by Rachel Lee
Because he might know something.
But even non-Einstein Stan Witherspoon knew he’d made a major mistake earlier. Even though he’d been noticed, he hadn’t been noticed enough to get himself in trouble. He doubted the sheriff was looking for him. Cripes, he’d made himself as invisible as he could, as unremarkable-looking as he could.
But today. Today he’d made a gigantic mistake.
Walking around outside, he wanted to pull out his own hair. He wasn’t a burglar. What made him think he could break into that place and have anyone think it was a random robbery?
He should have taken something valuable. Like the TV. Or the sound system. Or even the computer sitting on that desk surrounded by papers. Except that he’d known that carrying that stuff from the house might have drawn the kind of attention he was seeking to avoid.
No, all he’d taken was some of those letters. The most recent ones from Brigid Mannerly. Hoping to discover what Mullen knew, if anything. To find out what the Mannerly woman might have revealed to her husband. Hoping that those two people staying there wouldn’t notice. Why should they be interested in a stack of letters? Why was he stuck in this town making messes everywhere he went?
Because somebody up the chain had plucked a string somewhere. Because someone had made his boss nervous.
The cold penetrated the fog in his brain, and he realized abruptly that he needed to get inside. Afghanistan wasn’t a hot climate, but he was finding it bothersome to adapt anyway. Or maybe it was his own fault for spending so much time outside accomplishing very little.
Except getting himself closer to trouble. When he got inside, he didn’t even want to take off his outerwear.
He was cold to the bone, and he knew it wasn’t the weather outside. No, this was the iciness of terror.
Death was creeping closer, and right then he couldn’t imagine a good way to hold it off.
* * *
TRACE THREW UP HIS HANDS. Hillary almost followed suit. Her eyes burned and felt as if they wanted to fall out of her head. They’d been manipulating that photo for hours and seemed to be getting nowhere near any kind of message.
“And there’s nothing useful in her letters,” Trace grumbled.
“Not that I found. Emails?”
“I can start running through them again. Maybe I should just print them all out so that you can look with me.”
“I wish that man hadn’t taken her letters.” Hillary felt sorrow tug at her heart.
“Me too, but, joy of joys, I found a folder where Allan scanned them all. They’re still here, Hills.”
“But you haven’t read through them again?”
“Who’s had time?”
She shook her head and stood up, shaking her arms and rotating her shoulders. “I’m convinced there’s a message hidden in that photo. We just need to find a key.”
“That’s like going into a store and asking them to make a key without giving them a template to use. I’d just like to find a note from Allan saying flat out that this is what we need to do.”
She barely managed a wan smile. “Considering how secretive they were being...”
“Yeah.” Trace stood with her. “Calisthenics?”
It sounded like the best idea in the world. Hillary went to her bedroom to pull on her loose-fitting sweatpants and a T-shirt. Laundry again tomorrow or she was going to smell like the inside of a goat shed.
Eyeing Trace as they worked out was probably the most pleasurable thing she’d done since their walk to Maude’s. The walk stood out in her mind the way a sparkling ornament stood out on a Christmas tree. And now this.
She’d heard the term eye candy somewhere, but now she knew what it meant. When they finally finished and began walking around the room to cool down, she told him frankly, “I’d like to climb into bed with you.”
He straightened from the twist he was doing. “Seriously?” His brows had lifted, and a grin started to spread across his face.
“Seriously.” Then she unleashed a light laugh and dashed toward the door. “I take the first shower.”
“Maybe not alone,” he retorted.
Nor did she.
* * *
THE WATER WAS WARM. Trace’s soapy hands running over Hillary from top to bottom made her burn hotter far more than the water. How Trace managed to lather her and bend over in the small stall was something of a miracle in itself. But he did, even reaching the arches of her feet. When he began to wash her center, heat exploded into a firebomb.
But first she wanted to give him the same treatment. She took the slippery bar of soap from him and acquainted herself with every hard muscle, front to back. When she heard a soft groan escape him, she smiled with pleasure.
Hard, firm, perfect in every line. Staring into his face brought her a different kind of pleasure. She just plain liked his face. The sight of it warmed her in a wholly different way. Handsome. But more than handsome. Despite his hard edges, he could soften, and she saw it now.
They came together in a slick embrace, their kiss tasting like soap.
“Damn,” Trace muttered. “We’d better get out of here before we slip.”
She hated the thought but had to agree. But next was toweling each other off, massaging skin with soft terry cloth. Desire began to rumble like thunder on the horizon.
Then the ringing of a phone came from another part of the house. They both stilled and stiffened.
“That’s not my phone,” Trace said.
Grabbing a towel, Hillary swiftly wrapped it around her head. “It’s mine. It may be my father.”
“Go,” he said with a laugh. “Go. There’ll be time later.”
She hoped so. Unless their brains started whirling over the mystery again. It never stopped niggling at her, at least not for long. The shower interval had been one of those rare times. Trace swept her away from reality with such ease. With such wonderful touches, as if he knew her body as well as she did.
She reached her phone, which was sitting on the night table beside her bed. She hadn’t expected to need it except for an emergency, and her heart galloped as she wondered if something had happened to her father.
“Hills,” said his warm, deep voice in her ear. “Where have you gone? Your friends say you went to America and decided to stay for a while?”
“Well, I’m in America and I decided to stay, Pa. Are you all right?”
“As fit as I’ve ever been. Staying young by climbing mountains. The snow is getting deeper. How can you give up your time in the South of France? Or is it more beautiful there?”
“It’s...different. But there are mountains. Even some snow, but I don’t have my skis.”
He laughed. “If you were here, we’d take a long ski and camp under our favorite trees.”
“I miss you, Pa.”
“I miss you, too. But I won’t miss you for long, I hope. A desk has taken over my life.”
“No.” Surprise hit her.
“Yes. My time has come. Now I write orders for everyone else.”
It was her turn to laugh. “That sounds comfortable.”
“Too comfortable. But the mountains are still here to keep me busy. When will you come back?”
“Soon, I hope. Keep my skis waxed.”
Now his laugh was hearty. He knew as well as she that waxes must be chosen for snow conditions and temperature. No waxless skis for them.
“Be sure to telephone,” he said before they disconnected. “I’m a father. I worry always.”
Which made it all the more remarkable that he’d never objected in the least way to her decision to join the Jegertroppen.
She was still sitting on the edge of the bed naked when she looked around and saw Trace with a towel wrapped around his narrow hips. He had leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms. Only then did she realize that she�
�d been speaking in Norwegian. “My father,” she explained.
“Is he all right?”
“He was wondering about me and when I’d come back. He said he’s in a desk job now but the mountains keep him young.” She tilted her head, staring at Trace, yearning, and then her mind produced one of its irritating flips.
“Trace? If we need to tell someone about this, it should be my father.”
Trace straightened. “You’re probably right. He’d be the last person in the world to want to put you in danger.”
“I’m sure of it. And he knows a great many people. He would know who to trust.”
Hillary looked almost sadly at Trace. The moment was gone. Standing, she reached for the last clean clothes she had. He had already headed to his own bedroom.
But she had only a limited amount of time to find out what had happened to Brigid and her husband.
Sometimes life wasn’t nice.
* * *
MORNING ARRIVED WITH no more in the way of answers. Hillary moved laundry from the washer to the dryer. Without comment they’d begun to wash their clothes together. There weren’t many.
“I would have done that,” Trace said.
She closed the dryer door, turning it on, then faced Trace. “I know you would have. You can do the folding.”
“Fair enough.”
Exhaustion rode them both. Lack of sleep with a heavy dose of mental fatigue. Running around in circles wasn’t very rewarding.
Hillary made her oatmeal and topped it with a coddled egg. Trace opted for some kind of hash full of fried potatoes. And coffee. Always coffee.
“One more stab at that photo,” Trace said. “Later if you need to sleep first.”
“I just want to finish this,” she admitted. “Like you, I want answers. We don’t have enough here to take to anyone. We may have an indirect answer to what happened, though. Is that enough for you?”
“Is it enough for you?”
Brigid appeared in her mind’s eye, a laughing Brigid with a heart of gold. “No.” Her answer was short.
“Me neither.”
Hillary stirred her oatmeal, mixing it with the egg, then began eating. After a few minutes, she spoke. “Brigid wanted to join your Army Rangers. I think I mentioned that.”
He nodded.
“Was she always trying to keep up with you and Allan?”
Trace appeared surprised. “I don’t know why she would have wanted to. We were always trying to keep up with her. Anyway, she probably would have tried for the Rangers right off, except at the time they weren’t accepting women.”
“They are neglecting a good resource.”
His answer was dry. “Funny how men often miss that. Maybe we should read more history. From Boadicea to Joan of Arc. And then all the Celtic women who terrified the Romans by riding naked into battle. Lots more, I’m convinced.”
“Camp followers, as you call them, often fought alongside their men. What a disparaging name.”
“Well, it keeps them in their proper place, doesn’t it?”
One corner of her mouth lifted. “What is my proper place?”
“Valkyrie,” he answered promptly. “I give you your due.”
She didn’t doubt it.
After a quick cleanup, both felt refreshed, so they went back to the office.
“I don’t know how far we’ll get before we crash,” Trace remarked.
“Farther than we are. I’m too awake now.”
They returned to the photograph, convinced that if there was any answer, it had to be there.
Hillary offered a suggestion. “Let’s look closely at the shadow that Brigid is making instead of the entire photo. There may be a reason her shadow crosses the shadow of the sign.”
“Like her rifle crosses her,” Trace agreed, sounding rather interested. He printed out two photo-quality prints and handed her one. “Allan must have had a magnifying glass somewhere.”
Hillary studied the picture as Trace hunted through drawers. “I’m going to need spectacles after this.”
“I’ll join you.”
“What makes you think Allan might have had a magnifying glass? Few young people do.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Because he probably spent almost as much time as we have looking at that picture.” He sat up holding a rectangular glass. “Found it. Now I think I’ll print out all the color reductions we did, to see the differences side by side.”
“Good idea.”
There were three desk lamps, surprising given that only two people had ever worked here, but for the first time they turned them all on and twisted them until they illuminated the photos brightly.
He asked, “You want to use the magnifier first?”
She accepted it and bent forward, wondering if her back would ever be straight again.
* * *
FROM EACH COPY, Trace had already screened out colors, starting with one color at a time, then moving on to screening out colors that didn’t noticeably affect the photo.
One of the articles had said that doing so might reveal an image within the image. So far no go. But ever one to press on against ridiculous odds, he had then pixelated the photo, dividing it into tiny squares.
But Hillary was right about the angle of the shadows. It wouldn’t be beyond Brigid to have considered such a thing, aligning it as closely as she possibly could with her rifle. And crossing the shadows. There wasn’t a doubt in Trace’s mind that Brigid had sent a message. Or that Allan might have found it, given how he had labeled the photo.
Just as he was about to fade from fatigue, Hillary gave his heart a jump start.
“Trace, look at these pixels. I can almost make out a word. Am I imagining it?”
No, she wasn’t.
* * *
EVERY HUMAN NEEDED REST. It was the reason sentries fell asleep on duty. It was the reason people crashed cars because they were having microsleeps as their brains tried to rest.
Hillary and Trace reached that point a couple of hours later. They had what looked like it might be a name, whether first or last, they couldn’t tell. Clearly Brigid had linked it to the sign behind her. They needed more.
But when a person starts hallucinating when awake, the mind is screaming a message. Eventually they had no choice but to tumble into bed.
They wound up in Hillary’s bed, spooned but too tired to take advantage of the moment. Too busy trying to think about what they had found. Sleep, however, was a merciless taskmaster and took them away before they could solve anything or enjoy anything.
It all would have to wait. Outside, snow began to fall again, wrapping the world in the cold silence of a grave.
* * *
STAN WITHERSPOON WAS jangling too much to sleep. His eyes felt gritty; his head ached, feeling ten times larger than it was. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
All this for money?
He despised himself and considered suicide, then backed away. He was afraid of dying, or he wouldn’t be in this mess.
He should have just walked off the job in Afghanistan. Just quit. Instead he’d been so full of himself he’d bragged about how he’d taken care of Brigid Mannerly.
At first the boss had been pleased. Stan needed that approval. But then everything had changed. The cage had been rattled.
Which brought him here, to a long road to nowhere. He wondered if he could successfully change his identity, then doubted it. He couldn’t change his fingerprints, for one thing. Then there was the bigger problem: he had no idea how to get the necessary papers. He didn’t know anyone or of anyone.
So there was just Stan on a dark Wyoming night while snow fell. It was probably his funeral shroud, he thought bitterly.
Then a germ of an idea was born. Just a germ. He tried to wrangle it into something he could use, but his mind wa
s too far gone. He popped some pills for his headache, then lay down.
He damn well needed some sleep or he was going to lose it.
* * *
WHEN TRACE AND HILLARY AWOKE, thin gray light peeped through a small crack in the curtains. It wasn’t going to be a beautiful day by the looks of it.
They lay face to face, their drowsy eyes meeting.
Trace spoke, his voice rough from sleep. “You know what I’d like to do with you? But we’re hot on the trail now and you’ve got to go home soon. And don’t argue with me. Your father is already phoning.”
Hillary would have loved an excuse but knew he was right. Her father was growing concerned or he never would have called. He’d been giving her freedom to live her life as she saw fit ever since she’d approached adulthood. He’d never watched over her every moment.
There’d be time to love each other again when they’d come to the bottom of this. Time if she had to wrest it from Freya herself.
Slowly she stretched then walked down the hall to the laundry room. Fresh clothes. A fresh day. A fresh search.
God, Brigid, what did you get us into?
Except Brigid hadn’t meant to get them into anything. She’d wanted Allan to know what was going on. She probably never thought it would cost her life. She’d probably imagined that Allan could get to the bottom of it from a safe distance.
No distance was safe.
* * *
AFTER A BREAKFAST of oatmeal for Hillary, scrambled eggs with cheese for both of them and a stack of toast for Trace, they headed to the office. Each carried a mug of the endless coffee with them and resumed their close inspection of the photos.
“Okay,” Trace said. “We’ve made out the name Stanley. It could be either a first or last name, which hardly gets us anywhere.”
She nodded agreement. “Can you imagine calling Briggs and Holmes to ask if they have an employee with the first or last name of Stanley?”