Before It's Too Late

by Sara Driscoll

  “I’ve got English!” McCord slammed his pen down on the paper in triumph. “Better than that, I’ve got English that makes sense. The first few words are ‘The landing point kept.’ Give me a few minutes. I’ll have it all.” He picked up the pen again, bent his head over the letter key, and began writing.

  Meg collapsed back onto the couch.

  Webb took one of her hands in both of his. “Knew you could do it.”

  “It’s only the first step. The first step of the first message.”

  “The first of several, but it’s one step closer. The bastard doesn’t stand a chance and we’re going to pull this off. You just watch. Let’s solve this one, and then we’ll tackle the next. Once we know both locations, we’ll make a plan.”

  “It’s two victims. What if we don’t make it simply because of the time?”

  “This guy’s a psycho, but the game actually seems to matter to him. If it didn’t, he’d just kill the vics for you to find later. But part of the fun for him seems to be the chance you might actually succeed. It’s a competition, and it’s no fun if he stacks the deck against you so high you have no chance to win. So there has to be a way to win here. And we’re going to find it.”

  She covered the back of his hand with hers. “Are you always this positive?”

  “Always this stubborn. In my line of work, you’re always playing against the odds. The trick is finding a way to beat them.” He flashed her a wide grin, which was more steely determination than joy. “I’m very good at beating the odds.”

  Meg was just sitting down again, after letting the dogs back in, when McCord put the pen down again and swung around to face them, the pad of paper in his hands. “Okay, I’ve got it all now.” He looked down and read. “ ‘The landing point kept the secret and saved ten thousand. Below are the skeletons of those gone before. And those to come.’ ” He frowned down at the message and then set the pad of paper down on the coffee table. “This one makes me wish for the specificity of the first victim’s clue. That one was easy. This one, not so much. But I guess that’s the point. We’ve beat him multiple times, so he’s making it harder for us.” He slowly read the message aloud again.

  “It sounds to me like the ‘below are the skeletons’ is referring to where Cara is,” Webb said. “So what’s that, a Civil War graveyard? And does the reference to the ten thousand represent the size of the graveyard?”

  “Most of them aren’t that big.” McCord pulled up his browser and started typing. “I mean, we’ve got Arlington, but we’ve already done that once, and it’s much bigger than ten thousand. Try about four hundred thousand. You’ve also done Gettysburg, which is about thirty-five hundred. There’s Antietam, which is larger, with just under five thousand, if I remember correctly, but that’s only half of the ten thousand.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, staring at something on his monitor, his gaze then switching back to the message on the pad. “I think the ‘landing point’ is the key. The skeletons are related to the landing point. Below it.”

  “But isn’t a ‘landing point’ basically a port?” Meg asked. “So we’re looking at something directly on the eastern seaboard?”

  “Could be a port. Could also be something as simple as a jetty used to off-load passengers and bring on supplies. However . . .” McCord paused, tapping his index finger over the words. “Also important is the phrase ‘kept the secret. ’ ”

  “It was war,” Webb said. “Most things were secret. War strategies, camp locations, sympathizers, spies. Hell, even the Underground Railroad.”

  McCord looked up sharply, his blue eyes fixed on Webb. “Wait a second. You may have something there.”

  “Which part?”

  “The Railroad. What else would be a secret that saved ten thousand lives? Hang on.” He crouched over his laptop, first typing, then frantically clicking, his eyes darting back and forth over the screen, the light washing his face alternatively with white and then various pastel shades. As he worked, he kept up a constant low mumble. “Cumberland. Philly. Portsmouth? No, too busy. Fredericksburg. Fredericksburg!” He looked up. “I may have something. Fredericksburg, Virginia.”

  “That’s pretty close. Less than an hour away. That’s the ‘landing point’?”

  “No, but a port close to it might be. It fits the bill. It’s relatively local, and it was a part of the Underground Railroad. Fredericksburg is on the Rappahannock River. But the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac Railroad was already twenty years old at the time of the Civil War. It was part of a major link between DC and Richmond, Virginia. You could steamboat from DC to the shore of the Potomac River, get off at the Aquia Creek Landing”—he looked up meaningfully at Meg and Webb—“and train from there to Richmond. Or you could do the reverse, train to the landing and then get on a steamboat headed north.”

  “And that’s what the slaves did?” Meg asked.

  “I didn’t know the exact number for this particular location, but according to this site, ten thousand slaves escaped this way during the period of April to September 1862, from the time the Union took control of the area to when they lost it. Okay, so Aquia Creek Landing is right on the Potomac River. So define ‘below.’ South?”

  “Fredericksburg isn’t south though. More like southwest,” Webb said.

  “ ‘Below,’ as in altitude?” Meg suggested.

  “That’s a good idea, but that close to the Potomac and the Atlantic, it’s basically already at sea level. To get any lower, you’d have to be under . . .” His voice petered out, his eyes going wide.

  Fear was like an ice spike piercing right to Meg’s soul. “Water,” she finished for him. “He’s drowning her? Whoever ‘she’ is?”

  Webb’s voice was calm, a man used to dealing with urgent situations. “There’s no way he’s even there yet. If that’s his plan for Cara, he’s still in motion.”

  Meg couldn’t sit still any longer, and she shot to her feet to prowl the living room. “The ocean, it’s an angle we haven’t thought of before. When is high tide today? He could leave her somewhere, clear out, and then wait for high tide to come in for her to drown.”

  “We aren’t going to let that happen.” McCord’s fingers were flying over the keys. “High tide at Aquia is at twelve forty-nine. But we have to be careful here. After you’re south of Alexandria, there’s no crossing point over the Potomac until Route 303. If this is where we’re going first, we need to think this through or we’re not going to be able to get there in time, because we’re on the wrong side of the river. And then losing the second victim will be a foregone conclusion. ‘Below are the skeletons.’ So what does that mean? The remains of people lost on sunken ships? Are we looking for the location of a major shipwreck or a Civil War battle? Okay, Google, make me some magic. ‘Sunken ships Potomac River.’ Go.” He clicked his mouse and then scanned the search results. “Sweet baby Jesus, I’ve got it. The entire first page of results is all the same site. Mallows Bay. ‘Skeletons’ doesn’t refer to human bones. It’s the bones of ships.” He looked up at Meg. “We need to figure out which victim this relates to, and then we’ll know who one of them is. So what’s special about this spot? Every site has been related to the victim. Every killing method”—McCord grimaced, but went on—“has been related to the victim. This is an area with sunken ships and our theory says his method is drowning. How does that relate?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Cara, because of our great-grandfather Arthur Jennings.” Meg sat back on the couch, but swept her fingertips over Hawk’s fur, knowing he was helping her stay calm. “He was a midshipman on board the USS San Diego when the Germans sank it in 1918.”

  “I’m not familiar with the San Diego. Was it torpedoed by a U-boat?”

  “No, it was a mine. A German U-boat had laid mines along the south shore of Long Island. It hit one and sank in twenty-eight minutes. My great-grandfather was one of six men who died. He was trapped in the crow’s nest and drowned. He was just twenty-eight and left behind my great-grandmoth
er and two sons under three years of age, one of whom was my grandfather. A child he never met, because when he went to war, my great-grandmother was six months pregnant.”

  “That makes me feel better and worse at the same time.” The set of McCord’s jaw was rock solid and anger shone in his eyes. “I’m sure the site is right, but now we really know what we’re looking at.”

  “It all makes sense,” Meg said softly.

  “It also means this guy had access to details about your family that go way back,” Webb said.

  “It’s a matter of public record. Anyone with an Internet connection who wants to shell out to Ancestry.com could have figured this out. But it takes a special kind of cruel and crazy to reenact it.”

  “Speaking of ‘cruel and crazy,’ how the hell are we supposed to get to her and someone else when the tide is essentially calling the order of the rescues?” McCord’s eyes were fixed on his screen, but he was shaking his head at the impossibility of the situation. “What kind of crackpot is this?”

  “We already knew he’s nuts,” Webb said. “Okay, time’s wasting. What’s the second keyword length?”

  “Eight.” McCord pulled up the other message. “I’m ready to go as soon as you’ve got something for me to try.”

  “Okay, take two. Eight.” Meg settled back on the couch and scanned the top sheet of paper. “I’ve got one here already with eight letters. ‘Angelina.’ Try that.”

  “Give me a sec.” Head down, McCord started working the code. This time, he was faster. “Nada.”

  Meg ripped off the top sheet of paper, balling it and tossing it over her shoulder. “Worth a shot. Okay, let me try this again.”

  Bu ford. The middle school we attended. Six.

  Clarinet. The instrument I played in middle school. Seven.

  Briarcliffe. The street we grew up in, when we still lived in town. Eleven.

  Meg was running out of ideas for herself. Unless . . .

  Unless I’m going about this keyword the wrong way. This is about family. So far, there’d been clues related to me, a clue for our parents, one for our grandparents. Maybe this time it’s about Cara.

  Sudoku. One of Cara’s favorite pastimes. Six.

  Jenny Rae. Cara’s best friend in high school. Eight?

  “Try ‘Jenny Rae,’ ” she said, spelling out the first and last names. “That’s eight letters.”

  “ ‘Jenny Rae.’ ” A long pause, then, “Not it. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize,” Meg said. “You’re not the son of a bitch who got us here.”

  Lola. The name Cara affectionately gave her first used car, a rust bucket held together by a half-dozen bolts, if she was lucky. Four.

  And then it came to her, the word echoing in her mind in Maimeó’s voice.

  A Stóirín. Eight.

  “ ‘A Stóirín.’” The Gaelic endearment rolled off her tongue as ah-store-een.

  McCord repeated the word back to her. “What language is that?”

  “Gaelic. My paternal Irish grandmother had Gaelic pet names for us. That’s Cara’s.” She spelled it out for him. “It’s eight letters. Try that.”

  Again it didn’t take McCord long. “That’s it. Good job. Give me a second here. . . .” He went back to it, working out the code at top speed.

  Meg sat back on the couch, and just let silence take over. She was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and her head was pounding, making her feel vaguely nauseated and unbalanced, and the day’s trial had yet to begin. And while they were spending time here, God only knew what torture her sister was enduring.

  “Okay, this I don’t get.” McCord put down his pen. “After all those messages that just about broke my brain, this one is a gimme.”

  “What do you mean?” Webb leaned forward to stare at the writing on the pad of paper. “ ‘Blood and indecisiveness decreed the final campaign, but history was made nearby. Look to the man who deduced the treatment if you hope to save her.’ How is that a gimme?”

  “Look at how this clue is written—it feels more straightforward than some of the previous clues. And while you might jump to the conclusion that ‘the final campaign’ was the Appomattox Campaign that led to Lee’s surrender, neither Lee nor Grant could have been called indecisive. Tie that to the reference to blood and it can only mean one thing—the bloodiest day in US military history—Antietam. Sharpsburg, Maryland. The indecisiveness is the fact the war could have been won then and there. Lee’s army was beaten, but General McClellan, weak-minded fool that he was, didn’t follow through and finish the Confederate Army off, once and for all. Lincoln commanded him to go after Lee, but it took him weeks to do it. Lincoln relieved him of duty, and the war went on for three more years because he let Lee get away and rebuild his shattered forces. It’s a gimme. It’s definitely Antietam.”

  “What about the rest of the message?” Meg asked. “ ‘The man who deduced the treatment’? What ‘treatment’?”

  “That’s going to take a little more research.” McCord clicked a few more times and slammed down the lid of the laptop before jamming it in his bag and pushing to his feet. “I’ll hotspot into my cell and research while we drive. We can’t waste any more time here.”

  “Hawk, come.” Meg was already reaching for the packed-and-ready SAR bag and his vest.

  “He’s given us two locations. One is an hour south, with the tide rolling in. One is an hour and a half north, and we have no idea what scenario that is. What’s your call?” McCord asked.

  “You know what my call is.”

  “Good, because you’d have had a fight on your hands from me otherwise.” Meg’s dark expression had McCord reaching out to grab her arm. “Meg, this monster is telling you that you have a choice, but you don’t. Don’t let him make you suffer when he’s forcing your hand. If Cara is out there, the tide is rolling in. If we go for the other one first, she will die, no question. If we go for Cara first, we have a chance to save both.”

  Webb pulled his keys from his pocket. “I’ll drive. Where are we going?”

  McCord slid the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Nanjemoy, Maryland. He’s taken Cara to the Ghost Fleet.”

  “ ‘The Ghost Fleet’?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  “You’re okay with driving?” Meg asked Webb as they headed for the door.

  “Totally. We won’t all fit into your SUV and I’ve got gear in my truck, in case we need to stage a rescue.”

  Meg hoped to hell Webb was wrong, but her terrified gut was telling her this might be the hardest rescue yet.

  CHAPTER 20

  Triage: Triage is a system of sorting victims and rationing limited medical resources and supplies to a large number of casualties. Triage patients are divided into ( 1 ) those who are likely to survive even if untreated, (2) those who are unlikely to survive, no matter what care is available, and (3) those who are more likely to survive if they receive the best medical care possible. Typically, group-three patients are treated first, while groups one and two are offered palliative care. Dr. Jonathan Letterman—known as the “Father of Modern Battlefield Medicine”—introduced the concept of triage for the treatment of wounded Union soldiers.

  Monday, May 29, 12:06 PM

  MD-210 South

  Oxon Hill, Maryland

  Meg grabbed at the door handhold with one hand, and the dog at her feet with the other, as Webb sped through traffic, deftly weaving around anything in his way.

  “You’re pretty good behind the wheel,” McCord said from where he sat in the passenger seat, his laptop open on his thighs. “Do they let you drive the fire truck?”

  “Not on a regular basis, but I can in a pinch. Needless to say, it’s a little harder to handle than this.”

  “I bet.”

  From the back of the king cab, Meg watched the forest flanking the eight-lane, divided highway fly by in a blur. Hawk made a small noise and she looked down at him, running her hand over his back where he lay on th
e floor behind Webb’s seat. He wanted to sit up beside her, was used to watching the world go by through the mesh of his compartment as they drove. But Meg wasn’t taking a chance that they’d get in an accident and knew the floor was the safest place for him. Her sister was at risk; she wasn’t about to risk her dog as well.

  “Keep going,” Webb said, his eyes, never leaving the road. “I’d like to know what we’re walking into. Where did this ‘Ghost Fleet’ come from, why is it there, and what’s in it?”

  “From what I’m reading, Uncle Sam is the reason it’s there.”

  Webb’s eyes quickly darted sideways and then back to the road. “The government purposely buried a fleet of ships in the Potomac.” The tone of his statement clearly implied his disbelief. He switched lanes to pass a sedan nailing the speed limit, then signaled his way back.

  “You make it sound like they built the ships to destroy them. That wasn’t the intention at all. How’s your history of World War One?”

  “Not bad, but not to the level of knowing how many dead are buried in each graveyard.”

  “Guilty as charged,” McCord quipped. “Then you know we didn’t enter the war until 1917. At the time, Germany had the upper hand on the seas, sinking about half of all boats launched against them. The U-boats were killing machines. So America joined the fray and set about building one thousand ships in only eighteen months. That was the window normally reserved to build a single ship, but President Wilson put a million men to work building steamships. But when the war ended in 1919, only four hundred warships were completed and none of them ever saw action.”