Searching for Secrets (7 page)

Christa honked the horn as they pulled into the parking space in front of the building. Frances nearly bolted out the swinging entry door. Kirk sat Amy on the pavement. Frances was all over her just as Kirk had been. Amy had had a tough day, Christa thought, but she was well loved, and she knew it. She would be all right.

THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON HAD BEEN A BLUR. Three sets of police officers had questioned her. There was simply no way for her to identify the kidnapper. His ski mask and gloved hands obscured any features. She could say he was about five feet, ten inches tall and had a New York City accent. Bronx, she thought. Was it real or feigned? That was anybody's guess.

Though they had not initially asked, she described in detail the maps the drives were wrapped in and the canvas bag she had shoved them in before she left to get Amy. Maybe they would find the bag near the park and could look for fingerprints. Christa didn't think they appreciated her suggestions, but they made copious notes, nonetheless.

No one seemed interested in the hard drives. Their total focus was the kidnapping. Christa had tried several times to get Kirk aside to tell him she had kept the kidnapper's hard drive. But, he was kept busy talking to the other police officers coming to the apartment and fending off the media, whom he firmly asked to leave them alone. Any spare moment he had he sat near Amy. She would tell him tomorrow, she decided, and excused herself.

BACK IN HER OWN APARTMENT, she flipped on the TV. As she had feared, Amy's kidnapping and her own role in the rescue were all over the news. There were few clues. Police had found a black trench coat wadded in a ball in the woods, and people in the neighborhood behind the park reported seeing a jogger wearing a dark sweat suit and sun glasses, but no one could give a better description than that. The media really played up the fact that Buckingham Elementary School had been the site of the initial seizure. Guiltily, she realized she should have called Sandra Macklin. She decided Sandra would forgive her if she waited one more day to explain what had happened.

She watched the rest of the news in a haze, too drained to get up and turn off the television, too content to want to leave her apartment in search of a pizza or burger for dinner. Brandy was curled up in her lap. If she hadn't wanted to spend some time examining the kidnapper's hard drive she would have gone to bed.

The police spokesperson, whom she now could say she had actually met, was on TV again. He gave an update on the murder of young Chas Johnson. Analysis of his blood showed he had used a substantial amount of methamphetamine in the hours before his death. The police officer gave his opinion of "the rural person's drug of choice," as he called it, and its heavy use in Iowa. Great, she thought to herself as he told of two instances of middle school students caught with some. So far Buckingham had been immune from any drug use. Of course, she thought with black humor, most of the other schools didn't have back-to-back break-ins and kidnappings, either.

Christa yawned and turned off the TV and went back to her den. She had just finished loading the kidnapper's hard drive into her computer when the phone rang. "Christa, Kirk here."

She experienced the delightfully warm feeling she was beginning to associate with Kirk Reynolds and fought the sensation. He only sounded so friendly because he was happy about Amy, she reasoned.

"I never got a chance to say a real thank-you this afternoon. You took a big chance meeting that man alone, and I'll be forever grateful," he said.

"The guy who was in your classroom was killed late Friday," he said. "If he was connected to the men who kidnapped Amy, we're working with an even more dangerous group than we thought."

Christa felt her throat go dry. She wished the kidnapper's hard drive were anywhere but her computer.

"Listen," he continued, "It's late. Amy's finally winding down, and I promised her I'd read to her before I left. Tomorrow we'll talk some more about those computers."

Without waiting for her to say goodbye, Kirk hung up. Christa stared at her receiver as she recradled it. She would look at the hard drive now and give it to Kirk first thing tomorrow. For the first time, she realized that by substituting her hard drive for the one she had kept she would be left with only the shell of her own computer, which would be useless. Perhaps Mr. Watkins would give her a good deal on a replacement.

She powered up her computer and looked again for the specific file she had found earlier in the day. MNYACCT.EXE. "What's so special about you?" she asked aloud.

Brandy meowed and brushed against her leg. "Hush, cat. This is even more important than posting grades." Christa studied the file name and thought about what to do. It wasn't a very large file; she guessed it contained the equivalent of one typewritten page. The file was protected in some way so that she had not been able to copy it, but there had to be a way to learn what it contained.

She knew how to use the various programs that she bought for her classroom as well as those she had bought for home, such as one that let her develop designs for her needlework. But, she knew little about the technical aspects of the computer. If you wanted to get into a program you either clicked on a picture icon using the mouse or typed in all or part of the file name the search box. She typed the file name and nothing came up.

She went to the C prompt screen and typed in "MNYACCT." She was rewarded with an error message. She thought some more. Presumably ACCT stood for accounting. She tried several variations of that word, all without success. MNY. That was a less likely abbreviation. She tried inserting different vowels between the consonants to see if any words came to mind. MANY, no. MONEY. Of course--money and accounting. She keyed in MONEY and there was a brief pause. No error message; she thought that was a good sign.

To her dismay, the screen suddenly showed 12 lines of a mix of numbers and letters. It was gibberish! "Damn," she said. She stared again, but could understand nothing. At least it wasn’t a bunch of symbols, the way it would have been it the file contained only computer language. Uncertain if she would be able to get into the file again, she hit the "print screen button."

"What do you think of that, Brandy?" She looked at her cat, who was staring out the door into the hallway. "What's wrong with you?" As she said it, Brandy arched her back as she did when another cat appeared outside the sliding glass door.

"Hey..." Christa heard a tinkle that sounded like wind chimes, but different somehow. Brandy's tail grew huge and she hissed. There was a sharp crack and a sound of breaking glass. Someone was trying to get in the apartment! In a panic, Christa picked up the phone on her desk. It was dead.

CHAPTER FIVE

CHRISTA JUMPED UP FROM HER DESK CHAIR and ran out of her den into the hallway. But, before she could dash out of her unit over to Frances' she heard a foot hit the floor in her kitchen. She went back into the den and shut and locked the door and turned out the small light near her computer.

Her mind raced. All of the apartment lights had been out except the one in the den, so the intruder may have expected to find her in bed. Christa figured she had less than a minute before they realized where she was. She grabbed the single piece of paper from the printer and stuffed it in the pocket of her slacks and turned to the window. She raised the sash, thankful that it was made of aluminum rather than wood. The screen was trickier. Rather than simply sliding up, there were two small pieces of metal that she had to press toward the center while simultaneously lifting the thin metal frame. She recalled that it sometimes made a scraping sound, and held her breath as she raised the screen. It went up quietly and she let it glide down slightly so that it could lock in place.

The loud click of metal on metal seemed to reverberate through the room, and Christa froze. There was no sound from the hallway outside the den, so she stuck one foot out the window. Brandy! She looked around the room, but there was no sign of her cat. She squinted and looked under the desk. Two green eyes stared back. She couldn't take her. Christa swung her foot down to the ground and was bringing the other foot out when she heard the hand on the doorknob to the den.

She pulled herself through the window and gently lowered the window sash so Brandy wouldn't be tempted to follow her. She had to get to a phone to call the police. The moon was three-quarters full but a group of clouds passed over it just as she ran around the edge of the building. She would knock on the door of the first apartment that had a light on. No sense going to a unit in her building; she could run into the burglar. As she neared the crest of the small hill that ran between two buildings Christa saw a tiny point of light that seemed to hang in the air near her car. It couldn't be a firefly; there had already been a frost.

The light moved a few inches. The slight change made her look again. That was no firefly; it was a cigarette. "Hey, she's out here!" said the man who went with the cigarette.

Heart pounding, Christa turned and ran back down the hill. She looked right and left. There was no way to know how many others were with the man who had been standing watch. She ran toward the woods.

Her feet rattled the planks on the narrow footbridge that took her across the creek. If she followed the tree line it would lead her by the foundation of the old farmhouse and then up toward the main drive that led from Mahaska Springs to Highway 6. It was only about eleven p.m.; there would be a lot of cars around.

Christa could hear feet pounding behind her and wished she had on her walking shoes rather than the tan pumps. The feet slowed. She gulped air. Maybe her pursuer was more winded than she. Something whizzed by her right ear and rustled leaves as it vanished into the woods. A bullet? Surely not. Unless they had a silencer on the gun. She had almost reached the foundation and forced herself to slow. The ground here was uneven and there were chunks of the old limestone foundation sticking up at random intervals. Something else whizzed by her left ear. It was a bullet!

She was at the foundation and jumped over the edge of the old farmhouse perimeter. The remains of the fireplace were just ahead and she made her way to it and squatted behind the broken stack of bricks. Christa looked around for some kind of weapon. As if a brick would stop a bullet. Was that a shadow or someone moving toward her? Suddenly, she realized she had a powerful weapon, and began to scream. She kept it up for fully 10 seconds, until she saw a couple of lights go on in the apartments several hundred yards away.

Two bullets flew beside her, and another struck a brick near her left shoulder. It splintered and she shook her head to get the pieces out of her hair. Two more nicked bricks just to her right. There was no way she could raise her head to see where he or they were, but she sensed the gunman was drawing closer.

To her right she heard someone moving through the brush, only yards away. If she could get to the edge of the foundation there was a slight incline. She could lie flat, and no one would be able to shoot at her from the woods. If they wanted to kill her, it would have to be out in the open. Unmindful of the brambles that tore at her slacks she crouched and ran to her left. Only a yard to go!

Suddenly, the ground below her gave way and Christa felt herself falling. Instinctively she wrapped her arms around her head. It wasn't a long fall, but she landed first on her left forearm, then her hip. She could barely draw a breath, and the pain in her arm was intense, but she was still able to move. She rose to her knees, cradling the surely broken arm in her right hand, and hobbled a few feet away from the spot where she had landed.

"Where is she? Where'd the broad go?" It was the kidnapper's voice, she was certain. A muffled voice responded, but Christa could not make out what the person said.

Through a pain haze she heard Kirk's voice. "Police! Drop your weapons and put your hands where I can see them."

Two loud gunshots rang out. Two sets of feet moved quickly. She could not get her bearings. Did they run toward the woods or toward the apartments? Christa tried to get to her feet. She had to get closer to the hole through which she had fallen or Kirk would never find her. As she rose, her stomach turned upside down. The pain in her arm and hip was intense. "Kirk, I'm here," she whispered. The world turned sideways and she felt herself falling again.

THE FIRST THING SHE WAS AWARE OF was the pain in her left arm. Christa moaned and slowly opened her eyes. Why was it so very dark? And her mouth was so dry. She knew she wasn't in bed. The scent of damp dirt came to her and she remembered where she was. Christa struggled to sit up, but it only heightened the intense pain in her left arm and the lesser pain in her hip.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then did it a few more times. It helped calm her racing heart, which she knew was beating wildly, in part from fear and in part from pain. The fear she could do something about. Think. Why are you here? What were you doing?

Slowly, it came back to her. She had been running from the men, they had shot at her. For the second time in one day she had lost consciousness. Not a record she ever hoped to break. More deep breaths. Stay calm. She shivered. Wherever she was, it was cold. She had been crouched by the old fireplace and decided to run. Then the fall, probably into the old basement. There must have been a rotting piece of wood covering the opening. But, hadn't she heard Kirk's voice? And his gun!

Christa knew she had to get out of there. Kirk hadn't seen her, and she hadn't been able to let him know where she was. Would he look for her? She put her right hand under her left arm and raised it onto her stomach, fighting back tears as she did so. If she rolled onto her right side she would be able to raise herself to a sitting position. Gritting her teeth, she did just that, then sat there and did her deep breathing exercises again. If it could help a woman through childbirth, it would help her now.