Before It's Too Late

by Sara Driscoll

  “The ME is thinking she was injected with something? Maybe an anesthetic while the suspect moved her, or a hallucinogen to terrorize her inside the coffin?” Lauren frowned. “Not that something like that would be necessary. It was a self-fulfilling prophesy.”

  Craig nodded his agreement. “He’s a careful man, our ME, and samples have been sent for tox screening. Fibers and swabs have been collected and are being analyzed. But we all know how long that can take.”

  Meg’s mug thumped down with more force than required on the desktop. “What if we tell them we’re looking at a repeat offender? Would that light a fire under them?”

  Craig sent her a flat look that clearly said, Settle down. “This isn’t their first rodeo, Jennings. They know what they’re doing, and they’re doing it as fast as they can.” When she opened her mouth to speak again, he raised a hand to stop her. “Moving on to Michelle Wilson. Mrs. Wilson is a widow, living on her own, with only her dog, in Cape Charles. She works in real estate and is well known in town as being a walker. She and that dog go all over town, but their habit during better weather is to walk at night on the beach.”

  “So she’s predictable,” Brian said. “If anyone wanted to go after her specifically, there’d be a pattern.”

  “Yes. She was seen by neighbors as she was heading out toward the beach. Investigators canvassed the area, but no one else saw her. There were multiple access points for both foot and vehicle traffic that crossed or came very close to the beach, so we’re not sure where she was taken from.”

  “We’ve got two different abductions in two separate locations,” Meg reasoned. “There must be a vehicle involved.”

  “I agree,” Craig said. “So we’re acquiring any security footage of the areas available. As far as Mrs. Wilson’s physical condition goes, she also had a needle mark inside her elbow. Blood was drawn and tox screens are in process.”

  “Why is she in a coma?” Meg could hear the words were too harsh, too forceful, but couldn’t seem to hold herself back. Women who looked like her were dying and they were losing the game. “What did he do to her?”

  “Not much, but it was damned effective. It was all in her positioning when he restrained her. The doctor said it was something called ‘positional asphyxiation.’ Based on how she was restrained, her ability to breathe was inhibited over a prolonged period of time. Essentially, she suffocated in a room full of air because she couldn’t draw enough air into her lungs. Then she went into cardiac arrest.” He turned to Meg. “You arrived shortly after and saved her life by unfolding her and starting CPR. But the doctors say it’s too early to really understand the amount of damage done. She’s not brain dead, but she’s in a very deep coma. Only time will tell there.”

  “So that’s two for two, then,” Brian said.

  “ ‘Two for two’ what?”

  “Asphyxiation deaths. Different method, but the same result. This is his goal?”

  “That’s what Rutherford at the BAU thinks.”

  “He’s taking this case?”

  “Normally, they profile after three victims, but this is happening so fast, the pattern is coming together quickly. He’s asked us to send him everything we have so he can look at it in much more detail. In his opinion—and it’s worth something because he’s seen a lot of this kind of thing—with two victims coming this close on top of each other, we should expect the next one soon.”

  Meg closed her eyes, unable to speak. Soon another woman who looked like her would be in danger. How could she possibly stop it?

  Craig either didn’t notice her distress, or chose to push onward, since dealing with the case was their only method of offense. “Now let’s look at how organized this perp is. The CRRU boys say the code in both notes is a Vigenère cipher, which is a form of polyalphabetic substitution—code substitution using multiple alphabets. This is a really simple form of polyalphabetic substitution, developed in the sixteenth century, but you may be more familiar with a much more complex version of the same type of substitution—the Enigma machine.”

  “If this is so simple, how come it took them nearly an hour to crack the first code?” Lauren asked. “And not that much less for the second.”

  “Well, the first time they had to figure out what kind of code it was. From then on, for both messages, they didn’t have the keyword for it, so they had to figure it out backward. They ran through the process with me, but I admit I stopped listening about two minutes in. That’s their department, and as long as they get the job done, I’m happy to leave it to them.”

  “Have you got a copy of the messages?” Meg asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get me a copy? My name is on them, so I’d like to know what I was supposed to see. Actually, it might be best if you sent it to all of us. We want everyone on the same page.”

  “Agreed.” Craig pulled out his cell phone, and bent over it for a moment. “There you go. The original and deciphered text and an image of each note.”

  During the pause while Craig was looking for the report, Meg noticed Brian staring at her. When he didn’t take his eyes off her, she finally turned to him. “What?”

  “You’re not going to bring it up, are you?”

  Meg knew exactly what he was talking about; after all, she’d shared it with him. But that was meant to be between them, not for the whole team. She hoped he wouldn’t push it, so she played it light. “I think we’re covering everything.”

  “Uh-huh.” Brian swung around to face Craig. “No one in this room has said the words out loud, so I’m going to. We all know the notes are addressed to Meg, but the victims also look like her. For Sandy, maybe not so much in the driver’s license picture you showed us, but in real life, she looked startlingly like Meg. And Michelle . . .” He turned to meet Meg’s narrowed eyes. “Maybe you thought I didn’t notice last night, but I did. By that point, I was looking for it. She’s a slightly older version of you, but still striking in resemblance. It needs to be said. I’m not suggesting you shouldn’t be on this case. It’s just another angle we need to keep in mind, and we all need to be aware of, because whoever partners with you needs to keep their eyes open for anything odd.”

  Lauren sat up and leaned forward. “You think Meg is a target.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but this guy seems to have his sights set on her for some reason.”

  Meg threw up her hands in frustration. “Why? Honestly, I’m not that special.”

  Brian gave her a familiar Don’t you dare go dissing yourself look. “Some of us think you are. And maybe this guy does too. The question is why? I mean, it could be a coincidence a single vic looks so strikingly like you, but two? No way. So why is he singling you out?”

  “Could be the notoriety from the Mannew case,” Craig hypothesized. “Her picture was in the Washington Post the morning after the first bombing. Then after she actually caught Mannew, Peters dragged her up in front of the media for that press conference. Her face was in every newspaper and on every news network for a few days.”

  Meg groaned and sat back in her chair, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

  “Peters loved it,” Craig continued. “And so did Director Clarkson. Great publicity for the Bureau. So the question becomes—with you so far out in the public eye, could you have caught someone’s attention? We can’t discount it. Have you received any threats, of any kind?”

  “Of course not. I’d let you know if I had.”

  “Then I think it’s time to start thinking about anyone who might hold some sort of grudge against you. Especially since no one thinks this is the end for this guy. The only question now is who and when?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Cipher Disk : The Confederate cipher disk was a mechanical-wheel cipher machine consisting of two concentric brass disks, each with the twenty-six letters of the Latin alphabet, which was used to encrypt messages. Created by Francis LaBarre and based on the Vigenère cipher, only five disks are k
nown to exist today.

  Tuesday, May 23, 5:32 PM

  I-395 South

  Washington, DC

  Meg’s cell phone rang just as she was merging onto I-395 South, heading for the Rochambeau Bridge over the Potomac and toward home in Arlington. She glanced at the name displayed on the small screen on her dash—C. McCord.

  Part of her wanted very much not to answer, but, truthfully, she’d expected his call before now. “I guess it was only a matter of time, right, Hawk?” She answered the call. “Jennings.”

  “It’s McCord.”

  “What can I do for the Washington Post’s finest?”

  McCord, already a well-known investigative war correspondent for the Post, shot to renewed prominence during Meg’s last case when the bomber threatening the eastern seaboard used McCord as his personal communication channel. “I’m being stymied by the FBI’s media liaison, so I thought I’d come to the source.”

  “You do realize that’s her job, right? To keep the media hounds at bay?”

  “ ‘Media hound’? You wound me, madam.”

  His over-the-top dramatics drew a much-needed smile from her. “Not a chance in hell. So you’re looking for information?”

  His voice grew suddenly serious. “Partly. I also wanted to make sure you’re okay. All the liaison would say is that the coded notes from yesterday were addressed to a member of the FBI. But that made me curious so I pulled in a favor. She said a ‘member of the FBI,’ not an agent. And lo and behold, it turns out to be one of the Forensic Canine Unit handlers. It turns out to be you.”

  “They were trying to keep that information under wraps.”

  “And it will stay that way, at least by me. Can you tell me about what’s going on?”

  Meg paused, torn. Part of her wanted to do a cop’s knee-jerk reaction to any reporter and to tell him to back off. But part of her recognized the man who’d helped so much in the last case and had been utterly trustworthy.

  We need better intel if we’re going to keep doing this.

  Her own words to Brian as they knelt over Michelle Wilson rang in her head. Two victims; both times they were too late, one fatally. The code was taking too long to crack, the messages too long to solve, and women—women who looked frighteningly like her—were dying in her place. She knew what her answer should be: As a member of the FBI, she knew all case details were confidential. Bringing anyone else into the case was a breach of protocol and could cost her job. But it was a battle between her heart and her brain. She knew the rules, but at what point did the end justify the means? How many women saved would justify crossing the line? Two? Four?

  One.

  “Meg? You still there?”

  Meg glanced at the clock on her dash, and cemented her decision.

  “McCord, it’s been a long day after an even longer day yesterday.” When he started to speak, she cut him off. “So give me some time to go home, eat dinner, and recharge, then I’ll tell you what I can, but you’ll have to keep it under wraps for now. You kept details of the Mannew case quiet until I could give you the green light to release them. Can I get your promise to do that again?”

  “Scout’s honor. And maybe I can help you. You know us news guys . . . we’ve got contacts in all sorts of places.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping for. Write this down.” She rattled off her home address. “Give me two hours and then come on over. And bring Cody. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks and Cara tells me he’s coming along really well,” she said, referring to McCord’s enrollment in one of Cara’s puppy obedience classes.

  “Your sister is a miracle. He hasn’t eaten one of my shoes in over a week now.”

  “Congratulations. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.” She ended the call and glanced back at Hawk. “Hope you’re up to enthusiastic company tonight, Hawk. Nothing like a puppy to liven things up.”

  After the past twenty-four hours, a little puppy chaos might be just what the doctor ordered to keep the conversation they were about to have from going over to the dark side.

  Tuesday, May 23, 7:28 PM

  Jennings residence

  Arlington, Virginia

  Meg answered the knock on the door, opening it to reveal tall, blond Clay McCord and his eleven-month-old golden retriever, Cody, who immediately jumped up, bracing his front paws on Meg’s thighs. Before she could even open her mouth, Cara’s voice sounded behind her. “Remember, Clay, consistency. Whether he’s testing his limits or is just excited, you’re still in charge.”

  “Cody, down,” McCord ordered, and the dog dropped to all fours. McCord stared at Cara in wonder. “It always amazes me when he actually listens.”

  “He’s a smart boy. He just needs to know you’re the alpha dog.” Cara stooped to give Cody a rub. “How’s my growing boy? I swear you’re an inch taller than last week.”

  “It seems like it. He’s certainly eating me out of house and home.”

  “Until you get him neutered, no harm in feeding him what he wants. He’s burning everything off.”

  “Subtle push there. Don’t think I didn’t catch it.” Despite his words, McCord grinned. “So, before you ask me again, his surgery is booked for week after next. I wanted to wait until we finished your first intensive class before we interrupted his training.”

  “Great idea,” Meg said. “I hear he’s coming along nicely, so you don’t want to sabotage that. Do we want to send them all out to run around and tire him out?”

  “Yeah, let’s give them some time out back. Come on through.” Cara led the way through the mudroom and into the living room, where Hawk, Saki—Cara’s therapy dog—and Blink, a retired racing greyhound, all flopped on the couch together. She clapped her hands to get their attention. “Playtime.”

  At the word “play,” Blink’s rangy brindle body was off the couch and running for the back door. “You can take the dog out of the racetrack . . .” Cara muttered. “Saki, Hawk, playtime.”

  Saki, a dusky gray stubby American bully with startling blue eyes and a cleft palate and lip that exposed her teeth, raised her head and gazed steadily at Cara. Cara gave her rump a playful nudge. “Yes, I know you just came in and were already settling down. But now we’ve got a baby on our hands and he needs to play. Come on.” Saki jumped down and ambled after Blink toward the back door.

  Meg simply gave Hawk a silent hand signal—off you go—and he, too, followed. Cara opened the door and all four dogs shot into the backyard. Cody tore in the direction of a piece of rope and Blink went after him and then proceeded to spend the next minute in a happy game of tug-of-war. The three humans crossed the back deck to lean against the railing and watch the organized chaos down below in the large fenced space.

  “Nice yard you’ve got here. I’d kill for a place I could let Cody out that didn’t involve three flights of stairs.”

  “That’s what you get for having a dog in a three-story walk-up.” Cara was unsympathetic. “On the other hand, it’s great exercise for both of you.”

  “There is that.” McCord leaned an elbow on the railing, resettled his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, and fixed a level gaze on Meg. “So? What happened yesterday? The real story and not the sanitized version fed to us by the media liaison.”

  “Nothing in print until I say so.”

  “Didn’t I already say that?” Irritation sparked at the edge of his words.

  “You did, but I just need to be sure. I’m about to cross a line that could get me into pretty big trouble.”

  “ ‘Trouble’?” Concern colored Cara’s tone. “How?”

  “I want to tell you about this case. About the whole case.”

  McCord’s eyebrows arched, but he kept his mouth shut, clearly not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Cara, however, knew this wasn’t standard procedure. “ ‘The whole case’? Craig gave you permission to discuss it?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘but.’ I have to do something
. I won’t be able to live with myself if we lose another one.”

  “ ‘Another one’?” Cara laid a hand on her arm. “Did the second victim from last night die?”

  “No, but she’s in a deep coma, which is almost as bad. They don’t know if she’s going to come out of it.”

  “That’s not the story the media liaison told me. We were told she was stable.”

  “She’s been stable in that coma since we found her.”

  “The media liaison said messages were coming into the FBI and the note was addressed to a member of the FBI, which we now know is you. Why?”

  “Wait, what?” Cara whipped around to face her sister. “The victims you’re going after, there are messages about them, and they’re addressed to you?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t say anything about it before, shouldn’t say anything about it now, but we’re losing this game fast and McCord offered to help.” She turned back to McCord. “We’re not sure why they’re addressed to me. It might be because I was highlighted in the Post during the Mannew case. Or it could be something I did in the Richmond PD years ago, who knows?”

  “What was in the notes?” McCord asked. “We know they were encrypted, but that’s all.”

  “The messages are in code?” Cara asked. “Can I see it?”

  Meg glanced sideways at her sister, suddenly seeing a new avenue opening she hadn’t focused on before—her sister, the puzzle fiend. The one who could blow through a crossword or Sudoku in a fraction of the time regular people, like Meg, would manage it. The one who could see patterns where none apparently existed, until she proved they did.

  She pulled out her cell phone and opened her mail, searching for Craig’s e-mail. “Here it is. The messages come in as a string of capital letters in clusters of five with no punctuation.”

  “You wouldn’t want to give away any clues as to the structure of the message by indicating beginning or ends of sentences.” Cara held out her hand, a tacit request.