“Who?”
“Old joke. Bad one. Never mind.” She sighed as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “I suppose this is going to be unending.”
“Maybe they’ll find Lynnetta.”
“Let’s hope,” Rinda said, and hung up.
Jenna continued to watch the television. She felt empty inside as the reporter, Brenda Ward, a pert little redhead in a blue parka and gloves, squinted against the falling snowflakes and explained about Lynnetta Swaggert being abducted. From Lynnetta’s disappearance, the newscast segued into stories about the other missing women, and Jenna felt as if she had a huge stone in the middle of her stomach. The weather report was next, along with a reminder that the schools were closed. Jenna, thoughts on Lynnetta, barely noticed. Finally she snapped off the TV.
They spent the day inside. Both girls, though they didn’t say it, were bored to tears and neither one was interested in a) baking an early batch of Christmas cookies; b) helping string interior lights and putting up all the decorations except for the tree; or c) playing cards or any kind of board game. They both preferred their own company.
Cassie talked on the phone, instant-messaged on the computer, or watched some soap opera on television. Allie, with Jake at her side, broke a fresh trail through the snow to help Hans with the horses. Two hours later, she returned, her cheeks red, her nose running; Jenna made her hot cocoa and a peanut butter sandwich and urged her to practice the piano. Begrudgingly, she agreed, and now, as Jenna sat at the table going over her checkbook, the clear notes of several Christmas carols wafted into the den.
Jenna was able, through Harrison Brennan, to get through to the electrician, but of course, Seth Whitaker had barely arrived when Harrison, hell-bent on helping out, drove through the open gates. He parked next to Turnquist’s truck. Over Jenna’s protests, Brennan helped his friend, and though Jenna sensed that Whitaker would rather have done the job himself and made tracks to his next project, he didn’t complain, even when Harrison handed out orders.
“If he’s bothering you, I’ll ask him to leave,” Jenna said to Whitaker as she, dressed in ski gear, carried out a thermos of coffee. Brennan was a few feet off, standing near Whitaker’s white truck and out of earshot as he rewound a roll of wire. He wore a tight-fitting jumpsuit made out of some thin, insulated material and a thick jacket and ski mask.
“I’m okay.” Whitaker, bundled in a heavy jacket and pants, a hunter’s cap with flaps covering his ears, was intent on his work at the gate post and barely looked up. His toolbox was at his feet, getting buried by the blowing snow.
“All right, but I know he can be bossy.”
“Comes with being in the military, I guess,” Whitaker said, as he screwed the faceplate on the
keypad at a gate post. “Here. Time for a quick lesson.” He took the thermos from her gloved hands. “Now, depress the key that says PID—that’s Personal Identity. Put in three numbers that mean something to you and hit the PID key again.” She punched in two, two, six. “My birthday,” she explained.
Whitaker snorted. “Well, that’s okay for now, but in the future, use something that’s a little more obscure. Now that you’ve entered your PID, you need to punch in a code of four numbers—these are the ones that will change daily. Go ahead, use any numbers. We’ll change the code again, once you understand how it works.”
Jenna keyed in one, two, three, four.
He grinned, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair enough. Now hit reset.” He pointed to a button with the tip of his Phillips screwdriver. She did as requested. “Okay, now try your new code.” Once again, she keyed in the numbers. After the last digit, the gate swung open. She used the same process to close the gate and return it to its locked position.
Whitaker kicked open his toolbox and dropped his screwdriver onto the tray holding wrenches, pliers, and screwdrivers. Then, as he kicked the lid closed again, he began twisting off the thermos lid. He seemed satisfied with his work, even grinned. “You can do the same thing up at the house. I’ll wire it in.”
“What’s to prevent anyone from taking off the faceplate and resetting it themselves?”
“Nothing. As long as they have your PID. So that’s why I suggested you come up with something more creative than your birthday. Got it?” He poured a stream of coffee into the thermos cap.
“Yeah, I think so. I just hope I can remember the codes if I change them every day.”
“You might want to work out some kind of system that only you and your kids know. Like adding thirty-three to the total numbers. You just punched in one, two, three, four, or one thousand two hundred and thirty-four. Tomorrow you’d add thirty-three and your code would be one thousand two hundred and sixty-seven, or one, two, six, seven. The next day you’d add another thirty-three and the code would be one thousand three hundred, or one, three, zero, zero.”
The numbers spun in Jenna’s head. “I think we’ll come up with something simpler.”
Whitaker shrugged and sipped the coffee. “Whatever’s easiest for you to remember.”
“Got it figured?” Harrison asked as he carried the coil of wire to the gate and joined them.
Turning her back to the wind, Jenna reached into her pocket. “Never.” She pulled out a small cup. “I thought you might need something to warm you up.”
Harrison’s blue eyes met hers and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, barely visible through the ski mask. As if he were touched by her act of kindness. Lately, the words they’d shared had been sharp. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup. “It is a mite cold out here.”
“Like ten below,” Whitaker agreed. “If you add in the wind chill, it’s even worse.”
Smiling as the snow swirled around them, Whitaker handed Brennan the thermos. “What about you?” he asked Jenna.
“I’ve got a cup inside. I’ll let you two freeze out here and drink mine by the fire,” she teased.
“Nice,” Whitaker mocked.