Magic. That’s exactly how it seemed.
The thought made Constance recall an old trick her brother used to do back when they were kids. He used a prop called a Lippincott Box, and he would make a borrowed coin or ring disappear from a handkerchief and then reappear inside the locked container, right in front of your nose, much to the amazement of family and friends.
Looking at the individual reports now, it was as if the house on Evergreen Lane was itself a giant Lippincott Box and the killer a stage magician doing one show per year for a very select audience. The only problem was that the victims weren’t inanimate objects, and there was more going on behind the scenes than simple sleight of hand.
There was another puzzle within a puzzle too-the victims themselves. There were seven men dead and not a single ID made on any of them in all these years. Except for the external genitalia, all of their body parts were accounted for, meaning they had to have fingerprints and dental impressions-or they should. That was something else sorely lacking from any of the files. No autopsy reports, no ten-print cards, and not even a close-up photo of any of the faces. Why?
It just didn’t make sense. Especially with the bureau involved. This wasn’t shoddy investigative work; this was deliberate. More than that, it was a manufactured nightmare with strings attached, because someone else was going to die if she didn’t wake up and figure it out.
She was feeling like she’d been told to go sit in the corner and play solitaire and to not come out until she’d won; but as some kind of sick joke she had been handed an incomplete deck of cards to use. For all intents and purposes, that was exactly her situation. The SAC had to have known what she was up against, and moreover what was not in that envelope when he handed it to her. Then there was the fact that this assignment had possibly come out of DC, with her name at or near the top of the short list.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Why her? Why was she being set up to fail, and why had the same been done to the other agents before her? What were their sins that had landed them in this hell? But more importantly, what had they discovered that they were now complicit in hiding?
Her mind raced through scenarios, none of which made any more sense than the files from which she was working. Why they had been redacted by the process of apparently deliberate-and definitely egregious-omission was obviously a part of this mystery. One thing that kept coming back around was her bizarre phone conversation with Agent Keene.
What was it that he’d told her? ‘Call him after Christmas Day if she still had any questions but that he didn’t expect to be hearing from her… Not about this case anyway?’
What kind of sense did that make? It certainly sounded as if he knew something but wasn’t about to spill it. If there was a brass ring out there, and he and the other agents had grabbed it, why wasn’t this case solved? Why was she here now? And why was there almost certainly going to be another body cooling in the morgue if they had already found an answer to this puzzle?
She sighed and stepped back from the bed, slipping her fingers up through her loose hair, pushing it away from her face, and holding it atop her head. Staring at the piles of useless paper was just giving her a headache. She’d only been at it for a few minutes, but she was already dying for a break.
She gave in to that desire. With a sigh she wandered over to her suitcase and dug out the bottle of ibuprofen. Then, she opened a warm soda and washed down a pair of the caplets with a quick swig from the can. She knew she should probably just lie down and try to nap as much as she could. It was going to be a very long night in a very creepy house, and she needed to be clear-headed and alert. Wearing herself down even more by chasing her tail wasn’t going to help accomplish that at all.
She started to take another drink, then stopped herself, held the soda can in front of her face, and glared at it, her mouth twisting into a thoughtful frown. Continuing to pour caffeine into her system wasn’t going to do her much good either. Shaking her head, she dumped the can into the sink, then walked over to the desk and sat down. Hopefully the ibuprofen would start kicking in soon, and she could relax. However, until that happened, she wasn’t going to be able to even think about sleeping. While she waited for the marriage of human biology and pharmaceutical chemistry to be consummated, she could pass the time checking her email. Maybe when she was finished with that, the pain would be dulled, and she would feel up to cleaning the papers off the bed again.
She reached out and thumped her middle finger on the touchpad, causing the slowly winking amber light on the front edge of the notebook computer to hiccup mid-flash and then glow solid blue. There was a soft whirr, the screen flickered for a second, and then it flared to life. Staring back at her was the box with the taunting prompt: ENTER ENCRYPTION KEY.
Constance skated her finger over the pad, pulling the arrow-shaped cursor down to the task bar, then started to click herself over to the email client. Her finger hovered over the button, hesitating as she continued to stare at the leering box in the center of the screen.
“Oh, what the hell…” she muttered, then shifted forward in the chair and moved her fingers up to the home row of the keyboard.
The prompt was still winking in the encryption field, so with a quick series of taps she spelled out “FRUITCAK” and dropped the fifth digit of her right hand down on the enter key with a heavy finality. The system whirred, flickered, and then as she’d seen countless times before, it announced: INCORRECT KEY!
“Yeah, figured as much…” she mumbled.
She started to drag her finger across the pad once again but stopped. Pursing her lips, she creased her forehead and slitted her eyes for a moment. Reaching forward, she allowed her fingers to stab the alphanumerics once again. This time she keyed in “FRUITC8K.”
She stared at the eight simple characters for a moment, then stiffened her index finger and drove it down with a deliberate stab against the return key. Falling slowly back in the chair as the screen winked and the hard drive whirred, she frowned at the computer and waited for the inevitable error message.
The drive continued to spin, and the backlit LCD panel flickered as the computer clunked through the hackneyed routine. Five seconds passed, then ten. After fifteen, Constance raised an eyebrow and started to sit forward. At twenty-five, the installed reader software was opening. At thirty, it had maximized to fill the display, and a document was in the process of loading.
Judging from the progress on the status bar, it was sizeable.
AFTER a while, you discover that darkness isn’t really what you think it is.
You get used to it. And when you do, it stops being the absence of light. In a way, it becomes its own kind of illumination-a mix of blue, and black, and gray, with shapes and shadows everywhere. There are things you can see, and things you can feel, and things that you just somehow know.
That’s what darkness really is.
Of course, the getting used to it part doesn’t happen right away. Accepting the darkness for what it is takes some time. Constance didn’t know how long a span that happened to be, but since the world around her was a mix of blue, and black, and gray with shapes and shadows everywhere, she knew she must have been in the darkness for at least that long. But to tell the truth, she really couldn’t be sure, because in a peculiar way, it seemed like it had been much longer, and it seemed like it had been no time at all.