What Lies Hidden

by C G Cooper

  He looked at Mac, then back at Yael. “Better ice that cheek,” he said.

  “You better ice everything I bruised on you.”

  “Sure,” Chance said. “I think I’ll start with a cold shower.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  There was a voicemail from Mikayla on Mac’s phone, plus eleven hang-ups from Kreisburg. He listened to Mikayla’s message as Chance piloted the Cherokee, directed by his GPS. The message was brief; she apologized for dragging him along to the club and assured him she wasn’t mad about their dance getting cut short. She hoped to see him again, sooner rather than later.

  “I, uh, gotta make a call,” he said to Chance.

  “Work?”

  “Not exactly.”

  The phone rang on the other side of the line, then Mikayla said, “Aloha.”

  “Aloha, yourself,” said Mac. She laughed. “I love that sound. You sure you’re not mad at me for skipping out?”

  “Not too mad,” she said. “Was that sandwich really the best meal you’ve had in weeks? We’ve gotta do something about that.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking my place. Six o’clock.”

  “Those are some of the nicest words I’ve ever heard strung together.” If they’d had the same conversation earlier in the day, he might have hesitated, though even at his most desperate to beat the clock, he doubted he’d have had the discipline to turn her down. Now that he had a new, solid lead, he felt comfortable stripping hours from his precious countdown. “Six would be perfect.”

  Mikayla confirmed that he was okay with pasta then dictated her address. Mac pretended not to know it by heart. She signed off with a cheery, “Looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.”

  “Somebody special?” said Chance.

  “Maybe. I gotta be back at the school at five, okay?”

  “Who am I to stand in your way?”

  Mac checked in with Kreisburg. After yelling at him for not keeping his phone charged up, the old man told him Lynn was stable. The swelling in her brain had subsided, but she showed no signs of coming out of her coma.

  “Man upstairs has been asking if you’re still mission ready. I told him, of course you are. Had to chew the inside of my cheek to say it. I better not get cancer.”

  Mac was surprised. Kreisburg had gone to bat for him without even being asked.

  “You’re too mean to die, Diamond. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” said Kreisburg. “Whoever got to Tentpole deserves special treatment. After what you saw last night, I figure I can count on you.”

  Mac remembered Lynn’s curly hair matted with blood.

  “I’m the shark and they’re the chum,” he said.

  “That’s just the kinda friendly talk I like to hear. New business. I can get a replacement up to the school in a day or two.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” said Mac. He looked at Chance. “Authorize me to keep the detective in the loop. He can bring the muscle, and he knows the case.”

  Kreisburg paused. Not for long. “Fine. Consider him deputized. On a need-to-know basis, naturally. Nothing outside of scope of the mission.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We’ll have to give him a code name”

  “What’s wrong with The Detective?”

  Kreisburg didn’t dignify the question with an answer.

  “Hold on,” said Mac. “I’ll ask if he’s got a preference.” Muting his microphone, he said, “What do you want for a code name?”

  “Can I be Batman?”

  “It’s taken.”

  “How ‘bout Maverick? T2? Doctor Jones?”

  To each of these suggestions, Mac shook his head.

  “What do they call you?”

  “On this mission, Boxer.”

  “I’ve got it! Stryker. Uncle Gene loved that movie.”

  Mac patched Kreisburg back in. “We wanna go with Boxer and Stryker. That work for you, Diamond?”

  “Fine,” said Kreisburg. “Anything to get off the line. You know how much paperwork your little dance party generated? Give me the play-by-play.”

  Mac gave him the short version. The conversation took only a few minutes. That left plenty of time to fill Chance in on his mission at the school.

  He said, “About four months ago, the UK’s Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) got in touch with the Company. They’d had a tip that an encrypted signal being relayed through a bunch of Internet nodes originated at Schuyler. What got them excited was that they’d been working on the signal for a month with nothing to show. Stuff gets bounced around all the time, of course, but this signal showed an encryption pattern known to have been popular with the KGB, back before the Web. It was a digital version of a pen-and-paper cryptogram. Ancient, but still unbreakable.”

  “Old school, still cool,” said Chance.

  “Exactly. They called the signal Nine Nine since it’d first been picked up on September 9th,” Mac continued. “Once they knew the origin, they were able to locate several with similar signatures. Still couldn’t read ‘em, though. GCHQ went to MI6. Don’t believe everything you see on TV, but our friendship with the Brits is based on fact. They weren’t going to mount an operation without our say-so. The powers-that-be decided to give me a chance instead.”

  “So you think Tiffany got offed by a Russian spy?”

  “Not necessarily. Using a Cold War-era encryption pattern doesn’t make sense if you’re trying to hide from the guys who fought the Cold War. It’s almost like—”

  “Somebody wanted to get your attention,” said Chance.

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Mac said.

  The sun had passed behind a bank of clouds around the time Chance pulled the SUV onto a heavily wooded driveway. Gray light painted the clapboards of the farmhouse at the end in muted tones. A path had been scraped through the snow, from the driveway to a side door. Frozen tracks of men and dogs crossed and re-crossed the snowy yard in front of the house. A barn stood at the far end of the yard. No tracks led down that way. All the traffic seemed to be between the house and a combination wood shed and workshop directly across. Behind the workshop stood a chain-link fence, partially enclosed by blue tarp.

  Chance rolled down his window and listened to the creak of a weather vane at the peak of the farmhouse roof.

  “You ever read Grapes of Wrath?”

  “Saw the movie,” said Mac.

  “Me too.”

  They stalked up the path. It was icy in patches. As they approached the house, the wind overlaid the scent of pine with a faint coppery odor. The smell wasn’t strong, but against the clean country perfume, it showed up like a bright smear on naked canvas. The men looked at each other. Both had already drawn their weapons.

  They left the path and worked around the front of the house, ducking to keep below the level of the dark windows. Halfway to the barn, Mac signaled a halt. He pointed across the yard at the slope behind the fenced enclosure. Chance craned his neck. Evidently, he couldn’t make out the trail of old blood leading from an exit concealed by a tarp.

  There was no cover in the open yard. Mac sighted the window at the top of the barn, noting that it was closed with a shutter. He dashed straight ahead, keeping low. No shots rang out from the house or the stand of trees. He let out a breath and ran past the snow-banked barn door. This brought him within twenty feet of the enclosure.

  The light was dim, so when he saw a figure hunching its way across the yard from the opposite direction, he raised his P229 before recognizing Chance. The detective ducked behind the woodshed as Mac covered the span between the barn and the enclosure’s back corner. He listened to Chance’s breathing and the shuffling of his feet.

  After a momentary delay, Chance leapt over what Mac could only assume was the beginning of the blood trail. His foot slipped on the ice and he nearly fell, but saved himself at the last moment. His cheeks were red as he came into view.<
br />
  “You okay?” said Mac.

  “Never better. You should see this.”

  The enclosure was a twelve-by-twelve square. A third of the space was taken up by a duplex doghouse built into the side of the workshop. There were two arched doorways, each big enough for a small bear, covered from the inside by rubber mud flaps complete with naked lady silhouettes. The floor of the house was elevated, with a good eight inches of clearance from the frozen ground.

  Altogether, it looked like the kind of place a drifter would be thrilled to find if he got lost in the woods. There was even a scrap of silver material poking out from under the sloped roof that showed that the inside was insulated.

  Chance said, “These folks loved their dogs.”

  “Loved?” said Mac.

  Chance pointed. Aside from the canine condo, the enclosure’s other notable feature was a patch of blood-soaked mud about two feet across. The trail originated there then snaked out the back gate and up the hill.

  The size of the doghouse and the quantity of blood led Mac to guess that it belonged to at least two animals, each weighing a hundred plus pounds. It didn’t look like they’d put up much of a fight. Maybe because it hadn’t been a stranger who’d done the deed?

  Holding his bare hand above the saturated ground, Mac said, “It’s cold. Let’s go.”

  With a grim nod, Chance led the way out of the enclosure. The snowy hill over which the trail led was the first of many. They followed the trail for three or four minutes before the last trickle of blood disappeared. After that, they followed the twin ruts in the snow, walking without talking, trying not to breathe too loud.

  All at once, they reached level ground. The trail ended at a tiny clearing not far from the bank of a frozen stream. In the middle of the clearing, snow had been mounded to just above Chance’s knees. The surface was powdery, not yet frozen over.

  “We gonna leave the digging to the experts?” said Chance.

  Mac said, “Call it in.”

  A shovel was leaning against a tree at the clearing’s edge, partly obscured by ice and snow. Its handle was frozen to the bark.

  “No way anybody could break this ground,” said Chance. “Not since November.”

  Mac looked at the mound in the clearing, wondering what had become of the parents whose names Jordan Ross had scratched out on his form.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  At ten ‘til six, Mac pulled into Mikayla’s driveway, pressed and dressed. Mikayla wasn’t standing in the doorway, so the scene didn’t quite play out the way he’d imagined, but there was so little light in the sky that he wouldn’t have been able to make out her smile from that distance anyway.

  Just before he turned off the sedan’s engine, he took note of a dark green Jaguar parked beside Mikayla’s Kia in the open garage. He remembered the model - an MK2 - but couldn’t think for the moment where he’d seen it before. He was sure it had been in a picture, something from a faculty dossier. Whose had it been?

  Frowning at the Jag in the deepening dusk, he strolled up the front walk, swinging the wine bottle he’d gone back to town for at his side. He puffed out his chest and knocked on the door. It opened so suddenly that he was partially blinded by the light from the entryway. The petite shape he could make out didn’t belong to Mikayla.

  “Professor Mahoe,” said Anne-Jeanette Keyes. “I know you’re not from here, but would you kindly enter via the garage? Do feel free to wear your boots into the utility room.” Before he could say anything, she snatched the wine bottle out of his hand. “Chablis. How versatile.”

  The door banged shut in his face. He considered knocking again, but decided there was no point. Twilight was already deepening into dark, and he hadn’t seen Mikayla’s face all day. That seemed vitally important. It drove all thought of what Anne was doing there from his mind.

  Edging past the Kia, he heard the scrape of weather stripping on aluminum. He looked up to see Mikayla framed in a soft glow at the top of three wooden steps.

  “Mac?”

  “Aloha.” Finally.

  “Come in. It’s freezing out there. Told you we’d get that blizzard.”

  He passed into a small utility room. Mikayla’s place was cozy, almost cozy enough to drive the chill of Anne’s welcome out of his bones.

  “God. How are you?” Mikayla asked. She took his scarf and gloves while he hung his overcoat on a rack. As he stooped to remove his boots, he noticed Anne sipping a glass of something as she watched him from the kitchen at the end of a lightless hall.

  “House guest?” whispered Mac.

  “Not exactly.”

  They walked down the hallway together. Anne set her glass on the kitchen’s bar and said, “Shall I stir something, Mickie?”

  “No thanks,” said Mikayla, more stridently than the situation called for. “Stick to your strengths, Anne.”

  The piquant bouquet of bubbling tomato sauce filled the air. Leaving his side, Mikayla marked out a calm island in the center of swirling chaos, stirring with one hand while the other drew a long-handled fork from a drawer. She levered a bundle of spaghetti out of a tall cooking pot, scowled at it, and slid it back under boiling water.

  “Need help?” said Mac.

  Mikayla half turned, face softening as if she meant to accept. Anne said, “I’m sure not. Mickie is a wonderful cook. Wait ‘til you see what she’s planned for dessert. Take my advice and leave her be, Mac. Let’s see if we can find something fit to drink.” She gestured at a wine cabinet on the other side of the high table in the dining area that adjoined the kitchen.

  Wondering what had happened to his Chablis, Mac nodded at her half-empty glass. “You’re a little ahead of me.”

  “Mon apéritif,” said Anne. “Hardly appropriate for a tête-à-tête.”

  A plate, Mac saw, was resting in the sink, streaked by pale green salad dressing. At least Anne wouldn’t be joining them for dinner.

  “Fine,” he said, and to Mikayla, “If you’re sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little behind.”

  Anne said, “Don’t be modest, dear. There’s nothing little about it. Come along, Mac.”

  Mac followed the pint-sized tyrant across the room. She had the cabinet doors open and was lifting a bottle out before he arrived.

  “This will do.” The bottle was slightly dusty. Anne swiped the label with her thumb and showed him that it contained an eight-year old Normale Sangiovese. “You know the grape?”

  “Passingly,” Mac lied.

  Suppressing further comment, Anne shut the cabinet doors and retreated to the living room. It was part of an open floor design with the kitchen and dining area, though a thick, dry-walled beam cut off most of the kitchen’s light. The damask sofas sat in shadow. Like a speedboat drawing a buoy in its wake, Anne sucked Mac to a loveseat. She sat catty-corner in an armchair, placing the bottle on the coffee table beside a corkscrew that had been lying in wait.

  As she peeled off the foil protecting the Sangiovese’s cork, she spoke, pitching her voice so that Mikayla couldn’t hear over the roiling boil and clash of spoons on pans.

  “I hope you weren’t planning to stay the night, Mac. Mickie has an eight o’clock class in the morning.”

  “What are you doing here, Professor Keyes?”

  “Call me Anne, darling. I live here. Didn’t you know? This is my home. Dear Mickie is my tenant, though I spend so many evenings out, I don’t blame her for thinking of the place as her own. I charge reduced rent in exchange for her putting up with my occasional urge for the familiar. And her cooking. She’s a gem. Though anyone can do pasta. Disappointing for you.” She rotated the corkscrew with a finger before closing her hand around it. “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you about our arrangement. Or perhaps I should say I’m impressed, as I did suggest she keep it to herself.”

  “Why’s that?” said Mac, keeping his voice low.

  “Rumors, dear. Rumors. You know how students gossip. Two maiden p
rofessors sharing a roof, even meals when the spirit moves. Some of the faculty know we live together, of course. It’s not a secret I’d kill to keep,” she added. “In your case, though, I did suggest that Mickie employ an extra measure of discretion. Mostly, I admit, because I hoped you and I could have another chat.”

  “Our first was kinda one-sided.”

  “I hope you don’t hold a grudge.”

  Tilting the bottle, she gripped the neck lightly and gave the screw a twist. The cork yielded with a faint squealing. She flipped a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “We live in troubling times, Mac. I was worried we’d miss our chance to get together, what with all the unpleasantness going on at SU.”

  “What unpleasantness is that?”

  Anne’s smile reminded him of a dental hygienist he particularly loathed. As she threaded screw into cork turn by turn, she said, “Last night you had a taste of what you’re up against.”

  He tried to keep a straight face, but something must have shown his surprise.

  Anne flashed a palm. “For the sake of your companion, let me assure you that I played no part in the attack.” She set the bottle upright.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Chuckling, she curled her fingers around the bottle’s neck and slipped its fat end between her knees.

  “Don’t you, darling? How very strange.” With a fierce tug, she popped the cork. “I’ll fetch you a glass.”

  She started to rise. Mac caught her wrist. Doing her impression of the Cheshire cat, she sat back down.

  Mac said, “If we’ve finished the song and dance portion of the evening, can we get down to brass tacks? What do you know?”

  “Oh, so many things.”

  From the kitchen, Mikayla called, “Spaghetti’s done. Just rustling up side dishes.”

  “Great,” said Mac, not taking his eyes off Anne. In his mind, he was running simulations of her taking a swing at him with the bottle, attacking with the corkscrew, or splashing wine into his face as she fetched another weapon.

  “What do you want?” he said.