“That’s why you left the office so quickly that day,” Craig said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You should have said something. We could have worked something out, brought it to EAD Peters even then.”
Shame warmed Meg’s cheeks. “And that was my error, sir. I should have trusted you both.”
“So Cara worked out the ciphertext and then McCord figured out the location.” Peters steered them back onto the topic at hand.
“Yes. So we were ahead of the teams. I don’t know if that saved Cat’s life, but it might have. Could she have held on for another fifteen or twenty minutes? Maybe, I don’t know. And thank God we didn’t have to find out.”
“So, then, with the last message, you finally had to tell me,” Craig said. “The CRRU cryptanalysts were just getting started while Cara already had it solved and McCord had already figured out the kill site and the time limit. Faking it at that point wasn’t an option.”
“No, sir. The only thing that mattered at that point was saving Karen, and you made that happen. You got us there.”
“What was the fourth keyword?” Peters asked.
“ ‘Marlowe,’ the name of my childhood dog.”
Craig swore quietly. “Now it’s getting even more personal.”
“Yes,” Meg agreed. “My current K-9, my late K-9, the name of my parents’ animal rescue, that’s all public knowledge. The name of the golden retriever I had at five, not so much. But I couldn’t let that stop me.” She swiveled to face Craig. “So when we got there and found the site wasn’t in our control, I couldn’t obey your order to stand down.” She turned back to Peters. “Yes, I disobeyed a direct order, but it was because of the stakes involved. A woman was going to die—because of me. I had to try to save her or die in the attempt.”
“You took an asset valuable to the FBI in with you,” Peters said flatly, his gaze dropped down to where Hawk sat at her side.
Meg smiled down at her dog, then ran a hand over the back of his head. “I know.” Her gaze snapped back to Peters, the smile gone and iron backing her words. “Although I’ll remind you, the FBI doesn’t own Hawk—I do. I came into the Bureau with him. And no one loves him more than me. It almost stopped me from going, the fact his life would be in the balance. But he’s got too much heart, and I know he wouldn’t hesitate to risk his life if it meant the chance to save someone else. I couldn’t go without him—he’d disobey my order to stay, like I disobeyed the order to stand down. In the end, he saved all our lives—by guiding me in, and then Karen and me out as quickly as possible. It came down to seconds making the difference. He gave us those seconds. A concussion is nothing compared to what could have happened.”
“I’ve seen the site photos. It could have been catastrophic.” Peters stared at handler and dog for long seconds, the silence only broken by the rhythmic tapping of his index finger on the desk beside his keyboard. “You’re putting me in a hard position, Jennings. You’ve involved people in the case from outside the Bureau without permission, hidden evidence from your supervising agent, and then disobeyed a direct order from him.”
Meg’s heart sank at the condemnation in his tone and her gaze sank to her dog. Damn it, it wasn’t enough.
“But I can’t say I wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing if I had been in your position,” Peters continued.
Meg looked up, her heart suddenly full of hope.
“However, you understand the Bureau has to be run under a hierarchy, or there would be chaos.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“I hear from SSA Beaumont that you’ve been told by the ER doc that you should be off work for up to a week following the actual injury.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, Jennings, it is my decision that you be suspended with pay for the duration of this week.” When she opened her mouth to question his decision, he held up a hand in a clear stop. “That’s my final decision. Nothing you say will make me change my mind.”
I’m not being fired. Meg fought to keep a smile from curving her lips. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Also, just so you know, Karen Teller worked with one of our sketch artists yesterday and we have some good preliminary sketches on the unsub.”
Hope rose like a wave. “I need to see them. I might recognize him.”
“I’ll arrange for it as soon as possible. But otherwise, Jennings, you are off this case. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“No ‘but.’ Don’t push it. Given some time to consider, I think you’ll see that I’m being extremely lenient, and this could have had a much different, much more permanent outcome. Don’t try to work this case from the sidelines. Don’t try to bring any of your team into it behind Beaumont’s back. If I get wind of that, you’re all going to be on the unemployment line. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, once, twice, but she ignored it.
“If he strikes again, it will come into this office and we will handle it. As of now, you will have to trust we can get it done, and also trust your team can do its job without you.”
“Of course, sir.”
“In the meantime, remember that you’re a target. Stay alert and stay safe. I don’t want our teams to be looking for you in the next few days.”
Her phone vibrated again. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. Hawk, come.”
* * *
Meg left the office with Hawk at her side, closing the office door quietly behind her. She threw Peters’s assistant a wan smile and led Hawk into the busy main hallway. Only then, did she let out the pent-up breath she’d been holding.
She’d been lucky. He could have had her job. He’d never have her dog, but she could have lost her livelihood. More than that, she could have lost her calling. No decent law enforcement organization would—or should—rightfully take on a renegade who disregarded orders, no matter what the reason behind the decision. If a week off was the worst outcome, she’d gotten off lucky. Granted, she knew sitting at home, waiting, at a time like this would be a killer. But she knew her team would do whatever it took to catch this guy.
She also knew Brian would never leave her in the dark at a time like this. Maybe she couldn’t be involved, but she would know how the case progressed. And if it was still active next week, she’d be back with them.
Her cell phone vibrated again and she pulled Hawk into a smaller, deserted side corridor. She pulled her phone out of her pocket to find out who needed her so badly that he or she was sending a constant stream of text messages. She unlocked her phone to find the notification splashed across her screen, indicating a number of texts from Cara.
What on earth? Cara knew she was in a meeting. Had something happened on the way to the school? Was she in an accident?
She opened her text message and just about went to her knees at the first message. Not a message, per se, but an image. One that would remain seared into her mind for as long as she lived.
Cara lay on a diamond-textured metal floor, her body limp, her eyes closed, her face colorless. Duct tape covered her mouth, and her arms were bound behind her back.
For a moment, all Meg tried to do was suck air into her lungs, but her body had forgotten how to carry out its basic functions. There was a strident buzzing in her ears and she couldn’t feel the phone cradled in her hand.
Beside her, Hawk pushed at her with his head and pawed at her leg. He clearly knew something was wrong. She let her knees buckle and sank down to crouch on the floor beside him, forcing her blurry vision to focus on the words beneath the picture: Do exactly as I say or else.
Her first impulse was to call for help from the agents in the building around her, but she held her tongue. Her brain belatedly acknowledged she needed to know what was going on before taking any steps.
She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing up the strength that shock had temporarily beat
en down. She could do this. Whatever her sister needed, she could do. Would do.
He had her sister, and he was talking to her directly through her sister’s phone. Maybe there was a chance it could be traced and they could find him.
Time to end this.
She turned back to the phone, even as it vibrated again with a new incoming message: Tell no one of this message. We’ve played enough games. Now it’s just you and me. I’ve taken your sister, but I’ve also taken another. You must choose who lives and who dies.
Meg dropped her head down against Hawk’s shoulder.
Do not tell the authorities. If the FBI hears of it, then you told them. If the police know, then you told them. If law enforcement comes, they might live, but your parents will not. I will make sure of it. The only way to win the game is by my rules. Here are your clues.
Two separate messages of five-letter clusters were delivered next.
She shot to her feet. No authorities. But Clay McCord was not the authorities. She and Cara needed him, and they needed him now.
Hawk at her side, she sprinted from the building as if pursued by the hounds of hell.
CHAPTER 19
Blockade Runners: The blockade runners were a group of Confederate sailors, naval officers, and private entrepreneurs who attempted to evade the Union blockade of Southern ports deployed as part of the North’s Anaconda Plan to “strangle” the Confederacy with minimal bloodshed. More than three hundred steamers made over thirteen hundred sorties out of Confederate ports from the Chesapeake Capes to the Rio Grande. Voyages were planned based upon natural constraints like high tides, moonless nights, and weather. These voyages allowed the Confederacy to export cotton, to import food, machinery, gunpowder, and to accumulate millions of dollars in foreign exchange.
Monday, May 29, 10:48 AM
Jennings residence
Arlington, Virginia
Meg didn’t remember most of the drive home. She’d called McCord first from the car as she frantically wove through downtown DC traffic. He’d asked no questions, had simply said he was on his way and hung up. Webb was her next call. At this point, she wanted all the skilled manpower she could get her hands on; and while he was a first responder, he wasn’t law enforcement. If she was being forced to play this game, she was going to take advantage of whatever leeway she could find. Webb might not have McCord’s history background, but as both firefighter and paramedic, she needed his talents and strength because she didn’t know what she was walking into. She didn’t even know if he was on shift today—his “twenty-four hours on/seventy-two hours off” schedule was hard to remember when she was this rattled—and by the third ring, she was sure he wasn’t available. Then he picked up. The story fell out of her as a garbled mess, but it was enough for him to understand the gist. He was also on the way. They would all meet at her house.
She screeched into the driveway, jumped out of the SUV, and let Hawk out. They hurried into the house, and were met at the door by Saki and Blink, both of whom instantly sensed her anxiety. Meg quickly calmed them, as best she could, then hurried into the house. She changed into search clothes, gathered up all their SAR gear and added in extras. If they were going to do two consecutive searches, they’d need extra supplies. The mudroom door banged open and her name was called. “In here.”
Webb stopped on his way in for a cursory greeting with the dogs, who clustered around his legs. “Where are we?”
Meg didn’t even look up, just continued jamming items in her pack. “I forwarded the messages to McCord so he can deal with it as soon as he gets here. In the meantime—”
The door slammed open and shut a second time and McCord ran in. “I’m here. I got your e-mail.” He was already pulling his laptop from his messenger bag as he headed for the couch to set up on the coffee table.
“You know what to do with the messages?”
“I’ve seen Cara do it from start to finish once and have gone through the process with her a couple more times. The first thing she does is run the code through a Vigenère analysis site. Give me a minute to find it—I think I’ll recognize it when I see it. Then I’m going to need your help with the keywords, assuming each one is something different. We’ll have to do this one message at a time.” For the first time, he seemed to take in the presence of another man and thrust out his hand. “Clay McCord, the Washington Post. I think we met briefly in Jill Cahill’s hospital room after the Mannew case.”
“We did.” Webb shook his hand. “Todd Webb, DCFEMS.”
“Emergency response. Excellent. That could be handy.” McCord hunched over his laptop and started Googling, flipping through websites, muttering in the negative, and flipping back to the search.
Meg turned away from him and went to let the dogs outside; watching him work only made her more nervous.
Webb stepped forward and took her by both shoulders. “We’re going to get her back. We’ll get them both back.”
“I can barely think right now. I know I should have it more together than this, but I just keep going over and over in my mind what his next kill method might be. Hanging? A plastic bag over her head? Or what about—”
“Whoa.” Webb gave her a little shake, stopping her words. “Stay with me. I know this is going to be hard, but you have to concentrate on one thing at a time. Right now, it’s deciphering the codes and then solving the riddles. Then we can figure out what to do and how to handle two searches at the same time. This is the hardest part, because all we can do is watch McCord work. From what you’ve said about him, he’s been a huge help. So give him some time, he’ll get there. Has he let you down yet?”
“No.”
“And he won’t now.”
As if on cue, McCord opened another site and said, “Bingo! Got you.” Switching to the other window, he ran the first block of text through the analysis. “This is going to look for repeated sequences and will give us an estimate of the possible length of the key. Okay, so it’s giving us a couple of options, but it looks like it’s most likely eleven characters long.” He turned in the chair. “Meg, I need you to come up with a word that is meaningful in your life that’s eleven letters long. Give me that and then I’ll apply it to the code and see if it makes sense working backward.” He picked up Cara’s pad of paper and pen from the corner of the table and handed it to Meg. “Jot down any ideas. Nothing is too outlandish. The more possibilities, the better. I’ll try them all. While you’re doing that, I’ll get going on the second code.”
Meg took the pen and paper and perched on the edge of the sofa.
Webb gave her shoulder a squeeze and then stepped back. “I won’t hang over your shoulder. Just take a minute and think.”
I can do this. Meg took a deep breath and cleared her mind to concentrate. What would Cara do? Putting pen to paper, she started a list. She jotted down words, tapped over the letters with a pen, counting, and either kept it or crossed it out.
Richmond PD. Ten letters. A line slashed through the word.
Search-and-rescue. Fifteen. No.
Human Scent Evidence Team. Twenty-two. Way too long.
The list continued.
After a minute or two, Webb came back to see how she was doing. The list crawled down the page on her lap, each word followed by a number, each word then neatly struck out, or, as the words covered the page, raggedly scratched out. He crouched down beside her, catching her hand as she scribbled a word out so hard the paper tore under her pen. “Stop for a second.”
Her eyes rose to his. “I can’t find it. I can’t find the word. Cara’s the one who’s a master at puzzles. I’ve never been as good at it.”
He wrapped both his hands around hers and just held on. “You can do this. If you weren’t under pressure like this, you might have it already. But this is what we have to work with.” He scanned down the page. “Can I offer some advice?”
She nodded.
“The clues have been getting more and more personal as the case has progressed. You, your parents
, your childhood. It’s not going to be something like the ‘Human Scent Evidence Team.’ That may be what you do, but it’s not who you are. The clues are all about who you are. Think personal.” He released her hands and then started to rise.
She pressed a hand to his shoulder, halting his motion. “Stay?”
“Sure.” He shifted sideways to sit beside her on the couch.
She started the list again, pausing between each rejected word to consider other options.
Mrs. Panabaker. My favorite elementary-school teacher. Twelve.
Roseland Park. Where Cara and I used to play after school. Also twelve.
Marty Garber. The boy next door, before his family moved away. Eleven?
“Try ‘Marty Garber,’ ” she said. “He was the kid who lived next door to us in Charlottesville for years. That’s eleven letters.”
“Give me a second.” McCord picked up Cara’s printout of the twenty-six by twenty-six block of letters, a spare pad of paper and a pen, and started scribbling. Thirty seconds passed then. “No, that’s not it. All I’m getting out of that is gibberish.”
“Good first try.” Webb’s voice was low. “You haven’t hit on it yet, but you’re on the right track. Keep going.”
Angelina. The first cat at my parent’s rescue. Eight. Scott Patterson. My first preteen crush. Fourteen.
“It’s who you are. . . . ”
Journey’s End. The name of my grandparents’ seaside cottage on Nantucket.
Eleven.
“ ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting—Every wise man’s son doth know.’ ”
“What?” McCord stared at her. “Did you just quote Shakespeare?”
“Yes. Twelfth Night, to be specific. Try ‘Journey’s End.’ ”
“What’s that?” Webb asked, with his gaze glued to McCord’s pen.
“The name of my grandparents’ cottage on Nantucket. It’s old, been passed down through the family for generations. Was an actual full-time mariner’s house back in the day, complete with a widow’s walk, where wives would stand, looking out to sea, waiting for their husbands’ ships to come in. Or not. Luckily, in my family, it truly was ‘journeys end in lovers meeting’—all the husbands returned. My great-grandmother loved literature and she officially named the cottage. We don’t use it full-time anymore—winters on Nantucket can be brutal—but it’s a wonderful escape during the summer.” Meg knew she was rambling, but talking focused her mind on something while they waited. “They’re on the northern shore. Some people on the island have sold to buyers who renovated their cottages into these monster houses, with pools and a tennis court, but our cottage is still the charming saltbox it was back in 18—”
Before It's Too Late Page 17
