Дэвид Балдаччи - No Man's Land

“So you know her?”

“She works with Josh. Is she the person you want to find?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“She made me.”

“Excuse me?”

In answer Rogers took off his shirt. When Myers saw the scars she slumped back against the wall. “Omigod. What…Omigod.”

“She made me,” he said again.

She started to tear up. “I’m so sorry, Paul. I–”

He cut in, “You can help me.”

“How?”

“You can help me get to her.”

“How!” she wailed.

“Through Quentin.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“You just need to acquire the target. I’ll take it from there.”

“Look,” she pleaded, “I really don’t want to be involved.”

He gripped her shoulder. “You already are involved. Now compose yourself and then contact him. Tell him you want to meet. Here.”

“What reason would I give?”

“I’ll leave that to you. Come up with a good one. And I’ll be watching while you do it.”

“And if he doesn’t come?”

He squeezed her shoulder just enough to make her wince. “You better pray to God that he does. Because I’m running out of time and patience.”

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

While Robert Puller was digging, his brother was doing the same thing.

In his motel room he was tapping away at the keys on his computer.

He had no idea of the hour.

Knox had fallen asleep on the bed.

But Puller was not tired.

He was pissed.

And when he got pissed, he worked even harder.

Right now he was doing something he should have done earlier. Seen if anything unusual had happened at Fort Monroe around the time his mother disappeared. Anything out of the ordinary that might be tied to that disappearance. There might be nothing, certainly. But right now he would take anything.

He had gone through pretty much every possible event, and there weren’t many, when his gaze froze on the name.

He checked the date.

He checked the location.

He rechecked the name. And the other name listed with the first one.

Son of a bitch.

Is that why she played so coy?

He closed his eyes and thought back to the night his mother disappeared. His brow creased as he strained to remember something.

She had made them dinner. She was dressed to go out. He had followed her into her bedroom as she went to get something.

She didn’t know he was there. She had paused at a dresser.

A drop of sweat appeared on his brow, so intense was his concentration.

She had reached down for something there.

He scrunched his face up.

Her fingers touched the frame. It was a photo.

She picked it up, looked at it.

Then she put it back down.

But Puller had seen enough.

He opened his eyes and swore under his breath.

He hadn’t asked the obvious follow-up question because he didn’t think it was relevant and he was also trying to be tactful.

Well, the hell with tactful now.

“Knox? Knox!”

He rose, gripped her shoulder, and gently nudged her.

“Hey, wake up. I might have something.”

She stirred on the bed, mumbled something, and then sat straight up and looked at him crossly.

“What?”

He said, “Why would one woman know the history of another woman?”

She rubbed her face and then gave him an even crosser look. “I don’t even understand the question.”

He grabbed his laptop and sat next to her. “Here are my notes on a conversation I had with someone. Read through them.”

Knox yawned, stretched, and refocused. She read down the page and scrolled to the next.

“Okay,” she said. “That is a little unusual. I mean, she said they talked, but some of these things, at least it seems to me, the woman did her own research. I mean, they aren’t the sorts of things that would come up in normal conversation, certainly not between two women.”

“She said my parents and she and her husband frequently socially interacted. And that my mother helped them through their issues. She spoke reverently about her.”

“But she also said that your mother sort of floated above everyone else. You could read that two ways. Jealousy being one of them.”

“And there’s something else,” said Puller. He showed her the news article.

“Her husband committed suicide?” exclaimed Knox.

“His body was found the morning after my mother disappeared. But he could have died the same night that she vanished.”

“You think they might be connected?”

“I don’t know. But I also don’t know they’re not connected.”

“So this might explain what happened to your mother that night?”

“Let’s hope so, because I’m fresh out of leads and ideas.”

* * *

This time Puller did not phone ahead.

They arrived at eight o’clock in the morning on the woman’s doorstep.

Lucy Bristow answered the door in her bathrobe. She didn’t look happy, but then neither did Puller.

“What do you want?” she said brusquely.

“Answers,” said Puller bluntly.

“About what? I’ve told you all I know about your mother.”

“Can we do this inside?” asked Knox.

For a moment Bristow looked like she might slam the door in their faces, but then she stepped back and motioned them in. She led them into the kitchen and said, “I’m making some tea, would you like some?”

Puller declined, Knox accepted.

Bristow poured out two cups and they sat at the kitchen table.

“Now what exactly is this about?”

“You didn’t tell me that your husband committed suicide,” said Puller.

“I didn’t know I had a responsibility to do so,” she retorted.

“He most likely died on the very night my mother disappeared.”

“So what?”

“Who found him?”

“I did.”

“But you were separated,” said Puller. “You weren’t living together.”

“We were supposed to meet to go over some details of the divorce. He didn’t show up. I called. He didn’t answer. No one knew where he was. I drove over there…And found him.”

“How did he die? The article I read didn’t say.”

“Why is this any of your business?”

“If it’s connected to my mother’s disappearance it is my business.”

“How could it possibly be?”

“Please, Mrs. Bristow, just answer the question,” said Knox.

She sighed, took a sip of tea, and said, “He overdosed. Painkillers. He’d suffered an injury and had a big supply of them in the house. He apparently used a whole bottle of them to commit suicide.”

“You said that my mother helped you work through issues.”

“She did.”

“You also said she helped your husband.”

“Earl and Jackie were friends,” she said stiffly.

“I’m not suggesting there was anything deceitful going on between them,” said Puller.

“I don’t see where this is going,” said Bristow sharply.

“My mother got a phone call the night she disappeared. I was there. I remember she looked upset, agitated. Then she got dressed and went out somewhere. Could the call have come from your husband? Would he have called my mom if he were in distress? If he needed to talk?”

“Particularly if he were contemplating suicide,” added Knox.

“And if he did, don’t you think it likely that my mother would have gone over there to talk to him?”

When Puller had mentioned the phone call, Bristow’s face had paled and she had put her teacup down because her hand had started to tremble.

Knox said, “What is it?”

Bristow put a hand to her mouth and tears emerged at the corners of her eyes.

“Mrs. Bristow, please, tell us,” implored Puller.