69

Northhampton, Massachusetts

The light in room 23 of the Road King Motel had been extinguished thirty-two minutes earlier. Jason wasn’t in a hurry. Salem Wiley and Isabel were not professionals. They’d been on the run for three days. They were falling into the heavy sleep of the shattered, a tiredness so complete that it weighted your bones with opium and called you down like a lover. If he gave them time to process the last dregs of adrenaline, he’d be able to dismiss them without waking them.

Yet the moon agitated him.

It was too bright for such a thin crescent. Pure orange, not a hint of red or yellow. And Barnaby had been calling nonstop, certainly to shout at Jason and order him back to Boston. Jason would talk to him after both women and the mewling child were dead. He could bring the list of Underground leaders they’d surely retrieved from the gravestone to Barnaby in New York. Then Geppetto wouldn’t be needed.

Jason’s eyes flew open.

It was time.

The Hermitage training he’d received had been exhaustive: a business degree with a psychology minor, hand-to-hand combat, weapons training, DNA cleanup, surveillance technology, breaking and entering.

Room 23’s lock was so easy to pick as to be an insult.

He glided into the room like smoke, closing the door behind him before the moon’s orange light had a chance to follow.

He took stock.

The room smelled like it had been water damaged at some point. Mold and old cigarettes. Heavy shades were pulled over the single window. When his eyes adjusted, Jason made out two beds, one with a single figure—tall, Isabel—and the second holding Salem Wiley, the child curled against her. Holding his breath, he measured theirs. Isabel was snoring lightly. Wiley and the child breathed in sync.

All three were sleeping.

His eyes adjusted further. A white scroll of paper lay on the table between the two beds.

The list.

Jason scanned the floor. It was clear of noisemakers.

He stepped, reaching for the scroll.

Isabel stirred.

His hand shot to the smooth bone handle of his knife, holding it like a promise.

Isabel’s snoring resumed.

Jason released the knife and picked up the scroll. He skimmed the carpet and entered the bathroom. He closed the door gently and paused. Patient, never rushing, even though his blood was a red rocket shooting through his heart and exploding in a bright firework’s display. He needed to make sure he had what he’d come for before he killed the sleeping females in the other room.

The list.

Two hundred years, and the Hermitage had never gotten this close.

When no sound came from the other side of the bathroom door, he unrolled the scroll and scanned the three pages, plus a fourth page of scribbled notes that made clear the women were headed to San Francisco. And then he scanned all four pages again, processing them.

A third time.

He had heard of the Beale Cipher. He knew it was unbreakable and led to hidden treasure in Virginia. That Beale’s hiding place contained the Underground master docket and the secret to bringing down the Hermitage?

New information.

His mind reeled with the possibilities. If he held all the cards, he could trade them for Geppetto’s life. His shoulders relaxed for the first time since learning Barnaby had assigned him Geppetto.

Using a bar of soap and a wash cloth to pin each end of the papers, Jason snapped photos of all four pages. He’d let the women live for a while longer.

Until Salem Wiley solved the final code.

He could be a good loser, if it was temporary. San Francisco, eh? He was going there anyhow.

He thought of his mother. If things are working out, you know you’re doing something wrong. She’d loved that saying. Maybe she still did. He’d have to ask her next time he changed out her IV. Or maybe he could wheel her to a window to see the outside. It’d been years. That was more than she’d ever done for him, but he was feeling generous.

He slid his phone back into his pocket, replaced the soap and wash cloth, and let the scroll snap back to its natural shape, the sheet of notes tucked inside. Holding his ear to the door, he checked for sounds in the other room. There were none. He stepped out, replacing the scroll.

Isabel’s snoring had stopped, her mouth open slightly, a gentle susurration of air passing in and out. He thought of placing his mouth on hers, thrusting his tongue inside, tasting the sweet warmth of her. The embrace of darkness softened her already-impressive beauty, caressing her glorious hair, riding the curve of her cheeks, blessing her lips. He could smell her. Cheap hotel shampoo honeyed by her natural musk, water to wine.

The child whimpered in her bed. He tensed and held his breath, turned only his head. The girl snuggled deeper into Salem Wiley’s arms but did not wake.

Jason glanced back toward Isabel.

Being this close and not touching her? Impossible.

His hand slithered inside his jacket, coming out with his favorite knife.

Strawberries and cream, that skin and that hair.

He reached for it, held a soft lock between two fingers. Isabel closed her mouth, made a hm noise, and returned to her soft snoring.

Slice.

Jason slid the lock of hair into his pocket and the knife into his sheath, leaving as silently as he’d arrived.

He’d read Barnaby’s text when he’d taken out his phone to photograph the scroll.

Back to the original plan. Follow them until they acquire the list, then fire them.

How nice that Barnaby had given him permission to finish what he’d started.