Джеймс Паттерсон - Unsolved

Petty shrugs. “About the same. She was glad I came back.”

“I’ll bet she was. I am too, Sergeant. We were afraid you’d run away for good.”

Afraid is an understatement; Mary Ann was terrified she’d never see her younger brother again. She told Books that Petty suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder, something that didn’t really surprise Books in the abstract, but he’d never thought about it, didn’t know how that illness played itself out in Petty’s life.

“How long has your sister…been like this?”

“Ah…” Petty scratches his head. “She started getting bad last winter. That’s when I came here.”

That’s when Sergeant John Petty moved back here from California, where he’d been living since his discharge from the army, to be with his sister Mary Ann, who was dealing with a recurrence of her cancer.

“She’s lucky to have you,” says Books.

“Yeah, it works out okay.”

It does, in fact. Her insurance, Mary Ann explained, covers caregivers Monday through Friday. Her brother comes every Friday afternoon and stays the weekend. It gives her care seven days a week, and it gives her brother a place to stay that’s warm and comfortable.

“I know what you’re thinking,” says Petty. “If I got this place to stay, why don’t I stay?”

“You have your reasons.” Books raises a hand. “None of my business.”

“I can’t sit still. Mary Ann probably told you about that.”

She did. He can’t stay in one place more than a handful of days was how Mary Ann put it. Can’t put down roots. Even if he goes back and forth between the same places, he has to keep moving. Always moving.

Books saw some of that in Petty, his inability to commit to working at the store on even a semipermanent basis.

And that’s the easy part of his illness. The worst part is the paranoia.

It doesn’t happen often, Mary Ann had said. But when it happens, it’s scary. He thinks he’s back in the war being hunted. He thinks he’s in danger. He has that part of the PTSD mostly under control, but stressors can trigger it.

Stressors like an FBI agent looking at you suspiciously and then following you in his car.

“Sergeant, I’m sorry for what I put you through. Following you like I did.”

He looks away, as he often does, nodding a bit, fidgeting with his hands. “Seems like I should apologize. For what I did to your face. Looks like it hurts.”

Books laughs. “It does.”

“Mary Ann told me why you did it. You thought I was…the serial killer.”

“It was just…well, your schedule, leaving every weekend—”

“Homeless people are either lazy or crazy, right?”

“No, Sergeant, it’s not that—”

“Yeah, it is. Yeah, it is.” He glances at Books, a quick peek, before looking back at the floor. “It’s okay. Everybody thinks that way. A homeless guy can’t carry on an intelligent conversation. A homeless guy can’t read War and Peace .”

There’s no point in getting into a debate. Petty lives this life every day, sees the looks on people’s faces as they pass him.

“You’re welcome to stay at my store anytime, Sergeant. My house too, if you ever wanted.”

Petty doesn’t look at Books, but his eyes fill with tears.

Books puts a hand on his shoulder. “Sergeant. John. I’m your friend. I’m here if you ever need anything. A job. A place to stay. Something to eat. Anything.”

He acknowledges the statement, a tear rolling down his face. “Mary Ann, she doesn’t have long. I’ll probably try to spend some more time with her. Y’know, try to sit still a little more. When it’s over, I’ll probably go back to California.”

“Sure. Well, I’d like to be at the funeral, if you could let me know. Or maybe you could stop by the store to say hi sometime.”

Petty peeks at him again, his eyes narrowed. “Is there still gonna be a store?”

“Is there—you mean—”

“I mean that I never seen you so happy as this last week, when you were back to being an agent.” He shrugs. “None of my business, I guess.”

“Well, that’s…complicated.”

“If you say so.” Petty points a finger to his head. “I mean, if I didn’t have all this going on inside? If I had a woman I loved and a job I loved, I’d grab both of ’em and never let go. It wouldn’t be complicated, ” he says, shaking his head. “I just wouldn’t let go.”

129

“BONITA LIVED her life as a hero,” I said, “and she died a hero.” That’s how I began my eulogy, before an overflowing crowd in the Baptist church in Alexandria. I spoke first, before her two boys, Mason and Jordan. They asked me to do it. They said she would have wanted it.

“Heroes are people who go out of their way to help others, who make sacrifices to help others, who reach beyond themselves to make the world a better place. I can’t think of anyone who fits that description more than Bonita.”

When it was over, we spilled outside into mild weather, a shiny blue sky and a gentle breeze. It felt unfair that the weather would be so beautiful on a day like this, but then, I figured, Rabbit probably would have smiled.

The funeral was this morning at nine. I told Books I wanted to head into work afterward. He tried to talk me out of it, but he knew he couldn’t.

So I went home, changed out of my funeral attire, and drove to the Hoover Building. Which is where I am right now. I have only two goals today, and then I’ll go home and see what comes.

First: I delete all of the data files we initially received during the Citizen David investigation, all the data containing license plates caught on cameras and readers at all the bombing sites. Rabbit couldn’t delete them. She didn’t have that level of access. But I’m a supervisor; I do. And besides, Rabbit took all the bulk data and collated it into a workable format. That, we’ll keep. Only Rabbit and I will ever know that there is a single license plate missing from that data.

I press Delete and watch all evidence of Rabbit’s crimes disappear from our records. The Citizen David investigation will remain unsolved.

That’s okay. Rabbit made it clear in her last Citizen David posts on social media that there would be no more bombings. David’s already dying down as a story in our short-attention-span, all-news-all-the-time world. And the Bureau certainly has plenty of other things to work on. Sooner or later, Citizen David will be a distant memory, the answer to a trivia question.

I look around our little area, usually bustling, sarcastic zingers flying back and forth, nervous energy as we hunt for tiny gems buried within reams of data. It’s quiet now, with Pully taking off the rest of the day after the funeral and Rabbit gone forever. I’m going to miss what we had.

I hope Pully will be okay. He’s a rock star in terms of talent, but both Rabbit and I filled some kind of maternal role for him. Losing both of his coworkers at once will not be easy for him.

By Rabbit’s cubicle, I pick up the photographs of Rabbit’s two sons. They both have her eyes, her nose, and that overall air of defiance. They held up well today at the funeral, choking back tears and speaking of all the things she taught them, all the values she instilled in them.

“I still can’t believe you’re gone,” I say to the air.

I put down the photos. It’s time for the second item on my to-do list today—my meeting with Dwight Ross and Elizabeth Ashland.

I say hello to Dwight’s secretary, Roberta, always with a wink and a smile, who should get a medal just for tolerating Dwight. Her grin slowly dissipates as she reads the expression on my face, but she doesn’t say anything.