Salem's Cipher (12 page)

32

Salem, Massachusetts

B
el tensed and dropped her body weight to her hips, hand dipping toward the gun inside her jacket. “Excuse me?”

The hotel worker stumbled back toward the wall, his blue eyes wide. “Salem Wiley and Isabel Odegaard, right? Your moms are Vida and Grace?”

Salem's cheeks flushed. She found herself reaching out to him, though her feet didn't move. “You know them?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I met Vida once, never Grace. Heard of both of 'em plenty.” After casting a wary glance at Bel, he leaned toward the window, moving a corner of the drapery to peer out. His fingers were so long that they seemed to uncurl. Salem re-evaluated his height. He must be over 6'7". He made the hotel room look like a miniature movie set. “You guys have got to get out of here.”

“Why?” Bel's tone was aggressive, hand still on her gun, but her shoulders had relaxed slightly. “And who are you?”

He turned back to face them. Salem noticed flesh-colored, sparse hair on his face, one shade lighter than the hair on his head. He wasn't old enough to grow a real beard or mustache, but he was trying. “I'm nobody. But you two? You have far more enemies than you realize. And they know you're here.” He spun his finger in a circle, indicating the room. “At the Hawthorne, not just in Massachusetts.”

Salem stepped toward him, and then stopped. The Ativan had dulled her brain. “Do you know where our mothers are?”

He dropped his glance, concentrating on a point near her feet. “No.” He shot a look in Bel's direction but had no more luck meeting her eyes. He cleared his throat. “One of them is dead, for sure.”

Salem's legs turned to pudding beneath her. She dropped cross-legged to the floor as sure as if a giant finger had appeared from the sky and pressed on her head. Bel glided forward and twisted the young man's arm behind his back, driving him to his knees before he had time to react.

“I don't know which one,” he whispered. “And the FBI found a finger outside Grace Odegaard's apartment building. It might not belong to either of your mothers, they're not sure.” He swallowed hard, his pale skin growing paler.

Bel's voice was fierce. “How do you know any of this?”

“Dr. Keller called me.”

Salem's brain was whirling. Dr. Keller had acted strangely at the art museum, but
everything
had seemed so bizarre the last twenty-four hours. “Why?”

His teeth gritted from pain. “He's in the Underground. He said you'd stopped by the Institute and would be in Salem soon. I'm the Salem contact. I was watching outside the First Church—we know that's where the trail starts—and followed you here.” He tried to toss his head toward the door, but Bel's grip was too tight. “The toolkit was in my car. I grabbed the jacket from the hotel laundry room on my way up here. I figured you wouldn't let me in otherwise.”

Bel's chin was quivering with the effort of holding him. “That explains how you knew where we were, but not
why
.”

“The Underground sent me.”

Salem and Bel exchanged a glance. Neither had words.

He continued, his breathing shallow. “Your mothers were both in the Underground. Vida was a leader, I know that, because she came out here once for a history conference and talked to us. Grace Odegaard might have been a top leader too, I don't know. Nobody knows who's even a member and who isn't. That's to protect us, I guess.” He tried shifting. Bel tightened her grip. “Hey, you have to listen to me.”

“I'm listening,” Bel said. She patted him down with her free hand, searching for weapons. “I can do that just fine in this position. Keep talking.”

A bead of sweat rolled from his hairline toward his nose. “The Underground is a network. That's how I know about the … situation in Minneapolis.”

“Salem,” Bel commanded, “call the Minneapolis police right now. Ask them if anything he's said is true.”

Salem's upper body reached for the phone. Her lower half was still not responding to commands.

“Don't bother,” he sighed. “The police only know about the neighbor and her dog, and maybe the finger. They will never hear of the other body. The clean-up crew has already come and gone. I know, because one of them sells information to the Underground. Even if that crew wasn't so good, the bad guys have a plant in the FBI.” He finally looked Salem in the eye. His pupils were a startling blue, like a husky's. “Bits, right?”

A shaking began in Salem's abdomen and traveled to her hands and feet. “What'd you call me?”

“You're Vida's daughter? I recognize your curly hair from her description. She said that if I ever met you without her, it was desperate times. She said to call you ‘Bits' so you'd know to trust me. She asked me to tell you about the Underground.”

Bel snorted, but she let up slightly on his arm. “Anybody could find out that's her nickname.”

Except not really
, Salem thought,
because the only people alive who know about that are you, my mom, and Grace.
“What else did she tell you?”

The drop of sweat rolling down his face was joined by others. His already-pale complexion was shading green.

“Bel, I think you should let him go.” Salem didn't know where that had come from. Her legs still weren't working, for Christ's sake. She was literally in
no position
to defend against him. But up close, he looked exactly like a scared kid, more boy than man for all his height, wearing his too-short pants and blinking his too-serious eyes.

Bel glared at Salem, but she released her grip and stepped back, returning her hand to her gun while she watched him warily. He moved his arm slowly back into position, grimacing. He cradled it while he sat on his heels.

“What's your name?” Salem asked.

“Ernest Mayfair.” His eyes flicked to Bel.

She leaned against the wall, her posture still rigid, right hand near her gun. “All right, Ernest Mayfair. Let's start at the beginning. How do you know we're in danger?”

He nodded as if his teacher had just asked him to give a speech he'd stayed up all night rehearsing. “Both your moms were in the Underground, and Vida was one of the leaders,” he repeated, “and every so often, the Hermitage Foundation does a ‘harvesting' of Underground leaders, who are mostly women, to try and wipe out the organization.”

“The
Hermitage Foundation?” Salem asked. “That lobbying group that's always in the news for its donations?”

Ernest twisted his mouth. “That's their public face. The truth is much darker.” He rose to his feet, offering his good hand to Salem. She stood with his help, her legs still creaky. “The Hermitage Foundation is an old, old organization that was dying out until Andrew Jackson revived it in the 1800s. He gave it new life, and a new mission: run the world. They renamed themselves after his plantation.”

Bel rolled her eyes. Ernest caught her expression and blushed, but continued despite her disapproval. “The Underground was resurrected at about the same time as the Hermitage, early 1800s or so. The Underground's mission was basically to protect women, because the Hermitage viewed them as a threat to their power. At least that's what everyone says.” He tipped his head at both of them. “Your mothers might have known something more specific. Most of us members are only contacted when we're needed for something.”

He tried to draw himself up to his full height, but the 1920s room had not been designed for 6'7" people, and so he bumped his head against the hanging light. “Like today.” He rubbed his head. “I was called on to pass a message to you two. To let you know that you're not safe here. The Hermitage Foundation came for Vida and Grace, and now it's coming for you.”

“But why us?”

He shrugged. “Vida said it'd be guilt by association. Usually, female leaders pass on the Underground membership to their daughters. I guess they wanted to protect you two from that, if this is the first you've heard of any of it.”

“So, the Hermitage Foundation regularly kills off women, and no one even notices?”

Ernest answered her question with a look.

Bel blew air through her nose like a bull. “Okay, let's say everything you've said is true. The Hermitage Foundation is a front for some shadowy cabal that secretly runs the world. Their main opposition is an organization of women who call themselves the Underground. Our moms were leaders, and because of it, one of them might be dead, and the other is, what? Kidnapped?”

Ernest nodded. Bel paled, but she continued. “So what scavenger hunt are we on now? What are we after with all these clues?”

Ernest shook his head sadly. “I don't know. I just know that it's the only way to stop the Hermitage Foundation and protect yourselves, maybe keep your, um, one of your mothers alive.”

Salem was ticking through all the information he'd offered. “What can we do to stop them?”

Bel threw her hands in the air. “You're not really falling for this, are you?”

Salem looked from Ernest to Bel. “It makes as much sense as anything this last crazy day, doesn't it? Maybe more. It fits right in with a hidden message in a Gentileschi painting and another in a wooden beam just as old.” She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs still trembly.

For the first time, Ernest smiled. “You found the note at the First Church?”

When neither woman responded, he continued. “We all knew, or thought we knew, anyhow, that's where the trail began. The First Church. But no one except maybe Salem's mom knows what's at the end.” His eyes lit up. “We just know that it will somehow destroy the Hermitage Foundation.”

Bel rubbed her face. “This is such a bullshit story. If finding whatever's at the end of this trail would destroy the bad guys, why didn't my mother, or Vida, or the Underground, or whoever, just do that a long time ago?”

Ernest thrust out his hands, palms forward.
Surrender
. “They've tried. Every leader of the Underground since it was revived has. Whatever is at the end of that trail was originally hidden 200 years ago, and hidden well so that the Hermitage couldn't discover it. Whoever knew what and where it was is long dead.” He dropped his hands, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “When Vida was here, she said she was training a code breaker to finally track down the document.”

He directed his glance toward Salem. “She said it was you, Bits. She's been training you your whole life. You're the one who can save the Underground.”

33

Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, DC

S
enator Hayes's aide, Matthew Clemens, showed the two representatives from Women Rise into her office. Hayes was familiar with the organization and their chief mission to eliminate acid attacks on southeast Asian women. She had seen photos of what an acid attack could do, melting through flesh and bone, liquefying noses and eyes and mouths, dissolving, fusing, hardening skin and muscle into unbending leather, destroying lives.

She knew that the two representatives who were ushered into her office had been attacked, the first doused with sulfuric acid by a husband who thought her beauty drew unwanted attention, and the second whose boyfriend, whom she'd met on Facebook, melted her face with nitric acid when she ended their relationship.

But none of this could have prepared her to sit across from the women as they unwound their scarves.

Despite possessing a poker face honed across decades of public service, Senator Hayes found herself shaking with anger.

“Thank you for seeing us.”

“Of course,” Senator Hayes said. She did a mental body scan, calming herself. These women didn't need her fury or her pity. They needed her influence. She looked them in the eye and gave them the only things she could: respect and attention.

They continued their introductions, and then Anchali, whose mouth was so destroyed that she had to hold a handkerchief to it to catch moisture as she spoke, dove in. “It's not just the acid attacks we would like to speak with you about. They are the most obvious markers of culture that does not protect its women, or allow girls access to a living wage or advanced education. I was one of the lucky ones.” Her voice was lilting and lovely, crisp on the consonants and rolling through the vowels. She had been enrolled in medical school at the time her husband had melted her flesh, she explained. She'd had to take a reprieve from her education, suffering twenty-seven surgeries since the attack.

Khean, the other representative, pulled out facts and reports and photographs that made Senator Hayes want to call her daughter that moment and tell her how much she loved her. Hayes listened, taking notes, waiting to speak until they paused.

“Your bravery is humbling.” She spoke to both women. “Tell me more, and tell me what I can do.”

Their meeting lasted a half an hour. Gina Hayes wished she had more time, but her schedule was full. It always was.

“Ready for your next one?” Matthew said after leading out the Cambodian women. He set a steaming cup of chamomile tea with a squeeze of lemon in front of her.

Gina Hayes was still scribbling notes to herself. She didn't look up. “What sort of world do we live in where a man would drive a seventeen-year-old girl twenty miles from the nearest hospital, pour battery acid on her, and drive away, Matthew?”

He sighed. “One that needs a change of guard, Gina. And that's why you and I are here on the first day of November, fighting through paperwork and malarkey so deep, a shovel couldn't touch it. And while we're on the topic, your next appointment is with the Speaker of the House. Should I toss a sheet over the furniture before I let him in?”

That drew the tiniest of smiles from Senator Hayes. “Not necessary. But let's have him wait an extra five minutes, shall we? I don't recall him ever making one of our meetings on time before I earned the nomination.”

“That's the spirit,” Matthew said, glancing at his iPad. “As long as you keep it under twenty minutes, you'll be on schedule for the rest of the day.”

He tapped his screen. “Capitol meetings all day, and then tonight, you're getting together with representatives from Veterans for Peace. Tomorrow, we return to Iowa for a rally. Actually, you're out of town every day until the election. Sure you don't want me to squeeze a second in there for you to sleep or wipe your nose?” He glanced at her, his eyes lasers. “I wouldn't mind canceling the Alcatraz stop on Monday, for example. You already have California in your pocket. Getting to and from that island is going to be nothing but a hassle.”

“I'm not changing my schedule. A promise is a promise.” She blew on her tea. “I'm ready for the Speaker.”