Before It's Too Late Read online

  Also by Sara Driscoll

  Lone Wolf

  BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE

  SARA DRISCOLL

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Sara Driscoll

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Sara Driscoll

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2017944852

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0443-6

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0444-3

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0444-4

  Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2017

  To my mother, Edith Danna, who opened up the magic of the creative arts for all her children by showing us the joy of books and music from our very first days. Our successes are only possible because of the gifts you gave us.

  Prologue

  Monday, May 22, 7:47 PM

  Glencarlyn Park

  Arlington, Virginia

  Sandy Holmes took a deep breath of spring air as the sun sank low over the rise of the hill overhead. Glancing over her shoulder, she gauged the distance back to her car in the lot at the far end of the park. Time to head back before we lose the light. But she paused, giving herself a moment to enjoy the tranquility of the small, forested valley, an oasis in the middle of bustling urban life. It was a cool evening, the breeze carrying a dampness that hinted at rain, and Lubber Run Trail, a narrow paved path that hugged the curves of the meandering creek, was quiet. Deserted, actually. Now that she noticed it, all the other hikers must have already headed in for the night.

  Pressure against her knee had her glancing down and smiling. Ruby, her Heinz 57 service dog—heavy on the hound—gazed up at her, her dark eyes full of love and concern. Sandy reached down and ran a hand over the dog’s head, her fingertips dropping away just where caramel-colored fur met the camo-patterned service dog vest. “It’s okay, I’m good.” Trained as a PTSD service dog, Ruby was always alert and ready to either protect or soothe, depending on the situation, but Sandy had been feeling pretty steady over the last few weeks. Maybe it was the coming of spring, but her post-traumatic stress—a souvenir from serving with the marines in the Iraq War—seemed better lately. This past winter had come with some rough patches, but hope apparently dawned with warmer weather and longer days. It had been weeks since her last severe panic attack and, for the first time in years, Sandy felt like she was coming out of a fog and stepping into brilliant sunlight.

  “Come on, girl. Time to head for home.” She started to tighten the lead, but Ruby was already circling around behind her, her body stiff, her nose pointed forward as if at a target, and her eyes locked on the path behind them.

  “Excuse me?”

  Sandy jerked around at the sound of the man’s voice, stepping back a pace as gut-wrenching fear spiked her heart rate. She looked up to see a man about fifteen feet up the hill to her left, backlit by the setting sun. He stood on the short access path that ran up to the corner where North Columbus Street met 3rd Street North. Behind him, a large white van was parked with the back doors thrown open.

  Ruby gave a low growl, her head dropping lower between her shoulders, and her weight shifting to her haunches as if preparing to spring.

  “Animal Control,” the man said calmly, his eyes locked on the dog instead of the woman. He pointed to the insignia on his baseball cap. “We got a call about a rabid raccoon in one of the backyards up on North Columbus, but it got out before I could get here. It’s in pretty bad shape and we’re afraid it’s very infectious. Have you seen any raccoons down here?”

  Sandy surreptitiously blew out a breath heavy with relief and gave herself a mental kick for overreacting. Just because a strange man startles you doesn’t mean you’re under attack. He’s just doing his job. She laid a hand on Ruby’s back. “Ruby, it’s okay, girl.” The tense muscles under her fingers relaxed in response to the soothing tone. Sandy looked back up at the Animal Control officer, his face shaded even further in the dim light by the brim of his cap. “I’m sorry, no.” Sandy cast her eyes around for any sign of the animal, pulling Ruby a little closer as if to protect her with her own body.

  “I’m pretty sure it came down here. If I could suggest, maybe skip the creek-side path and head up to North Columbus Street if that’s the direction you’re going. Not so much cover up there and you’ll see him if he takes a run at you. Your dog is up to date on his vaccines?”

  “She is, yes. Thank you for your concern. Come on, Ruby. We’ll cut across North Columbus and dip back down into the park on the other side of Arlington Boulevard.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Wouldn’t want either of you getting bitten.” He stood aside on the access path as if to allow them to pass. “I’m going to search down here some more. I’d prefer to put the poor creature out of its misery, rather than leave it to suffer.”

  Sandy gave the leash a gentle pull and Ruby reluctantly trotted along at her side, her eyes staying locked on the stranger. They passed the man—now she could see he was in full uniform—whose face was turned away as he scanned the bushes, and they pushed up the short hill.

  The street above was just coming into view when a vicious hold suddenly wrapped around her. She struggled against the vise, but a hand slapped over her nose and mouth, smothering her with something cold and wet. The deep breath she was drawing to scream pulled in a suffocating cloud of chemical fumes instead of fresh air.

  Ruby barked furiously, but the man landed a brutal kick to the side of her head. With a broken whimper, the dog staggered backward.

  Panic, that terrifyingly familiar friend, rose and clawed at Sandy’s throat as her vision started to blacken. She reached for her injured dog, but even as her fingers stretched out, darkness closed over her.

  CHAPTER 1

  Opening Volley: The first shots fired in a war.

  The hound dog mix was found wandering alone on N Wakefield Street. Sporting a service dog vest, she dragged her leash behind her as she staggered down the sidewalk, her head sweeping from side to side as if searching for her owner. One of the neighbors, a dog owner herself, spotted the dog and lured her closer with a treat before catching her leash. It was only by chance that she noticed the note peeking out from the small plastic bone containing waste bags:

  To: Meg Jennings, Forensic Canine Unit, FBI: IMHFL HVVGJ RVYUL HHCGW FSGGX RAUUL LRAVS QWBQY VICPE OIRCR GVCCX KI
WNS FOCUX LGEKR JSHJI UPCHI

  The FBI’s Cryptanalysis and Racketeering Records Unit wasted no time running the code through their big computers while special agents discovered the identity of the missing woman: Ms. Sandy Holmes, a veteran of the Second Iraq War who suffered from occasionally debilitating bouts of PTSD, and never went anywhere without her dog. To find the dog alone was a significant concern.

  An hour later, the cryptanalysts confirmed her disappearance as they revealed the real message behind the string of eighty capital letters addressed to the FBI search-dog handler: “Find her before she dies. Come to Washington’s House in Alexandria. The clock is ticking on her life.”

  Monday, May 22, 9:44 PM

  Forensic Canine Unit, J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  “Washington’s House? Do they mean Mount Vernon?” Brian Foster asked.

  Craig Beaumont nodded. The supervisory special-agent-in-charge of the Human Scent Evidence Team, part of the Forensic Canine Unit, cast his gaze around his team of handlers and dogs gathered in the bullpen. “That’s what the CRRU cryptanalysts are saying. Mount Vernon is near the city of Alexandria, and they think Ms. Holmes is being held on the property. I don’t know what we’re looking at, so I want you all to go. Scott, we’ve got the dog’s leash, so you’ll be able to use that for tracking.”

  Scott Park laid a hand on the head of Theo, his lanky, droopy-eyed bloodhound. “Nothing he loves more than a good hunt.” To punctuate Scott’s words, Theo gave a huge ear-slapping head shake, his jowls flapping in concert.

  Meg Jennings stared down at the driver’s license photo of the missing woman, which she gripped in one white-knuckled hand. “Craig, is there anything that indicates why he sent the message to me? I don’t even know this woman.”

  “Nothing so far, and I really don’t like the fact that one of my team has been specifically named in this. Stay in pairs for now. I don’t want anyone on their own until we know what’s going on. The last thing I need is my people brought out to a site, only to be picked off.”

  The teams doubled up—Brian and his German shepherd, Lacey, with Meg and her black Labrador, Hawk; Scott and Theo partnered with Lauren Wycliffe and her border collie, Rocco—and set out. The drive was just a half hour down the George Washington Parkway, but they’d only been on the road for ten minutes when Meg’s phone rang through her SUV’s audio system.

  “Jennings.”

  “Meg, we’ve got a problem.” Craig’s voice boomed through the speakers.

  Meg and Brian exchanged a sideways glance. “More than our missing victim?”

  “We might be sending you to the wrong place.”

  Meg checked her mirrors and then smoothly pulled into the right-hand lane. “The Beltway is coming up. Do I need to redirect?”

  Craig paused as if weighing his decision. “Get off, go west, and then circle back north on I-395.”

  “Where are we going?” Brian asked.

  “Arlington.”

  “The county or the cemetery?” Meg shot them down the exit ramp and then merged into Beltway traffic. “What happened to George Washington’s house?”

  “The coded message never said, ‘George,’ just ‘Washington. ’ One of the cryptanalysts wanted to make sure we weren’t missing anything obvious, so he ran the message by a buddy of his, a history professor at Georgetown University, without telling him why the information was important.”

  “Unless the buddy is an idiot, he’s going to question his FBI friend asking such a left-field question,” Brian muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Craig’s echoing voice filled the passenger compartment.

  “Nothing,” Meg said, shooting Brian a look that clearly said, Behave. “What did the professor say?”

  “He said Washington could also be George Washington Parke Custis, Martha Washington’s grandson and the father-in-law of Robert E. Lee.”

  “Lee’s mansion on the grounds of Arlington Cemetery. You think that’s the clue?”

  “This guy does. He says Arlington County used to be called Alexandria County, but the name was changed in 1920 because it was too confusing also having a city in Virginia named Alexandria. He said Custis’s mansion went to his daughter and therefore, upon Custis’s death, to Lee. Mount Vernon never occurred to this guy.”

  “But it could still be right,” Brian reasoned.

  “It could, which is why Lauren and Scott are still headed there. Scott’s got the leash, which means you won’t have anything on hand to provide scent, so I know this makes it a bigger challenge for you—air-scenting and tracking an unknown target. Get to Arlington. Emergency Services is waiting to let you in. Move fast. As the note says, ‘the clock is ticking,’ and we just lost time.” The line went dead.

  Meg flicked a glance at Brian, seeing the unease she felt reflected in his eyes, and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

  Monday, May 22, 10:23 PM

  Arlington National Cemetery

  Arlington, Virginia

  They arrived at Arlington National Cemetery hours after it had officially closed. The grounds of the cemetery were dark, lit only by the light of a full moon; however, the main entrance was ablaze with lights. Several Arlington Emergency Services vehicles lined the main driveway. They ushered Meg’s SUV through the main gates and then jogged over to meet the K-9 handlers as they let their dogs out of the SUV’s special compartment and shouldered their search-and-rescue packs.

  “Jennings and Foster?”

  “That’s us.” Brian snapped Lacey’s lead onto her FBI vest. “What are we looking at here? Are we expecting any one inside the grounds?”

  “We’ve cleared the cemetery of all emergency personnel. Professional military mourners who attended today’s burials, as well as grounds and admin personnel who were in during regular hours, went home hours ago. The only person who should be on the premises is the officer on duty at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Please try not to disturb him, unless absolutely necessary.”

  “We’ll let the dogs lead us,” Meg said. “But if they don’t go in that direction, we won’t interfere.” She turned to Brian. “You and Lacey go north, and then circle around to the west and then south. I’ll go south first and then circle around from there.”

  The handlers were of equal rank, but because of Meg’s past experience as an officer with the Richmond PD, she naturally took the lead, which suited Brian just fine. “Check. Lacey, come.” Brian jogged off, disappearing into the gloom outside the circle of lights surrounding them. Meg saw him pause inside the far gate by the gold shield of the US Marine Corps as he unclipped Lacey’s leash. He flipped on his small, powerful flashlight; then he bent down to her, giving her the command to search, and she was off, Brian following at a light jog.

  “Is there anything we can do?” the officer asked as Meg turned back to Hawk.

  “Just stay out of the grounds for now. We need to find the only other person inside, except for the officer at the Tomb. We’ll let you know if we need assistance. Hawk, come.”

  They walked away from the lights and officers and into the darkness. As Brian had done, she paused by the massive wrought-iron gates and removed Hawk’s lead. She ran a hand down his back and met his gaze. “Find her, Hawk. Find Sandy.” Hawk tipped his nose into the cool evening breeze momentarily, and then trotted down the road, into the darkness. She turned on her flashlight and followed.

  Meg followed Hawk, pacing herself, knowing this could be a long search, if they were even in the right place. The cemetery was over six hundred acres—just less than one square mile—but packed with over four hundred thousand graves, monuments, outbuildings, an amphitheater, and a mansion. They might have to cover all that ground two or three times over in pursuit of an elusive wisp of scent, just to start the search proper.

  Meg found herself studying Hawk’s gait, looking for any impairment. He’d only been back on the job a few weeks, after being shot during their last case. It was only a flesh wound, but the
hairless white scar arrowing over his hindquarter was a constant reminder of how close she’d come to losing him. She’d already lost one K-9 partner in her career; she was not about to lose another. But Hawk was strong and healed quickly, showing no sign of weakness as he loped along.

  Hawk suddenly cut to the right, off the pavement of Roosevelt Drive and onto grass. As he arrowed between the pale, ghostly rows of headstones, Meg’s eyes were drawn to the distant lights parting the darkness. Ahead, John F. Kennedy’s eternal flame danced on its stone base in ever-shifting tones of red and orange. Above it, high on the hill keeping watch over the dead below, General Robert E. Lee’s majestic columned mansion shone, lit by both spotlights and moonlight.

  Come to Washington’s House in Alexandria.

  She turned back to her dog and the task at hand. “Find her, Hawk,” Meg encouraged. She was very conscious of the fact she had to let Hawk lead, but the house was right there. She could help keep his spirits up and spur him on to—

  He suddenly cut left, crossing back over Roosevelt Drive and then onto grass again. Meg cast one last look at the Greek Revival mansion and then turned her eyes back to her dog. Trust him. He knows what to do.

  They ran through the moon-tipped granite headstones, and under the spreading boughs of trees, some hundreds of years old. Hawk’s breath was coming louder now, but his gait was steady, only occasionally slowing to scent the air, then speeding back up again as if he understood the press of time.

  To the west, the Memorial Amphitheater glowed at the top of stark white steps. Meg couldn’t see the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but she’d been there in person enough times to picture the solitary soldier on his march, his rifle on his shoulder, his steps sure. Honoring the dead and their memory every hour of every day.