Before It's Too Late

by Sara Driscoll

  Meg passed over her phone and Cara angled it so both she and McCord could see it. “It’s something called a Vigenère cipher.”

  “Polyalphabetic substitution,” Cara said. “And half a millennium old. So, not incredibly complicated.”

  “If it was more complicated than this, we’d have never had a chance. For our first victim, we barely had a chance to begin with, and it was dependent on the riddle getting solved right away. We missed the boat there. For the second victim, it was pure luck and nothing to be proud of.”

  Cody had run up the stairs with a Frisbee in his teeth for McCord. After taking it, McCord paused, one arm partially wrapped around his middle in midthrow. “Wait, what riddle?” He launched the Frisbee and Cody tore after it as he turned back to Meg. “The liaison didn’t say anything about a riddle. She just said each note contained the location of the victim.”

  “Not directly. The first deciphered note read, ‘Find her before she dies. Come to Washington’s House in Alexandria. The clock is ticking on her life.’ ”

  McCord paused for no more than two seconds. “Arlington Cemetery is the logical answer to that. You could have been there in fifteen minutes. Did something go wrong?”

  “The cryptanalysts thought it was Mount Vernon.”

  McCord shook his head. “Mount Vernon isn’t in Alexandria. It’s near it, but not in it. So the only Washington house in Alexandria is what is now Arlington House, overlooking Arlington Cemetery.”

  Meg simply stared at him. “How do you know that? We had to have a history prof from Georgetown tell us.”

  “I’ve always been a military history buff, especially Civil War history. My dad started me young and used to take me out on weekends to tour Civil War battlefields. Do you know the rock formation at Devil’s Den in Gettysburg is virtually unchanged from 1863? Standing there is like being a part of history.” He ground to a stop as both women stared at him with nearly identical expressions of bafflement. “Anyway, back to this clue, Arlington is the only thing that makes sense. Lee’s mansion, passed down to him by Washington, his father-in-law, taken over by the Union, which then turned the grounds into a cemetery, guaranteeing Lee would never return to his own home after the war.”

  “I wish you’d been on hand yesterday. Sandy Holmes might still be alive.”

  “You only have to call. What about the second victim?”

  “Her clue was ‘She is on John Smith’s Island in a place known to her family. Will she die there too? Not if you hurry.’ ”

  “That one is a little harder,” McCord said. “John Smith discovered a lot of geography in his day.”

  “The connection was apparently her position as a Daughter of Union Veterans of the Civil War. That cross-referenced to Belle Isle in Richmond, Virginia, because she had a great-great–et cetera, et cetera–grandfather who died there as a Union officer.”

  McCord whistled. “Belle Isle. That place was a hellhole.”

  “In what way?” Cara asked.

  “It was a Confederate prison in the Civil War. Way overcrowded, overrun with disease. In just two years, estimates of the number dead range anywhere from one thousand to fifteen thousand of the total thirty thousand prisoners housed there. The men rescued were barely more than skin and bones. Horrifying. It was right up there with Andersonville for barbaric practices.”

  “And now it’s a city park,” Meg said.

  “Yeah, kind of blows your mind, doesn’t it? But they moved all the Civil War dead to Richmond National Cemetery a long time ago, so there’s no relic of that nasty time there now. And speaking of the Civil War, that Vigenère cipher is related.”

  “How? I was told it originated in the sixteenth century.”

  “It did. But the Confederate Army used it during the war for most of their coded communications. The Union tended to use route transpositions, but the rebels used Vigenère.” He looked from one woman to the other. “Am I the only one seeing the Civil War connection? Arlington to Lee’s mansion to the Belle Isle camp to the cipher?”

  “You aren’t now. Damn, we didn’t pick up on that at all.”

  “You guys needed someone on hand with a real knowledge of history for this one.”

  Meg propped her elbows on the railing and looked out at the dogs frolicking in the grass in the cooling spring evening. She felt a little jealousy at their ability to just be. “I’m not sure that’s exactly the right way to put it.”

  “You don’t think that would have helped you?”

  “Oh, it would have helped. I just don’t think the need has passed. He’s going to hit again, and when he does, we need to be ready. If he hints at another Civil War connection, we need to be able to make that leap quickly.”

  Cara stared down at the phone still cradled in her hand. “So you expect him to send another message.”

  “Yes. And so does my team.”

  “You’ll use the victim connection then?”

  “The victim connection?”

  “I heard on the news that Sandy Holmes was a veteran?” At Meg’s nod, Cara continued. “She was buried in Arlington in a soldier’s grave. And, as a veteran, she could rightfully be returned there for her own burial. Arlington isn’t just a connection to the Civil War. It’s a connection to the victim herself. And Michelle Wilson’s family is connected to Belle Isle through a relative who died there. Another Civil War connection and a victim connection.”

  McCord bent down as his dog bounded up the stairs, panting and bright-eyed, with a bright red rubber ball in his mouth. He dropped the slobbery sphere into McCord’s hand and was racing down the steps, even before McCord had the ball in the air for him. He wiped saliva onto his pants as he turned back around. “If he’s really going to do this again, that could help us.”

  “‘Help us’? Look, I’d love to use you as a consultant, but this has to be totally under the radar. The FBI can’t know I have a reporter on this, or I won’t have access to case details when we need them. And you can anonymous-source me as much as you like, once I give you the green light, but they can’t know I’m feeding you information, because the case details are going to be crucial.” Meg studied her sister, who was contemplating the phone screen with narrowed eyes. “I’ll need those details to give to you, Cara.”

  Cara looked up. “The coded messages?”

  “Yes. You think you can solve a Vigenère cipher?”

  “I’d like to have a go at these ones, now that I can see the raw code. I know a little about these ciphers, and I know there are some tricks you can use to play around with the cipher when you don’t have a keyword. Having the keyword is . . . well . . . key. If you have the keyword, you can decode the cipher quite easily. Without it, it’s a lot harder, but not impossible. And I think that’s the point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever your killer is, he doesn’t want the code to be so difficult you have no chance of saving the victim. Where’s the fun in that? If it takes days or weeks to solve it, your victim is already dead. There’s no urgency. So make it something to slow you down, versus something to stop you in your tracks, and now you’ve got a game worth playing.”

  “That’s what this whole thing is, isn’t it,” McCord said. “One big game to him? And a game is no fun if someone isn’t playing with you.”

  “And he’s really playing with you,” Cara said. “Like a cat plays with a mouse. This isn’t supposed to be fun for you. It’s supposed to be hell.”

  “Well, bully for him. He succeeded.”

  “You failed this time, lost a couple of battles, but the war is still up for grabs,” McCord pointed out. “Remember that. Set yourself up for success.”

  “Which is exactly why the three of us are having this conversation. Don’t think I didn’t second-guess this decision. It’s risky, but we’re struggling to get the job done in time by ourselves. Cara might be key to getting the code cracked. The cryptanalysts are good, but the more heads on this, the better. And, McCord, I was thinking I might need
your contacts once we had the decoded message, but maybe what I need is you and your knowledge of history.”

  “When this happens again, don’t just think about the message,” McCord said. “As Cara pointed out, the victims are also linked to the burial site. We need to investigate both the message and the victim in parallel, because either could lead us to an answer.”

  “God, I hope so. You have no idea what it was like standing at the edge of that grave, looking down at the life you missed saving by such a narrow margin that the body was still warm.”

  “I can’t imagine it. But I’ll do my damnedest to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “We’ll all do our damnedest,” Cara agreed.

  Little did they all know, in under twenty-four hours, another young woman would be taken and those efforts would be put to the test in the worst possible way.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tanning: Tanning is the process of turning animal hides and skins into leather. During the mid-nineteenth century, there were two primary methods of tanning: vegetable and chrome. Vegetable tanning takes several weeks or months to complete, and produces stiffer leather suitable for luggage, footwear, and belts. Chrome tanning uses acids and chromium sulphate to produce flexible, stretchable leather for a wide variety of uses, and takes just a few days to complete.

  Wednesday, May 24, 10:56 AM

  Forensic Canine Unit, J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  “He’s got another one.”

  Craig’s raised voice and the sound of a handset being slammed down in its cradle attracted the attention of the handlers. As Craig turned to his computer, Meg, Brian, and Lauren ran into his office to crowd around him.

  “When was she taken?” Lauren asked.

  “Within the past half hour,” Craig said. He refreshed his in-box, but the stream of messages was unchanged. “Come on, come on.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Brian asked.

  “The field agent who took the call is snapping a picture of the coded message to send to me and the CRRU.”

  “What do we know so far?” Meg asked. “Is my name on it again?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want a copy of it, Craig.”

  “We all want a copy of it.” Brian perched one hip on the corner of Craig’s desk. “Meg’s name is on it; we’re all involved.”

  “No disagreements from me.” A small window flashed in the corner of his screen as a new e-mail arrived. “Finally.” Craig opened the e-mail and then the attached image.

  A long white paper strip was pictured. On it was typed: “To: Meg Jennings, Forensic Canine Unit, FBI,” followed by a long string of capital letters in five-letter clusters similar to the first two messages.

  Lauren leaned in to study the picture. “Can we assume the same code is being used?”

  “We can’t assume anything, but it’s a place to start.” Craig closed the image and then forwarded the e-mail to the whole team. “You guys need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

  Meg stood up. “I’m going to run home and pick up some additional supplies. Keep me in the loop.”

  Brian was staring at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re sure that’s a good idea? We should stay in pairs.”

  She met his gaze, trying to convey a silent message with her own. Don’t make a big deal about this. Trust me and go with it. “More than likely, I’ll be back before they send us out anywhere. You know how close I am. Depending on the location, I may end up being closer.”

  He seemed to get the message and gave her an imperceptible nod and a look that said, Fill me in later. “Sounds good.”

  “Hawk, come.” She waited while he trotted after her. “Back soon.”

  Then they were out the door. She picked up her pace, jogging through the hallway, pulling out her phone and forwarding the message from Craig to both her sister and McCord. She followed it up with a text just to be sure: Another one taken. Just sent the note via e-mail. Meet at home ASAP. Clock is started and we’re already behind.

  Wednesday, May 24, 11:16 AM

  Jennings residence

  Arlington, Virginia

  Meg slammed through the mudroom door. “Cara! How are you coming with the code?”

  “I’m right here. No need to shout. Come in, but keep it down for another two minutes, I’ve just about got it.”

  Meg quietly closed the door behind Hawk. Entering the living room, she found her sister at her desk under the big picture window, which faced out into the backyard. Her laptop was open to the picture of the message and a pad of canary paper was in front of her, covered in scrawled letters. At her feet was a small mountain of crumpled balls of yellow, testament to her effort over the last twenty minutes.

  A knock sounded at the back door and Meg went to open it. McCord stood on the doorstep, his laptop bag over his shoulder, concern creasing his forehead over his wire-framed glasses.

  “Come on in,” Meg said, sotto voce, as she held the door open for him as he crossed the threshold. “Cara says she’s just about got it.”

  “That was fast.”

  “What can I say? She’s good. She’s in the living room.” Meg led the way back.

  Cara continued to ignore them, scribbling furiously, occasionally referring to a large block of letters laser-printed onto a single white sheet at her elbow. Meg pointed to the sofa and then to the coffee table, miming for McCord to open his laptop there.

  He had just booted up when Cara slapped her pencil down on the table beside the pad of paper. “Got you, you bastard!” She pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear from where it had escaped her ponytail holder. “I don’t understand what it means, but I’ve got your message.” She picked up the pad of paper and came to join them, stepping over Saki, where she sprawled on the floor in a sunbeam, to flop down onto the sofa. “There’s something I need to tell you. Not now, there’s no time. It’s crucial to the case, but it won’t make a difference to this particular victim, not anymore.”

  Meg pushed back the feeling of dread that rose based on nothing more than her sister’s expression. Something was very wrong, but it was going to have to wait, at least for now. “I’ll call you from the car. Okay, what’s the message?”

  Cara picked up the pad of paper. “ ‘Fruit of the earth used to kill the sons of the earth. She is like Calvert’s sons, lost in the serpentine wilderness. Tick tock.’ ” She tossed the pad of paper onto the coffee table so McCord could read it for himself. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  McCord pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the deciphered message. Then he sat back and stared at the pad of paper for long seconds.

  “Well?” Meg pressed, her voice pitching higher than normal as the pressure intensified with each passing second.

  “Give me a second. I’m trying to connect this to anything Civil War–related. Okay, first of all, Calvert.”

  “It sounds like a person. ‘Calvert’s sons.’ ”

  “Bingo, it is a person. George Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore.”

  “The man who founded Maryland?” Meg asked. “That Lord Baltimore?”

  “The very one. That’s why you not only have Baltimore, but also the town of Calvert and Calvert’s Cliffs, all in the state of Maryland.”

  “Good start.” Cara leaned forward, her hands braced on her knees. “So it’s relatively close geographically. Meg, when and where was the dog found?”

  “Less than an hour ago, right here in DC.” Meg shot upright as she grasped Cara’s point. “Depending on how long she was taken before they found the dog, he may not be there yet. He hasn’t had her long enough to get to most places in Maryland.”

  “Depending on where he’s headed, no. And that buys us a little time. Clay, what else?”

  McCord waved a hand carelessly, then bent over his keyboard. “There are a few clues in that message, so give me a minute. Talk between yourselves.”

  “What do we know about the victim?�
� Cara asked. “We need to look at that too.”

  Meg sat back against the couch cushions, feeling utterly drained. Hawk, who had been holding back as if sensing the pressure in the room, now came to nudge at her hand with his nose. He laid his head on her thigh and gazed up at her with liquid brown eyes filled with total trust. She ran her hand over his head and down his back, the repetitive motion calming. “Craig called me in the car. Her name is Catriona Baldwin, but most people know her as Cat. She’s Wiccan and volunteers at an AIDS hospice with her dog, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. They visit weekly.”

  McCord looked up from his searching. “Wiccan? As in Witch?”

  “They consider themselves white witches. Anyway, they’re there every Tuesday morning, like clockwork, visiting patients after breakfast. They were in this morning as usual, stayed for about two hours and left around ten-thirty. One of the nurses noticed the dog running around the property about ten minutes later and went out to see what was going on. She was worried Cat was in an accident or was hurt. But she couldn’t find her. Then she found the note on the dog’s leash.”

  “Okay, so Wiccan. We know we’re looking at Maryland, so something like Salem, Massachusetts, isn’t a reasonable clue. What’s local in this area specific to Wiccans?”

  “What about the Firefly House?” McCord didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he clicked through Web pages. “Aren’t they some kind of community witchcraft organization?”

  “I’ve never heard of them, but let’s look it up. And there must be other places. Don’t Wiccans like to do some of their ceremonies skyclad?”

  “ ‘Skyclad’?”

  “Naked—as in, clad in nothing but the sky—so outdoors in what they consider to be spiritual places, private places. A forest, a meadow.”

  “So, outside a city—”

  “I’ve got ‘outside a city’ for you,” McCord interrupted.

  “You’ve got it?” Meg jerked upright so quickly Hawk looked up at her in confusion.