He smiled. His timing was perfect. The security guard wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. He eased the shed door open and peered out. The bright moonlight was the only flaw in his plan. Fortunately, the huge pieces of earthmoving equipment and stacks of supplies threw giant shadows over the exposed spaces between him and safety.
He crept out of the shack and hung the sliced padlock back on the hasp. Its appearance wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny, but in the dark, it would suffice.
He stood very still, scanning the area. Nothing moved. Satisfied, he ran toward the fence, moving quickly from shadow to shadow. He slipped through the fence, taking time to bend the wire into place again.
With a last backward glance, he melted into the brush and trees. Ten minutes later, he was driving northwest. Within the hour, he’d reached his apartment in Seattle’s Capitol Hill district and was hidden once more.
He wondered which one of Morrissey’s crew had followed him from Chloe Abbott’s house earlier. Stealing license plates and pairing them with nondescript stolen cars was a strategy he’d used often while tailing Morrissey over the past six weeks. Tonight his caution had paid off.
He opened his journal and began to write, satisfaction buoying him.
Morrissey didn’t have enough hours left to stop the sequence of events that was about to destroy him.
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent: May 22
Subject: Good morning—
Dear Clara,
I have interesting news to share! I spoke with Chloe last night and learned she’d had lunch with Jake Morrissey yesterday. And he took her to the symphony last night. (Picture me gleefully dancing a jig in my living room.:-)
I really like this young man and it appears Chloe might, too. Wouldn’t it be lovely if all three of our granddaughters were planning weddings??!! Stay tuned for further developments.
Helen telephoned yesterday to discuss the final details for our trip to British Columbia to celebrate my birthday. She wants to tour Victoria in a horse-drawn carriage after high tea at the Empress Hotel. I voted “yes” on that suggestion, of course, and we both want to browse the shops for tins of good English tea. I’d like to find a new Scottish wool blanket, also, just a small one to cover my lap while I’m reading on rainy winter days. Is there anything special we can pick up for you, Clara? I wish you were going with us—it just won’t be the same without you there. But next year, the three of us will spend my birthday somewhere equally fun.
I’d better get busy. I’ll let you know the moment I hear from Chloe about her date with Jake.
All my love,
Winifred
Chloe carried a large glass of ice water and the stack of essays onto her back deck and set them on the glass table in the shade of the patio umbrella. She dropped into a wrought-iron chair. Stretching out her legs, she crossed her ankles and sighed with pleasure. The late-afternoon sun slanted across the gray-painted wood deck, warming her bare legs. The umbrella’s shade blocked the sunshine from her upper body. Still, the heat and bright sky were a welcome change from the showers and gray days of two weeks earlier.
Only in Seattle do you need a wool sweater under your raincoat one week, and two weeks later, you can sit in the sun wearing shorts with a tank top, she thought. Gotta love this city.
She straightened her arms over her head and arched her back, stretching luxuriously. Then she pulled the stack of essays closer, picked up the top one and began to read. Red pencil in hand, she worked her way through half the pile before taking a break.
Jake had called earlier to fill her in on developments since last night. They hadn’t found any identifying information or fingerprints in the abandoned sedan. The truck owner had reported his license plates stolen this morning and had no idea why they were on a sedan. Gray was running the VIN number in an attempt to trace the car, but he expected that the sedan had been stolen, too.
Jake also mentioned that he’d spent most of the day at his company’s current work site in Black Diamond. During the night, someone had broken into the Morrissey Demolition storage shed and stolen dynamite. The foreman of the road construction crew swore nothing was missing from his list of equipment and supplies, so it appeared the thief had targeted only the explosives.
Jake sounded frustrated with the dead ends and delays, and she was just as disappointed as he was when he had to cancel their dinner plans. She’d settled for a mixed salad with slices of barbecued chicken, eaten on her patio in the sunshine.
Taking a water bottle with her, Chloe returned to the deck and sank into her chair again. It was now almost eight o’clock. She picked up the next essay, but two paragraphs in, she frowned and sat up straighter. Each paragraph had a group of letters—gibberish—enclosed in parentheses.
She flipped to the cover sheet to check the writer’s name, and to her surprise, there wasn’t one. The other necessary elements were present—class title and number, professor’s name, date, the title of the essay: “The American Military: Friend or Enemy?”
Even more puzzled, she went through the stack of essays on the table, then her list of students enrolled in the class. There were five fewer essays than students, but three of them had already contacted her and been given permission to deliver their work late. One of those students had broken his arm in a pickup game of football; one’s National Guard unit had been activated and she was training in Yakima; the third was at a funeral in Tucson. The remaining two students had distinctive writing styles and she felt sure she could rule them out.
If none of the students registered in her class had written this essay, then who had? Chloe knew anyone could have dropped the paper through the mail slot in her door; students delivered work that way all the time. She didn’t remember finding this particular document on her office floor and filing it with the other essays, but it was more than likely she’d done so without giving it a thought. Still, why would anyone have gone to such lengths—writing and delivering a paper for a class in which he or she wasn’t even registered?
She picked up the mysterious essay to resume reading where she’d left off, and by the time she’d finished, her inner alarms were shrieking. There was something decidedly off-kilter about the essay. Not only were all the paragraphs interspersed with parentheses enclosing collections of letters that she couldn’t understand, but the author made angry, disparaging remarks about the military in general and the Marine Corps in particular. Something about the gibberish in the parentheses felt vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t seem to grasp why.
The essay ended with a paragraph alleging government collusion to conceal the truth about the death of marines in combat situations abroad. Thee was a specific reference to military personnel dying in Afghanistan.
Chloe stared at the typed pages, trying to see a pattern that might reveal a hidden message or a clue that might tell her the identity of the writer. Unfortunately, she found nothing that made sense.
Gran could probably take one look at this and know if the writer had hidden a message in the words.
She pushed back her chair decisively, gathered up the papers and hurried into the house. She dropped the stack of essays on the table and ran upstairs to collect a light sweater. She grabbed her purse, slipping her feet into leather sandals, and after checking to make sure all the locks in the house were secure, drove to Winifred’s.
Chloe mulled over the style and the content of the essay tucked into her purse. However, she was no closer to deciphering the puzzle when she reached her grandmother’s home.
Winifred answered her knock almost immediately and smiled with pleasure. “Why, Chloe, come in, dear.”
“Hi, Gran.” Chloe stepped past Winifred and into the entryway, turning to look at her grandmother. “Sorry to come by so late, but I need your help.”
“Of course.” Winifred’s gaze sharpened and frown lines appeared between her brows. “Join me in the kitchen. I was going to have a glass of iced tea. You can tell me all about it.”
Chloe followed Winifred down the hall to the big kitchen, sitting down in a chair at the oak table by the big window. The table already held a crystal pitcher, a Wedgewood plate with several cookies and a tall glass. Winifred took another glass and spoon from the cupboard and sat across from her.
“I’ll pour,” Winifred said as she picked up the pitcher. “While you tell me what has you so worried.”
“It’s this essay, Gran.” Chloe removed the three-page document from her purse and laid it on the table between them. “Whoever wrote it clearly has issues with the American military, particularly the Marines, but there are also weird words, gibberish really, spaced throughout. I can’t make any sense of it.”
“Whoever wrote it? What do you mean? Isn’t the writer one of your students?” She finished pouring the iced tea, set a glass in front of Chloe and stirred sugar into her own.
“That’s another odd thing.” Chloe slid the stapled papers closer to her grandmother and pointed at the top sheet. “The writer didn’t sign his or her name. It’s anonymous.”
Winifred raised her eyebrows, bending forward to read the cover page. “Well, that certainly is odd. How does he expect to get credit for his work?”
“I don’t think he does. I don’t think the writer is one of my students.”
“Then why would he turn in the essay?” Winifred asked slowly, setting aside glass and spoon to pick up the papers.
“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “I’m sure this essay was with a group of several others that students dropped through the slot in my office door. There’s something about the gibberish that nags at me. I feel as if I should know what it means, but I don’t. It’s just letters strung together. I’m hoping you can give me some insight.”
Winifred began to read. Chloe sipped her tea, nibbled on a Hob Nob cookie and waited impatiently for her to finish.
Finally, Winifred reached the last page and looked up.
“Well? What do you think it means?”
“First, I agree with you. There’s something familiar about the letters in parentheses,” Winifred said thoughtfully. “I don’t think they’re merely random.” She paused, a faraway look in her eyes, her fingers drumming on the table. “Of course.” She pushed back her chair.
“What?”
“I’ll be right back.” Winifred hurried out of the room. Chloe heard her footsteps as she moved quickly down the hall, and guessed she’d gone to her office off the living room. Moments later Winifred reappeared, carrying a thick hardcover book, a pad of paper and a pen.
She sat down, handed Chloe the pen and notepaper, and opened the book to the index.
Chloe turned her head, twisting to read the title of the book. Codebreakers Through History. She straightened in her chair. “Gran, do you see a pattern? Do you think the letters are a code?”
“They might be….”
Chloe pulled the essay closer and looked at the first grouping of letters enclosed in parentheses. “Yildoc,” she read out loud. “You think that’s a word?”
