He shook his head. “His motives don’t really matter, but in a weird way, I hope he stole the designs out of love for the project—no matter how horribly misguided—rather than simply for the money. But the entire thing made me sit back and take in the magnitude of what I had been part of, what we had been trying to create. All along a part of me had been terrified we’d become Oppenheimer, but after he disappeared, I finally grasped how disastrous the work could be if placed in the wrong hands. I started to doubt if I’d ever be able to tell who had the wrong hands after how Randolph deceived us all.”
“So you left the profession?”
He nodded. “I left and came back to Yancey, where I know folks can be trusted and relied on.”
“Have you considered the possibility Randolph didn’t steal the project? Maybe someone else did and killed him because he got in the way?” Maybe his mentor hadn’t betrayed him and his team.
“Security records indicate Randolph swiped in that night and then out again in fifteen minutes. Neither he nor our team’s work have never been found.”
“Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around his sturdy shoulders, embracing him. He leaned into her hold, cupping her face and . . .
A stick cracked behind them.
“Elliot?” Ben turned. “You’re usually much more careful. I never hear you coming.”
“Please, Benjamin.” The man stepped into the clearing. “You’re too good and the only one I can’t sneak up on, but the stick . . . Just wanted to give you a heads-up to my impending interruption.”
Ben smiled softly at Libby. “We appreciate it.” He helped her to her feet.
She turned to face the small man—five-six or so, maybe one hundred and forty pounds, silver-streaked brown hair, and round spectacles.
“Elliot, this is—”
“Libby Jennings. I know.”
She frowned. “How did . . . ?”
“He knows everyone in town,” Ben said.
“Then maybe we should have asked him about the blue highlighted names on Willy’s logs.”
“Jim already did,” Elliot said. “Knew two.”
“But the third?” she asked.
“An alias. Haven’t heard it around here before. Will take some more digging, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“No,” Ben said, indicating for Libby to hand over Kat’s items.
She did. Cap, then watch, then quote.
He studied them for a moment and turned to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it?” Libby said, looking at Ben in confusion.
“Trust me.” He took her hand in his. She exhaled, amazed at how quickly Elliot disappeared, blending back in with the night.
Libby shut her room door and locked it behind her. Ben checked it was in fact locked from the other side before she heard his footsteps move away. She didn’t want him to leave. Ever. And while it was exhilarating to experience feelings on such a deep and passionate level so mind-blowingly fast, it was also terrifying—because it would mean taking a gigantic risk. One she wasn’t sure her heart was ready to take. She grabbed her journal and hopped on the bed. Ben had tried convincing her to change rooms or to at least bunk with one of her teammates, but since her room had already been ransacked, it seemed highly unlikely it would happen again.
Grabbing a pen, she flipped to the first empty page in her journal and poured out everything stirring inside her heart, along with the events of the day.
The worn leather journal had been everywhere with her this past year. And when she returned to Nevis for Christmas, her parents would no doubt continue the tradition and give her a new one for the coming year.
She lay back wondering what the new year might hold and what role, if any, Ben McKenna would have in it.
Libby’s eyes fluttered open.
A shadow stood over her—dark and looming.
She struggled to move but couldn’t, to scream but only a whimper squeezed through.
Panic set her heart aflame as a sharp pinch pierced her neck, heat flooding through her veins. Everything . . . faded . . . awa—
THIRTEEN
What had she done with it? He’d searched her room again after drugging her to make sure he wasn’t interrupted, but nothing.
He shook out his hands, anger flooding his body, surging through him with a mixture of adrenaline and pain. She’d left him no choice but to call it in. Stupid broad.
He lifted the pay phone receiver, gazing at the empty Yancey streets. What a nosy group of people in this little nothing town.
His superior answered on the third ring, and he swallowed hard, praying this didn’t get him whacked.
“It wasn’t there.”
“Are you certain?”
He shifted, hearing something. Once again, he surveyed the streets, but again he found them empty. “Positive,” he said, turning his attention back to the call.
“Then where is it?”
He swallowed, his throat constricting. “I don’t know.”
“She must have stashed it somewhere.”
“I already checked the fisherman’s boat.”
His superior inhaled and released his breath slowly. “Go back. See if the swimmer left any clue where she may have hidden it.”
“And if not?”
“It may be time to take her.”
Ben sat on the dock, his feet hovering over the water’s edge as the sun rose in the east, the early morning air brisk. He set his coffee mug on the pier beside him and grabbed his Bible, opening to Psalms. He always found solace in David’s life. A life full of joys, betrayals, pain, and love. Not a perfect life or a perfect man, but a full life and a man after God’s own heart. He longed to be that man.
Please, Father, there is so much to distract. Let this time with you be my solace. Be my and Libby’s shelter. I don’t know the depths of what’s happening here, but it’s triggering memories, uncovering old wounds. I pray Kat knew you. And I pray you’ll guide Jim through the investigation.
After last night’s good-bye, the thought of actually saying a forever good-bye to Libby Jennings hollowed him. It was ridiculous after such short a time. The woman didn’t just cross his mind once and again—she’d taken up residence in it.
He couldn’t shake her and he had no desire to do so. Thankfully, circumstances aside, they’d be spending more time together. He was counting down the minutes before he could see her. He’d drop by with coffee before her practice, and afterward they could follow up with Elliot. Hopefully his friend would have something. Hopefully there was more to the quote than just words.
FOURTEEN
Libby woke, her lids unbearably heavy, her neck tender. She sat and the room spun. She grabbed her head, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
The spinning finally settled—barely. She glanced down at the clothes she’d fallen asleep in, shoes and all. Clearly she’d been more exhausted than she’d realized.
She got to her feet, her mind and body woozy.
What a strange nightmare.
A knock thudded on her door, reverberating through her head in pulsating waves.
“Yeah.” She swallowed, mouth and throat dry. “Just a sec.”
Swaying to the door, she opened it to find Ben.
“Hey,” he said, holding up a drink tray with two Styrofoam cups.
“Hey.” She braced her weight against the doorframe to stabilize herself.
He frowned. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She turned, moving back into her room. “Just not fully awake yet.”
“I brought coffee.”
The smell rubbed her wrong.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, just feeling dizzy.”
He studied her carefully. “What happened to your neck?”
“My neck?” She grabbed it to feel and winced at the bruised sensation.
“Yeah.” He examined her more closely. “Looks like something bit or punctured you.”
�
��Punctured?” Her mind cleared. No. It couldn’t be.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just I had this weird dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
“Like something stung my neck.”
“Maybe we should have Doc Graham take a look.”
“It’s probably just a bug bite, but . . .” There’d been a shadow of a man standing over her.
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”
That caught her off guard. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Come on, you know you are. Now, let’s go.” He took her hand. He was making a habit of that.
“Where?” She grabbed her backpack, never going anywhere without her journal and pen tucked inside.
“Doc Graham’s. Something isn’t right.”
Doc Graham finished examining Libby and handed her a cup.
She frowned. “What’s this for?”
“Bathroom is that way.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Not at all. We need to be certain you haven’t been drugged. I’m running a blood test, but those take time. Urine will tell us right away.”
“Lovely.” She hopped down and trudged to the bathroom, leaving the sample with Doc Graham while she got dressed.
She stepped out of the exam room to find Ben waiting in the hall. He was furious at the thought someone might have broken back into her room and drugged her. Concern was still etched on his handsome face. “Doc said to meet him in his office.”
“Okay. You coming?”
“You don’t mind me being in there?”
“Of course not.” She wanted him there.
He smiled and she did the same.
They moved into Doc Graham’s office.
“Take a seat,” he said, shutting the door.
“Well, Doc?” Ben said before the man could even sit.
“Everyone is so impatient this morning, but in your case I understand. The Russian ambassador acted as if the world was going to end if we didn’t release Miss Stanic’s body instantly.”
“Wait.” Libby shook her head, regretting the sudden motion. “The ambassador was already here?”
Ben looked at his watch. “That was quick.”
“Like I said, impatient, but the man from the State Department . . .” Doc Graham pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Libby.
Brandt Dawson.
“He showed up soon after,” Doc Graham finished saying.
“And?” Libby asked, clutching the card.
“And he released Miss Stanic’s body to the Russians.”
“Of course he did.” But at least they didn’t get Kat’s stuff.
“The ambassador inquired about belongings on Kat’s person at the time of her death. I told him you’d taken them to send to her family. He said he’d be in touch. If he gives you any trouble, call Mr. Dawson.”
Great. She tucked his card in her bag.
“Now to the more important matter at hand. The urine test confirmed my suspicion. You were drugged.” He looked at Libby, his eyes brimming with concern and compassion.
“With what?” she asked.
“Rohypnol.”
“Someone really was in my room last night?” They’d drugged her. “They already searched my room once, why come back?”
“Probably thought you had Kat’s possessions in your pack,” Ben said, clasping her hand, his sturdy fingers engulfing hers in an envelope of protection.
“Thankfully we left them with Elliot,” she said.
“Elliot.” Ben swallowed. “You didn’t happen to write anything about meeting Elliot in your journal, did you?”
“I . . .” She had. She wrote everything in it. “But I just said how we met him. You don’t think . . . ?”
Had the men who drugged her left a chalk X and gone to the meeting spot pretending to be them?
“We gotta go, Doc.” Ben tugged her toward the door, and they raced out of the hospital toward his Jeep.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think . . .” she said, climbing inside.
“There was no way for you to know.” He started the engine, peeling out of the parking lot.
“But Elliot?” she said, fear gripping her. If anything had happened to him because of her. . . .
FIFTEEN
Ben steered his Jeep down the paths that Elliot deemed close enough to roads that led to his cabin deep in the Yancey wilderness.
He’d had the honor of being invited into Elliot’s home once and prayed he remembered the right paths of the numerous options to take.
More importantly, he hoped he’d find and overstep any recent booby traps. According to Elliot he switched them out regularly.
Ben slammed to a stop in front of the foliage-covered gate leading to Elliot’s property. He got out to open the camouflaged barrier and found the lock busted.
His pulse hitching, Ben swung the gate open and drove over the cattle guard, no doubt triggering the silent alert system he knew Elliot had in place.
Finally reaching the house after a number of switchbacks and hidden drives he pulled to a stop before the silent cabin, an eagle rising from its nest in the tree overhead.
“What’s wrong?” Libby asked.
“Elliot greets visitors on the porch with his Remington 700.”
Exhaling a steadying breath, concern for his friend’s safety surging, he climbed from his Jeep, pulled his .44, and positioned Libby behind his right shoulder.
Moving cautiously toward the door, he stepped over a series of trip wires, indicating for Libby to follow him move by move. She did so, mimicking him perfectly—the two of them so in sync in the strangest of circumstances.
“Elliot,” he called, wanting to give his friend a heads-up just in case everything was okay, but he knew in his gut it was far from it. “It’s Ben and Libby.”
Nothing.
“Elliot?” He rapped on the door and glanced through the front window—what little was visible through the askew shade. The place had been tossed.
Kicking in the door, he wasn’t surprised that Elliot’s advanced alarm system didn’t trigger.
They moved, Ben clearing each room until they reached the kitchen. Elliot lay on the floor, puddles of blood surrounding him.
“Dear God,” Libby said.
“Elliot.” Ben rushed to his friend’s side, kneeling, feeling for a pulse, praying for one.
Thank you, Lord.
“He’s alive. Barely. His pulse is very weak. We need to get him to the hospital ASAP.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
He arched a brow.
“Right. No phone. You’re an EMT, and there’s no way an ambulance is getting back here.”
Using supplies from his first-aid kit along with items scavenged from Elliot’s, Ben bandaged Elliot’s head, arm, and chest wounds. He’d been sliced up. Tortured.
Elliot. He shook his head. Why didn’t you just give them what they were looking for? This was on him. He’d brought his friend into it.
Transporting Elliot to his Jeep and securing him in the backseat with Libby cradling his head, Ben tore back through the woods to the hospital.
Sitting beside Libby in the waiting room of Yancey Regional Medical Center Elliot’s blood still smeared across his clothes, Ben clenched his fists tight. What was so vitally important in Kat’s meager belongings they were worth a man’s life? It made no sense, but then again, most of the world didn’t.
Please, Father, don’t let Elliot die.
His prayer was short, but it came from the depths of his soul—a plea God would spare his friend’s life.
Doc Graham rounded the corner, and Ben lurched to his feet, Libby doing so beside him.
“We’ve got the bleeding to stop and have begun transfusions. He lost a lot of blood.” Doc Graham shook his head. “It’s a miracle he survived.”
Thank you, Jesus.
“So he’ll be okay?” Libby asked.
“I believe so,
but we can’t be certain until he regains consciousness.”
Libby sank back in the chair. “I’m so sorry. I never should have written . . .” She shook her head, tears tumbling down her cheeks.
“Hey.” Ben sat beside her, pulling her into his arms. “You couldn’t have known. They”—whoever they were—“did this to Elliot. Not you.” He was the one who’d brought Elliot into this. Not her.
“I suppose they got what they wanted,” she said as Agnes Grey rounded the corner.
“I just heard about Elliot.” Agnes shook her head. “I can’t believe it. We just spoke last night.”
Ben frowned. “Last night?”
“Yes. He showed up banging on my door at midnight. Highly improper, but that’s Elliot.”
“What did he say? What did he want?”
She looked around the waiting room, empty save for the three of them, now that Doc had departed. She closed the door and sat, lowering her voice. “He said he figured out the quote was actually a microdot communication.”
Libby frowned. “What’s a microdot communication?”
“It’s a method spies use to convey information through text or an image substantially reduced in size.” Ben explained. “Like the size of a period at the end of the quote, for example. The recipient then needs to use a special microdot reader to detect the hidden information.”
So Kat had been spying. Question was, for which side?
“Elliot said it was an older version of microdot communication. He needed a Russian WWII reader and asked if I could call on my antique contacts and suppliers in Russia. Told me to say it was for a buyer who’d come in the shop. I made some calls this morning. I went to leave Elliot a message but heard on the way to the mailbox that you’d brought him here.” She smiled and shrugged. “Thelma Jenkins.”
Ben grimaced. “No surprise there, but I am glad she sent you to us.”
“They may have Kat’s quote, but it doesn’t mean they know what it is,” Libby said.
“If we’re dealing with the kind of people I believe we are, trust me, they know.” Ben raked a hand through his hair.
“They, whoever they are,” Agnes said, “don’t have the quote.”
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