Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“My father has dementia.”

“We understand that. And we also understand that he sometimes is coherent.”

“And who do you understand that from?”

Shorr rose and so did Hull. Shorr said, “Thank you for your time, Chief. Agent Hull will be in touch.”

“Have you spoken to Lynda Demirjian?” asked Puller. “And her husband?”

“Again, CID will be in touch,” Hull said. “Thanks for your time. And I’m sorry to have been the one to communicate something this upsetting.”

The two men left, while Puller sat there staring at the floor.

He pulled out his phone a few moments later and punched in the number.

Two rings later his brother answered.

“Hey, little bro, I’m tied up right now. And if you’re back in Virginia I’m eight hours ahead of you. So can I call–”

“Bobby, we have a big problem. It’s about Dad.”

Robert Puller instantly said, “What’s wrong?”

Puller told his older brother everything that had just occurred.

Robert Puller didn’t say anything for about thirty seconds. All Puller could hear was the other man’s breathing.

“What do you remember about that day?” Robert finally asked.

Puller leaned back in his seat and ran a hand over his forehead. “I was playing outside. I turned to the window and saw Mom there. She was in a robe with a towel around her hair. She had evidently just gotten out of the shower.”

“No, I mean later.”

“Later? That was the last time I saw her.”

“No it wasn’t. We had dinner that night and then she left and went out. The next-door neighbor’s daughter came over to stay with us.”

Puller sat up. “I don’t remember that.”

“Well, we never really talked about it, John.”

“Where did she go that night?”

“I don’t know. To a friend’s, I guess.”

“And she never came back?”

“Obviously not,” Robert said curtly. “And so Dad was back in the country. He told the police he wasn’t.”

“How do you know he told them he wasn’t?”

“CID agents came to the house, John. The next day. Dad was there. They talked to him. We were upstairs, but I could still hear.”

“Why don’t I remember any of this, Bobby?”

“You were eight years old. You didn’t understand any of it.”

“You weren’t even ten yet.”

“I was never much of a kid, John, you know that.” He added, “And it was a traumatic time for all of us. You’ve probably blocked a lot of it from your memories. A defense mechanism.”

“They’re going to want to interview us. And Dad too.”

“Well, they can interview us. But I don’t see them making much headway with the old man.”

“But he may understand what they’re saying. That they think he killed Mom.”

“I don’t see how we can prevent that, John. It’s an investigation. You know how that works better than most. You can’t get in the way of it.”

“I think I need to get Dad a lawyer.”

“Know anybody good?”

“Shireen Kirk. She just left JAG to go into private practice.”

“Then you should give her a call.”

“Do you remember Lynda Demirjian?”

“Yes. Nice lady. Baked cakes. She and Mom were close.”

“Could she have been visiting her that night?” asked Puller.

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me where she was going.”

“Demirjian is convinced that Dad killed Mom.”

“I wonder why that is. I mean, CID may have found out he was back in the country when he said he wasn’t, but that was only after they got her letter and looked into it. She must have other reasons.”

“And I’m going to find out what they are.”

“You think they’re going to let you investigate this case? It’s Dad. Hell, they wouldn’t let you near my case, remember?”

“And you’ll remember that I did get near your case. Very near.”

“And it almost cost you your career. So my advice is to stay the hell away from this.”

“We can’t just walk away, Bobby.”

“Let me check some things out on my end and I’ll get back to you.”

“You…you don’t think he…” Puller couldn’t actually say the words.

“The truth is I don’t know for sure, and neither do you.”

IT WAS PAUL Rogers’s third day of freedom. And no grass had grown under his feet. He had already put a thousand miles between him and the prison.

He had looked for and found news of the double homicide back in the alley. The paper said the police were leaning toward it being a fatal fight between a young couple. There had obviously been a falling-out, because they had been seen earlier on a bus together kissing.

Yep , thought Rogers, there had been a really big falling-out.

On the second day of freedom he had stolen a beat-to-shit Chevy from an automotive repair place, swapping out plates he had taken from an impoundment lot. He’d driven six hundred miles that day, followed by over three hundred so far today.

He had spent a chunk of his cash on gas and about the same on food. He had slept in the car, finding a place to park and bed down for the night. He had purchased shoes that fit and an extra pair of pants, a shirt, a new jacket, underwear, socks, and a baseball cap. He’d also purchased some bandages and other medical supplies for his arm. And he’d bought a pair of off-the-rack reading glasses even though his eyesight was perfect and nearly catlike in his ability to see in the dark.

He’d also bought some hair clippers and a razor. The beard was now gone and so was all his hair. He’d even taken off the peach fuzz on his scalp and his eyebrows.

When he looked at himself in the mirror Rogers could barely recognize the image. He hoped the effect on others, in particular law enforcement, would be even more pronounced.

The scar on the back left side of his head was now visible. It was easier to feel now every time he rubbed it.

He had a couple hundred dollars left and still quite a ways to go. He stopped for supper at a diner and ate at the counter, keeping all the goings-on behind him in full view by virtue of the large mirror hanging on the wall in front of him.

Two police officers came in and sat at a booth not that far from him. He tugged down his cap and focused on his meal and the newspaper in front of him.

The world had changed some in ten years. But in many ways it hadn’t changed at all.

Countries were at war.

Terrorists were slaughtering innocent people.

American politics was at a standstill.

The rich were richer, the poor poorer.

The middle class was rapidly fading away.

Everyone seemed angry and vocal and generally pissed off at everything and everybody.

Beginning of the end, surmised Rogers, who did not care a whit that the country and apparently the rest of the world were in sharp decline. He just needed to get to where he was headed. He needed to figure some things out along the way, but once he got there his plan was pretty well set.

His only problem was it had been so long. Not just ten years. That was manageable. But in total it had been three decades. People moved. People died. Companies folded. Time marched on, things changed, conditions on the ground could be totally different. But he also told himself he would not, could not waver. There was no reason on earth that he could not accomplish what he had told himself for the last ten years he was going to do.

No reason at all.

He finished his meal, laid down his cash, and walked past the cops without looking at them. He closed the door behind him and reached his car. He drove off, the night beginning to fill in all around him.

His wounded arm was healing nicely. There had been minimal infection. His new jacket covered the bandage.