Page 58 of Crosscurrent

And Skye Reeves, who had walked into a Neptune operative's motel room alone because she had decided four years ago in some hallway in Europe that she was the only person who was coming for her, had let Cara take her by the elbow.

21

Tired and discouraged, Cara stared into space, her index finger poking the hard edge of the clear evidence sleeve encasing the crumpled note she’d picked up from Ortiz’ room.

Bleary-eyed behind his thick glasses, Owen jolted upright, nose scrunched. He jabbed a finger at the note. “May 28th? That’s weird.”

Something in his voice wired her. Or maybe it was simple exhaustion. “Why is it weird, Owen?”

He looked up like he hadn’t quite realized he’d said it out loud. “That’s the first day of the colloquium.” He scratched his head. “Probably just a coincidence.”

Or not. Cara’s body zinged with energy now. The others clearly felt it, too.

Skye, on the workbench with Wade’s clean handkerchief still wrapped around her right hand, said flatly, “Owen. It is not a coincidence.”

“…right.” Owen looked down at the note again. “No. I see that.”

Gabe slumped in his seat, but his eyes were bright now. “They’re going to let him go to Norway.”

Skye nodded. “It’s what I’d do. All that ice? The perfect place to dump a body.”

There was a pause Cara felt in her ribs.

“Det er sikkert,” Sophie muttered from down the table.

Cara looked at her.

Sophie blinked once, mildly. “Norwegian. Sorry. Who needs ice? The polar bear population’s huge there. The State Department travel advisory notes that they account for a non-trivial percentage of unrecovered persons.”

“You read that on the flight, didn’t you.” David said without looking up from the document on his own screen.

Owen looked faintly alarmed. “What are you people talking about?”

Skye picked up the thread. “They think you have the cipher. They’ll take it in Longyearbyen. Then you don’t fly home. If you don’t have it, they grab me here while you’re on a different continent. Either way, once they have what they want, both of us die.”

Owen took the sentence in slowly. “So….not good.”

Skye frowned at him. “I didn’t say that.”

Cara had the sudden specific thought that Owen Harney was the least prepared person in the basement and the bravest one for sitting still.

Tom pushed back from the Rig. “Hold on.”

His left monitor was running something — query strings cycling — and he was leaning toward it the way he did when he was about to make himself unhappy. “The second cipher layer just came open. Fifty-three names on the list. Several with strikes through them.”

Cara’s coffee was cold. She hadn’t drunk any of it.

“Give me a sec. Cross-referencing now.” Tom’s hand was on the trackball. “Obits. Press. Bar associations. State licensing boards. Give me ninety seconds.”

Owen was very still. Cara watched the way he held himself — composed, attentive, hands still folded in his lap. He hadn’t moved since Skye explained the kill calculus.

Tom read off the list. “Retired judge from Reno. Sixty-seven. Hiking accident, March. Dock foreman, Port of Seattle. Hit and run, January. Driver never found. Trucking VP outside Atlanta. Self-inflicted, October. Wife disputes findings.”

Three names. Three deaths inside six months.

“They’re working a backlog,” David said it almost to himself.

Sophie didn’t look up from her notes. “Reminds me of Gstaad.”