by Becki Willis
Madison was wise enough not to mention some of the other symbols. Two rectangles, one with a zig-zag bottom, meant the owner would give to get rid of you. The simple “+” sign with three dots inside a circle meant the doctor wouldn’t charge for his services. An X inside a circle meant it was a good place for a hand-out. The only difference Madison could see in then and now was that these days, the government paid for the handouts, and it was no longer considered begging. Some called it progress.
They wandered through the hallways, learning more about deciphering codes. Because the museum was part of the National Security Agency, the information was geared toward codes as they pertained to the nation’s defense.
“I seldom get to see the Civil War through the eyes of the North,” Madison mused, as they wandered into the section devoted to the battle between the states.
“Most folks think it was only about slavery, but that was just part of it. The North didn’t like the Southern states getting so powerful. Truth is, the war was more about politics, big machinery, and the manufacturing plants in the North, than it was about freeing slaves. Sure, there were some abolitionists in it for the right reasons, but like any smart politician, bigwigs knew to get the fanatics involved. Find someone passionate enough to lobby their cause, and you can ride in on their coattails. Mark my words, many a crooked agenda has ridden in under the guise of a good cause.”
“But slavery was wrong,” Madison said.
“Absolutely. It’s not like all Southerners owned slaves, you know. Most folks didn’t have enough money to support their own families, much less slaves. Most Southerners fought for their way of life in general, not for the right to own another person.” Granny Bert snorted her disapproval. “They forget to teach that in history class these days.”
“Actually, they don’t teach about the Civil War at all. Which is really sad, because how can we learn from our mistakes, if we pretend they never happened?”
“Politics, child. Stick your head in the sand and hope the problem goes away.”
They wandered further into the museum, coming to the exhibit on Early Cryptography and the infamous Enigma machine.
“Fascinating,” Granny Bert acknowledged. “The Germans thought this fancy code of theirs couldn’t be broken. Even now, it looks complicated, with all those rotors and keys. Imagine what they thought of that technology in the 1920s!”
“I guess that’s why it took so long to break it,” Madison agreed, reading the placards around the legendary machine. “You have to admit, that was a pretty sophisticated system. No wonder they called it the Enigma.”
Granny Bert pointed to a staggering statistic on the wall. “Look at how many possible combinations it created. I’ve never seen a number that long. It took three mathematicians, but they finally deciphered it.” She glanced over her shoulder and continued, keeping her voice low. “And don’t look now, but I think you have an admirer. Although these days, it might be called a stalker.”
Naturally, Madison looked around. “What are you talking about?”
“That guy over there, the one standing behind that cabinet. He keeps watching you. Followed us all through the Cold War and the Vietnam jungle.”
“I don’t see anyone. Are you sure it’s not a mannequin?”
“You think my eyes are going, along with my bladder?” her grandmother huffed. “Believe me, no one would make a mannequin that ugly. Bulb nose, beady eyes, intense gaze.”
Madison stiffened at the mention of a stalker. Something about Granny Bert’s description—bulb nose, intense gaze—stirred an image in her mind, but she couldn’t quite place it. Probably some gangster in a movie, she decided, forcing herself to relax. They were, after all, once again on the subject of spies.
“I still don’t see anyone,” Madison whispered, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. If someone was there, he was invisible.
“I don’t know where he went, but for a while there, I could have sworn he was following us.”
“It is a rather small museum,” she pointed out, trying to convince herself along with her grandmother. “We keep seeing that same mother and son, and that sweet Hispanic couple from Kansas.”
“I thought they said they were from Kentucky. He had on a Jack Daniels t-shirt.”
Madison resisted rolling her eyes. “Which means absolutely nothing. They sell their whiskey everywhere, you know.”
“Speaking of whiskey, where are we taking Genny this evening? It’s not a bachelorette party if you don’t get the bride a little tipsy.”
“I don’t recall you being so open-minded when I was the bride.”
“That was different. You were little more than a child. That, and the fact I wasn’t invited.”
“Imagine that,” Maddy teased. “A young bride not wanting to invite her grandmother to her bachelorette party. How rude of me.”
“Darn tootin’ it was rude! I could have told you all you needed to know about the wedding night, and then some.”
Madison cupped her hands over her ears and vigorously shook her head. “No, not this again! Please don’t tell me how Grandpa Joe invented sex.”
Her grandmother gave a mournful shake of her own gray head. “I sure miss that man.”
Desperate to change the subject, Maddy tugged the older woman forward. “Moving along now. Let’s see what the Power of Purple is.”
“You’re too young to know, but I remember my father and uncle talking about this from World War II. The Purple Cipher, they called it, or the Purple Code. Like the Enigma, it was very sophisticated for its day. The US actually cracked the code before Pearl Harbor and could have prepared for the attack, but for some reason, our side didn’t heed the warnings. You know how that turned out.”
“It looks like the Japanese also used a changing rotor system, with a different key each day.” Madison scanned the placards that told the story behind breaking the code. “Something about sixes and twenties, so I guess it used numbers, as well.”
“No,” her grandmother corrected, “the sixes were the five vowels and Y. The twenties were the consonants. And it says here the expert working on the case suffered a mental breakdown and was institutionalized. So, the poor guy’s job literally drove him crazy.”
“Can you imagine doing all this by hand, before computers? No wonder he had a breakdown. There were a gazillion possibilities.”
“What’s the possibility of us getting out of here before lunch?”
“Just a few more exhibits and we’re done.”
Granny Bert visibly brightened. “Then we’ll go check out the zip lines?”
“Yes, Granny, then we’ll go check out the zip lines.”
Chapter 7
“What was this place? I love the architecture,” Madison said, peering at the massive brick structure before them.
“Looks like an old cotton gin, but I thought that was a Southern thing.”
“Technically, Maryland is a Southern state, you know.”
“Uptown South,” Granny Bert harrumphed. “Notice this gin is made of bricks, when all of ours are made of tin.” Back home in The Sisters, the old cotton gin had been converted into a Fire Station and occasional party room, tin and all.
“Still, it’s very interesting. This must have been an entire complex, with a mill and weaving rooms and everything!”
“Good use of the space,” the older woman acknowledged, “turning it into an antique mall with shops and businesses. Not to mention a zip line, somewhere around here.”
“I would assume that would be at the top.”
“So, what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the top.”
Madison followed her grandmother down the long sidewalk and through the doors. “Where do you get your energy? I’m half your age and I swear, I only have half your energy.”
“For one thing, I don’t waste energy on things I can’t change. For another, I don’t waste sleeping time on worrying. When I go to bed at night, I hand my troubles over to the good Lord. I figure He’s
going to be up all night, anyway.”
Madison made no comment, simply walked beside the wise older woman on their journey to the top floor.
Their climb was in vain.
“Closed? Closed! We come all this way up here, and they’re closed?” Granny Bert cried in disappointment.
“I suppose it is winter time. They have to consider the safety of their clients during snow and ice season.”
“The sun is shining and it’s almost forty degrees out here! It’s colder than this at home today, and you don’t see Texas closed!”
“Just like Maryland isn’t closed,” Madison rationalized, much as she would to a child. “But this particular business is. Again, a safety precaution.”
Her grandmother made a few noises of protest, but she settled down. “At least it’s a pretty view,” she said.
“I’ll bet it’s gorgeous when the trees are budded out and all green. Or in the fall, when the leaves turn orange and gold.” They looked around for several minutes, admiring the scenery and the Little Patuxent River that ran alongside the old mill. They imaged a time when a water wheel churned in the free-flowing energy source. All that was left now was a crumbling shell of a building.
After a while, Madison turned her attention to the beauty of the building’s interior.
“Look at those massive beams. It’s amazing to think how they used to mill these and lift them in place, without the help of modern-day machinery. And look up there. It still has all the old pulleys and wheels.”
“It’s a cool old place, even if the best part of it is closed for the season,” Granny Bert agreed.
They took a set of metal steps down, lingering at a store filled with antique furniture and nick knacks.
“I love this place. But I see some dangerous spots, too,” Madison observed. “Look out that window. There’s a cute little courtyard, but no way to access it. What if someone fell into it? And did you see how steep that ground was down to the river?”
Granny Bert laughed at her critique. “You’ve definitely been trapped too many times, child, if you look at this place and see only the danger.”
“Maybe,” Madison agreed. “But, still. That courtyard had no way out. Neither does that big grassy spot down there with all the pipes. You could fall right in.”
“That’s what the rails are for, to keep fools from falling—or jumping—down there. And if the courtyard was fully enclosed, there may not have been a way out, which means there was also no way in. That’s another one of my tricks for having so much energy. Always think of the glass as half full, not half empty.” While she was spouting life lessons, she threw in another. “And remember, it takes more face muscles to frown, than it does to smile.”
A few moments later, Madison pointed out that her grandmother used unnecessary energy by frowning.
“We’re several miles from where we were earlier, right?”
“I think we might be a town or so over. Why?”
“Don’t look now—and I mean it, don’t. look—but that same guy is still following us.”
Madison bit her lip and resisted the urge to twist her head. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“Unless God made an awful mistake and created two of those faces, I’m positive.”
“Where is he?”
“Behind us. I’ll pretend to stop and look at something, and you can sneak a peek.” Without warning, her grandmother veered sharply to the left.
“Would you look at that gorgeous top!” she exclaimed, pointing to quite possibly the ugliest blouse Madison had ever seen. While Granny Bert fawned over the wild combination of colors and patterns, Madison managed a glimpse of the man who took a sudden interest in an antique vase, one store behind them.
She couldn’t see his face, but she felt his eyes upon her.
“I think we should go back to the hotel,” Madison murmured. “Now.”
“Right behind you,” Granny Bert said, but not before creating a diversion. As she turned, her foot snagged the foot of the metal mannequin displaying the blouse. It toppled over with a clatter, taking a slender glass case with it when it fell. Glass splintered in every direction. A long necklace hanging with the blouse broke and scattered, spilling colorful beads across the floor of the mall.
“Hurry!” Granny Bert urged, pushing Madison forward.
They rushed from the scene, not waiting to see the full extent of the damages. As they hit the door, Madison glanced back. The man who had been following them had no choice but to stay behind, caught in the wake of Granny Bert’s destruction.
Chapter 8
“Thanks for coming over, Cutter. Take a load off.”
Brash indicated the chairs facing his semi-cluttered desk. Two precarious stacks of files and folders made a haphazard climb upward, more or less contained within neatly aligned metal baskets. The calendar-style desk blotter sported coffee stains and a smear of mustard, but all notes and appointments were written in a neat, bold, masculine hand. Judging from the way the forty-three-year-old rested his arms on the scarred but solid desk, he was comfortable in the semi-clutter. And in his role as The Sisters’ chief of police.
The men shook hands before the firefighter took a seat. “How’s it going today?” Cutter asked.
“I think I’ve finally mastered Maddy’s fancy cooktop. We made it through the rest of breakfast without any major mishaps. Sorry about the false alarm.”
“Hey, I like my bacon with a crispy crunch. They say a little charcoal is good for you, anyway,” the fire chief said with a grin.
“The black bacon didn’t bother Blake, but both girls turned up their noses at it. They suddenly decided they were on a diet.”
“Is that why they stopped by Ngo’s Donuts on the way to school?”
“Something like that.” Brash chuckled.
“So how are the four of you making it, rambling around in that big old house?”
“I don’t think I ever realized how big that house really is, until I spent the first night in it. Just securing it for the night was a workout in itself.”
“That’s what the electronic alarm system is for,” Cutter pointed out. He knew fully well that Brash preferred a more manual, hands-on sort of security, same as him.
“Never hurts to be sure.” Brash leaned back in his chair and studied the other man. The custom leather creaked beneath his weight, masking a similar protest from his knee. Years of playing football, from flag to pro, had a way of doing that to a body. “So what brings you in, Cutter? You said you had something to share.”
Almost ten years separated them in age, but the men had become good friends. Between their prospective careers and the women they loved, their lives often intersected. It wasn’t unusual for either man to drop in unannounced on the other, but today, Cutter had called ahead. This was business.
“I got the official report back from the state fire marshal on that blaze over on Old Tap Road. Just as we suspected. Arson.”
“Can’t say it comes as any surprise.”
“No, but it seems to have a lot of similarities to the fire at Harold Beavey’s old barn. And to a couple of empty houses on the outskirts of Riverton.”
The lawman’s sigh was heavy. “We get rid of one meth operation, and two more pop out. A lot like gray hairs.”
Cutter couldn’t help but rub in the age difference. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said with a sly grin. When his friend arched his brow in his trademark smirk, the younger man gave an innocent shrug. “Blond hair, you know.”
He dropped the cocky attitude as he leaned forward and spoke in all sincerity. “I don’t think they’re cooking meth. I think they’re practicing.”
Clearly surprised, Brash’s tone was cautious. “For what?”
“Something bigger.”
“You gotta give me more than that, Montgomery.”
“I’ve done a little poking around. With each fire, the mark gets bigger. A two-house shack to a rambling old farmstead. A large barn. Now an office build
ing at an oilfield. I’m worried about what may be next.”
Brash considered his words as he toyed with a pen. “What are you thinking?”
“From all indications, this is the work of a group of kids. But make no mistake. This isn’t a secret boy’s club with an inept Keeper of the Flame. Each fire becomes more sophisticated, more daring. More deliberate.”
“Any clues as to who they are?”
“No, but I do know we’re dealing with a group of smart, derelict, misguided kids who have a problem with authority and constructive curriculum.”
Worry settled upon Brash’s face. “You think they’ll target a school.”
“I have no concrete evidence to back it up,” Cutter admitted. “But, yeah. That’s what my gut tells me.”
Brash blew out a deep breath, his mind clearly at work. “Which school do you think they’ll hit?”
“Hard to say. Most of the fires have been strung between here and Riverton. Given their proximity to one another, these kids could be from either community. Possibly both.”
Technically, The Sisters was comprised of two distinct towns, founded by the daughters of cotton baron Bertram Randolph. Naomi lay on the north side of the railroad track, Juliet to the south. The towns shared most community services, including their three-man police force, the volunteer fire department, and an independent school district. For brevity’s sake, most people simply referred to the twin cities as The Sisters. Riverton, the county seat, was less than thirty miles away.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Cutter continued. “I’m afraid the fire is only part of their masterplan.”
“What do you mean?”
“That last fire, the one on Old Tap Road. There were people inside. They all got out safely, but there are reports of kids watching—and laughing—from the nearby wood line.”
The worry on Brash’s face etched deeper. “You think they’ll set fire to the school while it’s in session.”
Cutter’s expression was solemn. “Folks think banning guns will solve the problem. But just like with meth labs and gray hairs, you can pull one weapon, but another always pops out.”