Текст книги "The Forgotten"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CHAPTER

71

MECHO CHUGGED WATER from a gallon container and stared across at the big house. Everything about it was perfectly designed, perfectly placed. The shell was of amazing beauty. What lay underneath was not so beautiful.

But then that was how the world often worked.

He wiped his mouth, put the jug back on the truck, and picked up a rake. He trudged off to a patch of lawn underneath some trees. In a side lawn a large fountain poured water into a concrete catch basin. The perimeter of this “secret garden” was lined with lush plantings, wooden benches placed in nooks and crevices with cobblestone pavers underneath.

Mecho had worked this section of the estate before. He found it peaceful, meditative. He suspected this had been Mrs. Lampert’s design. He did not think that Peter Lampert was capable of contemplating such a place of serenity.

As he rounded the corner and set to work with his rake he was surprised to see that one of the garden seats was occupied.

Chrissy Murdoch held a book in her hands, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was staring off in the direction of the water that lay close enough that they could hear the rolling breakers. She wore pale green shorts, a white blouse, and tennis shoes with ankle socks. Her hair was pulled back and fixed in a tight braid. The sun filtered across her face through the branches of nearby trees.

Mecho watched her, momentarily caught up in both her beauty and her apparent melancholy.

When she started and looked his way he returned to his work, raking flowerbeds and settling the mulch back into neat, compact mounds.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said.

“Every day in Paradise is beautiful, isn’t it?” he replied.

“Don’t we both know better than that?”

He looked up, his large fingers gripping the handle of the rake. He said nothing, prompting her to speak again.

“Have you thought about our encounter on the beach last night?”

“Have you?”

“I’ve thought of nothing but that.”

“I’ve given it little time in my mind. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

She rose, closed her book, and drifted over to him.

“So you’re simply a common laborer who maintains a rich man’s property?”

“I’m holding a rake. My shirt is slick with sweat. I ride in a truck. I live in a hole. Draw your own conclusions.”

“But you are educated.”

“Educated or not, I have to make a living. This is not my country. One has to start from the bottom. It is the way with any country.”

“Some start from the top.”

“Those with connections. Or family wealth. I have neither. Do you?”

“I have my looks. I have a certain grace. I know which fork to hold, small talk to make. I know an Italian wine from a French. A Monet from a Manet. The rest I can fudge if need be.”

“Then you have your whole life figured out.”

“No.”

He leaned on his rake. “This is very dangerous what we do. Talking like this. Eyes and ears everywhere.”

“But not here. Not in the secret garden. Mrs. Lampert saw to that.”

“She is an accomplished lady?”

“Probably not. But perhaps real to the touch, unlike me.”

“You’re a fraud, then?”

“Most of us are.”

“You gave me an ultimatum on the beach.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I did not understand it.”

“I thought the terms crystal clear.”

“You won’t believe that I am who I say I am? Where is your proof?”

“Right before my eyes.”

“What is your interest in Lampert?”

“He is an interesting man, on many levels.”

“You let him inside your body.”

“You find that disgusting?”

“Don’t you?”

“Perhaps I do.”

“Then why allow it?”

“Life is full of trade-offs, she said.”

“What are you trading for?”

“On the beach. I thought it was clear.”

“What is your grievance?”

“What is yours?” she countered.

He stood erect, his fingers sliding up and down the rake handle.

She said, “The timing is truly remarkable. You and me.”

“Remarkable was not the word I was thinking of.”

“You were thinking the timing sucked?”

“As you said, it can only be one of us.”

“So you admit your intention?”

Now Mecho’s face darkened. He had been a fool. She had drawn him in, without seeming to do so.

He looked around. He expected to see Lampert’s security team closing in. He looked at her, trying to discern the communication wire under her blouse or her shorts.

As though reading his mind she said, “No, Mecho, it’s not that way.”

“So you say.” He turned to leave.

“Will you stand down?”

He said nothing, but he also didn’t move.

“Will you stand down?” she said again.

“Will you?” he asked.

“I guess I have my answer.”

“I guess you do.”

“It’s been a long time for us, Mecho. A long time. And much pain.”

“And you think you’re alone in that?”

“No. But I have obligations. The end result will be to your liking.”

“I have obligations too.”

He walked swiftly away from her. Away from the secret garden that held no more secrets.

Everything needed to be sped up now. The schedule, so carefully crafted, was now blown to shit.

But there was something else.

Ultimatums given were usually carried out. Prices had to be paid.

His rear flank had just been exposed. He was now fighting on two sides when only one had been anticipated.

He looked back at her.

Murdoch stood there, book in hand, staring at him.

He saw many things on her features.

Sadness.

Resignation.

But most of all, resolve.

He turned back and kept walking.

He didn’t feel sadness, or resignation.

But he did feel resolve.

The war had truly now begun.

CHAPTER

72

PETER LAMPERT PUT DOWN his binoculars but continued to watch the big man stride across the lawn and put his rake back in the landscaping truck.

Lampert gauged the man’s height.

Six-six, perhaps a bit more.

Weight near three hundred pounds, perhaps, but he wasn’t bulky. He was lean but with massive shoulders and legs that revealed corded muscles through the fabric of his too-small pants.

An interesting fellow.

Lampert had seen him talking to the maid, Beatriz, on several occasions. He had seen Christine Murdoch paying him attention as well. He was not a bad-looking man.

Rugged, the ladies would undoubtedly call him.

And his great size, the women appreciated such things, he knew.

The old adage that big feet meant large appendages everywhere was still popular.

Large feet, thought Lampert.

Perhaps size sixteen.

Perhaps the same feet that had been in the flowerbed outside the window of the guesthouse. He wondered what the man’s handwriting was like. Would it match the message left on the wall of his guesthouse?

And Lampert’s men had told him of the big man, the giant they called him, who had escaped from the oil platform by diving off into the water. He was presumed dead. What else could they presume after a dive off the platform into a dark ocean? No one could have swum all the way to land from there.

Yet perhaps this man had what it took to do so. Or perhaps he had help.

Lampert was a risk-taker, always had been. It would be nothing to him to risk eliminating the man even if it turned out he posed no threat at all. Collateral damage was something that did not bother him.

He did not know quite what to make of Chrissy Murdoch’s talking with him. He knew Winthrop didn’t come close to satisfying her sexually. Thus the occasional rendezvous in the guesthouse.

Perhaps she liked her men giant in all respects. Perhaps it was as simple as that.

Again, the question of risk.

He had Stiven Rojas looking over his shoulder. No, breathing down his neck, he corrected.

Such a man did not tolerate mistakes. Lampert had every incentive not to become one of those errors.

He continued to watch the big man as he toiled away under a hot sun.

Lampert had somewhere to go today. It was risky, but he felt he had to. During the journey he would decide what to do about size sixteen.

Lampert did not know that as he was watching the man, someone was watching him.

Chrissy Murdoch stood behind a tree and was peering between the branches with a small pair of binoculars she had kept in her bag. She had seen the optics signature off Lampert’s device as he watched Mecho.

In her mind she swiftly analyzed the situation. This actually could be good for her. Allowing Lampert to wipe out her competition. For that was what she now considered Mecho: her rival.

She had come too far, sacrificed too much, risked everything to be in the position she was now. She had lost no one close to her to slavery in the twenty-first century. But it seemed that Mecho had.

But part of her wondered if that was truly the right thing to do. Allow Mecho to die. For that was what she was certain Lampert was planning. She had noticed Mecho outside the window of the guesthouse that day. If she had, Lampert could have as well.

And the night the Bentley exploded?

Had that been Mecho as well, employing some type of tactical device to either anger or frighten Lampert? If so, the tactic had failed miserably. It had done nothing save put Lampert on higher alert. And that was saying something, because the man’s alertness was always high.

Maybe that blunder alone should decide it. Mecho should perish. That would leave the way open for her.

But the decision was not that easy. Something in Mecho’s eyes had stayed with her from the very first time she had seen him.

He was a man who had suffered a great wound, an unseen wound, because all the pain was inside of him.

Murdoch could understand such a thing happening in connection with a man like Peter Lampert.

Lampert was perfect for what he did. He had no conscience. He cared about no one other than himself. There was no one he would not sacrifice to get his way, not his wife, not his only child. It was simply how he was wired.

But you could get to a man like Lampert, hit him where it hurt. These spots were few and well hidden, but they existed.

Murdoch intended to smash them all.

She withdrew from the cover of the tree and walked back to the secret garden.

She sat back down on the bench and opened her book.

Her decision was not made yet because she couldn’t make up her mind.

Live or die, Mecho?

Live or die?

But there was something in his eyes.

And Murdoch felt her own eyes tear up as she thought about this.

CHAPTER

73

PULLER HAD PHONED AHEAD and Lynn and Chuck Storrow were waiting for them at their house a block off the water. It was a one-story that occupied a large part of their yard. They were ushered in by Chuck Storrow. His wife sat huddled on the couch, a shawl around her shoulders even though it was brutally hot outside.

When she looked up at them the pain of the recent loss of her in-laws was evident on her face.

Puller and Carson both expressed their condolences.

Chuck said, “Please sit. Now, you said you were with the Army?”

Puller and Carson perched opposite the couple on a settee that was barely wide enough to contain them.

“We both are,” said Puller. “But I’m down here in connection with the death of my aunt Betsy.”

“Omigod, you’re John Puller, her nephew, then,” said Chuck as Lynn wiped at her eyes with a tissue and looked more interested.

“That’s right. I understand that my aunt and the Storrows were friends.”

“They were,” answered Lynn in a hushed voice. “Very good friends. And we knew Betsy too. A wonderful woman.”

“Which makes it odd that all three of them should die so close together and under such suspicious circumstances,” said Puller.

Chuck looked confused. “But I thought Betsy’s death was an accident.”

“The police think that might be the case. I don’t.”

“Why?” asked Lynn.

Puller slipped the letter from his pocket and handed it across.

The Storrows read it together.

Chuck looked up. “Mysterious happenings?”

“At night,” added Lynn.

Puller focused on her. “Right, at night. Betsy died at night. So did your parents, Chuck.”

Tears clustered around Lynn’s eyes and her husband put an arm around her shoulders.

Chuck said, “I don’t see what the connection might be.”

“They were friends. Maybe they confided in each other. Maybe they all knew something about what my aunt wrote about in that letter.”

“But surely they would have mentioned it to us,” said Chuck.

“And they didn’t?” asked Carson.

“Of course not. We would have said something.”

“Were you here all the time?” asked Puller. “Recently?”

The Storrows looked at each other.

“Well, actually—” began Chuck.

Lynn said, “We were gone for about three weeks. Africa. A safari. We got back and I phoned my in-laws. They didn’t answer. I figured they were doing their usual beach walk. When I called the next day and they didn’t answer I started to get worried. That’s when we got the police involved.”

“But your parents didn’t try to contact you when you were out of town?” Puller asked Chuck.

“Neither one liked to use the telephone and they would never call long distance even though I explained to them that calling my cell was not calling long distance. I don’t think they ever quite understood that. And they were from a generation that was very frugal. And they were not into emailing or texting.”

Lynn gave a little sob. “We should have called them.”

Chuck shook his head. “Cell reception isn’t the best over there. I figured maybe they’d had an accident or something. I never dreamed anyone would have…”

“I can see that,” said Puller. “Did they still drive?”

She nodded. “Oh yes. They were still quite active physically.”

“Would they drive my aunt around?”

“Sometimes, yes. But she could drive too. She had her car fitted out specially with the hand controls.”

“Right, I saw that.”

Chuck eyed them. “All these questions. And that letter. Do you have any idea what could have happened to them?”

“Not really sure yet. We’re just following up any lead that presents itself. Did either of them keep a journal?”

“A journal?” said Lynn. “I don’t think so, why?”

“Just asking. There might have been one missing from my aunt’s house.”

“So maybe if we had been here this wouldn’t have happened to them,” said Lynn slowly.

“Sweetie, we can’t beat ourselves up about that. We’d been planning that safari vacation for years.”

“You really can’t blame yourselves,” said Carson. “It’s just not worth it and they wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

Lynn blew her nose.

Puller said, “Your parents’ attorney wasn’t Griffin Mason by any chance?”

“No. They used my attorney,” answered Chuck.

“Good. I think Mason will be pretty busy from now on.”

They rose to leave.

Lynn put a hand on his arm. “If you find out anything, anything at all about who did this?”

“You’ll be the first ones I’ll tell,” replied Puller firmly.

Chuck shook their hands. “Best of luck to you.”

“God bless you,” added Lynn.

“I think we’ll need luck and blessings,” muttered Puller under his breath.

Puller sat in the Tahoe but didn’t start the engine.

Carson looked over at him. “Are we going to sit here and swelter or are you going to turn this sucker on?”

Puller turned the key and the engine caught. He put it in gear and pulled away.

“So what did that get us?” asked Carson as she put the AC vents full blast on them.

“Information. Even if the Storrows had found something out they might not have told anyone, other than my aunt.”

“You said she had put all these miles on her car, right?”

Puller turned to look at her as he hit the main street and sped up. “Right.”

“And you think she kept a journal?”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe she found something out and told them, not the other way around. They might have been spotted or overheard. So they all had to die. Your aunt and then the Storrows. Or maybe the other way around. Or maybe simultaneously.”

“That makes sense,” said Puller.

“We generals sometimes do.”

“So the oil spot we found near that sulfur pit?”

“A truck or a car probably. But why there?”

“Good place to do something clandestine,” he noted.

“Right, it stinks and you can’t use the beach.”

“But still, it would seem to be a nighttime endeavor.”

She nodded. “Yes, it would. So I guess I know what we’ll be doing tonight.”

“Yes, you do.”

“There is something unaccounted for,” she said.

“There are lots of things unaccounted for.”

“I’m talking about one in particular.”

“The two men in the sedan who can make the Pentagon tuck its tail between its legs and run off.”

“Exactly,” said Carson. “That has me worried.”

“All of it has me worried,” replied Puller.

CHAPTER

74

HE COULD HEAR THE SOUNDS OF large doors being raised. He didn’t know exactly what the sounds represented, but they scared him. Everything and everyone here scared him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and jerked. Then he turned to face him.

Diego stared at Mateo and Mateo stared back at Diego.

They were in a space about twenty feet square and steel bars kept them there. They were more precisely lying on the floor of the cage that had been their home for the last two days.

Mateo whispered, “I’m scared, Diego.”

Diego nodded and gripped the little boy’s hand.

Diego had gone to the dueños to see if they would protect him and his cousins from the three men who had beaten Isabel and Mateo. He had taken Mateo with him because there had been no one at his abuela’s home to watch the little boy. And plus Diego did not think they would harm him with Mateo there.

He could not have been more wrong.

What had come next had been frighteningly chaotic.

Men had arrived.

Something had been given to Diego and Mateo to drink. The next thing he knew he was in this place. He didn’t know where this place was, or how he had gotten here.

He cupped Mateo’s ear with his hand and whispered back, “It will be okay.”

It was a lie, and from the look on Mateo’s face he knew it.

The light here was dim, so dim in fact as to make Diego queasy. Mateo had thrown up once, perhaps as an aftereffect of whatever had been slipped into their drinks.

They were not alone here. There were ten cages like the one they were in. And all of them were full. In Diego’s cage were ten other people. All adults, or close to it. They had segregated men from women.

Diego could make out some of these shapes in the weak light.

In his cage the men and teenage boys sat on their haunches, looking at the gap between their knees.

Hopeless. Beaten.

It was exactly how Diego felt.

He didn’t know for sure why he and Mateo had been taken.

In the back of his mind, however, he had heard the stories on the streets.

Secuestradores de personas.

Takers of people.

Diego never thought he would be taken.

He looked over at Mateo. He was only five. Little more than a baby. Why would they take Mateo? It made no sense.

A guard came by with a slender jug of water and a plate of bread and fruit. He passed them through a slot in the bars.

The biggest men in the cage grabbed at the plate and jug. They drank their fill and ate what they wanted and the leftovers were passed down. By the time the plate and jug got to Diego and Mateo there was barely a sip of water left, a few crumbs of bread, and a wedge of apple. He gave it all to Mateo, trying to ignore the thirst in his throat and the rumble in his belly.

He sat back up against the bars and stared down the line at the other cages. His gaze flitted to one that contained women. None looked older than thirty. Many were teenagers.

Diego could understand why they had been taken.

Putas, he thought. They would be worth a great deal of money.

His gaze ventured upward to the high ceiling of the place where exposed air ducts and electrical lines were revealed.

This was a warehouse of some kind, Diego had already deduced.

But where it was he had no idea. He had no idea if he was still in Paradise. Or even still in Florida.

He thought of his abuela and his eyes grew heavy with tears. He thought of Isabel wondering where they were and his eyes grew heavier still.

Then he thought of the big man who had asked him to find the two men in the car. He seemed interested in Diego. He had helped Isabel and Mateo. He could beat people up. He was big and strong. He had driven a fancy car. Perhaps he was rich. Maybe he would come and find them.

But Diego maintained this hopeful thought for barely a second. That was crazy, he told himself. The man would not come. No one would come.

He looked around at the other cages again.

This was obviously a big business. They were organized and had lots of money behind them. They took people and sold them all over the place; he just knew this to be true.

He looked at Mateo.

Would they sell them together? Or would Mateo go off alone?

Without me?

He knew Mateo would cry and cry. And maybe the secuestradores de personas would get angry and kill him to quiet him.

He reached out and gripped Mateo’s arm so tightly that the little boy let out a small gasp.

I will never let you go, Mateo, Diego promised himself.

The lights grew dimmer still. Diego looked around, fear gripping him.

All the other prisoners in the cages were doing the same thing, looking around, but also trying to shrink themselves so as not to draw attention.

They could all sense that something was coming. And that what was coming would not be good for them.

The man slowly came up the metal steps and stopped in front of the line of cages. Peter Lampert’s image was not clear enough for Diego to make out who it was. But he had never seen Lampert before, so an identification would not have been possible in any case.

There were other men behind Lampert. One was James Winthrop. The men were dressed elegantly in blazers, white shirts, and slacks that looked professionally tailored to their bodies. Thousand-dollar shoes were on their feet. They could have been investment bankers going to a meeting.

Winthrop held an electronic tablet and was making notes on it as Lampert inspected his product and made certain decisions. He walked up and down in front of the cages pointing to people inside and giving instructions to Winthrop, who dutifully inputted them on the tablet. They could have been inspecting cattle in slaughterhouses or cars rolling off an assembly line. There was a clear air of business being conducted here, even though the product was human and breathing.

Breathing fast.

Two other men came toward them. They carried packages wrapped in plastic. Lampert snapped his fingers and the men hurried forward.

Lampert examined the packages and slit one open with his finger. He pulled out four blue shirts, looked at the list Winthrop had compiled, and pointed at four people in three different cages. The shirts were taken to these people and they were forced to put them on.

Red shirts came out and were given to all men who were larger and more muscular than the others.

Green shirts were pulled out and placed on the younger, good-looking women and some of the younger, angelic-looking men and boys.

All the shirts were given out, except for two in a separate package.

Lampert slit this package open and pulled out two yellow shirts.

He glanced at Winthrop’s tablet, running his eye down the list.

Then he turned and looked up and down the row of cages until his surveillance finally came to a stop in front of Diego’s cage.

He looked down at the two boys and smiled. He said something to Winthrop that Diego could not completely catch, but it sounded like, “New product line.” Then some more words were spoken he could not hear, and then he caught another snatch.

“Family unit. Lower scrutiny. Fetch a good price on the market.”

He gave the yellow shirts to another man, who went into the cages and forced Diego and Mateo to put them on.

A few moments later, men, hardened evil-looking men, came through the cages and told each of the prisoners what would happen to them if they uttered one word about where they had come from once they reached their final destination.

“Everyone you love, every family member you have—and we know where they all are, indeed we have many of them in cages like this—will be slaughtered. If you speak one word to anyone we will bring you their heads as a reminder of what you have done.”

They had looked down at Diego and Mateo and asked them if they would like to hold the severed head of their abuela.

Mateo had started to cry but had instantly stopped when one of the men struck him in the mouth.

Diego had stood between Mateo and the man, but the man had laughed.

“Do you want your abuela’s head?” he asked again.

Diego had said nothing but had shaken his head, and the man had moved on.

A similar encounter had happened to all the others, demonstrating that the men had inside information on each of them. Thus there was not one person in any of the cages, even the older, stronger men, who did not believe every word of this. None of them would talk. None of them would even think of trying to tell the truth.

After this was over Lampert came back to Diego’s cage. He slipped something from his pocket and held it through the bars of the cage.

As Diego focused on it he saw that it was a necklace of some sort.

“Take it,” said Lampert.

Diego did not move.

“Take it. Now.”

In Diego’s peripheral vision a man with a gun edged forward, the muzzle of the weapon pointing at Mateo’s head.

Diego reached out and took it. He looked down at the disc of metal attached to the end of the chain.

Lampert said, “It’s a Saint Christopher’s medal. You know who Saint Christopher is, don’t you?”

Diego looked up and slowly shook his head.

Lampert smiled and said, “Saint Christopher is the saint who protects children from harm. Put it on. Do it now.”

Diego slipped the necklace over his head and the medal came to rest on his chest.

“Now nothing can harm you,” said Lampert, still smiling.

Winthrop snorted with laughter.

Lampert turned and walked off, Winthrop behind still chortling.

Diego stared at their elegant clothes hanging on their well-nourished, fit physiques. He lifted off the necklace and let it drop to the floor. Then he stared at the silver ring on his finger, the one with the lion’s head that his papa had given him.

His courage came flooding back as he looked at the lion.

He looked up, slowly raised his hand, made a gun with his finger, aimed, fired twice, and killed both Lampert and Winthrop over and over.