Shoreline Read online

  Abe sank into the backseat next to Chid while Pete stared at the screen.

  Pete scanned what to Nora looked like a cascade of numbers. “You want me to try to remote into the device?” he was saying.

  Abe nodded, sweat streaking his cheeks. “Can you?”

  Pete allowed himself a bemused look. “A network-connected Apple device? Timmy Cook said no.”

  “But you’re not trying to get into the Apple device, you’re hacking into the trigger mechanism, which is far simpler,” insisted Abe.

  “He’s right…” Ford broke in, poking his face through the window. “If you can keep up a steady stream of interference, your attempt to connect with it will be enough to keep the bomber out.”

  “Are you sure?” Chid asked.

  “No, he’s right,” Pete said, his voice tense, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Someone’s trying to put in a code now.”

  They watched tensely as a W appeared in one of the six spaces.

  Pete immediately began filling the other spaces with the letter X. Each X was quickly erased but Pete backspaced in order to fill it up again; it immediately became a heated race. The first W was followed with another W as Pete rushed to fill in the remaining spaces and prevent the bomber from replacing them. His eyes were riveted on the screen; the index finger of his left hand remained pressing the X key, while his right thumb slid continuously over the laptop’s touchpad.

  “Will it lock us out?” Anna asked worriedly.

  “An Apple device would,” said Ford. “But this is not; plus the combination is clearly not simply digits. This could go on forever.”

  The bomber had managed to insert a third letter, a V.

  Chid frowned and leaned forward intently; Nora watched as calculations and considerations registered in his sharp eyes.

  “But in the meantime, while the mechanism is distracted—” Abe began.

  “You can cut the wire,” Ford finished for him.

  Abe was already halfway out the car door, and both Nora and Ford started zipping him back into his suit. They had barely secured his helmet when he began running full speed for the van.

  Pete had not moved from his vigil over the Xs. “Tell him to hurry,” he said through gritted teeth. “They have four out of six.”

  Ford shouted at the top of his lungs, “Four out of six, Abe!”

  Nora shifted desperately from foot to foot, wanting to run over to urge Abe on. She looked at the computer screen and saw that an 8 had taken the fourth space.

  Sweat was dripping into Pete’s unblinking eyes. Nora tugged her sleeve down, then said softly, “Pete, I’m going to wipe your forehead, man.”

  He did not acknowledge her but also did not flinch as she reached gently through the open window and dabbed at his forehead.

  “Five out of six,” he whispered as a 6 appeared on the screen.

  Ford relayed the message. Nora strained to see what was going on in the U-Haul.

  “Come on Abe,” Pete said, and Nora realized she’d stopped breathing.

  Chid said, “B.”

  They watched in horror as the final space on the screen filled with a B and the entire screen went black. All of them swiveled their heads to look at the U-Haul.

  A long breathless moment gave way to another and then another.

  Abe emerged from the U-Haul tugging at his helmet. He held aloft the wire cutters and then made a mock salute in the direction of the SUV.

  Pete’s shoulders sagged in relief and he flopped back against the seat.

  Nora exhaled. She looked long and hard at Chid. “You knew the code,” she said.

  “I figured out the code,” he answered. “That’s different.”

  “What was—”

  But she was interrupted by Schacht.

  Schacht had appeared at the SUV window, his face flushed and grim. “Good work, Pete, people—don’t sit still though. Whoever it was has to be close by, watching. We need to find them. Now. You’re all wearing vests?”

  Pete and Nora nodded. The other two were silent. Nora sensed that Chid would think a bulky vest would defile his carefully crafted look.

  “There are extras in the car,” Anna said curtly. “Report in to me every ten minutes via text.”

  Schacht said, “If we don’t hear back every ten minutes, we will overreact. To say the least.”

  All four nodded. Nora saw that Anna had already spied the Chief of Police. Anna wove her way over to him and drew him over to the group Schacht was forming. All of them began conferring, their heads bent together, and Nora knew they’d be asking for police backup. It was essential to make a perimeter around the area so the would-be bomber couldn’t slip through their fingers.

  Nora realized that Schacht’s assumption had to be true. Of course they’d be watching. Something this massive, a strike this profound … You don’t just run away after that. You watch the chaos unfold, you record it on video for later.… Nora began scanning the surrounding area, her eyes resting on each house.

  She had memorized the figures from the bank video, the shape and size of the man on the back of the third motorcycle and his friend; the shade of their hair, the tone of their skin. But surely she wouldn’t just trip over them on the street. She studied the neighborhood. There was a sagging VFW outpost, and many rundown houses on the verge of collapse. Mixed in with these were a few stately old homes, many with cupolas and wide front porches.

  She looked at Pete. “Can you access the office network and try to find out if any of the homes around the synagogue is uninhabited?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully, his face more tired than she had ever seen it. “I think I can. But it’s going to take a minute. And more than that, I’m going to need a little air conditioning.”

  Chid and Ford were wriggling into the vests they’d found in the back.

  Nora looked at Chid as Pete availed himself of Abe’s laptop. “You going to tell me?” she asked. “About the code?”

  Chid nodded. “Wagner-Werk-Verzeichnis,” he answered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Wagner-Werk-Verzeichnis,” he repeated. “It’s a way of cataloging Wagner’s musical output. WWV for short, and then you add whatever the number of the work you’re referring to.”

  “So 86B is…”

  “The Ring Cycle is collectively the 86th work, and B here is for the second opera, Die Walküre.”

  Nora sighed, exasperated.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger,” Chid snapped, looking irritated as he buckled the straps of his vest.

  Nora stood over half a foot taller than he did, but he did not seem to find this disconcerting. He looked up at her, his keen eyes observing her with unabashed interest. “So you’re Arab, then?” he asked.

  It was hardly the time for the categorization game. “Flemish,” Nora replied, and Derek Ford gave a little snort of laughter. Nora ignored him. “Chid, I want to know what’s in Act Three today. How can we prevent more of this?”

  He raised a hand in protest. “Look, it would be silly to suggest he’s trying to mimic every act and scene of the Ring. On one level it’s just silly Norse myth.”

  “What are the other levels?” Nora demanded.

  “An analysis of power dynamics. George Bernard Shaw wrote a whole Marxist interpretation of it. Maybe it’s about empowering the underclass and putting an end to capitalism. The actual Ring goes back to the Rhine maidens in the end. The gods-slash-our-capitalist-masters fail to keep their immortality.”

  Nora listened carefully, trying to understand.

  “Edward Said saw Wagner as stuck in history. His characters can’t break free of being damned to fulfill dire predictions. Hopeless. Adorno saw his use of violence as a criticism of the obsession with myth even while he was glorifying the main character as a man of the sword.”

  Peter made a gesture. “But how does it all apply here?”

  Chid shrugged. “He’s going to put on it the spin he wants. He thinks he’s being clever. He’s evoking images i
n a particular framework that’s motivational for him. Wagner fancied himself a revolutionary, right? Had to flee after participating in the 1849 May Uprising. This guy … Baker … I doubt his people even know what he’s doing or understand this elaborate framework … or even care. They’re probably just feeling victimized and angry … disenfranchised … while on some level he has to provide for himself—and his legacy—a synthesis.”

  Nora said impatiently, “Okay, then. What’s our next step? What can we expect from his particular brand of synthesis?”

  Chid sighed. “My guess is he’s going to kill the black councilwoman. Probably pretty gruesomely.” He paused to consider, then continued, “His people are absolutely going to blow up a mosque and maybe a black church. Probably they’ll occupy a federal building at some point. Just for, you know, flourish.” He sighed, effectively dismissing her. “Let’s go, Derek,” he said, and the two of them started their walking tour.

  Nora was left standing next to the SUV, the window still open, but the air conditioning blasting. “This day is fucking unbelievable,” Pete said, fingers flying across the keyboard. “If ever I needed a beer it would be in this actual moment right now.”

  Nora watched Derek and Chid walking along the sidewalk. They passed the cluster of law enforcement agents and continued on, seemingly assessing and discussing each house as they passed.

  Finally, Pete looked up at her. “2129 Peach Street,” he said finally.

  “Let’s go,” Nora said. They walked, their direction opposite to the one Chid and Derek had taken. Despite the efforts at subtlety, onlookers had gathered to see what had drawn police and firetrucks to the area near the synagogue. Nora knew it did not take a genius to add up the presence of the bomb squad at the synagogue. The news crews would soon descend.

  They found themselves in front of the house, and Nora looked desperately at Pete. They locked eyes instantly and both knew, wordlessly: back door. She joined him behind a towering, brambly hedge.

  “What’s your plan?” he asked softly.

  “Was I supposed to have a plan?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Fine, no plan. We’re just checking it out.”

  “Just checking it out,” she confirmed.

  They began darting across the backyard, crouching low as they went.

  Once they reached the back porch, they both drew their weapons. The wood was worm-eaten and creaked underfoot as they mounted the steps. The back door, paint peeling, held a wide pane of murky glass; a jagged section was missing from its lower half. Pete extended his free hand and tried the doorknob. It turned. He looked at Nora and she nodded.

  He pushed the door open gently.

  Nora, whose eyes had been scanning the street from which they’d come for anyone alert to their presence, inhaled, steeling herself, then followed Pete inside. It was darker than she expected, for the dirt-caked windows let in very little light. They found themselves in a dilapidated kitchen. Cabinet doors hung askew. A grease-covered stove crowned an oven with no door at all, and the fridge was blackened, its handle broken. The July heat had baked the mold and dust into a potent stench.

  Nora squatted, looking at the floor under the light of her phone screen.

  Pete watched her.

  She looked up at him, nodding slightly, then said quietly, “Someone’s been here. Can’t say how recently.” The dust was disturbed. The tracks led in one direction up to the set of stairs that emptied out into the kitchen and in the other direction they dead-ended at a closed door. A basement, perhaps.

  “We should go,” Pete whispered. “Let’s check in with Anna and come back.”

  Nora looked at the stairs. She was so sure what they wanted was there.

  “We have to look, Pete.”

  He rubbed his beard, thinking. “Nora.” It was all he said, but she could see he was conflicted.

  She took another step toward the stairs that led to the second floor, then said softly, “Haven’t we all failed already today?”

  “That’s for damn sure,” came a voice behind them. Both whirled.

  Pete and Nora leveled their guns at a man with graying hair and a goatee; in the dimness his eyes did not even register a color. He held an assault rifle, and it was leveled at their chests.

  Neither agent had a chance to fire, however, as the floor beneath their feet suddenly gave way.

  * * *

  The fall was painful. Nora fell on top of Pete who immediately started clutching his right side, especially his ankle. Nora sprang up, her gun pointed into pitch blackness save for the square of light left by the trapdoor that still swung overhead, creaking.

  Nora saw Pete reaching for his BlackBerry when the first kick barreled out of the darkness behind her. It landed on her wrist, sending her Glock flying. She bent double, clutching her wrist, and Pete began scrambling to rise and come to her aid when he was tackled. Nora watched him collapse to the floor, unable to fend off the huge shadowy form that pinned him to the ground.

  In pure panic, Nora whipped around to try to see where her own attacker was. That was when her legs were kicked out from underneath her. She landed hard on the cement floor, and she inhaled a thick layer of dirt, then coughed, gasping for breath. Someone heavy with rough, calloused hands tugged her wrists behind her as a crushing weight settled on her back. The wrist that had been kicked sent shockwaves of pain through her entire body. A scrape on her cheek dripped blood into her mouth.

  The trapdoor was suddenly pulled shut, plunging the basement into inky blackness. Almost as soon, however, the door at the top of the basement steps opened, casting a dim pool of light.

  Nora tried to move her head so she could meet Pete’s eyes, but the man holding her down pressed her cheek hard against the floor. “Don’t move, bitch. If you know what’s good for you.”

  Pete managed to call out, “Nora—you—?” before a hand crashed against his mouth with a sickening thud.

  “I’m fine,” she choked out, but the man sitting on her yanked her hair hard and she was forced to end her attempt to reassure Pete with an unwilling yelp of pain.

  They all heard footsteps descending into the basement. “They’ll be here soon,” came the man’s voice.

  Nora could hear Pete’s BlackBerry vibrating angrily; no sooner did his stop than hers began to quiver in her pocket. The attacker felt it, and he patted her down and then extracted the phone and took it himself.

  “What should we do with the phones?” came the voice of the man immobilizing Pete.

  “Smash them,” said the man with the goatee. “Can’t risk anyone tracing them using a GPS. Just wait til we get to the tunnel. Otherwise they might find the pieces.”

  “So we done here?” asked Nora’s attacker.

  “Tracks all covered,” Goatee reassured him.

  “Next step?”

  “Get our new acquisitions out.”

  “I think this one’s gonna have a hard time walking,” the man holding Pete said.

  “He’ll walk,” Goatee spat. He pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on. He seemed to be searching for something on the floor, and then the light came to rest on Nora’s Glock. The man bent to retrieve and pocket it. Then he turned the light toward the group. Nora squinted as the bright light moved from Pete to focus on her, moving over her face and down the length of her body. “It’s a better haul than I’d hoped for.”

  She flinched inwardly at the tone. That tone scared her more than the overt violence of the moments before.

  “Bring them. Let’s go. Like I said, it won’t be long before someone’ll be coming.”

  Nora and Pete were forced to stand, their wrists still cinched behind them, and both captors and prisoners followed the man with the bandanna. He led them deeper into the basement, then pulled aside a filthy Steelers banner to reveal a low wooden door. He inserted a key and then twisted it quickly, shoving hard against the door which groaned loudly as it swung open. He ducked, pushing through it, and the others followed. Nora
was sure that Pete had broken his ankle from the way he was hobbling and leaning on his attacker.

  Nora had eagerly been stealing glances at the other men’s faces as the flashlight darted across them. She was almost certain the one with the goatee had been one of the bank robbers. The other two were pale, both equally wide. The one with Pete had dark hair and the one holding her had sandy hair that somehow flourished on his face but not his head; he wore a thick, if trimmed, beard. Both were tall, over six feet, and she estimated the one holding her to be at least two hundred and thirty pounds. Like Nora herself, both had to bend down to pass through the small door.

  Even as Nora’s phone vibrated again, her captor threw it to the ground and then stamped on it with a heavy boot. Pete’s captor handed over his phone for the same treatment. Nora’s eyes lingered on the boots; not summertime wear, surely. She winced as she stared at her phone. She hadn’t been without it for over a year.

  The tunnel they entered was dank and musty. Nora found herself gagging slightly as they began to walk. She wanted to ask why such a tunnel existed beneath the city, but she knew it was no time for a guided tour. Still, she was fairly certain that Erie had never had a subway. The tracks they walked over were much smaller, not nearly as wide as would be necessary for a train of any kind. They reminded her of tracks erected for minecarts, but in all the movies she’d seen, no coal mine had been located in the center of a city.

  She watched Pete’s progress with increasing fury; occasionally, and despite his best attempts at playing the stoic, he would cry out in pain. He needed the emergency room. She tried desperately to figure out what she could drop as a clue; surely there weren’t that many possibilities and their trail would be instantly obvious to anyone who half tried. She wondered where Ford and Chid were at that moment. Had they reached the same conclusion about the house? What sort of perimeter had the Unified Command established?

  They walked endlessly. Rivulets of water snaked down the walls here and there; in other places, cars overhead shook silt down upon them. Her wrist ached so painfully she could barely tolerate it. She felt claustrophobic in a way that was making it hard to breathe. Don’t panic.