“Sergeant Collins, the firing-range instructor.”
Cara made a sound that was half groan, half growl. “I remember him. Wasn’t he the one who was always calling you ‘little lady’?”
“Condescending son of a bitch. Yeah, that was him. He’d stand beside me when I was shooting at the range, trying to make me nervous. Worse, when we were out doing sniper rifle training, he’d lie beside me in the grass, bellowing instructions to throw me off. You’re stretched out, trying not to move a fraction of an inch, aiming at a target five hundred yards away, steadying your breathing, then taking the shot at the end of the exhale, maintaining constant pressure on the trigger up to and through the shot itself. All while some sixty-five-year-old fossil is screaming in your ear to break your concentration. The guys thought it was hilarious.”
The laugh that burst from Cara carried an edge of triumph. “Or at least they did until you hit the target dead on, even with all that chaos going on around you.”
“Wow!” Webb gave Meg a slow handclap. “Color me impressed. That would have been incredibly tough to pull off.”
Meg shrugged. “It was, but I have a good eye and a very steady hand. I could have gone into SWAT with my ability to shoot, but that just wasn’t my path. But I learned one thing that day. If I wanted Collins to shut the hell up, that was the way to do it.” She looked over at Cara. “Add Collins to the list, but I can’t believe it’s him. He’d no doubt love for me to look bad, but he’s too old to manage the kidnappings at this point, and I don’t think he ever gave me or Val a thought since we’ve graduated. He just turned his attention to the next ‘little lady’ to come into his sights.”
Meg turned the page in the scrapbook, scanning down the pages, considering each entry thoughtfully.
Blink wandered back toward them, his bone still firmly locked in his jaws, staring at the corner of the couch and then at Webb and back again. He put one paw up on the cushion and whined.
Meg looked up from the book. “He wants up. Actually, that’s a significant sign from him. He normally hides from visitors, but when he wants to join you on the couch, you’re his new best friend.”
Webb shifted sideways, closer to Meg, and patted the freed slice of couch. “Come on up.”
Blink needed no further encouragement and leapt up on the couch, somehow managing to turn around three times without toppling off the cushion before flopping down with a contented sigh. Only then did he let go of the bone, tucking it between his paws, and put his head down, his skull pressed along the edge of Webb’s thigh and closed his eyes.
Webb ran a hand down the dog’s back, earning two hearty tail thumps. “Is he normally that protective of his toys?”
“He came from a stable of racing dogs, where he was neglected, overtrained, and underfed, and where he spent about twenty hours a day muzzled in a cage. He’s much better than when Cara first got him. She’s worked with him for years to get him to the minimal level of neurosis he has now.”
“He was really damaged goods, but we can see through that damage to the dog underneath.” Cara smiled over at her dog. “You’ve turned out okay, haven’t you, Blinky?”
Blink’s eyes opened and fixed on Cara, his tail thumping again.
“He certainly has a good life here. They all do. Sometimes when we’re out on calls, we see . . . situations. Animals in bad spots, but we can’t just walk in and take them out. Same thing with kids. We’ve got a little more power there, and can call in Child and Family Services, but they’re usually so understaffed that any new kids can be a burden. But animals . . . Sometimes you can’t prove cruelty so Animal Care and Control can remove them. You know in your gut it’s happening, but even if you could get them out, where can you take them?”
“That’s where people like our parents come in,” Meg said. “They’re not only a rescue, but are also a registered wildlife sanctuary. They’ll take the animal no matter what it is, or at least help place it. They currently have an emu because one was seized by a local PD, and then the cops had no idea what to do with it. They didn’t want to have it put down, but the local shelter wouldn’t take it. So Mom and Dad took it. He lives in one of the pastures and is as happy as a clam.”
“What do you do with an emu?”
“People farm them for their meat, but our emu will never go to slaughter. He leads a pretty charmed existence, right where he is.”
“Lucky guy.”
“He sure is.” Meg paused suddenly. “Speaking of rescues, Cara, what about Madeline Sutherland?”
Cara looked up sharply. “From Clover Leaf Rescue? Oh yeah, she didn’t like you at all.”
“I could have made her life a lot harder. I could have had her brought up on charges.”
“For what?” Webb asked.
“For keeping her animals in terrible conditions. I had an idea how much money she was bringing in because I knew some of the rescue’s corporate donors. But you never would have guessed it from her facility. The animals were underfed, filthy, and vets weren’t called until it was sometimes too late, because she didn’t want to spend money on them. But I bet her books didn’t show that.”
“You were sure she was skimming off the top.”
“It was the only thing that made sense.” Meg turned to Webb. “So I called her on it.”
“You turned her in to the authorities?”
“No, worse from a rescue point of view. I told her if I didn’t see improvement in the conditions, and if there weren’t regular vet visits, I’d let her sponsors know their money should be spent elsewhere. The director of a rescue can be brought up on charges, even go away for them, but as long as the money keeps coming in, the rescue keeps going. But cut off that money and it’s game over.”
“You wanted her rescue to fail?”
“I wanted it to succeed. The way we work best is if we all work together. Even if we do, there are still not enough places for animals in need. But I wouldn’t condemn an animal to that kind of mistreatment. Mom and Dad were totally in support. And in the end, it worked. The rescue cleaned up its act.”
“That little bug you put in the ear of one of the board members didn’t hurt either. Once they were aware—and horrified—by what they’d been ignoring up to that point, it got better.”
“Madeline hates me, so we should add her. I know the profile is for a man, and one younger than Sergeant Collins, but at this point, I’m trying to list everyone who could be involved. What if the profile is wrong or if it changes a bit with more information? Let’s make it a complete list now, and then we can pare it down later.”
Over the next hour, they added more names to the list:
Ian Ross—a fellow K-9 handler on the Richmond PD, against whom Meg lodged a formal complaint after witnessing him leaving his dog in his patrol vehicle without the air conditioner running on a hot day in July.
Evan Prince, Max Bennet, Janet Sellers, and Levi Wood—criminals who had been apprehended by Meg and Deuce, but who were now out on parole.
Jimmy York—apprehended after a particular brutal “jumpin’ in” gang ritual that left the initiate permanently paralyzed.
Kyle McKenzie—a hoarder who had all his animals seized and removed from the premises over his screams of revenge.
Meg sat back against the couch and closed the scrapbook with a snap, shaking her head.
“What’s wrong?” Webb asked.
“I don’t know. None of them feel right to me. I understand people being angry, but do any of these seem like they’d be so insane with rage they’d kill to make me pay?”
“But you’re only seeing the surface.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re only seeing the parts of their lives you came into contact with. What if you were just the catalyst that started them off to a life of misery and crime? Take that rescue lady, for example.”
“Madeline?”
“Yeah, her. What’s she doing now?”
“I admit I have no idea.”
“What if your exposing her behavior eventually led to her leaving the rescue, taking away her identify as a do-gooder, someone who was a hero. Then she couldn’t find a new position in the rescue world, because even though they’re always looking for volunteers, the word was out on her on social media from her last position and no one wanted to work with her. Now she’s lost that part of her life completely. It was never a paying job, so she hasn’t lost her livelihood, but she’s lost a major part of her identity, which could be worse from her point of view.”
“Meg, he’s got a point,” Cara said. “This list might not seem like anything to you, but what if something you did changed someone’s life irrevocably? What if you just can’t see it?”
“Or what if I’m overlooking someone? What if it’s as you say, what I did was something so minor, I can’t see it or simply don’t remember it? What if the person I need to identify is the one I can’t see?”
“Give yourself a break,” Webb said. “In some ways, this is the hardest way to do it. You’re trying to think of who might be responsible. It’s the person who springs to mind at three in the morning who may be the key. Sometimes turning off your brain or distracting it is when you remember something crucial. Give your subconscious time to work through this. Give your brain time to catch up.”
Meg nodded, grateful for the support. But the knot forming in her stomach told her she was missing something. Something important.
Something that could save a life.
CHAPTER 14
Mobile Telegraph Wagons: The northern states laid more than fifteen thousand miles of telegraph cable along the eastern seaboard for purely military purposes during the Civil War. Invented by Samuel Morse in 1844, the telegraph provided rapid communications between the battlefield and Washington, DC, and mobile telegraph wagons allowed reporting from the cable nearest the battlefield.
Saturday, May 27, 7:54 AM
Jennings residence
Arlington, Virginia
The cell phone blaring in her ear roused Meg from a restless sleep. It’s Saturday morning, for God’s sake. Is nothing sacred? Rolling over, she reached for the phone on her bedside table, fumbling and nearly dropping it in the process. She cracked her eyes open just enough to accept the call, then squeezed them shut again as she rolled over, her phone pressed to her ear. “Jennings.” Her voice was husky with sleep.
“Meg, I’m sorry, it’s Craig.”
Her eyes shot open, her body suddenly awake as if Craig had poked her with an electric cattle prod, her heart pounding. She pushed up on one elbow. “What’s happened?”
The voice that answered was bone tired, not just exhausted from this case, but from the weight of years of cases. “He’s taken another one.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet. A quartet of dogs was found this morning, just after seven AM, running through Green Park in Gaithersburg, Maryland. It looks like the target may have been a dog walker by trade, because all four dogs were found running free, but they all had collars with different contact information. Agents are calling all those numbers right now to find out who owned the dogs, and who was caring for them.”
Meg pushed back the blankets and swung her feet to the floor. Hawk looked up from where he stretched out on his dog bed against the wall nearby, his head tilted questioningly. “Did they find a note?”
“Yes.”
“Can you send it to me?”
“Already done. Meg, I don’t know how long it will take them to solve this. The CRRU boys have weekend shifts, but it’s so early, we had to call them into the office. It’s going to slow us down.”
It won’t slow Cara down.
“Let me know when the CRRU boys have a direction for us. We’ll be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”
“Done. Wait for my call.” Craig ended the call.
“Cara!” Jumping out of bed and jogging down the hall, Meg headed for her sister’s room, pulling up in the doorway at the sight of the neatly made bed.
Think, Meg, it’s Saturday. She must have headed into the school for her nine AM class early.
She dialed the phone still clutched in one hand and Cara picked up after the first ring. “Are you at the school already?”
“I came in an hour early to do a one-on-one with Clay and Cody before their class starts,” Cara said. “What’s going on?”
“We just got another message and the CRRU guys aren’t in the office, so they’re being called in. That’s going to put us behind.”
“If you’ve got it, send it to me now. Clay just arrived, so we can work from here.”
“Hold on.” Keeping her sister on the phone, Meg switched over to her e-mail and read the newest messages, and forwarded Craig’s e-mail to Cara. “Just sent it.”
“I’m logging into my computer. Give me a minute. So, there’s another one missing? Someone who looks like you?”
“I can only assume she does. They don’t know who she is yet. Evidence, so far, says she’s a dog walker because it was four dogs this time, none of which have the same contact information.”
Keys clicked in the background; then Cara said, “Got it. I’m hanging up on you now so I can work on it. Keep your phone with you and be ready to roll, once we figure this out.”
Meg clicked off and sprinted for the bathroom to shower and dress.
Saturday, May 27, 8:19 AM
Jennings residence
Arlington, Virginia
Meg was tying her wet hair into a ponytail when her phone rang. She snatched it off the counter before it had even completed the first ring. “What’ve you got?”
“I’ve got the message, but Clay is still trying to figure out the meaning.”
“One thing at a time.” Meg reached for paper and pen. “Let’s start with the bad news. What’s the keyword?”
Cara sighed. “I was hoping you weren’t going to ask that. It’s ‘Marlowe.’ ”
Meg had to clamp her lips shut to keep the obscenity from slipping out. Now the perp was getting personal past the point of newspaper articles about her life and family. She was 99 percent sure she’d never mentioned her childhood dog in any of them. The image of the bouncy, energetic golden retriever filled her mind. Her first dog in so many ways—her first experience with the overwhelming loyalty and trust of a dog, her first efforts at training, her first personal experience of loss when Marlowe died at fourteen from cancer.
Her gaze dropped to the far side of the kitchen, where Hawk contentedly sprawled in a sunbeam with Blink and Saki. The first dog of the many the sisters would own and train and love over the years. And lose.
“Meg? You there still?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” Meg’s tone was unbending. “We’ll deal with that later. What’s the message itself? Slowly, I need to get this down.”
“Here it is. ‘Stonewall looks over the tops to the den. But she is at home with the pike and cemetery. Years of craftsmanship gone in a second, like a puff of smoke. The timer is running.’ ” Cara spoke the words a phrase at a time, giving Meg time to catch up. “Hold on, I’m putting this on speaker so Clay can talk to you too.” There was a click, as if the phone was set down on the desk; then her voice came back sounding much farther away. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes. McCord, what does this say to you? ‘Stonewall’ is Stonewall Jackson, right?”
“That’s the theory I’m running with,” McCord agreed. “It’s a pretty obvious first jump for a Civil War–related clue.”
“So what locations are we looking at? And what’s he looking over the top of? Trees? Buildings?”
“There are a lot of locations associated with ol’ Stonewall if you want to get down to individual battlefields, and that’s considering he was only alive for half the war. He was accidentally shot by one of his own men and died of complications of the injury days later. But he was notable for the Battles of Bull Run at Manassas, both the one in 1861 and then again in 1862. He’s also known for Fredericksburg and Antietam, and then there’
s Chancellorsville, where he was fatally wounded. But that’s a really short list. There’s a longer list of battles he also took part in, smaller skirmishes he was involved in as part of various Confederate campaigns under Robert E. Lee.”
“He wants us to have a chance to find her, so I don’t think he’s going to give us something so obscure we don’t have a chance of tracking her down in time. Bull Run was two battles in the same place, and Chancellorsville is where he died, so maybe one of those because they are notable. Does the rest of the message narrow it down at all?”
“Not really. When you look at . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What?” Cara asked.
“Hold on, hold on.”
Meg could hear McCord repeating, over and over, the first line of the message: “ ‘Stonewall looks over the tops to the den.’ ”
“There’s no spacing or punctuation in these messages, is there?” he asked.
“Who are you asking?” Meg asked.
“Cara. No spacing or punctuation, just groups of letters that aren’t even representative of the words.”
“Correct,” Cara said. “No capitals to mark the start of a sentence either, because it’s in all caps. Letters clustered in groups of five.”
“You son of a bitch, I almost missed it,” McCord growled. “And that would have meant her death.”
“Missed what?” Meg was getting impatient. This isn’t moving fast enough. “McCord, you’re not making sense.”
“It’s not ‘Stonewall.’ That’s what we’re supposed to assume. It’s ‘stone wall.’” He paused between the two words, making it clear it wasn’t a single name. “It’s literally what it means—a wall constructed of stone.”
“What does that tell us? There must have been thousands of walls like that at the time of the Civil War.”
“But only one that pairs with the other clues in that first sentence. ‘Stone wall looks over the tops to the den.’ He’s talking about the goddamn Battle of Gettysburg.”
“Gettysburg, Pennsylvania?”
Before It's Too Late Page 13