by Rachel Lee
Hillary was happy to see his hometown taking him back into their embrace. It must have been hard for him to feel like an outsider ever since he’d refused to accept Allan’s death as a suicide.
Brief as the walk was, Maude’s felt hot inside. Between her kitchen and all the people who preferred to eat in their shirtsleeves rather than winter coats and jackets, she probably kept her thermostat high.
As Trace came to the counter, Maude eyed him.
“Let me guess,” Maude said. “Food for half an army and all of it takeout.”
Trace laughed. “Plus lots of veggies. Whatever you’ve got. We’ve been missing them.”
“Stick your nose out once in a while and you won’t be missing anything.” Then she looked at Hillary. “Do I misremember, or do you like oatmeal?”
“Very much.”
“Well, I’ve got a box for you to take back with you, if you know how to cook it.”
Hillary smiled. “I think I can. Thank you.”
Maude nodded. “Now you two go sit down while I get the food ready. Since I’m missing half my regular customers, it shouldn’t take too long.”
A few minutes later, a clone of Maude showed up bearing two tall insulated cups. “Hot lattes. My mother says you look like you’re freezing.”
Trace looked at Hillary. “Is my nose blue?”
She shook her head, a smile lurking around her lips. “I suspect mine’s as red as yours, though.”
They unzipped their jackets and enjoyed their coffee while they waited.
Hillary remarked, “You didn’t ask for anything in particular except vegetables.”
“That’s because Maude will take care of us. Besides, everything on her menu is good. We might get a bit of most of it.” He smiled. “Think of it as a treasure hunt.”
About a half hour later they were heading back to the house with a whole bunch of plastic bags full of goodies.
“I can hardly wait to see what she gave us,” Trace remarked. “Dang, that woman is softening with the years. I swear she used to be a fire-breathing dragon.”
“Maybe she just likes you.”
“Ha!” he answered. “Maude is famous for not liking anyone. Well, except Gage and the old sheriff. She must have a soft spot for cops.”
“And maybe for soldiers, too.”
Back at the house, they unpacked, peeking into the containers. No question but Maude had been generous and had given them a large variety of meals. As for veggies, there was a ton of broccoli, plenty of carrots and a few large chef’s salads.
“Those salads won’t last long,” Hillary remarked.
“A good reason to start eating. That’s ranch dressing on the side. Let me check what might be in the fridge.”
He soon emerged with bottles of blue cheese dressing and creamy Caesar. “I hope one of these is to your taste.”
“Blue cheese. In any form on almost anything.”
Hillary left the box of oatmeal on the counter as a reminder to herself. She could eat it at any time of day.
They decided to dive into the salads immediately, along with the croutons Maude had packaged separately.
“Oh man,” Hillary said. “Every cell in my body is happy.”
Trace crunched on some lettuce, then agreed. “I think she included some sliced cheese, too. That woman thought of everything.”
After cleaning up, they headed again for the office. Hillary paused. “I saw some pavement out there. The snow is melting.”
“True.” Trace flashed a smile. “We couldn’t run all the way because I’m fairly certain a lot hasn’t been plowed yet. Nothing out there but parks. Wanna go anyway?”
“Is that even a question? Calisthenics haven’t been enough.”
Twenty minutes later they were trotting along the road. Such a beautiful day, Hillary thought. Even the air felt a little warmer under the sun. As they fell into step together, she had the oddest feeling that she’d come home.
* * *
THEY WERE ONLY able to complete half their usual run, but they arrived back at the house feeling pleasantly relaxed anyway. A brief burst of freedom. Of self-care.
Hillary’s mood had leavened considerably. The run had done her wonders, and Trace looked as if he felt the same. They’d been stapled to their chairs too much. Yes, it was important, but so was moving around, working muscles. The endorphins were pretty good, too.
After they ditched their winter clothes and boots, choosing to walk around in socks, they grabbed some coffee and headed to the office for another kind of marathon.
“I’ve been thinking about that photo a whole lot,” Trace remarked as they marched down the short hallway and into the office.
But as soon as she crossed the threshold, Hillary froze. “Trace?”
“Yeah.”
She pointed to the stack of letters that had been on her part of the desk. The pile was smaller, and many appeared to be gone.
Trace understood immediately. At once they both went on high alert and with hand signals agreed to take different parts of the house to find out if anyone was still there.
Hillary headed for the living room, a place full of many hiding spots, especially with the room darkened by the curtains.
Trace took the back of the house, where three bedrooms offered more hiding places. They moved slowly, silently, peering around corners before entering a room.
Hillary found nothing in the living room. Trace was taking longer in the bedrooms, so she went to check the mudroom.
There was no mistaking that the back door had been jimmied open.
She cursed under her breath, wishing she had her boots on so she could track outside. Well, she could get them now.
“Hillary?” Trace still spoke quietly as he came up behind her.
She pointed to the lock, then at her feet. Trace nodded and slipped away. Two minutes later he was back with both their boots and their insulated vests.
Outside the day was still crisp and fresh, dimming a bit as the afternoon deepened. Unmistakable boot prints covered the stoop and led away toward the trees. But there were also prints leading to one side of the house.
Again they split up, Trace heading for the trees, Hillary around the side of the house. Nothing but the footprints, the ones on the side of the house coming from the street, the ones at the back heading toward the trees.
Trace took off. Hillary waited in case he wanted backup of some kind. Not that he couldn’t take care of just about anyone out there. But someone who was armed? Two people would do better. But the house still needed protecting. Much as she hated being the sentry, that was what was required just then. The invader might come back. Or if Trace called out, she needed to be ready and not already in trouble.
But the beautiful day, no longer as beautiful, remained silent.
At last Trace returned. He shook his head, and she waited for him to reach the stoop.
“A car,” he said when they got inside. “A car. I’d call the sheriff, but it looks as if quite a few vehicles have been up and down that alley today, including the garbage truck.”
“Apparently that man knows what we’re doing, and he’s getting desperate enough that he doesn’t care if we know.”
Trace’s answer was harsh. “He won’t be prepared for what he’ll find in this house.”
* * *
TRACE WAS ANGRY. Not a bit afraid or unnerved, but furious. Whoever had done this clearly knew something about what had happened to Allan and Brigid. There could be absolutely no other reason to break in here. Especially since nothing appeared to have been touched except Brigid’s letters.
“God,” he said. “That was a violation. Her privacy. His privacy. Even if they’re gone now, no stranger has a right to invade their intimacy in such a way. No stranger has a right to invade their love.”
Hillary nodded h
er agreement. She hadn’t been any happier about reading through all those communications than he had been.
Trace attempted to lower his fury a few notches, but he didn’t succeed. It wasn’t just knowing that Allan, and possibly Brigid, had been murdered. No, it was the invasion. Matters they would have shared only with each other had now been stolen for some creep to read.
They returned to the office with bottles of beer, but Trace didn’t face the computer. With his chair turned sideways, he looked toward Hillary but barely saw her. There was a blackness growing in him, a blackness he had felt only in the heat of battle. As if his soul were being scooped out, to leave a dark void behind. It wanted him to fall in. To never emerge again.
It was a hole he had felt only when the bullets were flying, when the bombs and grenades came his way. When death exploded the world and sometimes claimed his buddies. When all that was civilized was stripped away.
This creep was pulling him back there, to places in himself that he had never liked no matter how necessary. If that guy showed up right now, Trace would have throttled him with his bare hands.
“Hills?” he said, once again seeing her and not the pit inside him.
“Yes?”
“It would be murder if I kill that SOB.”
She placed her bottle on the desk and leaned back in her own chair, studying him gravely. “Legally, it probably would be. I don’t know your laws. Maybe if he comes inside this house when we’re here, it wouldn’t be. If he attacks, it wouldn’t be.”
“But there’s always a set of conditions that protects him. Always.”
“Rules of engagement.”
The rules soldiers were supposed to follow. He sighed, rubbing his hands over his entire face. Trying to erase thoughts he didn’t want to have. Rules of engagement. A guide that worked except in the heat of a battle.
“It can be a struggle,” she remarked. “When we go to war, we are expected to be no longer civilized in many ways. When we come back, we are supposed to become civilized again.”
“It can be a leap,” he admitted. He looked to his blank computer screen again and realized he didn’t want to dive back in. Not yet.
He turned his attention back to Hillary. “You have any PTSD?”
She shrugged. “I’m fortunate. It hasn’t been disabling. You?”
“Yeah. I’ve been so wound up in this mess that it’s been leaving me alone. I’ve been luckier than a lot of my buddies, though. A lot luckier.”
But here he was, hovering on the brink of another pit that could suck him in. One that he’d been successfully battling. He forced his attention away from the internal war to the external problem. “There’s got to be more information in that photo than we noticed.”
“I think so. It was certainly pointed.”
“Yeah. Brigid always knew what she was doing.” Swiveling around, he woke up the computer and unlocked the photo. It hadn’t changed any, but he tried to see it with fresh eyes.
“Can you change the colors in the photo?” she asked.
“I’m no geek, but I can try. Why?”
“Steganography.”
A few seconds passed before he recalled the word. “As in a hidden message?”
Hillary nodded. “Those conflicting shadows may not have been intended just to identify a contractor. We can try changing the colors first to find out if anything looks out of place. Then we could try examining it pixel by pixel.”
He stared at the photo. “It wouldn’t be beyond Brigid to figure out how. She was always good with technology. Now I wish I’d gotten a degree in computer science.”
An amused sound escaped Hillary. “I doubt steganography is one of the classes. Try looking it up online. There might be some suggestions how to do this.”
A few minutes later, he groaned. “Damn, Hillary, do you have any idea how many ways there are to do it?”
“I was afraid you might say that.” She looked over his shoulder and sighed audibly, warm breath on his neck. His mind leaped immediately to other things they might be doing, but he reined himself in. Kept going on the problem.
He spoke. “It had to be something Allan would recognize, would know how to decode. Naturally he left us a packet of directions.”
The sarcasm in his tone was audible, and he wondered just how irritated with Allan he was becoming. “Okay,” he said. “I already need a break. Maybe moving around will get my brain back in gear.”
She lingered a few minutes looking at the photograph, but soon joined him as he paced through the house, leaning her shoulder against a doorjamb and folding her arms as he passed by.
She spoke. “It has to be in the image. That removes quite a few methods.”
“Sure. But that still leaves a lot of methods I don’t know how to break through.” He turned into the kitchen eventually and pulled out a container, inspecting the contents. Then he placed half a club sandwich on each of two plates. “Fuel up. We’re about to take a long march.”
This time he didn’t reach for beer but instead started coffee. “God, I don’t think I’ve ever drunk so much coffee.”
“Neither have I. I’m starting to feel a bit of stomach burn.”
“The food should help. If not, I’m sure there’s some antacid in this house somewhere. What house would be without it, these times we live in?”
Another amused sound escaped her.
“What?” he asked irritably.
“You’re actually charming when you’re so frustrated.”
“Charming?” Then he replayed his own words and tones in his mind. “Sorry.”
“I’m not annoyed. I share your feelings. I just like the way you express them. Nothing held back.”
Trace shook his head as he placed the plates on the table and dug out a couple of napkins. “Oh, I’m holding a lot back. I want to shake Brigid until her teeth rattle for not listening to Allan. I’m furious at him for not taking action with whatever information he had. He could at least have reported his suspicions.”
Hillary grew so silent that he stared at her. “What?” he demanded finally.
Her words fell like bombs. “Perhaps he did.”
* * *
HILLARY SUPPOSED THE sandwich was delicious, but it might as well have been sawdust for all she tasted it. She suspected that Trace wasn’t feeling any differently. He ate mechanically, but he talked.
“If he reported it, something should have been done.” Then he answered himself. “Unless he reported it to the wrong person.”
“Possibly.” She forced down another bite, then went to get a glass of water to help her swallow. The coffee remained untouched in its pot.
“Are you suggesting that Allan got killed because he told someone what he knew?”
“It’s possible. I don’t know. There must be layers to this arms sales business, but where are they? How deep is all this? How high does it go? I can’t imagine he would have reported it to the contractor.”
“That doesn’t seem likely,” Trace agreed. “What if we find a hidden message in that photo? Who do we report it to? How can we know it’s not the wrong person?”
Hillary mulled it over for all of ten seconds. “I go to my chain of command.”
“Are you saying Norwegians never get up to dirty business?”
“No. What I’m saying is that it’s unlikely any of my countrymen would be involved in this particular dealing. Allan would have reported to someone he knows, most likely in your military. Not in mine.”
She paused. “I am not claiming any moral superiority. We also have our own arms manufacturers and deals with foreign governments. Weapons merchants are everywhere. It’s just that this situation, involving an American contractor, would be unlikely to extend to the Norwegian military or companies.”
He nodded grimly. “Okay. If we find something useful, you take it up your
chain of command. Then duck, because if this extends across the alliance, we’re going to take a dangerous ride.”
“I think neither of us has ever avoided danger.”
He then said something he figured she wouldn’t like because she was so strong. But it burst from his heart anyway. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”
She didn’t bristle, not even a bit. Her answer was simple. “Nor I to you.” Then she returned to Valkyrie Hillary. “We have a mission.”
Easier said than done.
Chapter Fourteen
Stan Witherspoon was becoming an inveterate pacer. When the walls of his tiny apartment with its bedroll on the floor and its miniature kitchen covered with empty food containers became too confining, when he wasn’t trying to see what that damn Mullen was up to, he paced in the courtyard created by the four surrounding apartment buildings.
There was hardly ever a soul out there, but Stan had paced enough to flatten all the snow into a hard, icy path around the perimeter.
He was a damn fool. A bigger fool than he’d ever guessed, and he was quite sure that he’d never overestimated his own intelligence. He knew enough to get by. He knew enough to fudge an inventory.
But he’d dropped out of college when he realized he’d never pass the CPA exam no matter how hard he studied. His father had wanted him to join the firm, but Stan knew better. He knew he was better off disappointing his father at the outset rather than after a mediocre performance during four years of college to be followed by failing the CPA exam.
His dad had at least looked impressed when Stan had told him about joining the contracting firm and the kind of income he was making. But money had always mattered to the senior Witherspoon, a trait he had passed along to his son.
Well, his dad wouldn’t be impressed now, and neither was Stan. He was in a bind so tight that it sometimes felt like his head would explode from the pressure.
He’d taken care of the Mannerly guy according to his orders. It should have ended there. He should have just left town. Instead he’d had to stay. Because of that Mullen guy. Because he was making such a ruckus about murder.