Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“And your father was how old when his father died?”

Puller quickly did the math in his head. “Eight.”

Knox said, “So are you saying Puller Sr. felt abandoned by his dad and worked his whole life to achieve more than his father had?”

“No,” said Rooney.

After a few moments of silence Puller said, “You think he was achieving all of it for his father? Because he never got the chance to do it himself?”

Rooney pointed at him. “That’s what I believe.”

“And did my mother think this too?”

“I can tell you that she had given it a lot of thought and more or less came to the same conclusion.”

“I found a letter from my mother to my father. She wrote it shortly before she disappeared. She said she wanted to make things work out. Mostly for the sake of my brother and me. But that she wanted to take me and my brother away from him for a bit so my father could better understand his priorities. Meaning his family over the Army, I guess.”

Rooney nodded. “That sounds like a decision Jackie would come to. She adored both you and your brother. And she loved your father. I’m breaking no vow to tell you that. But I could understand why she would want matters to come to a head. Taking his sons away from their father was a way for her to do that. She would force him to decide.”

Puller sat there mulling all of this over. “Is there anything you can tell me that might help me to find the truth, Father Rooney?”

The old man sat there for such a long time that Puller thought he might have fallen asleep.

Finally, Rooney stirred. “Your father came to see me several days after your mother went missing.”

Puller went rigid. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to take confession. And before you ask, I can say nothing about what he talked about.”

Puller looked frustrated. “Well, I’m not sure that’s very helpful, actually.”

“What I can tell you is that your father was devastated by her disappearance. I have never seen him so inconsolable. So if you’re thinking he had anything whatsoever to do with whatever did happen to her, well, I would say that you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, but I hope it helped. I have witnessed much guilt in the confessional, Agent Puller. And the only guilt your father had that day was not being there for the woman he loved when she needed him.”

Puller stood and held out his hand, which Rooney took.

“Thank you, Father. That was the most helpful thing I’ve heard in a very long time.”

Behind the glasses, the old priest’s eyes twinkled. “If you start going to Mass regularly you’ll hear something uplifting like that every Sunday.”

PAUL ROGERS ADJUSTED his shirt cuffs and then the headset, placing the mic an inch or so from the right side of his mouth.

He had added tinted glasses and a fedora covering his shaved head to his appearance, keeping in mind that somewhere a bench warrant had been issued for his arrest and cops here could very well know what he looked like. He was also growing a goatee.

Into the mic he said, “Rogers, checking in.”

There was a squawk and then a voice came back to him. “Copy that, Paul. Loud and clear. Have a good shift.”

He settled his back against the brick wall next to the entrance door. In front of the door were two metal stands with a red velvet rope strung between them, like at a theater.

It was thirty minutes until opening, but there was already a line of people down the street and around the corner. They were mostly young, many clearly military with their shaved heads and toned physiques. The ladies were dressed to impress; the men looked ready to drink and score with the aforementioned ladies.

Rogers looked down at his phone where the VIP list was up on the screen. Ten names. Bigwigs in some way, he supposed. At least locally.

He studied the people in line. Most of them were on their phones, tapping keys and, he supposed, communicating with someone. Some were taking pictures of themselves. He had heard about Facebook and that Twitter thing, although he had no idea what the purpose for either was. He had seen a young waitress inside posting something on her Facebook account. To Rogers it looked like a picture of what she’d had for lunch. But then there had been a photo of her nearly naked and he had turned away before she caught him looking.

The world really had changed a lot in ten years.

There were a few guys in line watching him. He knew what they were doing, because he was doing the same thing: sizing them up.

He could tell these guys were going to test him. Maybe with a fake ID, or a sob story, or a plan of misdirection to get some buddies into the bar unseen.

Rogers popped his neck and then rubbed the back of his head. It had started to tingle there. That was never a good sign.

Do not screw this up. Do not overreact. Do nothing to let them come and get you.

Using tools he’d found in the van and some black spray paint and tape, he had methodically doctored the license plates on the van, changing one letter and one number. He felt he was good to go there. So now he had to focus on the job at hand.

Finally, the thirty minutes were up and Rogers rose and unhooked the red rope.

“Single file, IDs ready. No problems, no trouble,” he called out in a loud voice. “Any fake IDs are subject to confiscation at my sole discretion. If you don’t like that rule, head somewhere else.”

The line of people surged forward.

Rogers had been given a special light like the TSA used at airports. If the person looked anywhere close to the age limit, and most did, he pulled it out and hit the surface of the ID. Three times he held on to the ID because it was fake but good enough to fool almost anyone without the same equipment. The two girls and one guy affected by this did not want to go quietly, but Rogers gave them a look that made them turn and leave.

Then came a group of guys big enough to look like they played major-college football. Three blacks and three whites, and none looked over twenty.

He asked for IDs. The first two were obviously doctored so badly that Rogers didn’t even bother keeping them. He just tossed them back. When they tried to pass by him, he put out an arm.

“Just to be clear, that was a rejection, guys. Try somewhere else, maybe where the bouncer is blind.”

A black guy, the biggest of them, said, “Come on, man, we won’t drink. We just want to dance and score quality time with some fine ladies.”

“Sorry, no exceptions.”

Another of the group, a slightly smaller white guy, stepped up.

“I tell you what, Grandpa. You let us in and you get to keep your teeth.”

Rogers smelled the kid’s breath. “You look like you been six-packing already. You might want to head back to the dorm and keep your scholarship.”

“You must not have heard me, old man.”

He took a swing, but Rogers had already moved and the fist caught nothing but air.

“Stop running, Gramps, it’ll only hurt for a second,” said the man.

Rogers turned to the other men. “I’m telling you guys to take your buddy out of here before something unfortunate happens.”

The men all laughed. “You sound like a lawyer, dude,” said the black guy.

“I’m nothing like a lawyer.”

“How ’bout a doctor, then?” said the man who’d taken the swing.

Rogers turned to him. “I’m not following.”

“Then you can heal yourself, asshole!”

He swung again, only this time Rogers didn’t move. He stood his ground and, as he had done with Karl, clenched the man’s fist. But he didn’t just grip, he twisted and then jerked downward.

The man screamed and dropped to the pavement clutching his injured arm.