Chloe carried a large glass of ice water and the stack of essays onto her back deck and set them on the glass table in the shade of the patio umbrella. She dropped into a wrought-iron chair. Stretching out her legs, she crossed her ankles and sighed with pleasure. The late-afternoon sun slanted across the gray-painted wood deck, warming her bare legs. The umbrella's shade blocked the sunshine from her upper body. Still, the heat and bright sky were a welcome change from the showers and gray days of two weeks earlier.

Only in Seattle do you need a wool sweater under your raincoat one week, and two weeks later, you can sit in the sun wearing shorts with a tank top, she thought. Gotta love this city.

She straightened her arms over her head and arched her back, stretching luxuriously. Then she pulled the stack of essays closer, picked up the top one and began to read. Red pencil in hand, she worked her way through half the pile before taking a break.

Jake had called earlier to fill her in on developments since last night. They hadn't found any identifying information or fingerprints in the abandoned sedan. The truck owner had reported his license plates stolen this morning and had no idea why they were on a sedan. Gray was running the VIN number in an attempt to trace the car, but he expected that the sedan had been stolen, too.

Jake also mentioned that he'd spent most of the day at his company's current work site in Black Diamond. During the night, someone had broken into the Morrissey Demolition storage shed and stolen dynamite. The foreman of the road construction crew swore nothing was missing from his list of equipment and supplies, so it appeared the thief had targeted only the explosives.

Jake sounded frustrated with the dead ends and delays, and she was just as disappointed as he was when he had to cancel their dinner plans. She'd settled for a mixed salad with slices of barbecued chicken, eaten on her patio in the sunshine.

Taking a water bottle with her, Chloe returned to the deck and sank into her chair again. It was now almost eight o'clock. She picked up the next essay, but two paragraphs in, she frowned and sat up straighter. Each paragraph had a group of letters-gibberish-enclosed in parentheses.

She flipped to the cover sheet to check the writer's name, and to her surprise, there wasn't one. The other necessary elements were present-class title and number, professor's name, date, the title of the essay: "The American Military: Friend or Enemy?"

Even more puzzled, she went through the stack of essays on the table, then her list of students enrolled in the class. There were five fewer essays than students, but three of them had already contacted her and been given permission to deliver their work late. One of those students had broken his arm in a pickup game of football; one's National Guard unit had been activated and she was training in Yakima; the third was at a funeral in Tucson. The remaining two students had distinctive writing styles and she felt sure she could rule them out.

If none of the students registered in her class had written this essay, then who had? Chloe knew anyone could have dropped the paper through the mail slot in her door; students delivered work that way all the time. She didn't remember finding this particular document on her office floor and filing it with the other essays, but it was more than likely she'd done so without giving it a thought. Still, why would anyone have gone to such lengths-writing and delivering a paper for a class in which he or she wasn't even registered?

She picked up the mysterious essay to resume reading where she'd left off, and by the time she'd finished, her inner alarms were shrieking. There was something decidedly off-kilter about the essay. Not only were all the paragraphs interspersed with parentheses enclosing collections of letters that she couldn't understand, but the author made angry, disparaging remarks about the military in general and the Marine Corps in particular. Something about the gibberish in the parentheses felt vaguely familiar, but she couldn't seem to grasp why.

The essay ended with a paragraph alleging government collusion to conceal the truth about the death of marines in combat situations abroad. Thee was a specific reference to military personnel dying in Afghanistan.

Chloe stared at the typed pages, trying to see a pattern that might reveal a hidden message or a clue that might tell her the identity of the writer. Unfortunately, she found nothing that made sense.

Gran could probably take one look at this and know if the writer had hidden a message in the words.

She pushed back her chair decisively, gathered up the papers and hurried into the house. She dropped the stack of essays on the table and ran upstairs to collect a light sweater. She grabbed her purse, slipping her feet into leather sandals, and after checking to make sure all the locks in the house were secure, drove to Winifred's.

Chloe mulled over the style and the content of the essay tucked into her purse. However, she was no closer to deciphering the puzzle when she reached her grandmother's home.

Winifred answered her knock almost immediately and smiled with pleasure. "Why, Chloe, come in, dear."

"Hi, Gran." Chloe stepped past Winifred and into the entryway, turning to look at her grandmother. "Sorry to come by so late, but I need your help."

"Of course." Winifred's gaze sharpened and frown lines appeared between her brows. "Join me in the kitchen. I was going to have a glass of iced tea. You can tell me all about it."

Chloe followed Winifred down the hall to the big kitchen, sitting down in a chair at the oak table by the big window. The table already held a crystal pitcher, a Wedgewood plate with several cookies and a tall glass. Winifred took another glass and spoon from the cupboard and sat across from her.

"I'll pour," Winifred said as she picked up the pitcher. "While you tell me what has you so worried."

"It's this essay, Gran." Chloe removed the three-page document from her purse and laid it on the table between them. "Whoever wrote it clearly has issues with the American military, particularly the Marines, but there are also weird words, gibberish really, spaced throughout. I can't make any sense of it."

"Whoever wrote it? What do you mean? Isn't the writer one of your students?" She finished pouring the iced tea, set a glass in front of Chloe and stirred sugar into her own.

"That's another odd thing." Chloe slid the stapled papers closer to her grandmother and pointed at the top sheet. "The writer didn't sign his or her name. It's anonymous."

Winifred raised her eyebrows, bending forward to read the cover page. "Well, that certainly is odd. How does he expect to get credit for his work?"

"I don't think he does. I don't think the writer is one of my students."

"Then why would he turn in the essay?" Winifred asked slowly, setting aside glass and spoon to pick up the papers.

"I don't know," Chloe said. "I'm sure this essay was with a group of several others that students dropped through the slot in my office door. There's something about the gibberish that nags at me. I feel as if I should know what it means, but I don't. It's just letters strung together. I'm hoping you can give me some insight."

Winifred began to read. Chloe sipped her tea, nibbled on a Hob Nob cookie and waited impatiently for her to finish.

Finally, Winifred reached the last page and looked up.

"Well? What do you think it means?"

"First, I agree with you. There's something familiar about the letters in parentheses," Winifred said thoughtfully. "I don't think they're merely random." She paused, a faraway look in her eyes, her fingers drumming on the table. "Of course." She pushed back her chair.

"What?"

"I'll be right back." Winifred hurried out of the room. Chloe heard her footsteps as she moved quickly down the hall, and guessed she'd gone to her office off the living room. Moments later Winifred reappeared, carrying a thick hardcover book, a pad of paper and a pen.

She sat down, handed Chloe the pen and notepaper, and opened the book to the index.

Chloe turned her head, twisting to read the title of the book. Codebreakers Through History. She straightened in her chair. "Gran, do you see a pattern? Do you think the letters are a code?"

"They might be...."

Chloe pulled the essay closer and looked at the first grouping of letters enclosed in parentheses. "Yildoc," she read out loud. "You think that's a word?"

"It might be. Ah, here it is." Winifred leafed through the book, stopping to scan a page before turning to the next. "Yes," she said with satisfaction. "I need you to spell out the letters for me, then write down what I tell you, Chloe."

"Okay. The first one is Y-I-L-D-O-C."

Winifred ran her fingertip down a list. "J."

"The letter J?" Chloe asked.

"Yes. What's the next set of letters within parentheses?"

"T-S-E-N-I-L."

"That's an A." She waited for Chloe to jot down the letter and find the next parenthetical set of letters.

"J-A-D-H-O-L-N-I."

"That's a K. Next."

"A-H-N-A-H."

"That's an E. Next."

Chloe stared at the letters she'd written down. "Gran."

Winifred looked up. "Yes?"

"We just spelled Jake."

Winifred nodded abruptly. "Then I was right. Whoever wrote the essay used the World War II code based on the Navajo language."

"So you're saying a Navajo wrote the essay?"

"Not necessarily. The code was never broken during the war and was kept top secret. It wasn't officially recognized by the Pentagon until 1992. But since then, there have been articles written about the Navajo codebreakers and how the code worked. I believe Hollywood even made a movie called Windtalkers about the use of the Navajo code during the war in the Pacific. Public knowledge about the subject has definitely increased over the past several years."

"So anyone who wanted to could look up the code and learn how to use it."

"Technically speaking, yes. I'm sure the details are available on the Internet somewhere, since most things are these days. Using the code orally would be almost impossible for anyone except a Navajo because the language itself is extremely complex. It's almost unintelligible to anyone except a native. But to write it-" Winifred tapped the essay in front of Chloe "-that's quite easy, really. All you'd have to do is look up the English letters of the alphabet and the Navajo words assigned to them."

"But these don't look like words."

"I know. Whoever wrote them neglected to hyphenate them where needed. For instance, 'yildoc' is really Yil-Doc, and 'jadholni' is Jad-Ho-Loni. Nonetheless, it's clear to me that the Navajo code is the basis for the words enclosed in parentheses."

"And the first word is Jake. Why would someone encode his name in an essay given to me?"

"That's the real mystery, isn't it?" Winifred's expression was solemn. "Let's finish going through the letters in parentheses and see what words we have when we're done."

Several moments later, Chloe and Winifred stared at the three names.

"Jake Morrissey, Chloe Abbott and Kenny Dodd," Winifred read slowly. "Why is your name here, Chloe? And who is Kenny Dodd?"

"I don't know, Gran, but I'm going to find out." Chloe took her cell phone from her purse and dialed Jake's number.

Six.

When Jake received Chloe's call, Gray was at his apartment. They arrived at Winifred's house together, Jake's Porsche closely followed by Gray's SUV as they pulled into the circular driveway.

Chloe met them at the front door.

"What happened?" Jake demanded, his gaze running over her, searching for signs of damage.

"Come into the kitchen. Gran can help me explain." She said hello to Gray, standing behind Jake. "I'm glad you're here, Gray. You need to hear this, too."

She led them down the hall to the kitchen and introduced Gray to Winifred.

"Sit down, gentlemen." Winifred gestured at two empty chairs and looked at Chloe. "Why don't you start, Chloe."

Chloe nodded and, as succinctly as possible, told them about the essay and the encoded words.

Gray turned to Jake. "Who's Kenny Dodd?"

"He's a kid who died in Afghanistan." Jake's face was grim. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I detonated a charge I'd set to take out a bridge."

Chloe's heart cramped at the expression of stark pain that flashed across his features. He feels responsible for that young soldier's death.

Gray whistled softly. "So the stalker is connected to the military, not to your demolition work."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I guess so. We've been looking in the wrong place, at the wrong people."

"No wonder we didn't find anything."

"Whoa." Chloe lifted her hand. "What are you saying? You've 'been looking.' Is this my stalker or your stalker?"

Jake's eyes were unreadable, but they met hers without flinching. "It's possible the person following you may really be after me."

Chloe could only stare at him, speechless, as scenes from the last few days ran through her mind-the man outside David's shop window, the eerie feeling that someone was following her on campus, the blue sedan driving by her house after the symphony. The man was stalking her because she'd met Jake?

"Gray and I suspected that might be the case. You told me the feeling that someone was watching you didn't start until after the photos of us appeared in the Tribune," Jake continued.

"That's true," she murmured, frowning.

"The photo may have been the catalyst that caused the stalker to link you with me."

Chloe thought about the group of photos that had accompanied the article and cold fear gripped her. "My grandmother was in those pictures, too."

"Have you noticed any strangers watching you, Mrs. Abbott?" Jake asked. "Maybe a car following you when you leave the house?"

"No. Nothing like that," Winifred said firmly. "And I would have noticed." She turned to Chloe. "Why didn't you tell me what's been going on?"

"I thought it was probably a student with a crush on me, Gran. It made me nervous because it's a little creepy, knowing someone might be stalking me, but I wasn't really afraid for my safety."

"And there's every reason to believe you shouldn't be afraid, even now," Gray put in. "As we've said, the primary target appears to be Jake. Someone's been shadowing him for weeks, and the fact that you're having the same experience so soon after the photos were made public indicates you're a secondary interest."

"You're sure? Because I won't leave town if Chloe's in danger." Concern shaded Winifred's voice.

"Gran's taking the Queen Victoria cruise ship to Victoria, B.C., in the morning," Chloe explained, answering Jake's unspoken question. "It's only an overnight trip-a birthday gift from a friend."

"Ah." He nodded. "I don't think Chloe's in real danger, Mrs. Abbott. We believe the man's after me and he's only interested in Chloe because he saw her with me in the photo."

"Okay, then." Chloe drew a deep breath and covered Winifred's hand with hers. "I think you should go to Victoria, Gran, and have a great time. Have high tea at the Empress Hotel, visit Butchart Gardens and shop till you drop. With any luck, by the time you get home, Jake and Gray will have found this person and solved the puzzle. And our lives will go back to being quiet, normal and totally boring."

Winifred's eyes twinkled. "At my age, Chloe, a little excitement makes life interesting. But I'll settle for tea at the Empress."

"Great." Chloe kissed her cheek, relieved that her grandmother would be safely out of town until Jake and Gray had time to apprehend the stalker, whoever he was.

The three took their leave of Winifred. Jake walked Chloe to her car and opened the door.