up the lanyard hanging from his neck. "Staff we are, thanks."

The bangs rose. "Where's your polo? Comic-Con staff are required to wear the official shirts. At _all_ times."

The upraised hand dropped to a radio at her hip.

I did not want her to unclip it.

Hi's smile never wavered. "I hear you . . . Pam?"

The woman crossed meaty arms. "Stacey. Nobody named Pam works in the section."

Hi wheeled on me, voice scolding. "Because we're at the wrong door, no doubt!"

Startled, I actually stepped backward. "Sorry?"

I had no idea. Instinctually, I dropped my gaze to my sneakers.

" _Sorry_ doesn't ice the caviar in Mr. Cruise's green room." Hi used air quotes to drive home the point. "I know you're new, Brittany, but this isn't going to cut it. At all."

Stacey edged a step closer. "Mr. Cruise? You mean, the movie star?"

Hi slapped a hand to his face, hiding an exaggerated grimace. "See what you did?" he hissed at me. Then suddenly, he was all smiles at Stacey. "Let's keep that last bit between the three of us, what do you say?"

"Oh, yes sir." Stacey nodded seriously, straightening her back. For a moment, I thought she actually might salute. "We're trained to be very discreet." Then her shoulders bounced as she broke out in giggles. "I'm a _big_ fan!"

"Aren't we all." Hi winked. "We're his advance team. He's due to arrive any minute." He turned, fixed me with a second glare. "And he'll expect his cranberry lemonade when he does. And the rib platter!"

Stacey's face grew troubled. "Aren't you a little young to be working for . . . that particular gentleman?"

"Thanks. Get that all the time." Hi tapped his temple. "Scientology."

There was an awkward pause while he didn't elaborate.

"Oh." Stacey nodded slowly, confused but attempting to hide it. "Of course."

"Welp, no more time to waste." Hi took a step toward the door.

"The thing is—" Stacey squeaked, shifting her bulk to block him. "I _really_ can't let you back there with just your badges. It's _restricted._ You're supposed to have a wristband, too, or be on some kinda list, I guess, although they never gave me one for this door. You see, _lots_ of regular people try to sneak back there, so we have to be sticklers for procedure. My boss, Dave, said no exceptions."

Hi's mouth hardened. "Fine. Contact your supervisor. We'll need to be directed to the proper door."

As Stacey reached for her walkie-talkie, I flashed him a panicked look.

_What are you doing, Hiram?_

Fortunately, my anxiety played right into Hi's game.

Hands clasped before him, he gave me the evil eye.

"Stacey?" He didn't glance her direction as he spoke. "When you get ahold of Dave, let him know that someone needs to be escorted from the premises." To me: "This was strike _three,_ Brittany. You're out. Curtains. Game over. The end. _Fin._ I need assistants I can count on."

Sensing Hi's play, I finally spoke. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Sto—house."

Wince.

But I kept going.

"I thought this _was_ the way back to the green room." In my saddest-sack voice possible. "I didn't think we needed those wristbands until we got to the stage. Honest! I _can't_ get fired, I need this internship for school. My dad will _freak . . ."_

Head dropping, I faked a few sniffles.

That's when I saw them.

Glass fragments. Dotting the floor mat on which we stood.

_Bingo!_

"Mr. Stohouse?" Stacey looked genuinely pained. "I think she made an honest mistake. No need for anyone to lose their job or nothing."

"This _mistake_ is costing me time!" Hi thundered, hands flying up theatrically. "We need to be set up in _ten minutes,_ but now we have to find another way back inside. And she forgot the wristbands."

Hi's performance was epic, but I was focused on the glass.

Shoulders heaving with a few fake sobs, I let my swag bag drop to the floor. Squatting to retrieve it, I scooped two tiny shards and shoved them in my back pocket. Then I curled my arms around my knees and blubbered like a baby.

Stacey broke. Wiping her hands on her slacks, she stepped aside and nodded toward the door. "How 'bout you hustle inside and we forget this ever happened?" Her wire rims glittered as she nervously scanned for observers, like a dealer watching for the cops. "Just this once. You can snag those wristbands and get 'em on. No one will be the wiser."

Hi sighed. "Very well. I'll excuse Brittany's debacle, but only because we're in a hurry." Then he leaned close to Stacey and whispered conspiratorially, "Mr. Cruise could be coming through _this_ door at any minute. Keep your eyes peeled."

" _This_ door? But they never . . . this really isn't the way . . ." Stacey visibly gathered herself, practically quivering with excitement. "You got it, Mr. Stohouse."

"No," Hi answered solemnly, stepping around the guard and hurrying me toward the forbidden door. " _You_ have got it, Stacey. In spades. I daresay you're the best event-staff-security door watcher in this entire outfit. Bravo."

Reaching the exit, I noticed a "No Trespassing" sign taped to its face.

Felt a jolt of electricity.

Stacey watched in surprise as I tore down the sign on our way through.

"This way, no one can follow us," Hi said mysteriously. Nonsensically. "We were never here."

Stacey nodded grimly. Flashed a hidden thumbs-up.

When the door closed behind us, I blew out a sigh of relief.

"That only worked because she's a low-watt bulb," I pointed out.

"I factored that in," Hi insisted, hazel eyes twinkling. "But we'd better hustle. Wanna explain why you're stealing paper signs?"

I tapped the blue-green duct tape hanging from its edges. "Looks exactly like the type on the ransom note."

"Aha!" Hi nodded appreciatively. "What do you think it means?"

"At the very least, we know our crook used the same brand of duct tape as the event staff." I reached into my back pocket. "But when you factor in _these_ beauties, I think we're on to something. These fragments were lying on the mat at Stacey's feet."

"Tape _and_ glass." Hi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Still pretty circumstantial. Even if the Terminator came through here, what now? Where'd he go?"

"No idea." Slipping the fragments back into my shorts. "Look around."

We stood at one end of a cavernous concrete hallway—brightly lit and painted a dull green, with steel doors lining both sides. A train of hand carts were pushed against one wall. We were the only people in sight, but that was unlikely to remain true for long.

"This must be how they move things in and out of the exhibit hall," I said. "It's a perfect exit point. We need to find out where the statue was taken."

Hi ran a hand through his frizzy brown hair. "To the parking lot somehow? That'd be the obvious place."

"Maybe." But for some reason, I didn't think so. "I bet security's extra tight down there. Would the crooks really try to move the T-800 openly, like they owned it? Seems awfully risky."

Footfalls sounded from down the corridor.

"Heads up!" Hi whispered. "We need to keep moving."

He began walking purposefully toward an approaching Yellow Shirt.

A middle-aged Asian staffer with a stern expression and an official-looking clipboard moved to intercept us. His mouth opened, but Hi beat him to the trigger.

"Dave just radioed that the service elevator is on the fritz." Hi casually twirled the staff badge hanging from his neck. "What's the next best way to reach the garage level?"

I felt a stab of panic. _Please don't be Dave!_

The man's brow crinkled in confusion. "There's nothing wrong with the lift. I just rode it up here." He hooked a thumb over one shoulder. "See for yourself."

"That Dave." Hi shook his head in mock exasperation, moving purposefully down the hall corridor. "Thanks, bro."

"No problem." The man shrugged, then pushed through the door leading to Stacey's domain.

"Why do we need the service elevator?" I hissed, hurrying to keep pace.

"Act like you belong somewhere, and you will." Hi zoomed by the service elevator without breaking stride. "The key is to _look_ like we know where we're going, and never hesitate. Ask a question first. Put the other person on the defensive. Always make it seem like you're in the middle of something important."

"Huh." At times, Hi was a genius.

We encountered two more staffers in rapid succession. Hi bombarded each with questions as we strode by, looking busy and mildly irritated. Fortunately, the deeper into the building we went, the less scrutiny we received. We were nearing the end of the hallway when I spotted more broken glass.

"Hi!" I snagged his arm, pointed. "Look. Right in front of an exit, too."

He peered back down the long corridor. "We've come a pretty long way, Tor. That glass might be totally random."

I dropped to my knees, picked a loose shard off the concrete floor, and set it to my left. Then I removed a floor-mat fragment from my back pocket, being careful not to confuse the two. Finally, I dug a piece I'd taken from the display case from my front pocket and placed it to the right of the other two samples.

"Or not." I shoved my nose within inches of the three fragments. "Glass has several distinctive properties. Not like a fingerprint, but unique enough to determine if shards came from the same broken pane."

I examined the sliver to my right. "We know the exhibit hall case was made of tempered glass. We need to figure out if either or both of these other two samples match it."

"Tempered?" Hi's leg worked as he kept watch down the corridor. Though a quick thinker, he'd be hard pressed to explain why I was on all fours, face to the concrete.

"Strengthened." I kept my focus on the three shiny bits before me. "Tempered glass is chilled rapidly as it cools, compressing the surface area. The process makes it more resistant to breakage. The glass composing the display case was likely also laminated—heat-sealed with thin layers of plastic between several panes of tempered glass. That makes it very tough to break. But when it _does_ shatter, the glass cracks into a million tiny pieces. That's what we found onstage."

I picked up each fragment in turn. Held it to the light. Spun it in my fingers.

"I need a microscope," I muttered. "Straight eyeballing is so imprecise."

"Hey, genius." Hi tapped his temple. "Aren't you holding a bag of science tricks?"

"Yes!" I pulled out Tempe's packet and located the cheap magnifying glass. " _Perfect._ Good thinking, Hiram."

"It's what I do."

I pored over each shard again. Then once more, until I was sure.

"The observable properties are indistinguishable." I grinned up at Hi, then pumped a fist. "All three fragments appear identical in color, size, shape, thickness, and texture. We'd need a full lab work-up to be dead certain—fluorescence comparison, curvature analysis, assessment of optical and refractive properties, chemical composition—but right now I'm prepared to say that these shards originated from the same pane of glass."

"I didn't follow most of that, but fine. How'd a fragment get all the way out here?"

I rose and dusted off my shorts. "Locard's Exchange Principle."

"Picard?" Hiram's eyes went Frisbee round. "You mean Jean-Luc? Like, from _Star Trek_?"

"Edmond _Locard._ " _Honestly._ "He was a pioneer in forensic science. French. Locard said that a perpetrator always brings something to a crime scene, and inevitably takes something from it as well. It's the basic principle of forensic science: 'Every contact leaves a trace.'"

Hi nodded thoughtfully. "So our perp unknowingly carried these fragments all the way down here. Leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel."

"Yep. On his clothes. In his shoes. Inside the T-800 as he wheeled it away." I shrugged. "It doesn't matter _how_ the jerk transferred trace evidence. Only that he did."

I picked up the sample fragments and placed them in their respective pockets. "Shards this tiny can get everywhere, and be shed for long periods after leaving the scene. Our thieves carried at least a few all the way down this corridor. To _this_ door."

"Fine work, Dr. Tory. That means we need inside here." He tried the knob. The door swung open easily. "Ha! Who needs Shelton?"

We slipped through and closed the door behind us.

"Holy moly!" Hi put a hand to his chest. "I've died and gone to heaven."

The shadowy chamber was the size of a large classroom. Metal racks lined three walls, with several long tables running down the center, creating aisles. A rectangular window split the far wall, overlooking a grass field nestled between the convention center and shimmering San Diego Bay. A door in the far corner accessed an outdoor staircase that descended to the common below.

Hi was transfixed by what the racks and shelves contained.

"Good morning, sunshine!" He grinned ear to ear.

An astonishing array of wicked-looking medieval weapons filled the room. Hundreds of them. Swords. Maces. Axes. Spears. A dozen others I couldn't begin to identify.

The collection was both mind-blowing and inexplicable. What was all this stuff for?

Hi lifted a sinuous dagger from the closest rack. "Meh. Too light. Probably made of plastic." Setting it down, he knelt beside a broadsword one space over. " _Now_ we're talking. This guy's a real head-chopper."

Then Hi frowned as he gave the blade a closer inspection. "Boo. The edge is blunted. These are prop weapons. Damn good ones, though."

A name was taped to each rack space. Some were normal: Steve Kirkham. Others were comically invented: The Blood Duke of Astorca. Half of the racks stood empty.

"This stuff must belong to the role-playing guys." Hi hefted a bronze helmet topped with an iron spike. "I heard they have mock battles or something."

There was a sudden clanging outside, followed by screams of pain.

We shared a startled look, then hurried over to the window.

On the field below, a dozen medieval warriors were attacking a makeshift castle wall. They brandished a variety of weapons, and wore armor of varying quality. Though howling energetically, many appeared to be in less-than-peak physical condition.

A smaller group was defending the barrier. The two sides hammered at each other, bellowing loudly, but moving at a careful speed. As each combatant was touched by a blade, he or she fell dramatically to the ground, thrashed about in agony, then lay still.

I covered my mouth in surprise, then chuckled through my fingers. "It's some silly war game. A mock battle. This is unbelievably—"

"Wonderful," Hi breathed.

I was astounded by the number of spectators. Elaborate, antiquated tents ringed the battlefield, which had been divided into quarters. Crude wooden stands had been set at intervals to provide for a better view. Surrounding it all were troubadours, wenches, barbarians, and other costumed players, congregating in fluid groups to watch, eat, flirt, and surreptitiously check their cell phones.

"A freakin' Renaissance fair!" Hi shook his head slowly. "But for comic book weirdos. It's like _300_ out here. Who knew?"

"These people have been here awhile," I mused, gazing down at the sprawling encampment. "Probably since the convention began, but certainly by early this morning. How could someone sneak an iconic, life-sized robot out this way unnoticed?"

As we watched, the wall's defenders repelled the last of the attackers. The surviving warriors hooted and screamed, banging weapons against shields and slapping one another's backs. The raucous celebration carried all the way to where we watched.

I snorted. "Camelot held. Hooray."

A new group took the field, squaring their shoulders to face a second company forming up diagonally across the grassy expanse. A rare moment of quiet stretched, then dozens of horns began blaring. With bloodcurdling screams, the two groups charged forward at full speed and began whacking at each other.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "They do this all day?"

"All weekend," Hi confirmed. "This is serious business, Brennan. Stop hating."

"No, no." Feeling a twinge of guilt. "Good for them. Seriously. I'm glad they have such an . . . enthusiastic hobby. A passion. Whatever . . . this is."

I turned to face the equipment room. "But I'm at a loss. The T-800 isn't here, and I don't see how anyone could've moved it out."

"Should we look for more glass?" Hi sounded dubious.

"Might as well. You take the left side, I'll take the right."

We separated and circled the room, eyes searching the floor, the racks, the tabletops. Came up empty. We traded zones to double-check, but still found nothing.

Hi's shoulders rose and fell. "I guess we've run out of haystack needles."

I was about to agree when I noticed something over his shoulder. "Hi, check it out."

I slipped past him to inspect a corner rack. A sign declared the space to be the exclusive domain of Lord Mace of the Wolf Brotherhood and Bearer of Oathbreaker, the Sword of Despair.

_Please._

The shelf held only three items: a ratty blue gym bag, a staff ID badge for someone named Frank Connors, and a half-used roll of duct tape.

_Blue-green_ duct tape.

"That could match the ransom note." I was comparing the roll to my pilfered tape sample when it hit me. "Wait. Connors. _Connors!_ RoboCop said someone named Connors was on his setup crew. But the guy didn't show up this morning."

I arched one brow. "Apparently the missing employee was into _war games._ "

"I'd say the brawl outside qualifies." Hi broke out his happy dance. "Oh man, we're so good at this! Let's toss his bag."

My fingers itched to do just that, but I resisted. "We can't. We don't have the right."

Hi looked at me curiously. "Hardly the worst of our crimes today, Tor."

But I was firm. "I'm not the NSA. We need more than a name and a roll of tape before riffling someone's personal belongings."

"Bo-ring," Hi sang. "That's not how Batman gets it done."

I made a decision. Quickly formed a plan.

A little crazy, but hey? I was improvising.

"Let's find Connors first." My eyes dropped to my watch. "We don't have much time. Text Shelton and Ben and have them meet us by the tourney field outside."

Hi began typing, then stopped. "Wait. Why are we going down there?"

I flashed a wicked smile. "Because you're going to infiltrate the—" my eyes flicked to the labeled rack, "—Wolf Brotherhood, and find Frank Connors. Check him out up close."

Hi's face went still. "I'm gonna do _what_ now?"

"Today's your lucky day, Hiram. You get to be a knight."

"This armor smells like a goat's Porta-John."

"You'll be fine." Though, admittedly, I concurred with Hi's assessment.

Hi was wearing a gray tunic and head-to-foot silver chain mail, complete with a helm shaped like a vulture's head. He struggled down the steps, legs bowed, panting with exertion. I was legit concerned he might tumble all the way to the lawn below.

"I'm going to roast inside this tin can," he whined. "Why are you torturing me again?"

"We need to locate Connors." Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I shaded my eyes to look for Shelton and Ben. "After that . . . I'm not sure. The evidence points to him as our guy, but we've got nothing tying him to the crime. You need to find something."

Hi flipped up the visor of his ridiculous helm. "That's it? Find something?"

"You're the great improviser. Get close to him. See if he's acting strangely."

Hi gave me an exasperated look. "The dude dresses like Robin Hood, and is spending his convention bashing strangers with a fake broadsword he named Oathbreaker. But I'm supposed to see if he's acting strangely. Got it."

We passed a quartet of minstrels having a smoke break, then skirted a cluster of rainbow-colored pavilions. In moments we'd reached the heart of the medieval festival. I spotted Shelton and Ben standing beside a pretzel vendor. Waved.

"If Connors is our guy," I said quietly, "he must be watching the clock, right? Checking his PayPal, or whatever. The ransom deadline is less than an hour away."

Shelton's voice cut through the din. "What in the name of Grayskull?"

Catching sight of Hi, Ben broke out laughing. He now wore a brand-spanking-new Hellboy T-shirt and shorts with the Warner Brothers logo. "Nice look, Stolowitski. I'd have paid money to see this."

"You want me to start smiting?" Hi lifted his weapon—an ax blade mounted on a long pole, topped by a spike with some kind of metal hook on the back—and shook it at Ben. "I'm not sure what this is, exactly, but I'll clobber you with it."

"It's a halberd." Shelton couldn't wipe the smile from his face. "Swiss weapon, from, like, the fourteenth century. Fun fact: Vatican guards still carry them on the job."

"Awesome," Ben quipped. "Why does doofus have one? And whose armor is that?"

"Don't know," I admitted. "Let's hope the owner doesn't notice we borrowed it."

I winked at Ben. "Nice look yourself, by the way."

"Best I could do." But his face burned scarlet.

"Rifle a gym bag?" Hi muttered. "Oh no! _That_ would be wrong. But steal some dude's entire Crusade Warrior costume? That's totally cool."

I ignored him. My ethical standards may _seem_ arbitrary, but they're not. We'd return the armor as soon as we'd finished with it. You can't return someone's privacy.

_Fine. I'm ridiculous. But it works for me._

"Just get close to this Connors guy," I repeated. "See if he's the one."

"How?" Hi stamped a chain-mail-covered foot. "What, he's just going to tell me he committed a felony?"

"I don't know. Use your—"

"You there!"

I nearly jumped from my skin, head whipping to a red-faced court jester jogging toward our group. He didn't look happy.

"Heads up," I warned, crossing my fingers that this wasn't Vulture Head's owner.

Hi flipped down the visor on his helmet.

"Gerald the Terrible?" the man intoned, eyes on Hi, blue-and-yellow bells trembling on his floppy purple hat. "I thought you'd reposed to the inn for mead and bread? You'd best hurry if you want to partake in the melee!"

"Err." Hi raised a hand awkwardly. Shrugged. "Um. Yeah."

The jester waved impatiently. "Come! Your company hath already assembled in the north corner of the battleground. You're attacking Skull Crusher's fortress. In _two_ minutes."

"Right." Hi didn't move. Hitched up his stolen tunic. "Good."

Exasperated, the jester grabbed Hi by his chain mail and hissed in a sharp Boston accent, "You need to get out there _now,_ Jerry. Run, or everybody's gonna be wicked pissed!"

"Is Frank Connors playing in this game?" I asked quickly.

The jester glanced at me in annoyance, resuming his regal brogue. " _Lord Mace_ is defending Skull Crusher's fortress, milady. And he'll be most vexed if the _battle_ is delayed."

"Of course." I tried a flirty smile. "And which one is Lord Mace, good sir?"

The jester stared as if I'd farted. "The one holding mighty Oathbreaker, of course!"

"Oathbreaker?" Ben scoffed. "What are you talking about?"

"The Sword of Despair," the jester answered testily. Then he stepped closer and whispered, dropping the stage speech, "Frank's the gigantic dude with the big red sword. Look, if you're gonna hang out back here, you need to get the basics down. We try not break character."

"Got it," Ben deadpanned, "my liege."

He winced as I kicked his ankle. "Understood, good jester. Our gracious thanks. Have a glorious battle."

There. That seemed perfect.

The jester snorted. "Work on it. Now come _on,_ Jerry."

The peevish little fool marched Hi across the lawn to a group of men and women wearing similar chain mail. At his arrival, his fellow warriors began working themselves up, bashing weapons together and pounding one another's armor. Several welcomed "Gerald the Terrible" by thumping the side of his helm. Hi's knees wobbled as he struggled to keep his feet.

"Oh man." Shelton reached for an earlobe as we hurried for a better view. "This is _not_ going to end well."

Ben couldn't stop chuckling. "He's going to get skewered."

A horn sound, triggering a roar from the opposite side of the field. A slightly larger group of warriors charged, howling like madmen, waving nasty-looking weapons above their heads. They flew toward Hi's company.

The defending fighters quickly formed an organized battle line.

One that did not include Hiram.

He stood ten paces in front of the defensive formation, arms slack at his sides, facing the avalanche of screaming humanity alone.

"Oh, damn." My hands rose to my face. "He froze."

Several defenders shouted at Hi, waving him back, but our friend didn't budge. He remained paralyzed, halberd drooping as the stampede of angry barbarians thundered closer.

"Hiram!" Hands now cupped to my mouth. "Run!"

I don't know if he heard, or if his self-preservation instinct finally kicked in. In any case, Hi dropped his weapon and fled before the attacking tide.

Not soon enough. Fake swords clashed up and down the line. Hi stepped on his own pant leg and went down in a rattling heap. As he attempted to rise, a behemoth wielding a five-foot scarlet broadsword thumped him across the helm.

"Ooh!" All three of us at once.

"That hurt," Shelton mumbled.

The battle ended quickly, with Hi's squad getting trounced. His companions lay strewn across the ground in various depictions of feigned violent death. The victors whooped and yowled, high-fiving in a most unknightly manner.

"Well," I said with a sigh, "at least that's over. Maybe he can . . ."

I trailed off as the obvious became clear.

The victors retreated across the field, still pumping their fists. Hi's company circled up in a tight bunch, bickering in angry tones that carried all the way to us. A man in an eagle-shaped helmet dragged Hi to his feet. His helm had been spun sideways, and it took two additional warriors to twist it back into place.

"I think _they_ have to charge now," Ben said.

I flinched. "Yikes."

Abruptly, Hi shook off his helpers and retreated a step. Dropped to one knee.

"Quit now, Hiram," Shelton urged under his breath. "You're gonna lose your head."

Hi's portly frame shook. He dropped to all fours, shoulders heaving. Then, as two of his teammates rushed over, he bounced nimbly to his feet and jogged to the group. Hi waved off the offered assistance, his chest rising and falling as if he were breathing hard.

I felt an electric tingle crawl my skin.

"Oh crap!" All three of us at once.

"How about that?" Ben's eyes widened with surprise. "Who knew doofus had the stones."

Hiram was flaring.

"I'll kill him," I hissed. "Twice."

"Come on, Tor." Shelton shifted uncomfortably beside me. "He _is_ wearing a helmet. And you did throw him into a freaking sword fight."

True. But still.

Ben's hand squeezed my shoulder. "Help him."

"What?" I stepped back. "How?"

But I knew.

You see, my friends and I have a secret.

Months ago, the four of us were infected by a canine supervirus. The vicious little pathogen was created in a secret lab, during an illegal experiment, and somehow made the leap to human carriers. We caught it while freeing the original test subject, my wolfdog, Cooper.

We were sick for days, then had to battle our own bodies as canine DNA infiltrated our human double helixes. When the dust settled, my friends and I had been forever altered, down to the core. We became a pack. We have the wolf buried deep inside.

And sometimes, the wolf comes out to play.

We don't know what will happen next. Primal canine genes now lurk inside our genetic blueprint. At times we lose control. Lose ourselves.

But our condition is not without certain . . . benefits.

"Watch his back." Ben caught and held my gaze. "Send him signals. You're the only one who can."

"You're as crazy as he is!" I spat. "I don't even have my sunglasses."

Ben arced a hand at the crowd. "Look around you, Tor. You don't need to hide your eyes. Not here. Half the jokers at this convention are wearing goofy contacts. I'd help Hi myself if had the ability. But I don't. Only _you_ can link to our minds."

Crap. He was right.

In this crowd, glowing yellow eyes would get me applause, not suspicion. My biggest worry would be people wanting to take my picture.

Shelton tugged my elbow. "Help him, Tor. You can pull it off."

I looked back at Hi. Recalled the hammer blow he'd taken to the head.

_I did send him out there._

"Blargh." Deep breath. "Fine."

Eyes closed. Gates open.

SNAP.

I trembled as the power burned through me.

Fire. Ice. Lightning bolts traveling my spine.

Raw energy unfolded inside me like a flower. Blasting my senses into hyperdrive.

My eyes opened. Gleamed with molten yellow light.

I _flared._ Hard.

The feeling is indescribable. The battlefield shifted into crystalline detail. I heard the slightest clink of armor, the faintest tickle of a lute string. My nose erupted with a mixture of heady scents. Boiled leather. Cut grass. Hot dogs. Sweat. I felt the slightest puff of breeze on my arms, could taste yesterday's rain on the wind.

Every muscle in my body burned with caged energy. Intensity. Focus.

Yet I'd never felt more exposed. More acutely aware of a crowd around me.

But Ben was right. Though several people looked directly at me, their eyes didn't linger. A girl in a Wonder Woman tank with yellow eyes was barely noteworthy in a fantasy land of costumed knights, superheroes, and comic-book characters. When it came to sensational, in this crew I just didn't rate.

A wave of screams rolled from the battlefield.

"It's on," Shelton warned.

I spotted Hi lurking near the edge of his group. This time, however, he'd dropped into a battle crouch, halberd up, one foot bouncing impatiently.

I only had a moment.

Closing my eyes, I visualized a glowing line connecting me to Hi.

It immediately sprang to life in my subconscious. Surprised and pleased, I wrapped the fiery cord with my thoughts. The cord became a tunnel. I drove my conscious mind inside, firing down its length.

_Hiram._

_—I'm gonna whack that big bastard with this goofy ax if it's the last thing I do. Think you're so tough, Mister Stupid Medieval Death Jackass? Well, Hiram's got a surprise for you, ninja style! It's about to get REAL out here in the Dork Wars, you smug—_

_HIRAM!_

Hi jumped, then spun to face me.

_Tory? What are you—_

The horns sounded. There was no more time.

Sweat dampened my hairline as I sent. _I'm with you. Be careful._

The horns died. Hi's company began loping toward their foes.

I dropped to a knee, my entire concentration on strengthening our link. Finding that final level of completeness. I _pushed,_ somehow, willing the last mental barrier to crumble, and found myself looking through Hiram's eyes.

"Wow," I murmured. "I'm in. All the way, this time."

Shelton and Ben shifted anxiously, but didn't speak. Despite their urgings, I knew the telepathy made them uncomfortable.

Hi was bounding full-speed across the grass. He could barely see anything—the visor's vertical slats severely limited his forward vision, while the helmet's sides blocked his periphery. I backed out of his eyes, sensing I could help more from my own vantage point.

_Worry about what's in front of you,_ I instructed. _I'll watch your back._

_Okay._ Grim determination flowed through our link. _This sucks, by the way. Thanks for the terrible assignment._

The attackers reached the defensive line.

All hell broke loose.

The fighting splintered into individual duels as sweaty warriors tattooed each other's shields. Occasional breakthroughs forced the touched combatant to drop theatrically in a mock agonizing death.

Hi was on the right, trading blows with a short, fat dude in what appeared to be a bearskin. Moving with flare-induced dexterity, he slipped inside his opponent's guard and fake-gouged his belly. The man fell with a bloodcurdling wail. Hi dropped his cumbersome halberd and grabbed his victim's sword, a better weapon for close-in fighting.

A knight in plate armor appeared over Hi's shoulder, weapon raised.

_Behind you! Spin left and low._

Hi reacted instantly, dodging a falling ax as it swished through the space he'd just vacated. Then it was a simple matter for Hi to poke the man's back.

_TWO!_ Hi thundered inside my head.

_Watch out. Dive right._

Once again, Hi moved on command, narrowly avoiding another blow. Rolling to his feet, he drew a surprised _ooh!_ from the crowd. There was a smattering of applause.

Hi turned, found himself face-to-face with the titanic red-bladed demon.

_You!_ I felt Hi's lips curl into a snarl. _I owe you something, pal. Come get it._

_Easy, tiger,_ I cautioned. _Your back is clear._

Most of the combatants were down, leaving ample space for single combat.

"Dare you defy Lord Mace!?" Connors screamed, holding aloft the massive scarlet broadsword. "Fool! You shall taste the bite of Oathbreaker."

"This freaking guy." Ben shook his head.

"Too much _Lord of the Rings,_ " Shelton agreed. "He's gone mental."

I stayed focused, nestled inside Hi's mind like a hitchhiker.

_Watch his hips._

_I'm watching that freaking head-smasher!_ Hi sent back.

_He's going to feint,_ I warned. _Concentrate on his torso. You can't fake with that._

On cue, Connors jabbed left, then spun in a tight circle, swinging Oathbreaker as hard as he could. Hi barely avoided the arcing blade. A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.

_Okay. So._ Even flaring, Hi was breathing hard. _Pretty sure this guy is trying to kill me._

_Hi. Do this._ Unable to explain in words, I sent him an image from my brain.

Lord Mace was circling left, forcing Hi right. Following my instruction, Hi leaped forward, tucked into a ball, and then popped up close to his opponent's shield arm.

_Stick him in the side!_ I mentally squealed.

Hi struck like a cobra, chopping at the unprotected flank.

But Lord Mace had the answer. Sidestepping deftly, he dodged the strike, then bashed Hi in the face with his shield. Roaring manically, Connors shoulder-charged Hi to the ground. Oathbreaker landed on his chest a second later.

The crowd _ooh_ ed a darker note. Then roared with approval.

_Ouch._ Hi lay sprawled on his back. _That didn't work, Tor._

_Sorry!_ I cringed. _Didn't know you could hit with the shield thingie._

As Hi lay dazed on the grass, Lord Mace stood over him, shaking his weapon in triumph.

Suddenly, Hi stiffened. _Tory. Look._

_What?_ I stepped back into Hiram's eyes. He was staring at his enemy's boot.

Coarse brown fibers curled from its metal rivets.

_Gotcha._

We met Tempe in a dimly lit control room.

Three tiers of sleek modular workstations dropped, stadium style, to a window-wall overlooking the exhibit hall floor below. Each station was jammed with hard drives, monitors, microphones, and other high-tech equipment used to keep an eye on the convention.

Tempe was huddled with a small group on the second level. Officer Flanagan was there, along with the stone-faced woman in the navy pants suit, the T-800's owner in his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, Jenkins the Joker, and a security technician.

Video was playing on one of the screens. No one looked happy.

I hurried to join them, the boys trailing at my heels.

"Did you arrest Connors?" I asked.

Tempe nodded, face troubled.

"Mr. Connors has been temporarily _detained_ at Dr. Brennan's request," Flanagan answered. "But I've discussed the situation with Director Ahern—" Flanagan glanced at Pants Suit, "—and we've decided to cut him loose."

"What?" I couldn't believe it. "Did you check his bag? It was in the . . . knights' locker room."

Ahern's voice was ice cold. "We searched Mr. Connors's possessions, as we are permitted to do by contract with any vendor operating at the convention. There was nothing of interest."

She snapped her fingers at Jenkins, who'd found time to wipe off most of his face paint. The boy read from a folded piece of paper in a quavery voice. "Two empty sandwich bags, an empty water bottle, iPod with earbuds, and a box cutter. Duct tape, too, but that was next to the bag, not inside."

"Any vendor here can obtain tape of that kind." Ahern pursed her lips in disgust, then turned to stare down at the stage. "We hope Mr. Connors will be understanding of our mistake."

I followed Ahern's gaze. Connors was sitting on a folding chair beside Officer Palmer, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He had an enormous head, with close-cropped, spiky brown hair, a pug nose, and small, angry eyes. Connors still wore his bulky chain-mail armor, but thankfully not the sword.

Connors drilled Officer Palmer with a disdainful sneer, which clearly made the gangly officer uncomfortable. He didn't appear worried in the least.

_Not good._

"The glass," I said quickly. "It led us to the armor room, where we found tape identical to that used on the ransom note. Then Hi spotted brown fibers caught in Connors's boots. Did you compare them with King Kong?"

"We did." Tempe turned to Hawaiian Shirt. "Mr. Fernandez?"

"The hairs match, no question." The man seemed anxious, his fingers tugging at the hem of his bongo shirt. "But Connors helped position Kong last evening, and claims he wore the same shoes. He also says he overslept this morning. Jenkins says that Connors cut out early last night as well. He's out of a job—I won't abide shirkers on my team—but there's nothing pointing to him as the thief. Or anyone else, for that matter," he finished wearily.

"But that's why we're here, right?" I looked to Tempe for support. "To check the surveillance video and see who moved the T-800. It _has_ to be Connors. No one else fits the evidence."

"What evidence?" Flanagan scoffed. "Come see for yourself."

The officer nodded to the security technician, who began typing. He had a long greasy ponytail, black fingernails, and letters tattooed across each knuckle. Ouch.

The screen reset. Shelton, Hi, and Ben crowded close behind me to get a look.

"Here's the main floor at six a.m." The tech tapped another key.

The exhibit hall appeared, still and silent. The shot panned back and forth, taking five-second intervals to cover the bottom third of the massive chamber. The stage was visible during each pass. The T-800 stood menacingly between Kong and Shrek, as intended.

"Badass," Hi whispered.

"Play it from here at four-times speed," Ahern instructed.

The image fast-forwarded. A handful of workers appeared, scurrying down the aisles at comic speeds. The tech halted the video just as Jenkins arrived.

"I got there right at six thirty," Jenkins said nervously. "On time. This is me waiting for Connors. At six forty-five, I gave up, and started setting the curtains up by myself."

"Move it along," Ahern said. The tech sped up the scene. As a group, we watched Jenkins linger impatiently, then begin rigging a massive curtain array that eventually enclosed the entire stage. At precisely 6:58 a.m., he tied off the last rope and left.

"That's it, folks." The tech spun his chair in a lazy circle. "Nothing else until the reveal at ten a.m. By then the robot was gonezo." He sped the tape to 8X. Each pass of the camera took only an instant as the room filled with workers, security, and, eventually, excited conventioneers.

The curtains never parted.

At the 10:00 a.m. mark the tech slowed the tape to normal speed. We watched Jenkins appear in his Joker costume, followed by Skipper as RoboCop, who pumped up a gathering throng before pulling the curtains with a dramatic flourish.

Only problem: Shrek was chopped up, and the T-800 was gone.

I didn't get it. "I don't get it."

"Join the gang." Flanagan sighed. "The damn thing just disappeared."

"It certainly did not," Fernandez hissed, tugging at his thick white hair. "It must've been taken in one of the moments when the camera panned away!"

"The intervals are less than five seconds." Tempe shook her head. "I could maybe see the thief sneaking _on_ to the stage without being recorded, if he knew which camera to avoid. But to get the T-800 _off_ stage, then all the way to an exit? It doesn't seem possible."

"Well, it didn't just vanish!" Fernandez snapped.

"Of course not." Tempe peered through the window at Connors. "I still think he's our guy. Maybe Connors snuck under the stage and popped the hatch, then took the robot apart and removed it."

"Impossible." Fernandez shook his head vehemently. "The T-800 has over 500 parts, and most are welded together. You couldn't dismantle the Terminator without destroying it."

"I know." Tempe gave him a sympathetic look.

Fernandez's face went sheet white. "You think my machine is already destroyed?"

Tempe took a deep breath. "We have to consider the possibility."

"Then why break the case?" Hi wondered aloud, surprising everyone. "Or slash up poor Shrek?"

"To send a message, of course." Ahern made no effort to hide her irritation. "The bastard wants everyone to know what he'll do if he isn't paid. And the police can't even trace the account."

"In two hours?" Flanagan chuckled without humor. "That's way too small a window for all the parts involved. This guy knows what he's doing."

"The manufacturer assured me that case was unbreakable," Fernandez seethed. "Yet no one heard a thing? No one found an implement? I tell you, this must be a conspiracy!" His eyes darted around the room, as if considering a whole new possibility.

Flanagan sighed, stroking his bristly mustache. "In any case, we've got nothing to hold Connors on. I'll have to cut him loose."

"Let him go?" Fernandez raised his wristwatch helplessly. "The deadline is forty minutes from now!"

"Sorry." The officer shrugged. "I've got no legal basis to hold him."

I listened with a sick feeling in my gut as Flanagan radioed down to his partner by the stage. The younger officer nodded, then said something to "Lord Mace," who rose and stretched dramatically. Connors glanced directly at us, flicked a mock salute, then began sauntering away.

The queasy feeling amplified. "Connors knows where we are."

Tempe nodded. "He probably knows where the cameras are, too."

"Well, this has been a debacle." Director Ahern rounded on me. "On to the next matter. Care to explain how you accessed several restricted areas of this convention center?"

I was saved by a sharp voice.

"Wait."

Surprisingly, it was Shelton.

He was watching the screen, where the surveillance tape was still looping. "Don't let Connors go yet! There's something weird going on here."

"You sure?" Tempe whispered.

Shelton nodded rapidly, his thick lenses gleaming in the monitor's reflected light.

"Officer Flanagan?" Tempe called. "Please hold Mr. Connors for one more minute. We may have something."

Flanagan frowned, but radioed down to Palmer, who hurried to stop Connors and direct him back to the chair. Lord Mace's posture conveyed pure outrage, but he complied.

"What is it, son?" Ahern was at the end of her patience.

Shelton looked to the tech, who hadn't moved from his chair. "May I?"

The man frowned. "You know how to use this, dude?"

"The Yamaha 5500 series? No problemo."

The tech grunted, but stood, allowing Shelton to slide into his seat. He rewound the tape, then watched intently for a full minute. The rest of the group gathered behind him with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"There." Shelton froze the frame.

Flanagan's brow furrowed. "There what?"

"The curtain." Shelton toggled back a few frames, then forward. "It moved."

I saw it, too. "Good eye, Shelton."

My finger tapped the screen. "Up high, above the rope. Watch that fold." As the camera panned one direction, the left edge of the curtain overlapped the right, but as the lens swept back, the sides had switched position. Then the fabric rippled, ever so slightly.

"Okay. The curtain moved." Fernandez rubbed his chin. "So what?"

"So we check it out." Tempe was already striding for the door.

• • •

It took ten minutes to locate a ladder. Another five to maneuver it through the crowd, and ten more to return the curtains back to their original position. Fernandez was sweating through his aloha shirt, eyeing the clock as it ticked toward noon.

I'd overheard his phone call making financial arrangements.

If push came to shove, he'd send the money. And pray.

"Jackpot." Tempe motioned me up onto the ladder with her. I scampered up the rungs carefully while Jenkins and Officer Palmer braced us below. Tempe was inspecting a section of curtain ten feet above the stage floor. "Check it out."

Just shy of the edge, three holes sliced through the plush red velvet.

"It _was_ a gun." My eyes shot to the back wall of the display case. "But how are there no bullet holes?"

It hit me in a flash. "Unless . . ."

I spun awkwardly, peering back across the exhibit hall. Calculating in my mind.

_That T-shirt booth. Five rows up, maybe six._

Tempe followed my gaze. Then her eyes popped. "Of course."

"Given the angle," I blurted, "I'd guess somewhere near that T-shirt emporium."

"Five rows up, maybe six." Tempe's eyes twinkled. "Want to check it out?"

"Um, _yeah._ "

We scurried down the ladder, nearly knocking each other off in our haste. Stepping to the floor, I noticed Connors watching our movements. The smug look was long gone.

"Keep an eye on him," I said to Flanagan, who nodded tightly, taking a step closer to the suspect.

"We'll need the ladder over there." Tempe pointed to the far wall.

Jenkins and Palmer exchanged pained glances, but hauled the twelve-footer across the convention floor, fighting the relentless foot traffic. Eventually we reached a massive T-shirt display. A variety of shirts rose twenty feet in a grid, like a giant checkerboard. Altogether, ten rows of twenty shirts each hung from hooks nailed to a thick wooden backboard. Employees retrieved the higher offerings using long, hooked poles.

While Director Ahern placated the furious booth operator, we positioned the ladder at the foot of the display. Then Tempe and I climbed up, past the first five rows, stopping every rung to glance back over our shoulders.

"Tempe, I see it!" I was face-to-face with a rack of yellow He-Man T-shirts.

There. Right below the DC Comics logo. Three singed holes.

Drawing level, Tempe gently pushed the hangers aside. Found three slugs buried in the wooden backboard.

"You were right," Tempe said. "The bullets were fired from _inside_ the case. Which almost certainly makes the robbery an inside job. Jenkins or Connors."

"Or Skipper," I added, though I thought it unlikely.

We clung to the ladder a moment, each lost in thought.

"But how'd they get the T-800 out of this hall?" Tempe muttered.

A gong went off in my head. I nearly slipped from the rungs.

"He didn't."

"Okay, young lady. Everyone is waiting."

Director Ahern's tart words sent a shiver down my spine.

But I _knew_ I was right.

I'd led everyone back to the stage. Hadn't shared my theory, not even with Aunt Tempe.

I wanted to be sure.

And, being honest, was enjoying the drama.

_Unless I'm wrong. Oh God, don't let me be wrong!_

"Go on," Tempe encouraged, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Did she guess? "Your show, Ms. Brennan."

My knees shook as I climbed to the platform, walked to the middle, and faced the gaggle of irritated officials. Behind them, a sea of conventioneers had stopped to watch.

Suddenly, _I_ was a Comic-Con attraction.

_Just lay it out, piece by piece._

"We found three slugs embedded in woodwork across the hall." I pointed to where the rack of He-Man shirts hung, then spun to face the wreckage behind me. "Additionally, three bullet holes were found in the curtain covering the shattered pane. This glass was laminated and heat-tempered, making it extremely difficult to break. That's why it was used for the display case in the first place. Therefore, it's clear that our thief somehow gained entry to the case, and shot his way _out,_ not in."

Director Ahern raised her hand sarcastically. I chose to treat it as an honest request.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"All of the broken glass fell _inside_ the case," she argued. "How could that be, if the shots were fired from within?"

"A common mistake," Tempe answered with a rueful head shake. "One I unfortunately made myself. Glass flexes when struck by bullets, then snaps back, causing shards to spray in the direction from which the shots were fired. The fragments can fly up to fifteen feet _toward_ the shooter. This explains why all the debris ended up inside the case."

"But that case was sealed last night, with all three characters inside." Skipper glared at his underlings—Jenkins stood alone, fidgeting nervously, while Connors sat, stone-faced, under the watchful eye of Officer Flanagan. "Those two were the only workers with access. Jenkins had the sole key to the hatch in the stage floor."

"I never went back inside!" Jenkins raised both hands, voice pleading. "I locked the hatch after Connors bailed last night, and didn't open it again. Not even this morning, when that jerk failed to show for setup. You saw the tape—I just arranged the curtains and left."

Connors said nothing. Watched me like a hawk.

"What you've said was obvious upon locating the bullets," Fernandez groused, eyeing me with ill-disguised impatience. "But we still don't know where my robot is."

"And we're almost out of time." Skipper, green-faced as he held up his watch.

"I've got three minutes to make the transfer or I lose my investment." Fernandez shot a black look at Connors. "I can't allow that to happen. I won't. I'll have to pay."

"Cheer up." I spoke with more confidence than I felt. "I don't think the T-800 is in any danger."

Connors shifted in his seat. Leaned forward. I didn't miss it.

_Nervous, big boy?_

I stepped inside the glass enclosure and approached the mutilated troll. "Why was Shrek hacked to pieces?"

"To send a message," Flanagan replied slowly. "As Director Ahern said, the perp wants us to know he'll destroy the robot if not paid."

Ahern, Skipper, and Fernandez nodded in unison.

I turned to Fernandez. "How much is Shrek worth?"

"What, the replica?" He stroked his snowy beard, considering. "Almost nothing, actually. A few thousand dollars at most. He's a just prop once used in a Thanksgiving Day parade."

"So why would you care if _Shrek_ was destroyed?" I scooped a piece of green foam rubber from the floor. "He's nowhere near the Terminator's value."

"Perhaps the thief didn't know that?" But Ahern's eyes had narrowed.

A _eureka_ expression crossed Tempe's face. "Oh, that's clever," she whispered.

Heads swiveled her direction, but Tempe nodded toward me. "Tell them."

Before I could, stupid Hiram stole my thunder, bouncing forward and shouting, "Shrek wasn't vandalized. He gave birth!"

"What?" Flanagan rounded on my chubby companion. "Son, this is serious—"

"Hi's right." I ripped a chunk from the mangled troll. "Shrek wasn't chopped up to send a message. He was sliced open because the person hiding inside needed out."

Everyone froze.

Except Connors. The big man rose. Arched his back.

_Got you, you oaf._

"I don't . . . why would . . ." Confusion was plain on Fernandez's face.

Officer Flanagan rounded on Skipper, Connors, and Jenkins. "Inside job. The suspect _knew_ that figure was hollow, got inside undetected, and waited."

"This is fascinating, but pointless." Director Ahern slammed a fist into her open palm. "The T-800 is gone. We don't know how it was removed. We don't know where it is!"

"Of course we do." I crossed to King Kong and rapped his belly with my knuckles. "It's right here. Inside this big, misunderstood ape."

For a few seconds, everyone was struck dumb. All but Tempe, who chuckled.

Behind the officials, the costumed crowd murmured excitedly.

_Sweet Lord in Heaven, I better be right._

"It's a theatrical costume." Shelton had both ears in his hands. "A giant monkey suit."

"Operated from within." Ben nodded appreciatively. "Meaning Kong is hollow, too."

"Mr. Skipper?" I fought to keep my voice steady. "How is Kong opened?"

"Zipper." Skipper's face was slack with shock. "In back."

It took me a moment to locate the black tab at the base of Kong's foot. I yanked upward, my heart hammering in my chest.

_Please oh please oh please oh please . . ._

The zipper rose to chest level, then jammed. Kneeling, I shoved the furry sides apart.

Came face-to-face with an evil metallic grin. Red eyes glared at me with hatred.

"Whaa!" I leaped backward.

Then, face burning with embarrassment, I forced the zipper higher. More hands joined mine—Jenkins and Skipper magically appeared behind me, panting with relief. Soon we'd parted the suit enough to drag the T-800 out into the light.

The crowd roared. Applause thundered from the costumed horde.

Skipper squealed with delight as he examined the robot for damage. Fernandez was gasping, tears glistening in his eyes, shaking every hand he could find.

Connors took a small step away from the distracted cops.

Bumped right into Ben. "Going somewhere, Lord Mace?"

Shelton pointed both index fingers at Connors. "This dude had monkey fur all over his boots!"

Officer Flanagan placed a hand on Connors's shoulder. "Why'd you do it, boy?"

Connors face was granite. "I didn't do anything. Good luck proving it."

_Damn._

I looked to Tempe. Her face mirrored mine.

We'd solved the crime, but nothing tied to our suspect. Just some glass, tape, and a few stray costume hairs. Connors could explain away each with little effort.

"The gym bag!" Hi slapped his leg as if he'd just solved a riddle. "I get it now."

Flanagan gave him a questioning look.

"Provisions." Hi winked at Connors. "I get you, Lord Mace. Packed a few sandwiches and some tasty _agua_ for your stay in Troll Town? Snuck inside last night, before Jenkins locked the hatch? No wonder he couldn't find you. And you were still inside this morning, until the curtain went up and you used the box cutter to slash free. Well played. Almost."

Connors sniffed. "Nice story. Did my box cutter shoot three bullets through the glass?"

Tempe crossed to the gym bag, which was sitting on a chair by the stage. She'd somehow acquired a pair of tweezers. Squatting, she began to inspect its exterior. Her fingers darted, plucking something from a seam.

"Care to explain this?" Tempe held aloft a small bit of shredded green foam rubber. "There are tiny pieces of Shrek all over your bag, Mr. Connors. Yet you haven't been onstage since the robbery occurred."

"Oh snap!" Hi made explosion hands at Connors. "You just got Picard-ed!"

"Locard," I corrected, smiling coldly at the hulking suspect. "He's right, though. All of the trace evidence points to you."

"That stuff has been flying everywhere," Connors said defensively, but a sheen of sweat now glistened his brow. "You can't prove I cut him open. You can't prove _anything._ "

"He's got a point," Flanagan said softly. "Without the gun, or any bullet casings . . ."

_If only we'd found the gun in his bag._

Skipper and Jenkins finished setting the T-800 back on its dais. They exchanged a nervous laugh, like two little kids who'd somehow dodged a certain punishment. The crowd surrounding us gave a lusty cheer.

As they dusted the Terminator, I noticed a black plastic box attached to its hip.

"Mr. Skipper?" I waved for his attention, pointed. "What's that?"

"It's the weapon holster." He flipped it open absently. "We don't bring the . . ."

His voice cut off. Skipper gaped into the box.

I knew what he was seeing.

"Officer Flanagan?" Tempe had been paying attention. "I think they found something on the machine."

Flanagan nodded for Palmer to watch Connors, then climbed onstage and peered over Skipper's shoulder. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he reached down and removed a .45 caliber handgun from the T-800's holster. Then, surprisingly, he carefully set the gun down and reached back inside, retrieving a long black cylinder.

"Gun and silencer," Flanagan announced. "Excellent. And I think I see casings in there, too. Maybe we'll find some prints after all."

"Silencer!" Hi smacked his hands together. " _That's_ why no one heard the shots. Brilliant. And he would've gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for us meddling kids."

Shelton punched Hi in the shoulder. "C'mon, man. _Scooby-Doo_?"

"I saw the whole gang walk by here earlier," Hi shot back, rubbing his arm. "Dead serious. Their Daphne needs work, though."

Officer Palmer grinned at Connors. "We'll just check the registration on that piece, hey, friend?"

Connors shrugged, unfazed.

_Crap. It's not going to be registered to him._

But Tempe had the answer. "I suggest you bag the suspect's hands. Paper is best."

"Bag his hands?" Palmer gave her a strange look. "Why?"

"That gun was fired three times within the last four hours." Tempe looked Connors squarely in the eye. "Gunshot residue likely transferred to the shooter's hands. A simple swab should give us the answer."

Connors's eyes widened. Then narrowed. "I'm not doing any test."

He took a half step backward, was met by Palmer's restraining hand. "Should I cuff him, boss?"

Flanagan nodded as he descended the stairs. "Frank Connors, you are under arrest for—"

He got no further.

Connors turned and sucker-punched Palmer full in the stomach. The lanky officer dropped to his knees with a silent wail as the air exploded from his chest. Then Connors shoved Ben aside and barreled into the crowd before anyone could react. In moments he was lost in the shuffle.

"After him!" Flanagan shouted, tripping on the last step and tumbling to the ground.

Palmer rose with a sickly wheeze and gave chase, as Director Ahern screamed and waved her arms. Staffers converged, then a wave of Yellow Shirts went scrambling down the packed aisle in Connors's wake.

"Oh my." Fernandez pawed at his chest, staggering, face scarlet beneath the shaggy white beard. Tempe dashed over, steadying the elderly man and easing him to the floor. Skipper and Jenkins jumped from the stage, then looked at each other, unsure what to do. Flanagan hurried over to assist Tempe, barking into his shoulder radio.

Ben scrambled to his feet, his face a thunderhead. "I'll kill that bastard!"

"Wait!" Shelton jumped on Ben's back an instant before he bolted in pursuit. "I know where Connors is going."

That got my attention. "You do?"

"What?" Hi sputtered. "Where? How?"

Ben shrugged Shelton off his back, but turned to listen.

"What's the one thing we know Connors won't leave here without?" Shelton whispered.

"Of course!" I felt a rush of adrenaline. "Good thinking."

"I want to catch that jerk," Ben spat. "Personally."

I glanced at Tempe. She and Flanagan seemed to have Fernandez in hand. Director Ahern was waving at a pair of EMTs hurrying through the press of bodies as Skipper and Jenkins helped clear a path. I heard several debates as to whether the whole episode was being staged.

No one was paying us any attention.

"Okay." Deep breath. "Let's bag this jackass."

We snuck off as quietly as church mice.

Connors crept into the silent equipment room.

Forgoing the lights, the big man wasted no time as he beelined for his rack. He hefted Oathbreaker with a satisfied smile.

I slipped from the shadows a dozen paces behind him. "Hey, Frank."

Connors spun, dropping into a fighting stance.

I winked. "Had a feeling _Lord Mace_ wouldn't abandon the Sword of Despair."

"You're a very stupid girl," he hissed. "Get lost, or you'll meet this blade personally."

"Tut-tut," Hi chided, stepping out of the darkness at the opposite end of the aisle. "Threatening an unarmed girl, Lord Mace? What would the Brotherhood say?"

"You think I won't bash the both of you?" Connors's head whipped back and forth, eyes narrowing, his whole body quivering at the prospect of impending violence. "You're quick, fat boy. But not quick enough."

Connors took a step down the aisle toward me.

"Hiram and I will take a pass," I said airily. "Unfortunately, we've already spent our strength for the day."

Ben ghosted to my side, eyes blazing with golden fire. Startled, Connors pivoted, eyes darting back down the aisle toward Hi. Shelton's gleaming irises stared back.

" _These_ guys, however, have plenty of punch left in them," I said softly. "You probably shouldn't test them."

"Stupid parlor tricks!" Spittle flew from Connors's mouth. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Yes, actually." Ben cannoned forward and shouldered the lummox in the chest.

Caught by surprise, Connors flew backward onto the concrete floor. Shelton swooped in and slammed an iron helm over his fat head. Then Ben's foot connected with a thunderous clang, spinning the big man sideways.

"Booyah!" Shelton fired two shooters at Connors's prone form. "Pow-pow, yo! That's why you don't mess."

Connors lurched to his feet, tree-trunk arms flailing. One elbow caught Shelton in the shoulder, careening him into a nearby rack. Then he kicked out blindly, catching Ben's shin and dropping him to the floor.

Connors tore off the helmet. "Pathetic cretins! You will never defeat Lord Mace!"

He spotted Hi, who heroically dove under a table. Oathbreaker slammed its surface as my friend scurried into the next aisle.

Regaining his feet, Ben shoved Connors halfway down the aisle.

Connors stared in surprise. I doubt many people had knocked him off balance before.

But he'd never tangled with a flaring Viral.

Ben stalked forward, eyes burning with yellow light.

"Y-your eyes," Connors stammered. "I've never . . . what's that . . ."

"Silly knight," Ben hissed. "We're the _real_ Wolf Brotherhood."

A look of horror filled Connors's face. Abruptly, he flung the helm at Ben, forcing him to dodge. Then he charged, knocking me to the ground and disappearing out the door.

"Crap!" I sprang to my feet. "After him!"

As one, we fired in pursuit, out the door and down the stairs to the field below.

I was sure he'd flee to the battlefield, but Connors surprised me by racing along the outer wall of the convention center. After bullying through a line of Hello Kitty freaks, he vaulted a security fence and bolted toward the marina.

"After him!" Ben tore after Lord Mace, making no effort to conceal his flaming eyes. Several girls dressed as Power Rangers stopped to applaud. Shelton was a step behind, with me trailing as best I could.

Hi fell behind, wheezing and sweating. "I requested no sprinting."

Connors raced down a concrete quay bordering the waterfront. Spotting a couple at an access door to one of the marina's secure docks, Connors bashed into them, waving his ridiculous sword, then snatched up their pass card and opened the gate. He slammed it shut behind him, then jogged down the pier out of sight.

The couple ran toward the hotel in a panic. Ben reached the security gate and tested the handle. It wouldn't budge. He shook the bars in frustration.

Shelton arrived at Ben's side just before I did. "Can we climb over?"

Hi was still twenty yards behind, moaning in agony.

"No. There are spikes on top." Ben glanced to the side. "But this fence only extends ten feet each way. It's only meant to block off the dock."

Shelton grabbed an ear. "So?"

Ben smiled grimly. "Time to get wet."

He hurried to where the fence ended, took a breath, then leaped into the placid water eight feet below. Shelton and I watched him swim over to the dock and drag himself up.

"Come on!" Ben wiped saltwater from his long black hair. "It's easy."

"Jump into that?" Shelton's golden eyes narrowed with distaste. "You don't swim in a harbor! We could get tetanus. Or rabies. Something bad."

"Quit whining." I vaulted down after Ben, disturbing a family of ducks sunning by the water's edge. Ben helped haul me up onto the dock. I heard a splash behind me. Moments later Shelton sputtered up and over the side.

Shelton spit out a mouthful of ocean water. "Damn, I lost my flare."

"Oh, great!" Hi called down from the quay, red-faced and sweaty. "Wonderful. The hotel pool's not good enough for you guys?"

But he launched himself over the railing anyway. "Cannonball!"

Sopping wet, Shelton and Ben dragged him from the water.

"We have to be careful," I cautioned, surveying the dock. It stretched fifty yards ahead of us, both sides packed with pleasure boats of all kinds. "Connors had a gun before."

Ben was still flaring, but Lord Mace was the size of an ox. We needed to utilize our numerical advantage.

With Ben in the lead we crept down the dock, scanning each slip as we passed. In moments I spotted Connors hastily untying a twenty-foot yacht named _My Second Wife._ Nice.

"How'd he get a boat like that?" Shelton whispered.

"He's stealing it, dummy." Ben looked to me. "Plan?"

"What, seriously?" I snorted a nervous laugh. "Distract him. Then someone whack him with something heavy, and hope he falls down."

Shelton grabbed both ears. "Not good, guys."

"No, wait!" I waved the boys close. "How about this?"

• • •

_My Second Wife_ had been backed into a slip with its stern facing the dock. Connors was kneeling on the vessel's bow, his back to the pier, grimly untangling a knotted line.

I snuck aboard, then crept up three steps to the flying bridge. Connors was visible on the foredeck below me.

"Hey, Frank," I called down from above. "Where you headed?"

He flinched, then glared up at me, eyes filled with pure hatred. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

Connors moved for a slender, foot-wide walkway along the boat's port side, which allowed access to the stern. He found Hi there, wielding a long hooked pole. "Come at me, bro. I bet your balance sucks, since you're the size of a tanker truck."

Connors growled, then reversed himself and hurried to the starboard side of the vessel.

Found Shelton blocking that way with a spear gun. "Feeling lucky, dude?"

Connors stepped back, frustration painted on his face. "You kids are done. I'm through playing games." He stepped to the center of the bow, grabbed a crossbeam, and began hoisting himself up toward the flying bridge. Toward me.

"No way to stop me now, little girl." Connors slapped one hand over the railing. "Which one of you wants to drown first?"

Then he noticed Oathbreaker's tip, an inch from his eye.

"You were saying?" Then I whirled the broadsword overhead. Slammed the flat of the blade down on his fingers.

Connors fell back with a yowl, landing hard on the bow and shaking both hands in pain.

He failed to notice a dark shape slip from the water onto the deck behind him.

Ben, eyes glowing, lifted the boat's anchor.

Connors rose, furious eyes locked on me. "You never should've touched my sword."

The anchor took him in the side of the head.

I winced. "Night-night, Lord Mace."

• • •

Palmer opened the back of a squad car. Connors, in handcuffs, grunted as the young officer "accidentally" smacked his head against the doorframe in the process.

"Oops." Palmer slammed the door with a satisfied smile.

I hoped Lord Mace's headache lasted a week.

I returned my attention to Flanagan, who'd just finished reading us the riot act.

Schooling my face, I tried to look chagrined, nodding in the right places, expressing contrition for our reckless behavior. But the truth was, I couldn't help feeling a bit smug.

We'd tracked a suspect, foiled a robbery, and even run the bad guy down.

Pretty solid day's work.

Tempe walked over to where the four of us were sequestered on a stone bench, dripping wet, trying to hide our smiles. She sighed. "I've no idea what to tell your parents."

"As little as possible?" I suggested.

"Undoubtedly. How'd you track him down?"

"The weapon." I gestured to the giant scarlet broadsword tucked under Flanagan's arm. "No way Connors was leaving without mighty Oathbreaker. It's his whole identity."

Tempe shook her head. "You know we have to give statements at headquarters tomorrow."

"I figured."

"Connors claims Ben and Shelton are possessed."

"Crazy."

Tempe seemed about to say more, then shrugged. "Good work, Tory. All of you. They wouldn't have solved this one without your help. Fernandez would've paid the ransom."

I felt a stab of concern. "He okay?"

Tempe nodded. "Just a little too much excitement. He'll be fine."

"You were great, too, Aunt Tempe." I was attempting to cover the fireball of pride burning inside me. The boys stayed quiet, drying contentedly on a warm San Diego afternoon.

A gentle breeze blew across the marina, stirring my hair into tendrils. The sun hung at its apex as gulls chirped all around us, dive-bombing the surface of the bay in search of food.

The day simply couldn't get any better.

"My iPhone is toast." Hi shook the waterlogged device, then shoved it back into his damp pocket. "But if I recall correctly, the _Game of Thrones_ panel starts in an hour."

Shelton smiled ingratiatingly at my aunt. "Think Director Ahern could score us some more VIP passes? We missed _Bones_ while saving the day."

Tempe snorted. "I'll ask. I'm not sure where she stands on you guys. You broke about a hundred rules."

Ben flashed a rare grin. "Tell her she can keep the sword."

"Will do. Hang tight." Tempe headed over to the cluster of suits, leaving us alone.

I looked from Hi to Shelton to Ben. Didn't know what to say.

Decided nothing was needed. Instead, I stuck out a fist.

Three more appeared. Banged mine.

Then I leaned back on the bench, lacing my fingers behind my head.

"Not bad, boys. Not bad."
• • •

TURN THE PAGE
FOR A SNEAK PEEK
AT THE NEWEST
VIRALS ADVENTURE!

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

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G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Reichs, Kathy, author.

Exposure : a Virals novel / Kathy Reichs and Brendan Reichs.

pages cm

Summary: Fifteen-year-old Tory and her "viral" friends, who contracted heightened, wolflike senses during an experiment gone wrong, investigate an abduction case and make some troubling new discoveries about their powers.

[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Virus diseases—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Fiction. 4. South Carolina—Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories. 6. Science fiction.] I. Reichs, Brendan, author. II. Title.

PZ7.R26447Ex 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013025519

ISBN 978-0-698-14962-5

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Brendan Reichs would like to dedicate this book to his mind-blowingly wonderful new daughter, Alice. You are the cutest baby in the world, and that's a fact.

Kathy Reichs would like to dedicate this book to her fantabulous agent Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. This one makes twenty!

Beads of water tumbled from the darkness above.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The girl shifted, angling her pale face away from the cascade. Sodden blond hair hung lank to her shoulders, filthy with grime and debris.

The boy rose from where he crouched. Ushered the girl across the narrow stone chamber. Silently took her place. Dirty rivulets began rolling down his cheeks, gathering at the chin before dropping to the earthen floor. He took no notice. There were no dry places.

Outside the dim, moldy cell, beyond a line of rusty steel bars, a red light glowed. Steady. Unblinking. Their sole companion.

Shivers racked the girl's body. She began to whimper.

The boy reached without looking and squeezed her shoulder. The crying ceased, replaced by a smattering of snotty hiccups.

The red light watched. Fixed. Indifferent.

Time passed, unmarked by any further movement.

The whimpers soon returned. This time, the boy didn't bother to reach.

Suddenly, a loud bang broke the stillness.

Two pairs of eyes darted, nervously probing the impenetrable gloom.

The noise repeated, followed by a shriek of metal.

Instinctually, the boy and girl drew closer together.

The rasping clatter grew, echoing off the ancient stone walls.

A shadow, blacker than the surrounding dark, materialized overhead. Descended.

The boy and girl watched, breathless, their fingers interlocked.

The shadow took form—a bucket. Wooden, bound with frayed rope, and splintered along its sides. It lowered steadily on a thick metal chain.

The bucket lurched to a stop. Dangled five feet from the floor.

The boy stood. Cautiously peered over the rim.

Inside was a hunk of stale bread, already wilting in the damp, fetid air.

The prisoners attacked the loaf ravenously. Devoured the paltry meal in seconds.

"I'm still hungry," the girl whispered.

The boy shook his head.

With a squeal, the pail began to ascend. Angrily, the boy lashed out with both fists, sending the bucket arcing and spinning as it rose.

"What do you want with us!?" the boy bellowed. "Let us out of here!"

A chuckle echoed from somewhere high above.

The girl began to weep.

The bucket swung its way skyward. Disappeared into the gloom.

Water fell.

The red light gleamed.

In moments, all was dark and silent once more.

Monday

What I'd like from you is the truth, Miss Brennan."

The defense attorney's gravelly voice boomed inside the courtroom.

A jolt of adrenaline tore through me.

My mind had wandered. Impossible, I know, given the circumstances. But a second hour of questioning was taking its toll.

And this pompous toolbag showed no signs of winding down.

I cleared my throat. Shifted on the witness stand.

"Could you repeat the question, sir?" Stalling for time.

Parrish sighed dramatically. "Again?"

I nodded.

Parrish sneered, doubling his already abundant collection of chins. No doubt he thought me rattled.

Honestly, I was just tired. Tired, and incredibly on edge.

I had to watch every single word.

"Do you need a break, Miss Brennan?" Crossing his arms, Parrish nodded toward the district attorney's table. "Perhaps a chance to get your story straight with counsel?"

"Objection!" Nell Harris shot to her feet, suit jacket flapping, her ice-blue eyes radiating anger. "Mr. Parrish is impugning the witness before the jury! His false, incendiary comment must be stricken from—"

Judge Felix DeMerit raised a placating hand. "Sustained, Ms. Harris."

Afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows behind his lofty bench, reflecting from his liver-spotted scalp.

"Watch yourself, Counsel." DeMerit glared at Parrish over the rims of his old-fangled reading glasses. "Miss Brennan is a minor, and not the party on trial here. Make your case, but she _shall_ be accorded proper treatment. Am I understood?"

"Of course, Your Honor." Stroking his scraggly beard, Parrish aimed for contrite. Aimed, and failed. "My sincerest apologies to both Miss Brennan and the Court."

Whispers swirled inside the cavernous room, Charleston's largest chamber of justice. Though camera crews had been barred from the chamber—due to the presence of minors as witnesses—dozens of other media members packed the gallery. The remaining seats were filled by government officials, police functionaries, members of the Bar, and the city's elite. Armed bailiffs lined the aisles and walls, and double-manned every door.

Charleston hadn't seen a trial like this in years, nor dealt with a crime remotely as sensational. Everyone with enough pull to wrangle access had squeezed onto one of the long wooden benches.

To watch _me._

The fourteen-year-old schoolgirl who'd outsmarted a psychopath.

It was Monday, the first day of the year's fourth month.

A local blogger had already dubbed me "April Fool."

_Blargh._

"The jury shall disregard the last comment made by Mr. Parrish." Judge DeMerit swiveled to face me. " _Do_ you need a short break, Miss Brennan? This isn't an endurance contest, it's a court of law."

"I'm fine."

I wasn't. Not even close. But I wanted this nightmare over ASAP.

Despite the courtroom's subarctic temperature, my sweat glands were starting to churn full tilt. I was thankful my Bolton Prep blazer was a deep navy blue.

Pit stains do not increase credibility.

I fiddled with my ponytail before remembering Harris's advice: _Don't fidget. Sit up straight. Address your answers directly to the jury. Try not to lose your cool._

So far, I was struggling on all counts.

I hoped my face wasn't paler than my usual Irish white. And that freckles didn't really multiply when you lied, as my mother had warned when I was little.

If true, I'd soon be covered head to foot.

A quick glance at the jury. All twelve were eyeballing me.

Was that pity in their eyes? Skepticism? Boredom?

I couldn't tell. Wasn't sure I wanted to know.

_Just get through this. Ben did. So can I._

My gaze flicked to the gallery, though I knew Ben wasn't there. Couldn't be. By rule, one witness can't be present for the testimony of another. To avoid collusion, I think, though it's a stupid rule—if people want to lie, they're going to lie. Period.

Because Ben and I were definitely lying. Some.

There was no way around it.

We _couldn't_ tell the whole truth. Not without exposing what we were. Revealing the hidden powers we possessed. Announcing our warped DNA to the public.

Putting our lives at risk.

_Not gonna happen._

Inadvertently, my eyes drifted to the one spot I'd avoided since taking the stand.

Another set was staring back.

No welcome there.

Only anger. Oh yes, plenty of that.

The Gamemaster beamed pure hatred from his seat at defense counsel's table. He wore a cheap gray suit and a pair of "innocent man" glasses. But the fake plastic lenses failed to mask his palpable rage. I nearly gasped at its intensity.

Had he been glaring at me the whole time? Couldn't _everyone_ see he was crazy?

I tore my eyes away, searched for a more comfortable landing spot.

_There._ Kit.

My father manned the first seat of the front row, his mop of curly brown hair disheveled by constant worrying with his fingers. Kit looked equal parts incensed, fretful, and supportive. Catching my eye, he gave me a firm nod and flashed a thumbs-up.

I exhaled slowly. At least one person was in my corner.

I knew this day was killing him—Kit had made it _abundantly_ clear that he didn't like my being called as a witness. He didn't want me in the same room as that monster.

But Harris had been adamant—Ben and I were the keys to a conviction. Uncomfortable as testifying might be, I had no intention of letting the Gamemaster go free.

Side note. I wasn't speaking to Ben. Hadn't since the hurricane.

_Not now. Focus._

I spotted Hi and Shelton, sitting beside Kit. Relaxed a fraction more.

Those two had been spared this ordeal—Harris thought two eyewitnesses were sufficient, and Ben and I were the obvious choices. Shelton had nearly passed out in relief, but I suspect Hi was disappointed. That boy loves a show.

They sat side by side, wearing matching Bolton uniforms—white button-up shirts, maroon ties, tan pants, and navy sport jackets adorned with griffin crests. Hi was wearing his blazer properly, rather than his usual inside out.

Even Hiram Stolowitski was taking this seriously.

Noticing my glance, Shelton nodded encouragement, his thick, black-framed glasses bouncing on his nose.

Hi winked. Raised and shook both fists. Then beat his flabby chest like a gorilla.

Okay, maybe not _too_ seriously.

"I'll try again." Parrish adopted an expression of long-suffering patience, tossing a quick glance at the jury to measure the effect of his performance.

_Dirtbag._

"You _claim_ that five of you—" Parrish turned to squint at Hi and Shelton, before returning his gaze to me, "—were lured to and trapped inside a basement by my client. Correct?"

"Yes."

"This group included Mr. Benjamin Blue?"

"It did."

Parrish pivoted to face the jury. "That would be the _same_ Ben Blue who has already admitted complicity in these crimes."

I sat up straighter. "Ben only helped _before_ The Game turned dangerous. He didn't know what the Gamemaster really had planned. Once Ben did, he tried to stop—"

"So he claims," Parrish interrupted. "How very convenient for him. And for his deal with the prosecution."

"Objection!" Harris popped up once more, looking daggers at Parrish. "Withdrawn." Parrish crossed to his table and picked up a thick file marked Exhibit B. "Miss Brennan, in a statement to police you asserted that a massive steel grate trapped your group inside a ventilation room."

Not a question. I didn't respond.

Parrish smirked at my small defiance. "Yet when police arrived three days later, they found the way clear, and the metal grate lying _broken and to the side._ The report described its condition—thick steel bars, twisted, with some pieces snapped clear in half."

My perspiration waterfall resumed its flow.

Parrish adopted a quizzical expression. "Can you explain that?"

"Explain what?" Lame response, even to my partial ears.

"You _claim_ that this grate was a sinister trap, designed and constructed by my client." Parrish moved in closer, like a buzzard circling a carcass. "So how did it end up mangled on the basement floor?"

"We managed to escape." I couldn't look at the jury.

"You managed to escape?" Parrish's brows rose theatrically. "This inescapable prison? How, pray tell?"

I swallowed. "We dislodged the grate from the wall."

"You dislodged it?" His eyes widened with exaggerated wonder. "A five-hundred-pound metal barrier, composed of interlinking steel bars?"

"That's right." Curtly spoken. His habit of repeating my answers was beyond irritating. "There were four of us pounding on the thing. It was stressful. We must've had enough adrenaline pumping to pull it off."

Parrish snorted. "That's pretty darn impressive, to snap steel bars like matchsticks."

I felt blood rush to my face. Hoped the jurors didn't notice.

My explanation sounded sketchy, even to me. But I couldn't reveal how we'd really done it. Couldn't tell the jury we have freaking superpowers.

_You see, fellow citizens, my friends and I were recently exposed to a canine supervirus, and have developed tremendous physical and super-sensory capabilities as a result. We ripped that grate from the wall by unlocking wolf-like powers hidden in our DNA._

I wasn't sure which would happen first—the Gamemaster's acquittal, or my committal.

The jury stirred. I saw doubt creep onto several faces.

Parrish moved in for the kill. "Isn't it _more_ likely that you found that big ol' grate already lying on the ground? Where it'd been resting, broken, for years? That your friend Ben Blue took you straight to it, as part of his dangerous prank?"

"Of course not!"

Parrish's voice sharpened, his drawl disappearing. "You were never trapped in that room, were you, Miss Brennan?"

_Enough defense. Play offense._

"Maybe the bolts were poorly seated," I said firmly.

Parrish paused, assessing my words. The Gamemaster shifted in his seat.

I pushed ahead. "Police investigators found three-inch steel bolts scattered on the electrical room floor. Look in that report you're holding—they matched a series of drill holes surrounding the ventilation room's doorframe. Keep reading, and you'll see where CPD confirmed that those holes were newly excavated, and that the runners flanking the doorway had recently been greased."

Parrish held up an index finger. "That's neither here nor—"

I cut him off. "CPD also confirmed that the quarter-inch screws securing the steel bars were purchased locally, only a month before the incident. Same with the grate's track-locking mechanism. And please reread the statement of Max Fuller, a freelance welder in Myrtle Beach. He recalls building the wheel assembly just six months ago. The DA sent you that one, correct?"

Parrish's face purpled. "Listen here, missy. _I'll_ ask the questions."

"I thought you wanted a response?" I shot back. "Evidence proves the grate was recently constructed and attached to the basement wall. It slid down from the ceiling and locked us in. As its maker intended."

Parrish struggled for words. He waved a hand weakly, attempting to regain control of the exchange. I declined to let him.

"Why did the grate fail?" I shrugged, then turned my most earnest face on the jury. "I honestly can't say for sure, but my friends and I are only alive because it did. It was a gift from God. And for that reason, I don't question my good fortune."

Smiles. Nods. I noticed the Gamemaster seething in his chair.

"Who knows?" I met his glare directly. "Maybe the whole apparatus was poorly constructed."

"Liar!" The Gamemaster slammed both fists on the defense table. "I built it perfectly!"

The courtroom froze in stunned silence.

"The Game was _flawless_!" Spittle flew from the Gamemaster's mouth as he suddenly sprang up and vaulted over the table. "You _cheated_! You had _help_ somehow!"

Screams. Breaking glass. The sound of chairs overturning.

The Gamemaster bounded toward the witness stand, madness in his eyes.

Two strides.

Something stirred deep within me.

_No! Not here!_

Then a crush of bodies swarmed the Gamemaster. He disappeared under a pile of tan bailiffs' uniforms, still struggling to reach me.

The gallery erupted in chaos.

Judge DeMerit pounded his gavel, but no one paid any attention. Mayhem engulfed the courtroom as more guards entered the well and flung themselves atop the enraged defendant.

Slowly, the officers regained control. Multiple sets of handcuffs appeared and were applied. Bailiffs began peeling off the dog-pile like layers of an onion.

And there, at the bottom of the scrum, was Kit.

_Oh, Dad._

He was panting like a marathoner, arms still wrapping the Gamemaster's legs in a death grip. He'd clearly been first to react.

"This Court is in recess!" Judge DeMerit bellowed, still hammering away. "The witness is dismissed. Bailiffs, remove the jury and remand the defendant into custody."

As some officers hustled the jurors from the room, more guards marched the now-silent Gamemaster through a rear door.

Harris sped to the stand and grabbed my hand, her short blond bob now as mussed as an abandoned bird's nest. "Are you okay, Tory?"

I nodded, still too shaken to speak. Harris escorted me over to Kit, who was seated at the prosecution table, holding a napkin to his nose.

"Nice tackle." Unsure what to do, I squeezed his shoulder.

"Missed my calling." Kit rubbed the side of his face. "I'm a born linebacker."

Shelton and Hi appeared at my side.

"Oh, man!" Shelton had both hands on his dome. He seemed winded, despite not having moved during the attack. "Things just got real in here."

"I've said it before, Tory." Hi shook his head in wonder. "You have a natural gift for pissing people off. And not just _kinda_ mad. Like, lose-your-freaking-mind, rush-the-stand-in-open-court bonkers."

My eyes rolled. "Thanks."

Harris smoothed her suit with trembling hands. "We need to clear the courtroom." Despite everything, I detected an undercurrent of excitement in her voice. "I'll walk you out."

I cast a final look back at the stand. Judge DeMerit stood frozen behind his bench, gavel in hand, a stunned expression on his face.

_I hear that._

Kit gathered me with one arm and we hustled from the chamber.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook