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  She knew her cousin would arrive home from work soon. She let herself in and made her way into Hazel’s attic. Without hesitation, she crossed over to the large trunk that held everything she had left of her parents and their parents before them. After opening the lid, she sank to her knees and began looking through it.

  She was halfway down to the bottom of the trunk before she found what she wanted. She carefully pulled out the handkerchief that she remembered. It was very definitely old. Her grandmother made the perfect embroidery stitches on it when she was a young girl. It was exactly what Hazel needed for her wedding day. Delia tucked it away into her pocket then reached inside the trunk again.

  She had to stand to hold up the long cape in her hands. It smelled a little musty from spending so much time inside the trunk, but it would have to do. She carried it downstairs and returned to the kitchen just as Hazel came through the door.

  Delia knew something was wrong as soon as she saw her. “Are you alright?”

  Hazel’s lips were pressed together.

  Sam came in behind her. “She keeps asking me if I have a fever.”

  “Do you?” Delia held her hand up to feel his forehead.

  Sam ducked away. “You’re as bad as Hazel. She’s already checked my forehead a dozen times just during the walk home.”

  Delia saw a flicker of happiness warm Hazel’s eyes when Sam called her house his home. The flicker didn’t last. Her concern for Sam returned as she reached for his forehead.

  “Why are you worried?” Delia asked her cousin.

  “The girl in the kitchen has a fever,” Hazel muttered before her eyes shot to Delia’s. “Winnie. You just spoke with her.”

  “Winnie is sick?”

  “I think it’s the influenza.” Hazel reached for Delia’s forehead.

  Delia batted her hand away. “I am fine.”

  “So am I.” Sam said before disappearing down the hallway toward his room.

  “I should have noticed sooner that she wasn’t feeling well.” Hazel pulled the sides of her sweater closer and hugged herself.

  “I don’t believe you’re responsible for Winnie’s fever,” Delia said.

  “I’m in charge of the kitchen,” Hazel said stubbornly. “It’s my responsibility to know.”

  Delia couldn’t argue with that.

  Hazel’s eyes went down to the cape tucked under Delia’s arm. “Your mother’s cape?”

  “I need to borrow it for an evening,” Delia said as Sam returned to the kitchen.

  Hazel automatically reached for his forehead.

  He ducked away. “I had the influenza in the spring, remember?”

  “I doubt that makes you immune from it now,” Hazel pointed out, her hand still reaching for him.

  “It might.” Sam ducked behind Delia. “What do you think?”

  Delia lifted her brows. “One can only hope.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The man at the front desk leaned back in his seat when Wes stepped into the police station. He wondered how much Judson had told the man. Rufus Duncan looked at him just as he always did, with a certain wariness. It wasn’t lost on Wes that Judson’s right hand man was always on duty with Judson. No matter what the time of day or night, Rufus was available for the police chief.

  It was not a trait they shared. As Wes moved down the long hall to Judson’s office, snapshots of his childhood flashed through his mind. They were as individual frames from a motion picture, one after the other.

  The crack of the second-growth ash wood bat hitting the baseball. The screaming voices of the boys as they cheered Wesley on. He ran as hard and as fast as he could around the bases.

  Those last few moments were forever after etched into his brain. Wesley running full out for home. The determination on Judson’s face to stop him at any cost. Wesley sliding in just as the ball passed over him. The sound of another crack, this one also accompanied by screaming but of a different sort. Judson going down in pain.

  After that, things changed. No longer were the two boys as close as brothers. Though in the same town, they grew into manhood moving in different directions. Perhaps it was by design, each avoiding the other for his own reasons.

  As Wes paused in the hallway outside of Judson’s partially closed door, he heard Judson’s voice in his head from just a short time ago when the two finally talked about their past.

  Wesley always thought Judson would hate him for breaking his leg. For stealing Judson’s future because of the permanent damage caused that fateful day. Never again would Judson run with the other boys. Not on the ball fields at home. Not on the battlefields of France. Wes cheated him out of all of that.

  But it wasn’t the damage to his bone that Judson hated. It was Wesley’s abandonment of him afterward. He could still hear Judson’s recent words of anger.

  I was a boy, Judson had said. Stuck in my house for months on end afterward without a friend in the world. You never came to visit.

  I thought you hated me, Wes had replied.

  I grew to hate you after lying there for months.

  Wes tapped on Judson’s door then pushed it open. Judson eyed him just as warily as his man out front. Wes moved into the large office and took a seat across from Judson’s desk.

  “If you have a moment,” Wes said. He heard the distant, polite tone in his own voice.

  “Part of my job,” Judson said just as politely. “What’s on your mind?”

  Wes wondered if they would ever find a way back to being friends. “I was hoping you might have some update on Luther Killian.”

  Judson’s face lost some of the reserve. “I have not. I’m sorry.”

  Wes didn’t allow the disappointment to wash through him. He would save that for some other time. “It is not your fault. You did not cause the situation in which I now find myself.”

  “No, but I hoped that I might help get to the truth.”

  As did he. “Otis and I both made calls to Washington. We used any connection we’ve ever made trying to get Luther Killian sent back here to Glennon, so that I might have my chance to question him.”

  “I made some calls myself,” Judson admitted. “Unfortunately, none were successful.”

  “But your efforts are appreciated.” Wes wondered if Judson’s attempts were prompted by duty alone. He knew it was too much to hope that some small seed of their past friendship might still remain. He pushed himself up from his chair.

  “I have not yet heard back from everyone I contacted. There is hope yet.” Judson changed subjects. “You’ll be with us this evening?”

  “I am still not certain how she talked you into going along with this.”

  Humor lit Judson’s eyes. “That makes two of us.”

  ***

  He tapped on the door and waited for her to open it. When she did, Wesley moved into the small apartment and immediately crossed to the kitchen. He found the bottle of Pennsylvania rye whiskey where he’d left it. He took a glass from the cabinet and poured himself a small measure. He didn’t offer her any. In order to succeed in her attempt to draw out a killer, she would require a clear head.

  Delia settled on her sofa. “Won’t you be in fine fettle?”

  He saluted her with his glass as he took the seat across from her. “Otis will be driving.”

  She eyed the glass of whiskey as though tempted.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Otis told me a little of what you have planned.”

  She chose to change the subject. “Have you heard anything more about Luther Killian?”

  “No, though we all made attempts to persuade everyone we knew in Washington to get the man sent back here. Even Judson made some calls.” He tried to keep the disappointment from his face. He doubted he was successful. He briefly thought of her connection to the admiral. “Luther Killian has been removed to Washington and it seems there is nothing to be done about it.”

  He watched a play of emotions cross her face. “What are you thinking?”
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  She made a face of indecision. “It all seems rather convenient.”

  “Not for me. I cannot get to the man there.”

  “I meant for someone else,” she said almost to herself.

  “Who?” he demanded.

  She gave a half shake of her head. “The same person who had Araminta and Chester removed from your grasp.”

  He stared at her as her thoughts wormed their way into his. “You think the fiend is behind all of this?”

  “He has to be. You might argue that Oregon would want Chester and Araminta returned. They absconded with funds that were donated by patriotic citizens.” She shifted her eyes to him. “But Luther Killian?”

  He heard a hammering grow louder in his head. It took him several beats to realize it was his own heart. “Papers were found in his things. Papers proving that he shot me.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “Papers of a questionable nature were found among his things. When have we heard of that before?”

  He realized his mouth was hanging open in shock. He brought the glass of whiskey to his lips to drink. “Araminta and Chester.”

  “Exactly. They were in possession of many papers. All of them pointing to you as a traitor to your country.”

  He wiped his mouth with the hand holding the glass. “This cannot be the same. The document found with Luther must be authentic. He shot us.” His voice had grown louder as he spoke. He made an effort to control himself. “I understand what you are saying. For what reason would anyone in Washington have to remove Luther Killian from Glennon?”

  “Exactly my point,” she agreed. “Unless someone with a great deal of money paid to make it happen.”

  “Just as they paid to allow Chester and Araminta a chance to escape from the train taking them back to Oregon.” Her thoughts wormed deeper into his brain.

  She grimaced.

  “What now?” He heard the exasperation in his voice.

  “Just as it can be argued that your shooter allowed you live.”

  He huffed out a breath. “I am now convinced it was because I would suffer more alive.”

  “Just as you were allowed to live, Chester and Araminta could not,” she said pointedly.

  His eyes closed for a brief moment. He knew she was right. “They knew too much.”

  “As does Luther,” she murmured.

  He drank the rest of his whiskey and carefully set the empty glass down on the small table next to him. “What have you learned of our mathematician?”

  “Marcus Sidehill was known in certain circles as an academic interested in ciphers and cryptography.”

  “You are speaking of the ability to mask communications in some fashion?” he said.

  “In order to secure it,” she agreed. “Marcus had a particular interest in both wireless telegraphy and radiotelephony.”

  Wes quickly connected the dots. “The Navy’s high-powered radio chain.”

  Delia’s chin came up but she remained silent.

  “You may not have heard of it.” His eyes narrowed at the look on her face. “Or have you?”

  “It is obvious that the code could be very valuable to whomsoever may possess it,” she said. “If it is, indeed, as good as the rumors imply.”

  “You have doubts?”

  She gave an elegant half shrug. “I have not been fortunate enough to see the code.”

  He wondered at her certainty that she might unravel its secrets. “Therein lies the problem.”

  “Precisely,” she agreed. “Which is why it is imperative that we manage to draw out the killer.”

  It was the part of her plan that he didn’t understand. “But if the killer is already in possession of the notes, why would he take a risk now?”

  “Multiple people have been moving about in the appropriate places to sow seeds of doubt,” she explained.

  “Appropriate places?” he said dryly. “Please tell me that you have not been visiting the saloons, factories, and back alleys in the worst sections of Glennon.”

  “I have not.” She sounded as though she’d been cheated somehow.

  “These seeds of doubt,” he prompted.

  “That the killer didn’t take all of the notes,” she said. “It was rumored that more parts of the code are needed in order for it to work correctly.”

  “Sylvia Chrisman.” Wes frowned. “I understand she is in a delicate condition.”

  “Indeed.” She smiled at his wording, but it was the reason Delia retrieved the cape from Hazel’s. To cover the fact that she wasn’t in a delicate condition.

  “Won’t the killer believe she is most likely to be in possession of any additional notes?” He was still frowning. “You’ve put a target on her back.”

  “No, I’ve put a target on my back.”

  It took only a moment for her words to make sense. “You plan to masquerade as the other woman.”

  “It has been made known that I, acting as Sylvia Chrisman, will be in the woods to put on a presentation of the fully-functioning code this evening to representatives of the government. Once they have paid me the money, I will pass over the code. Without the rest of the notes, which are only in my possession, the killer will be unable to sell the code to the highest bidder.”

  His mind immediately worked through the plan searching for weaknesses. It was a particular strength he had as a soldier. It was a skill that helped to put him in a leadership role on the battlefield. But it didn’t take a master at tactical warfare to see the gaping hole in this arrangement.

  “What if your plan draws out more than one person intent upon gaining access to the code?” he asked.

  “That is when I must trust Judson to succeed in his part of the plan,” she said simply.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Though the light of day was fading, she could easily see that the woods around her were readying for autumn. It wasn’t just the sights that told her so. It was also the sounds and the smells. Dried leaves crackled under her steps. Only the bravest fronds of the waist-high ferns that had blanketed the floor of the woods throughout the summer remained upright. The rest of the fronds were now prone. Still green, they provided ample cover for anything, or anyone, who wished to conceal themselves among them.

  She inhaled the earthy fragrance of soil enriched with eons of fallen leaves and other matter. Mushrooms dotted a nearby decaying log. Its bark was long gone. The wood that remained was shredded from the activities of beetles, woodpeckers, opossums, and bears looking for food.

  The cover above from the leaf-filled branches just now showing hints of color blotted out the faint daylight that remained in odd patterns as she continued following a trail. She assumed it was made by loggers in the past. It was worn anew with the recent activity stemming from Marcus Sidehill’s death. She knew that Judson and his men had made the trip into the woods on more than one occasion as they investigated the murder.

  A sudden explosive sound next to her had her heart racing as she whirled around to face her enemy. She watched the flapping wings of a ruffed grouse as it made its escape from her unexpected presence in the woods. She took a deep breath then continued on, her long cape trailing in the leaves as she walked.

  It made a constant rustling sound as the fabric moved over nature’s discarded remnants scattered about the floor of the woods. She strained to listen for any other sounds above the noise she was making. At a bend in the trail, she paused to listen.

  Instead of silence, she heard the early sounds of creatures showing eager anticipation for the dark of night. It was the changing of the guard. Though some would be settling down at the end of a long day, others were just awakening. There were the sounds of a million crickets. The lonesome call of a hawk to its mate. The skittering of a small animal back to its burrow in the ground.

  And the unmistakable sound of a human’s footsteps crackling the dried leaves on the trail behind her. She began moving again, this time a little faster. Though it had grown darker just in the short time she’d been in the wo
ods, she no longer had to worry about running into her enemy. She knew now that he was behind her. It gave her the advantage. She only hoped that the man was alone. Her mind returned to Wesley’s question. What if her plan drew out more than one person intent on getting the code?

  She knew it was possible. If even half of what she’d heard was accurate, governments around the world would want sole possession of an ingenious code that allowed secure wireless communication. It did no good if more than one unraveled the secrets of the code. For more than one to hold the key that unlocked it. The secrets must remain intact for the code to prove its worth.

  But she couldn’t worry about how many were moving through the woods toward her now. She had to trust that Judson and the others had her back as she reached for the flashlight deep in the pocket of her mother’s cloak. Once she had the light shining on the path in front of her, Delia broke into a run.

  She heard cursing and loud crashing as her pursuer tried vainly to catch up to her in the dark. She dodged a large stone in front of her without breaking stride. She could tell that the man who chased her wasn’t as nimble, but the stone didn’t slow him as much as she hoped.

  She went off-trail briefly when she encountered the exposed roots of a massive tree across the path. After clearing them, she returned to the trail and picked up speed. She felt herself smile at the sound of his cursing. His voice was stationary and low to the ground. The roots had done the trick. She stopped running and slipped the cloak from her shoulders. After hanging it on a tree branch that stretched across part of the trail, she took off running again.

  She didn’t stop until she heard the gunshot. A strong arm snaked around her middle and held her tight. She reacted without thinking to protect the wound on her side.

  “Easy now.” Otis’s voice was low as his lips touched her ear. “It’s just me, Yeoman.”

  She relaxed in his hold. “Who fired?”

  “I’m guessing it was Judson’s men,” he said quietly as he nudged her further into the woods away from the trail. “But I’d rather wait to find out.”