Текст книги "The Forgotten"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CHAPTER

44

“YOU WANT TO COME back to my place and talk about this some more?” Landry asked as they walked out of Darby’s.

Puller wasn’t paying attention to her. He was staring down at the phone in his hand. More specifically, he was staring at the text on his phone’s screen.

“I’m sorry if I’m boring you,” Landry said crossly as she eyed the device in his hand.

He put it away in his pocket. “Sorry, something just came up. What were you saying?”

“My place, talk some more? We could walk on the beach. It’s up to you. No skin off my nose if you decline. Just trying to be friendly.” She added, “And keeping you off the streets and out of trouble.”

Puller thought about this. He still didn’t have a place to stay, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to crash at Landry’s place again. And even though he had finished processing his aunt’s home he still didn’t feel comfortable staying there. She had left it to him, of course, so he had every right to be there if he wanted. But what it really came down to was that until he figured out what had happened to her, Puller didn’t think he deserved to stay in the woman’s house. Not after all those years of not contacting her, letting her tumble from his life like an insignificant piece of debris.

“You know of any places I can bed down in Paradise?” He paused and smiled. “If you think it’s safe enough for me.”

“Why not stay at your aunt’s?”

“If those guys in the Chrysler are tailing me it would be too easy for them to keep tabs on me.”

“You really think they’re following you?”

“Don’t know one way or another. Until I do I’m not taking chances.”

“There’s a place called the Gull Coast. It’s on Gulfstream Avenue. Two blocks south of the Sierra. It’s a little bit more money because it is closer to the beach, but you probably won’t have to worry about being murdered while you’re brushing your teeth.”

“Sounds right up my alley. Thanks.”

“So you want to hook up later? I usually take a walk on the beach at night around my condo building.”

“I’ll meet you there in an hour. That’ll give me time to check into the Gull Coast.”

“Okay. See you in an hour.”

She walked to her car and Puller to his. He punched in the numbers on the phone as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Wondered what took you so long,” said Carson on the other end of the phone. “I figured you’d call me the second after you got my text.”

“Just got a little backed up down here. But tell me something. How can the Pentagon be told to stand down for running a lousy license plate?”

“We did trace it, you know. To a big cloud somewhere over the Indian Ocean. Not really, but it might as well have been. Total dead end. I was as surprised as you. Figured it would turn out to be a private company. Then we got the call to knock it off.”

“Call from who?”

“The official source apparently did not wish to identify itself to a lowly one-star. I got the word from higher up the chain of command.”

“So are you in trouble?”

“I don’t think so. But I might be wrong about that.”

“I had a friend at USACIL try to run the plate for me. I got called by a Colonel Walmsey. He tried to shame me into coming back and cleaning the mess up, but then he figured out who my father was and backed off. I wonder if he got warned off too.”

“I don’t know about that. But we sure did. And J2 is not used to having its hand slapped, I can tell you that.”

“Who has the horsepower to do that?”

“It’s not a long list. What the higher-ups want to keep secret, they do keep secret, right or wrong.”

“As a soldier, I get that. As a taxpayer I’m more than a little pissed.”

“So be pissed. It is what it is.”

“The two guys?”

“Anyone’s guess. What did they look like?”

“They looked like me, only smaller.”

“So former military, like you said on our last call.”

“I don’t know for sure, General.”

“General?”

“We’re back on the clock.”

“Okay,” she said in an amused tone.

“Maybe they’re still on our side. In fact, since you got called off maybe they are on our side.”

“Maybe. But it prompts the question of what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into, Puller.”

“Blowback from West Virginia?”

“That’s what I was thinking. It touched a lot of very hot wires. It looked like things turned out great and you were the hero, but you know D.C. Things could have changed. Maybe they’re looking for a scapegoat for a reason unknown to either of us. Wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened.”

“Meaning me as the scapegoat?”

“And I was involved too, if you recall.”

“So why would they be down here tracking me—”

He gripped the phone so hard he thought he felt the shell begin to cave in.

“Puller?”

“I’ll call you back.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Puller clicked off and hit a hard right.

Because the Chrysler guys kept showing up where he was, he had simply assumed that they had to be after him.

That had been an assumption he had no business making.

While it was true that the guys had taken up a tail on him—they had been seen around the Sierra after all—they had to have picked him up from some point.

And he knew what that point might have been.

My aunt’s house.

They might not have been following him. This might have nothing to do with blowback from what had happened in West Virginia. They might have been checking out Betsy Simon’s home.

And it wasn’t a huge stretch to their having killed her. He didn’t care if they were from the Pentagon or if someone high up was trying to call the dogs off. If they had killed his aunt they were going to pay for it.

He punched the gas and the Tahoe sped off into the darkness.

CHAPTER

45

PULLER PARKED TWO BLOCKS OVER and walked the rest of the way to his aunt’s home.

He did it by a very circuitous route. If people who could call off the Pentagon were involved in this, then Puller had to raise the level of his game accordingly.

He stopped near a fenceline and studied the terrain ahead. It was ten o’clock, dark even on the Emerald Coast, where the sun purportedly never stopped shining. It was quiet on Orion Street. A slight cooling breeze was blowing in from off the water. A car started up somewhere, its ignition shattering the silence.

Puller hunkered down and took cover behind a bush to remove himself from the possibility of headlights reflecting off him. The car drove past. It wasn’t the sedan with the two men inside.

But Puller still recognized it.

It was Jane Ryon driving past in her blue Ford Fiesta, the dent in the side door looming large in the wash of streetlights.

What the hell was she doing here? She had already gotten her things from his aunt’s house.

There was no way he could follow her. The Fiesta was nearly out of sight as it turned the corner. By the time he hustled back to his vehicle and took up the chase she would be long gone.

He slipped out into the open and continued down the sidewalk, his gaze moving like radar. He reached his aunt’s house and opted for entry through the rear door. The lights in Cookie’s house next door were on. Apparently the retired baker was in for the night. Or perhaps he had not yet gone out.

As he was walking through his aunt’s backyard Puller heard a little yap. He trotted to the fence and peered over.

Sadie looked up at him and yapped again.

Puller eyed the dog and then glanced over at Cookie’s house. Then he eyed the dog again.

What had Cookie said to him? He knew the Storrows, the couple found dead on the beach. They were friends. He was stunned by their deaths. Just like he had been stunned by his friend Betsy’s death. There was nothing surprising there. But there was one unanswered question.

Had Betsy Simon known the Storrows?

He looked down at Sadie barking. The little dog seemed sad. And lonely. And, if it was possible, her little features seemed confused.

Cookie said he would usually let Sadie out late in the morning to do her business. Puller had seen multiple leashes hanging on a hook by the back door when he had visited the house previously. And he had seen Cookie walking Sadie.

But Florida had snakes and gators and other types of nocturnal predators. Why let your little dog out alone at night even in a fenced backyard?

Puller jumped the fence and landed near Sadie, who jumped back in surprise and started yapping again. Puller scooped the little dog up in one arm and pulled his M11 with his right hand. Sadie, perhaps sensing that something was amiss, stopped yapping. Her tongue gently licked Puller’s arm.

Puller kept his gaze on the house. He reached the back steps and slipped quietly up them. The door was unlocked. He passed through, checking out all possible ambush angles before venturing farther in.

He cleared one room after another, keeping low and to the side and giving limited opportunity for anyone hiding inside to get a clean shot at him.

His search ended in the upstairs bathroom.

He put Sadie down and the little dog started licking at the water.

Puller put his gun away and stared down at Cookie.

He was naked and in the bathtub.

More precisely, he was resting at the bottom of the tub.

Puller made no move to pull him out and attempt to resuscitate him. It would have been for naught.

The eyes stared up at Puller.

The eyes of a dead man.

Drowning, he was certain, would be the official cause of death.

Just like his aunt next door.

Folks found submerged in water usually died because water was in their lungs, where water should not be.

The question then became, how did the person become submerged?

Three possible scenarios presented themselves.

Cookie could have had some medical crisis, a heart attack, a stroke, a seizure, or a drug reaction that had rendered him unconscious. He then would have slipped under the water and died.

Or he could have hit his head, knocked himself out, and gone under.

Or someone could have held him under the water.

Puller did not think the fourth possibility, suicide, was realistic. The body had its own emergency reaction to attempted suicide by drowning. It fought for air. You could kill yourself out in the ocean by drowning because you gave yourself no opportunity to get back to land.

But not in a bathtub.

Puller spotted the bottles of medication on the sink next to the tub. He didn’t touch any of them, but did read the labels.

Blood pressure pills. Fluid retention capsules. Arthritis. Vascular. Beta blockers. Pills presumably to counteract the interaction of the other medications. The bottles went on and on.

Welcome to being old in America, the land of the blissfully overly medicated.

Puller looked around once more, taking in tiny details that might have great significance. Seeing nothing else, he decided he had intruded enough on what was now no longer a suburban residence, but a potential crime scene.

He pulled out his phone and hit 911.

It was shaping up to be a long night.

CHAPTER

46

THE LONG NIGHT did not start off well.

The police cruiser skidded to a stop at the curb with its rack lights turning and its siren blaring, crushing the quiet of the night.

Officer Hooper climbed out and pulled his gun as soon as Puller stepped clear of the house. The other cop with him was a man who looked similar enough in appearance to be Hooper’s brother. He had his gun out too.

“I can’t freaking believe this,” said Hooper as he eyed Puller.

Puller said, “Landry’s off duty. Why are you still working?”

“None of your business,” snapped Hooper. He turned to his partner. “Boyd, this is the jerk-off I was telling you about.”

Puller said, “Body’s in the upstairs bathroom.”

“If you screwed with the crime scene you are in serious shit trouble,” said Hooper, keeping his gun pointed in Puller’s direction.

“Hoop,” said Boyd. “Who’s to say he’s not our guy?”

“I called it in,” said Puller. “I waited here for you to arrive. Why would I do that if I’m ‘the guy’?”

Hooper said condescendingly, “Well, that way we wouldn’t suspect you. Shit, you Army guys all that stupid?”

“And the motive?” asked Puller.

“Not our problem,” said Hooper. “That’s your problem.”

“Actually, our criminal justice system adheres to the ‘innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt’ philosophy,” said Puller. “So it is your problem.”

Another cruiser pulled up with an ambulance in tow. Chief Bullock climbed out. He was dressed in civilian clothes, so Puller assumed he’d gotten the call at home.

He walked straight past Hooper and Boyd and up to Puller.

“What do we got?”

“Dead man in the bath. No signs of a struggle. Could be he had a medical crisis and went unconscious. Post will tell us a lot more. I saw a car driving away from here a few minutes before I found the body. Blue Ford Fiesta with a big dent in the passenger door.”

“Know who was in it?”

“Woman named Jane Ryon. She was a caregiver to my aunt. And she knew the deceased as well. I don’t know if she was coming from this house or not. If so, she has a lot of explaining to do.”

Hooper and Boyd just stood there openmouthed as Bullock and Puller talked.

Finally Bullock looked over and said, “Hey, Hoop, what the hell you waiting for? Secure the damn area. We have a potential crime scene here. You too, Boyd.”

Hooper and Boyd holstered their guns and hurried to do this.

Bullock turned back to Puller. “Some days I don’t know why I bother, with the likes of those people constituting my police force.”

“You’ve got Landry.”

“If I had all Landrys you’d never hear me complain one second.”

He looked up at the house. “If this turns out to be a homicide, that’ll be four in just a few days. I don’t like that. Way out of proportion to the population down here. Scare the tourists away. Town council won’t like that.”

“Any leads on the Storrows’ murders?”

“Not a one. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. But they were murdered, no doubt of that.”

“Cookie, the man in the tub, knew the Storrows.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“He told me so.”

“That’s a link.”

“Yes, it is.”

“My tech will be here any minute. In the meantime I better go see for myself.”

“You better.”

He started off. Puller didn’t move.

“You coming?”

“In a minute. Got something to check first.”

Bullock went into the house and Puller hustled to his truck, passing by first Hooper and then Boyd as they were stringing up yellow police tape. Both cops gave him dirty looks, which he ignored.

He popped the rear door on the Tahoe and dug through his duffel. He found the photos he’d taken from his aunt’s house. He rifled quickly through them.

It took him all of two minutes before he found it. He held it up, letting the interior truck light fall fully on the photo.

In the picture was his aunt.

And Mr. and Mrs. Storrow bracketing her. He recognized their faces from the newspaper story that morning.

Apparently, like Cookie, she’d been friends with them too.

And now they were all dead.

He looked at Cookie’s house and then at his aunt’s house.

If this kept up there might not be anyone left alive on Orion Street.

CHAPTER

47

PULLER CALLED LANDRY and told her what had happened.

“I won’t make it there in an hour,” he told her. “Sorry.”

“Does Chief Bullock need me to come in?”

“No, I think they’ve got it covered. Just processing the scene. Your buddy Hooper is working the graveyard shift.”

“I think it’s punishment from Bullock for being such a jerk.”

“I’m starting to like your boss more and more. I’ll see you when I see you. Okay if it’s late?”

“I’ll postpone my walk. But only if you fill me in on the details as soon as you get here.”

“Deal.”

He clicked off and went back into the house. Bullock was upstairs with his tech guy.

Cookie was still dead. Still at the bottom of the tub.

Bullock was looking around. “No fingerprints in the water.”

Puller said, “But most of these surfaces are great for prints. If they left a trace behind, great. If there’s no trace behind, that tells us a lot too. Means it’s been scrubbed. Which means he was killed.” He pointed to the floor. “Dry, but damp. Could be from water sloshing around, which would be the case if someone were holding him under.”

Bullock looked at his tech guy. “Get to it.”

They both stared down at Cookie’s diminutive frame at the bottom of the water.

“Hell of a way to go,” Bullock noted.

“Anytime someone other than the man upstairs decides when you die it’s a hell of a way to go.”

“So you do think that’s what it is? Murder?”

“I’ll wait for the post. But yeah, I wouldn’t be stunned if somebody killed him.”

“Looking a lot like your aunt’s situation.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I’ve got a car going to check on this Ryon woman.”

“That’s good.”

“You think she might have done it?”

“Cookie was old and small. She’s young and bigger and stronger. So, yeah, she could have done it.”

“And her motive?”

“No way to tell just yet.” Puller debated and then decided to share it. “My aunt also knew the Storrows.”

“You really think that’s significant?”

“Anytime you can tie murder victims together in some way it’s significant. Or at least it could be.”

“I guess.”

“I’m going to go check into a room at the Gull Coast.”

“About those men in your room last night?”

“What about them?”

“We couldn’t hold them.”

“So Landry told me.”

“For what it’s worth, I believe you. Eight against one sort of explains itself.”

“Yeah, it should.”

“Watch your back.”

“I always have.”

On the way to his SUV, Puller scooped up Sadie along with some of her food and a leash. The tiny dog looked up at him mournfully as she sat in Puller’s big hand.

“Yeah, I know, Sadie,” said Puller. “But it’ll be okay.”

CHAPTER

48

THE FIRST THING WAS to make them fearful.

Well, to make him fearful.

Fearful people often took steps to stop that fear.

That is, they often made mistakes when they reacted fearfully.

Mistakes were good, when the other side was committing them.

Mecho looked up at the grand estate in the darkness. It looked different in the moonlight. But he knew exactly where everything was.

Tonight would not be the main assault. Tonight was just the opener.

He did not approach the main gate. The use of that gathered intelligence would come later.

There were six security agents roaming the grounds. They did not use guard dogs. Good for him, because his scent would have already reached them. Dogs were much better guards than humans in that regard. But humans were more dangerous.

Dogs only had teeth and claws.

Humans carried guns. And killed with malice, the only species that did.

He had approached from the ocean side, slithering up a dune and then across a stretch of high grass to the fence. The fence did not have electronic monitors or surveillance cameras like the front gate did. It was also not electrified. But there were motion sensors tethered to bright lights. Trip one and you revealed your position. However, Mecho had scoped out where all of them were when he was here working. The lights would not trip him up, but he still had to be careful.

The defensive philosophy here was a simple but effective one. Put up reasonable outer-perimeter measures, like fences and gates. If one got through them, the real defenses, clustered in an inner hardened circle around the target, would kick in and stop you.

At least that was the theory.

He clambered over the fence and dropped silently to the ground. He looked to the east and then to the west. The guards staggered their rounds. He had seen it from prior observation. He had also gained this intelligence from some well-placed questions to other members of the hired help he had encountered while working here. They obviously had no love for their employer.

Perhaps they thought Mecho was simply a burglar looking to steal from the rich.

What did they care about that? Someone who had everything losing a little piece of it?

More power to him, they probably thought.

But he thought there was another reason for their helpfulness. And it was the most disquieting one of all. It made the anger boil in his chest. It made him want to lash out and crush someone.

But those feelings would keep. He would not crush anyone tonight.

Not unless he had to.

He zigzagged across the lawn, avoiding the motion sensors in the trees. He waited by a clump of bushes as one of the perimeter guards made his rounds. When the man was just past him, Mecho struck.

The guard crumpled to the ground unconscious, blood running from the head wound. It was not fatal, Mecho knew that. He had calibrated his blow to wound, not kill. And he was a man who knew exactly how to do this.

He also had the man’s weapons. A Smith and Wesson .44 semiautomatic and an MP5. Overkill, perhaps, for a security patrol around a residence, however rich the occupants might be. And you had to multiply that by six, for the other guards were similarly equipped. Florida had very liberal gun ownership laws.

As Mecho looked down at the fallen man, he had to smile. The fellow apparently was pulling double duty, because it was the same man who had yelled at Mecho during the day for speaking to Chrissy Murdoch.

Well, he would have a nice long sleep tonight.

Mecho moved on, drawing closer to the house.

There was a vintage Bentley convertible parked in the courtyard. A noise from another building drew his attention.

The guesthouse again.

He looked at his watch.

Could it be?

He crept closer. A small light illuminated the front of the building.

Mecho could see another guard posted by the front door of the guesthouse. His .44 was holstered, and the MP5 hung loosely by its strap across his chest. He looked bored. He was smoking a cigarette.

By this Mecho knew he was not a true professional. People who knew what they were doing never smoked on duty. Smelling your opponent before he could attack was sometimes the difference between life and death. As was the split second it would take you to drop the cigarette and close your hand around your weapon.

By then you were dead.

Killed by someone more professional than you.

Three seconds later the man lay prostrate on the brick walk in front of the guesthouse. Mecho stripped out the ammo clips from both weapons and pocketed them. Then he slid the man behind a bush and crept to the door.

The sounds coming from inside were the same ones he’d heard that morning.

He opened the door and slipped in. This was not part of the plan tonight, but he took shortcuts when they presented themselves.

The house was dark and he felt his way along. The bedroom was at the end of the hall on the right. He reached it about five seconds later. The door was partially open. With the guard outside they no doubt did not expect to be interrupted.

He peered in. With the moonlight pouring in through the window, the room was illuminated well enough for him to see what was happening.

Peter J. Lampert was on bottom this time.

But it was not Chrissy Murdoch with him.

It was Beatriz, the young maid whom Mecho had spoken with that morning.

She no longer wore her crisp uniform.

She no longer wore anything.

If Mecho had been curious as to whether her body was as beautiful as the rest of her, he had his answer. She was exquisitely lovely.

She straddled her employer. His hands were around her waist and he was smashing her down on him with what Mecho could see was far too much force. Peter J. Lampert seemed to get a kick out of being overly physical with women.

Beatriz was not moaning as Chrissy Murdoch had been. At least not moaning in pleasure. She was moaning in pain. Her small breasts bounced up and down and Mecho could see her butt cheeks wrinkling with each hard collision against Lampert’s thighs.

Mecho tensed, every instinct he had telling him to attack.

But instead he pulled back, moved swiftly down the hall, and reached the living room. He looked around and decided this was as good a place as any.

He did what he had come to do and then left.

Outside he gave the guard behind the bush a kick in the head, pretending he was Peter J. Lampert.

It felt good.

He did one more thing before he left. The package was placed twenty meters away from the house and next to the Bentley convertible that had a license plate reading “The Man.”

As he crawled over the fence he counted the seconds off in his head.

He reached the beach and kept counting.

Fifty seconds later, when he was back on firm ground, the explosion occurred, lifting the pristine old Bentley five feet up in the air. When it came back down it hardly looked vintage anymore.

The blast lit up the night over Paradise.

Mecho didn’t look up to watch it as he started his scooter.

But he did smile.

Good night, Peter J. Lampert.

The Man.