Flight

by Laura Griffin

Miranda looked at him. He was studying a trio of pictures, all posted by Elizabeth Lark over the past four months.

  “How do you mean?” she asked.

  “Could be the message isn’t obvious unless you know what to look for,” he said.

  “Yes, they could be employing steganographic techniques,” Mike said.

  She leaned her elbow on the desk. “How do you mean?”

  He lined up several pictures in front of him and gazed down at them for a moment. “Steganography.” He looked from Miranda to Joel. “From the Greek steganos meaning ‘covered’ and graphia meaning ‘writing.’ It references a technique where a secret message is hidden in plain sight.” He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. “There’s an old story about a Greek ruler who tattooed a secret message onto a slave’s scalp, then waited for his hair to grow out before sending him through enemy territory. When the messenger got to his destination, he shaved his head to reveal the writing. In the digital era, steganography can refer to hiding a file within a file. Or, another example, sending a hidden message using microscopic variations in certain letters within a font system.”

  “I’ve heard about this for photography.” Miranda looked at Joel. “You can use certain software to embed a smaller text message within an image file, which is much larger.”

  Joel arched his eyebrows.

  “But from what I understand, the software runs into problems with social media platforms,” she said. “Photo-sharing sites typically compress or otherwise alter images as they’re processed, and so the embedded data is lost or damaged.”

  “Maybe we’re making it too complicated,” Joel said. “Maybe the symbol on the picture here is meant to flag it for followers. A handful of these photos were taken in Lost Beach during the two-week window before the protests. The picture itself tells people where to go—Lost Beach. They just have to figure out the date and time.”

  “How?” Miranda asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s possible my FBI contact has more on this group,” Mike said to Joel. “I can give you the agent’s name and number.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’ll text it to Miranda.”

  Mike glanced at the clock on the wall, and Miranda knew he had a class. Joel seemed to pick up the cue.

  “Thanks for your time,” Joel said, standing up and offering a handshake. Miranda stood, too.

  “No problem. I don’t know if it was useful.”

  Miranda smiled at the professor. “It definitely was.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They swung by Miranda’s mailbox and made a stop at the dining hall before heading back to the parking lot. Joel checked his watch. They’d been gone almost four hours and probably wouldn’t be back on the island until five.

  “I can drive if you’re too tired,” he said as they neared the Jeep.

  She gave him a puzzled smile. “Why would you think I’m too tired?”

  “Because you ordered a triple-shot latte.”

  And because she looked tired. But Joel didn’t think she’d appreciate hearing that.

  “I’m fine.”

  As he got in the Jeep, she stowed her giant beverage and checked her reflection in the mirror.

  “Okay, so I look like crap. I know. I was up all night,” she said.

  “Working on this?”

  “Yeah.”

  He wondered if there was more going on with her. She seemed stressed-out. Edgy. He was, too, but as lead detective it went with the territory.

  Miranda pulled out of the parking lot and merged into downtown traffic. She’d gone above and beyond to help him with this investigation, and he should probably feel guilty for using so much of her time. But he didn’t. He needed her. The clock was ticking on the most challenging case of his career, and Joel wanted all the help he could get. Miranda was sharp and thorough, and she’d managed to spot critical clues that other CSIs would have overlooked. She was an asset.

  Not to mention—if he was honest with himself—he really liked spending time with her. He liked her insights and her opinions. He liked her, and it wasn’t just about work.

  “Thanks for introducing me to Conner,” he said. “It was a good idea to consult him.”

  She cut a glance at him. “Are you glad we came in person? By the time we get back, this will have burned a whole day.”

  “It was worth it,” he said. “We have a new lead. I’m not sure how it fits, but it feels significant.”

  “Alpha Omega Now, you mean.”

  “Yeah. It’s a connection we didn’t have before. It gives us an idea of why our two victims were on the island when they were killed. They weren’t just tourists. Still . . .”

  “What?”

  “The whole thing raises more questions than answers.”

  “Well, the link to this group might explain the feathers at the crime scene,” she said. “Maybe the feathers are some kind of message about the destruction of fragile ecosystems or the loss of endangered species.”

  “An ideological killer. Just what I didn’t want to learn today.” Joel raked his hand through his hair.

  “Why?”

  “That would mean our case isn’t a one-off.” He shook his head. “A person like that is trying to rid the world of some evil by killing people. For example, the Unabomber, Eric Rudolph, killers like that.”

  “So, they’re on a mission.”

  “Exactly. In terms of motive, it doesn’t really fit, though,” he said. “When it comes to Randall, yeah, I can see it. But what about Elizabeth Lark and Will Stovak? They were so devoted to their cause that they got matching tattoos of the group’s logo. And Elizabeth used her social media platform to help promote the group to all her followers.”

  “What do you know about Randall’s business?” Miranda asked. “I’m wondering how he got permission to carve up all that land on the coast.”

  “I’d be willing to bet it was through a wetlands swap program. Companies can sometimes get a permit to develop land in certain areas if they donate land somewhere else.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “What a sham. Wetlands aren’t just interchangeable. If you destroy breeding grounds and disrupt migratory patterns, the long-term impact can be devastating.”

  Joel pulled his phone from his pocket and entered some search terms. He wanted to know more about the Corpus Christi victim.

  Miranda sipped her coffee and then offered him the cup. “Want some?”

  “I’m good.

  He didn’t need a caffeine fix. He was already wired from the barrage of new clues flooding his brain.

  “Are you reading about Randall?” she asked.

  “And about Randall Enterprises, LLC. I need to find out whether his company had any run-ins with this protest group.”

  What he really needed to do was call up Corpus PD and see if their detectives had pursued this angle, either before or after Henry Lind’s retirement. An Internet search was one thing, but really exploring this lead would require digging deep. Had Randall’s company faced threats or protests or possibly litigation at any point?

  Joel scrolled through search results until a headline snagged his attention.

  “Bingo.”

  Miranda looked at him. “What?”

  “‘Flash Mob Protests New Development in Rockport,’” he recited.

  “That’s, like, fifty miles up the coast.”

  “Yep. And looks like it’s one of Randall’s projects.”

  “What’s the date on the article?”

  Joel scrolled to the top. “Almost two years ago.”

  “So, that means almost one year before Randall was murdered on his boat dock.”

  Joel read the full article, filing away names and dates. He needed to follow up on this, and it wa
sn’t going to be easy to do it from the car. His first impulse was to call Nicole for help because she was up to speed on the Corpus Christi connection. But she was off island today running down a lead from the FBI. She’d been excited about it this morning, but the fact that Joel hadn’t heard from her yet put a damper on his hopes.

  “I don’t understand the link between this environmental protest group and our two victims,” Miranda said. “A millionaire real estate developer, yes. But how do a couple of weed-smoking road trippers get into the crosshairs of an ideologically motivated killer?”

  Joel didn’t know. But he had that niggling feeling in his gut, the feeling he got when he pulled a thread and a mystery started to unravel. This was one of those threads, and Joel felt certain that he needed to keep pulling.

  “Joel?”

  He looked at Miranda.

  “No idea,” he told her. “But I plan to find out.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Miranda stood in the knee-deep water and composed her shot. She had ten, maybe twelve, minutes till sunset, and she was determined to get this egret while the sun looked like liquid gold shimmering on the water.

  She lifted her camera and waited.

  Click.

  She zoomed in closer and adjusted the focus.

  Click. Click.

  The reddish egret stepped away from the reeds, and Miranda followed his movements.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s it. Now, turn this way . . .”

  Click.

  Her heart skittered. She had it. She took another few shots just to make sure, but she knew deep down that she already had exactly what she wanted, what she’d been searching for, for weeks.

  With a satisfied sigh, she lowered her camera.

  Across the channel, a wade fisherman looked her way and nodded before casting his line. He was up to his thighs already, and her stomach tensed with worry as he moved farther out. This waterway looked placid at the moment, but beneath the surface was a powerful undertow.

  The egret flapped away, and Miranda lifted her hand to shield her eyes as she watched the bird veer toward the sun.

  She turned around and sloshed back to shore, grateful that she’d followed her instincts and come out here this evening. Crossing the causeway earlier, she’d felt the irresistible lure of Lighthouse Point—something about the sky and the clouds and the quality of the light. She couldn’t put her finger on it exactly, but she’d wanted to capture it, so after dropping Joel at the police station and swinging by the dog sitter’s, she’d grabbed her camera and come straight here.

  Thinking about her day with Joel gave her a heady buzz. She’d enjoyed driving in her Jeep with him. She’d enjoyed talking with him. She’d enjoyed being on a mission together, a mission no one understood or even knew about besides the two of them.

  She’d never met a man like Joel Breda—so self-assured and secure about who he was. He was confident without being arrogant. He was smart and capable but willing to give credit to others when it was due—something that mattered to Miranda because she’d worked with so many men who were utterly unwilling to acknowledge other people’s help.

  Joel was different. And the more time she spent with him, the more he intrigued her.

  She thought of the feel of his mouth on hers and his stubbled jaw and his warm hands sliding over her hips. Just the memory made her insides tighten. Why had she made the mistake of kissing him? That one moment of weakness had changed the balance between them in a major way. She’d revealed her attraction to him. She could no longer go back to not knowing what it was like to kiss him and feel all that intensity focused on her. And if that was how he kissed, she could only imagine what it would be like to spend an entire night with him.

  But she shouldn’t imagine it. They would be working together all summer. If they started up a fling, things were bound to get complicated.

  Besides, she didn’t even think that a fling was possible with him. He was too intense. Too serious. And whatever this . . . attraction thing they had going was, it felt a little too potent. She had a sneaking suspicion that if she gave in to temptation and slept with him, she’d be unleashing a force she couldn’t control—or wouldn’t want to—and there would be no going back.

  Miranda slid her feet into her flip-flops and glanced around. Some shirtless guys near the RV park were tossing a Frisbee and drinking beer. They had their tailgate down and their music up, and they seemed oblivious to all the signs prohibiting glass and alcohol on the beach. Miranda trudged over the dunes toward the parking lot, surveying the lighthouse as she neared it. It sat atop a gentle green hill, towering above everything on the island.

  She remembered seeing the lighthouse in the distance when she’d first driven over the causeway in March. Back then it had been a beacon of hope, quelling her anxiety after she’d quit her job. It seemed to offer solace, and every time she spotted it from somewhere on the island, she felt a renewed sense of reassurance that she’d made the right decision in coming here.

  She cast a glance at her Jeep in the parking lot, then changed directions and hiked up the grassy hill. The south side of the lighthouse was covered in scaffolding, and five-gallon buckets lined the sidewalk. An orange barricade blocked the entrance, but the door stood ajar.

  Miranda stopped at the top of the hill and tipped her head back to study the vertical brick building. Up close, the white paint was dingy and peeling. Sidestepping the barricade, she touched the wooden door and peeked around it. A tarp and paint cans covered the floor. The air smelled of turpentine. She stepped inside, bumping the door against a metal ladder. The air felt warm and still, and dust motes floated on shafts of light streaming through the windows.

  The great metal staircase spiraled up like a nautilus. Miranda adjusted the settings on her camera and peered through the viewfinder. She took a few shots and then followed the curving stairs to the first window.

  A lone sabal palm cast a skinny shadow over the lawn outside. She followed the staircase up and up and up, keeping her gaze on the top window to ward off the dizziness. After what seemed like thousands of stairs, she finally reached the top. Her throat felt dry and her heart hammered against her rib cage. She climbed one last steep trio of steps to the 360-degree lookout.

  Laguna Madre stretched out before her, shimmery pink now in the fading sunlight. The windowpane was cracked and dirty, and Miranda used the tail of her T-shirt to wipe off the grime. Then she lifted her camera and snapped a few shots. A line of brown pelicans soared over the channel on their way to the marsh. Once nearly extinct due to pesticides, the pelican had made a comeback in recent years. To Miranda, they were a symbol of hope. She’d photographed them hundreds of times, but never from this lofty vantage point.

  Thunk.

  She glanced down. The floor below looked miles away.

  Creak.

  A chill snaked down her spine.

  “Hello?” she called.

  Silence.

  Miranda peered over the railing. No sound. No movement.

  Only a faint curl of smoke drifting up from beneath the ladder. A flash of orange caught her eye.

  Fire.

  Miranda’s heart lurched. She rushed down the stairs.

  “Fire!”

  No sooner had she screamed the word than another flame licked out from behind the paint cans. The fire was alive, leaping from one wall to the other. Miranda slipped on a step and landed hard on her butt. She grabbed the handrail and hauled herself to her feet.

  “Fire! Help!”

  Smoke stung her eyes as she neared the bottom step. She reached for the door. A flame leaped in front of her. Pain seared her arm, and she lunged away.

  “Help!”

  Panicked, she raced back up the stairs as she swiped at her stinging flesh. Coughing and choking, she took the steps two at a time until she reached the fi
rst window. She pounded on the glass.

  But there was no one. The Frisbee people were gone. The fisherman was gone. The campground had some RVs and trucks but no people.

  Miranda’s heart jackhammered as she cast a frantic look down at the flames. They were getting closer. Smoke burned her throat and her eyes as she yanked off her T-shirt. The shirt tangled in her camera strap, and she jerked it free, then wrapped it around her fist. She punched at the glass, but it didn’t break. A bolt of panic shot through her. Good Lord, was it hurricane glass? She punched again and again, finally busting through the window. Pain tore up her arm. She kept punching, knocking pieces loose until the lower half of the pane was open.

  “Help!” she shrieked, sticking her head out.

  Miranda looked down. She had to be twenty feet off the ground. She glanced around desperately. A man ran from the RV park, waving his arms and yelling.

  Miranda pulled her head inside and looked down again. The base of the lighthouse was an inferno. Her heart seized. Swinging her leg through the opening, she clutched the frame around the window. People were running now from every direction, waving and shouting at her.

  She sat on the windowsill and pulled her other leg through, and her flip-flop fluttered to the ground. Smoke poured through the window. She felt the heat of the flames against her back.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!”

  Miranda coughed and choked. Tears stung her eyes as she tried to blink away the smoke.

  Please, God, please, please.

  She looked out at the marsh through a blur of tears, and a strange calm settled over her. She looked down at the grassy hill. She was going to have to jump.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Nicole strode into the bullpen and looked around. Where was everyone? She passed the conference room and spotted Joel at a table with his laptop in front of him.

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “Did Brady tell you what happened?”

  “No.” He didn’t stop typing.