Page 120 of Confessions of the Dead

Sordello:

They don’t match the ones you saw on that girl?

Maro:

No. There are only a handful here. That girl’s arms were covered. This arm is wrong, too. It’s too thin. Younger. Who is this?

Sordello:

Do you recognize any pattern? Or maybe the opposite. Do you see anything different about these names versus the ones you saw on the girl Stuart Peterson called “Judgment”?

Analysis Note: The subject’s vitals dropped off again. He became so still staring at that photograph, he might have been a statue.

92

Cody Hill

CODY HILL WAS PLEASED.

He stood outside Hollows Bend Middle School near the entrance to the quad in total awe of himself.

Not only were people actually showing up, but they were coming in droves. Many looked relieved at the sight of so many other bodies all moving together, finally doing something with purpose. Others seemed downright giddy about the whole damn thing. Brenda Trendle’s mom had set up a table at the entrance to the gym, and together with a handful of cheerleaders (two of whom had even put on their uniforms) was passing out bottles of water and sandwiches. Principal Martinez was standing at the door, shaking hands and ushering people inside with that fake understanding look smeared across her face, the same one she’d worn when Brett Murphy stole Cody’s underwear from his gym locker and ran them up the flagpole in front of the school. As if she had any clue whatthatfelt like. As if she had any clue what people were feeling now. Oh man, Cody wished he’d thought toput up cameras so he could record this and watch it all on a loop if he somehow managed to come out alive on the flip slide.

At just the thought of that, the weight of the heavy vest bit into his neck and threatened to pull him to the ground. It didn’t weigh as much as the bomb he’d stashed under the bleachers, but it still added at least thirty pounds to his wiry frame. Exercise had never been at the top of his priority list, and he was a little pissed that no one mentioned how much heavy lifting was involved when he combed the various bomb-making blogs. Even the jihad sites he’d read with Google Translate didn’t cover that. He had no idea how some of those skinny fuckers managed to tote their cargo from their cave to the market or whatever the hell they did out there.

No matter.

Less than an hour.

He glanced at this watch.

Forty-seven minutes, to be exact.

Cody slipped his hand in the pocket of his hoodie and thumbed the corner of the Talk button on the Motorola radio. It would be so easy to just set off the other bomb from here, watch it go boom, and wander home when the last of the flames fizzled out. He’d hoped to have his endgame figured out by now but was seriously still on the fence. Part of him wanted to watch it all, be here tomorrow when some authority finally swept in and tried to piece it all together. He wanted to see how long he could string those people along, put a spin on it if any of them even managed to figure out he was behind it. He seriously doubted they ever would. But another part of him wanted to walk to the center of the gym, stand right in front of all those fuckers, and watch their faces when the bomb went off. Maybe even detonate his vest about thirty seconds before the big one blew, create a panic, let them trample each other trying to get to the doors. None of them would make it; the second bomb would get them all for sure, but damn … the fear he could create in those thirty seconds. The satisfactionof knowing it would happen was nearly enough for him to end it all. He had nothing to look forward to when this was over. If he managed to walk away, managed to talk his way out of whoever came asking questions tomorrow, if he pulled all that off … then what? Where would he go? What would he do? He’d have a fun day or two, but the party would be over quick. Then what? Foster care? An orphanage? The streets? Maybe juvie. Adulthood. Some minimum-wage job doing some silly bullshit. None of those things sounded particularly worth sticking around for.

“You going in, Cody?”

Cody swung around so fast he nearly hit the button on the Motorola, and wouldn’t that just sum up his entire life? He’d go down in the books as not even getting that right.

Marcie Holden was standing there—hot as hell, never said two words to him, high school student—Marcie Holden. She offered him a bottle of water. “Ms. Trendle told me to give you this and tell you it’s best to stay hydrated. People forget that when they’re under stress.”

Cody took the bottle but didn’t drink. “Do I look stressed?”

“I’d be concerned if you didn’t.”

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