Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“I didn’t have much to say.”

“I’ve got to check out for a bit, then I’ll be back.”

“Problems?”

“Like you, my entire career is based on problems.”

“Well, good luck.”

“You too,” she said, her voice a little strange, he thought.

Puller clicked off, set his phone down, and looked at the photos again. He was getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This whole case screamed cover-up. And he still didn’t know if his mother’s disappearance was even connected to it. He could be wasting time working on a case that might have nothing to do with what he had set out to accomplish.

But as he looked down at the photos of the dead women he also realized he could not just let this drop.

He pulled out his phone and called Ted Hull. He wanted to fill him in on what he’d found so far and hoped that the CID agent would reciprocate.

An unfamiliar voice answered. “Joyce Mansfield.”

“I’m sorry, I must have called the wrong number.”

“What number were you calling?” asked the woman.

Puller told her.

“No, that’s right. But I just got this number assigned yesterday.”

“The person I was calling works as a special investigator for Army CID. Are you with CID?”

The woman laughed. “I do work for the government. But I’m with the Department of Agriculture. The only thing I investigate is soil depletion.”

“And you just got this phone number? Are you in a new job?”

“No, been at the same desk for four years. I’m not sure why I got the number, but I wasn’t about to turn down a new phone. It’s a new Samsung,” she added excitedly.

“Okay, thanks.”

Puller clicked off and stared down at his phone.

What the hell is going on?

He was about to make another call when his phone rang.

Don White, his CO, sounded more anxious than Puller had ever heard the man before. And he didn’t waste any time.

“Puller, you’re being reassigned. There’s a flight to Frankfurt tomorrow that leaves at zero six hundred from Andrews. You’re going to be on it.”

“I don’t understand, sir. I thought I had leave time.”

“That’s been canceled,” White said sharply.

“Why?”

“You don’t need to know why.”

Puller flinched at this rebuke. He and White had always gotten on well. “Can I ask what’s the assignment in Frankfurt?” he said curtly.

“You’ll get full particulars when you get there. I’ll email the details of the trip.”

“Sir, can you tell me what’s going on?”

“I just did, Puller.”

“And the case with my father?”

But White had already clicked off.

Puller sat back and numbly stared down at the photos on the bed.

Apparently the stonewalling had just picked up again after thirty years.

SOMETHING WAS OFF. Rogers noted it as soon as he walked into the Grunt an hour before opening time.

No one would make eye contact with him. At first he thought it was because Josh Quentin had somehow spotted him back in North Carolina and conveyed that to Helen Myers, which would mean he was in big trouble.

But then he saw him sitting there, in the far back.

It was Karl, dressed all in black, with a cane leaning next to the table. Three of the fingers on his right hand were encased in splints. He looked stiff and in pain. A glass of whiskey was set in front of him. He had on sunglasses. Still, Rogers knew the man was looking straight at him.

He stood there for a few moments staring back. He held no sympathy for the man. Yet he was curious about how this was going to play out.

If Karl had simple revenge on his mind it would probably involve Rogers getting jumped by a bunch of guys. He would probably beat them, but that wasn’t the point. That would almost certainly invite a visit by the police. Rogers could not afford that. A simple background check would send him right back to prison.

He made a decision.

He walked over to Karl and sat down across from him.

The man turned to gaze at him. Though his eyes were hidden by the shades, his features evidenced surprise that Rogers had come over. Then he looked away, as though determined not to play whatever game Rogers was up to.

“I had an uncle who told me something one time,” Rogers began. “Always stuck with me for some reason.”

Karl swiveled his head around to look at him once more. “And what was that?” he said sharply.

“There’s not a man alive who hasn’t had his ass kicked at least once. And for most of them it was a woman who did the kicking.”

For a long moment Karl just stared at him. Then the big man burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he choked, coughing and gasping. Rogers rushed over to the bar, got him a glass of water, and helped him to drink it.

When Karl was sufficiently recovered he took off his sunglasses and eyed Rogers. “I’ve been married three times, so I can tell your uncle knew what the hell he was talking about,” he said, grinning.

“I’ve been down the aisle too,” lied Rogers. “It was like being hit by a freight train, and she never lifted a finger. It was all words. I would have taken Mike Tyson pounding me to a pulp over what that woman did to me.”

Rogers was not lying now. This was what Claire Jericho had done to him.

Karl slowly nodded. “As God is my witness, I hear you, man.”

Rogers eased back in his chair and assumed a contrite expression. “I really needed the job, Karl. I had nothing when I walked in here, just the clothes on my back and a couple bucks in my pocket. Desperate men, you know. They can do anything. I overplayed my hand. I went too far. I was trying to impress the boss. I lost control.” He paused and pretended he was seated in front of the parole board for the third time.

“And so I’m sorry for what I did,” he added, his expression one of deep embarrassment.

Karl slowly nodded. Then he turned and flicked a finger at the bartender and pointed to his glass. A minute later the man delivered another whiskey and quickly turned and left.

Karl slowly slid the glass over to Rogers.

“Apology accepted. Now let’s drink to it.”

Rogers picked up his drink and the two men clinked their glasses together and each took a sip.

“You ever do any of that cage fighting?” asked Karl.

Rogers cradled the drink and shook his head. “No, never did. Never really had the chance.”

“You might want to try it. I think you could beat any son of a bitch I’ve ever seen. I think you could beat all of them together. You are one strong dude, Paul. I’m no weakling, but I never felt a grip like yours before.”

“Good genes,” replied Rogers. “My old man was smaller than me, but he could break me in two. Almost did a couple of times when he was drunk.”

“Glad I never ran into him when he was drunk, then.”

The two men drained their glasses and set them back on the table.

Rogers wiped his mouth. “I met Josh Quentin last night. Guy rolls in in a stretch limo with a bunch of beauty queens. He paws over the ladies like he owns them. What’s all that about?”

In a low voice Karl said, “Guy’s a prick.”

“Ms. Myers said he’s really rich, got his own company, printing money. And he’s only like thirty. How can you not hate the dude? We’ll be working men till we drop, while that guy just drifts off into the sunset on his yacht before he’s forty.”

“That’s the God’s honest truth.” Karl looked pensive. “Now, what I heard was the jerk lucked into something.”

“Pretty lucky guy, then.”

“Hell, ain’t that the truth. I’ve never been lucky like that.”

“Me either. So what did he luck into?”