Salem's Cipher (28 page)

78

Twelve Years Old
Daniel's Last Week

“
W
ho's buying that dresser?”

Pick-up day is the first Wednesday of every other month. On that day, a white van drives down the alley to Daniel's shop, furniture is loaded out of sight, the van motors away, and Daniel's space is cleared for new furniture. During the school year, Salem never sees the pick-up happen. In the summer, Daniel makes sure she's absent on those Wednesdays, but on this one, she's sick.

A fever, nausea.

The stomach flu.

She stays home. She promises her father she won't come outside.

But her stomach ache turns for the worse, and she's scared to throw up without her dad nearby. So she tiptoes to his shop.

She lets herself in. A fat-fingered man carries one end of a dresser, Daniel the other. Salem stands in the doorway, guilty, curious, sick.

“Who's buying that dresser?” she repeats.

Daniel drops his end of the furniture. The fat-fingered man doesn't change expression, but his eyes walk over Salem's twelve-year-old body like flies. Salem's face grows hot, and she glances down to make sure she's still wearing clothes.

“Salem!”

She looks back up. Daniel is scared. The fat-fingered man looks satisfied. That makes no sense. Salem runs back into the house, and she throws up.

Her dad finds her over the toilet. He wants to tell her something, she's sure of it, but instead he holds her hair away from her face and rubs her back until the spasms stop.

In the end, all he says is, “I'm sorry.”

They never talk about it, and Salem never sees the fat-fingered man again.

At least, not that she'll let herself remember.

79

Mission District, San Francisco

T
he fat-fingered man stood in front of Mission Dolores, solid, wearing that same satisfied pick-up-day expression that stripped Salem fourteen years ago. His fingers were grotesque, rippled and scarred, as large as bratwurst but evilly muscled, disappearing into Bel's flesh deeper than they could possibly go without snapping bone. Bel cried out and grabbed at his wrist, trying the same move that brought Ernest to his knees in Amherst, but the solid, powerful man didn't flinch.

Salem pushed him. It was like shoving a concrete wall.

Another man appeared from the shadows and walked toward them. He had the same eyes—those snake eyes—as the man and the woman from Amherst but completely different features. His face was gorgeous, stunning, the immaculate image of a Renaissance angel, too perfect to look at except in short bursts. He smiled and its prettiness hurt. Salem was suffocating in his sugar.

She moaned. She couldn't force the fat-fingered man to release Bel, and she knew he intended to kill her. Salem would rather die a thousand times herself than watch it, but she felt utterly helpless. All she could was scream from the bottom of her lungs.

A voice called out from across the street. “Salem! Isabel!”

80

Upper East Side, New York

T
he Audubon Society was a pet project of tonight's host. He was charging $75,000 a plate for guests to mingle, dine with Senator and presidential candidate Gina Hayes, and learn about the blue-throated macaw. He'd first learned of the bird on a hunting trip to Bolivia when one of the gorgeous creatures followed his party, flying particularly close to him. When he learned the birds were endangered because their ecosystem was being destroyed by cattle ranchers, he'd asked his billionaire father to buy him a nature park in the country. He'd also taken his passion—and several birds—home with him.

On the drive to the fundraiser, Matthew Clemens labeled their host a silver-spoon hippie. “Imagine if he used all that money to save
people
rather than
birds.
”

Senator Hayes watched the city stream by outside. “He's using it to help us.”

Matthew would not be mollified. “I bet he serves chicken for dinner. Idiot.”

Matthew was entitled to his opinion, but Senator Hayes didn't share it. Tonight's host wasn't spending his money on cars, or planes, or
things
. It was being spent on the environment, and she could use all the help she could get on that front. Besides, she was tired. No, she was past tired, through exhausted, and taking up residence in walking dead. She didn't have the luxury of rest, however, not this close to the election, so she strapped on her game face and stepped out of the car immediately behind her security detail.

Photos were snapped, quietly. She walked the blue carpet leading to the apartment, thinking it was a bit much. On the way, she shook hands and smiled. Inside the door, she let a woman in a black-and-white French maid uniform take her coat. “Thank you.”

Hayes was led into the main room. Over one hundred people were drinking cocktails, many of the women wearing hats.
Fascinators encouraged,
the invitation had read. Hayes knew Matthew would be itching to speculate where all the feathers in the hats had been procured. He was too professional to say anything in public, of course. He was already lining up the meet-and-greet list. Hayes would not stay for the dinner. She would spend an hour inside this Upper East Side mansion, speaking with the prescribed people, and then she would leave for her next event.

She would raise $1 million in that hour.

“Senator Hayes.” Matthew appeared at her elbow, his voice level. “I don't believe you've had the pleasure of meeting Carl Barnaby.”

Hayes turned.

That Carl Barnaby was first on the list meant that he had paid an extra $100,000 for this meeting. Hayes owed him three minutes. She'd seen photos of Barnaby—a grandfatherly man, hair white and slicked back in that way men of the previous generation favored, shoulders still strong, clothes immaculate—but she'd never met him in person. She was surprised he'd arrange their first meeting in so public a place.

She'd imagined she'd be afraid if they were ever in the same room together. She discovered, instead, that she was curious. “Mr. Barnaby.”

Hayes had learned about the Hermitage at her father's knee. They'd tried to buy his ear. She didn't think they had, but with politics, even with her father, you couldn't be sure. She'd never doubted the conspiracy theories that surrounded the organization, had in fact witnessed firsthand proof of their power and reach. The Hermitage was the very skeleton of the political system in some countries and certainly at least a kidney in the United States government, with loyal members in the FBI, CIA, and NSA. She suspected the Hermitage was behind the Iowa assassination attempt. She knew they'd historically executed leaders of the Underground, an organization that she'd been born into and that she, along with Vida Wiley and Grace Odegaard, currently ran.

He took her hand and shook it. “It's a pleasure, Senator. Thank you for your time.”

Her eyes sparked as she realized that not only was she not afraid, she was exhilarated.
Oh yes
, she was up for this challenge. “Do you prefer small talk, the truth, or political bloviating, Mr. Barnaby?”

His gaze narrowed. “I was hoping we could chat about the Afghanistan mineral rights bill you plan to vote down. That would be a mistake.”

“Really, Mr. Barnaby. Please tell me more.” She examined him as he spoke, taking his measure. If she lived to reach the Oval Office, it would be because the Hermitage's attempts to kill her, an organization Carl Barnaby headed, had failed.

She would give him the three minutes he had paid for, nothing more. That would be enough to take his measure.

81

San Francisco

S
omeone in the wedding party stepped outside of the basilica to see what the commotion was about. The priest also walked out of the adobe mission. The street was suddenly very crowded.

The fat-fingered man gave Bel one last squeeze, then jogged to a car parked at the curb. The beautiful man followed him, rage contorting his features. They were pulling away when Agent Stone reached Salem's side.

Stone's hand was inside his coat, eyes on the departing car. “We have to go somewhere.”

Salem didn't spare him a glance. “Bel?”

Bel was ashen, gripping her arm. It hung loosely in the socket. Her voice was hoarse. “He dislocated it. He only used his thumb, and he pushed it out.”

Stone stepped between Salem and Bel. “Hold her,” he ordered Salem.

She grabbed Bel around the waist.

Stone held up both hands, palms out. “I'm going to touch you. This will hurt.”

Bel nodded.

He placed his right hand on her good shoulder. With his left, he jerked and pushed her loose arm in one swift movement. Bel's knees buckled, but Salem held her upright.

Stone pushed back the cloth of Bel's jacket, revealing her shoulder. Her skin was contused, a deep purple circle over the joint. Four matching circles ridged Bel's shoulder blade.

“There's a coffee shop up the street. She needs to sit down, and we need to talk.”

“Tell me what's going on.”

Salem held a steaming mug of tea. Bel drank black coffee. Some of her color had returned, but she was still nursing her shoulder. Neither of them responded to Stone.

“All right, I'll start.” He loosened his tie and scanned the room. “Your mothers were leaders in an organization called the Underground. Their job was to take down the Hermitage. Same with the other five women who were murdered. The Hermitage got sick of their interference and started taking them out.”

He studied both women. “Ah, I was right. I wasn't sure about that last part.”

Salem was too exhausted to be either excited or scared by his presence. “Are you going to arrest us?”

His eyes landed on her. “You're up against the Hermitage? You probably
want
me to arrest you. While following you here, I called in some favors to find out what the organization has been up to. Safest place for you is in jail.”

“Why did the SFPD raid Lu's?” Bel's voice was sullen.

“NSA sent them, near as I can tell. They've been watching Golden Lucky for quite a while. With Senator Hayes coming to San Francisco in two days and a lot of suspicious comms leaving the factory, they had to follow through. No choice.”

Bel nodded.

“Has either of you heard from your mothers?”

“We've each received a text from one of their phones,” Salem said.

“But at least one of them was a lie because one of our mothers is dead,” Bel muttered.

“Bel!”

Stone rested his palms on the table. “How do you know?”

Bel tried to shrug and paled with the effort. “The Underground told us. They've been right about everything else.”

“Dammit.” Stone sat back and rubbed the top of his thighs, clearly weighing something.

Salem found herself able to study him dispassionately. He was handsome, his features strong, his skin smooth and dark. Normally, she'd be terrified to sit this close to him, to talk to him.

She'd been through too much to care anymore.

“Help us,” she demanded. “Or let us go.”

He stared at her, eyes lingering on her face. “Your cat is fine.”

She laughed. She didn't know where the sound came from. “What?”

“I asked the Minneapolis field office to check on him when they searched your apartment. Your neighbor across the hall has him, and he's fine. Your catsitter might want to be more subtle, however. He offered to sell a bag to my agent.”

Salem nodded. Skanky Dave and Beans seemed like characters from a dream.

Bel came to a decision. “Salem's right. We need you to help us or to at least let us go. You know we haven't done anything wrong or you would have already arrested us. Let us finish what we're doing. Give us until Monday.”

Stone shook his head. Salem thought he was coughing but realized it was soft laughter.

“You two are going to rescue whichever of your mothers is alive and dismantle the Hermitage, one of the best-funded and most well-connected organizations in the world?”

“In that order,” Bel said fiercely, leaning forward.

Stone's expression grew serious. “You know what? I believe you can. Because you two are some combination of lucky, strong, and smart that I've never seen before. But I can't just let you go. It's a million to one that you've even survived this long. Plus, Senator Gina Hayes is going to be speaking on Alcatraz in less than two days. No way can you roam San Francisco. Your faces are too hot, even with those disguises.”

Salem's brain raced, the metal cylinder burning a hole in her back pocket. If she held Beale's keytext, they could travel to Virginia, retrieve the lightning bolt—whatever it is—and hand it over within a day. She didn't tell him about the potential assassination. Salem figured there was no point. If they took down the Hermitage before Alcatraz, Hayes would be okay. If they didn't, there was no protecting her. “Thirty-six hours.”

“What?”

“Give our luck thirty-six hours. And then we'll bring you what you need to solve the murders of those five women, plus Mrs. Gladia, and take down the Hermitage.”

“Will you tell me what it is that you're after?”

“We can't,” Salem said, “because we don't know. Thirty-six hours.”

Still, he hesitated.

“If you want to get to the roots of why those women were killed,
you can't do it without us.” Bel pointed to Salem. “You can't do it without
her
. In five days she's blown through codes that have been hidden for over a century.”

Stone stared at Salem. The fear of being seen and coming up short raged inside of her, burning muscle off bone, but for the first time in her life, she didn't stare at her feet, didn't hide from the attention.

She held his gaze.

It was Stone who finally looked away after something passed between them. She didn't know what, but it felt good.

He rubbed his chin and laughed again, this time more of a growl of amazement. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but you've got it. Thirty-six hours.”