Дэвид Балдаччи - The Escape

He kept driving and about ten minutes later stopped at a motel that looked like it had been built in the fifties and then forgotten about. The small office proved this observation correct, even down to the rotary dial telephone, thick phone book, and bulky metal cash register. There was not a computer screen in sight. The woman behind the counter looked like she had been here from day one and had forgotten to change her clothes and hairstyle during that time. He paid for two nights in cash and took the old-fashioned bulky room key from her aged, shaky hand.

A few minutes later he was in his room with his cat, AWOL, huddled on a thin mattress with damp sheets because the wall air conditioner was basically a humidifier casting wisps of wet air into the room’s atmosphere where they eventually fell back to earth, or at least to the sheets. Puller stretched out on the bed, damp linens and all, and checked his emails. There was one from his CO reiterating to Puller that this case was off-limits. He didn’t answer. What would be the point?

Then he did the only thing he could after driving nearly halfway across the country – he fell asleep. He had been able to rest in the middle of both combat and murder investigations. But tonight his slumber was continually interrupted by thoughts of what he was going to do tomorrow.

By the time he woke the next morning he still wasn’t sure. He fed and watered AWOL and then let her out. Then he got into his car and drove to a diner down the street from the motel. It was from the fifties too, but its food was timeless: pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy, and hot tea. He ate his fill and then went back to his car and sat in the driver’s seat staring moodily out the window. Wherever he had been deployed, or for whatever purpose, to fight or to investigate, Puller had always been able to devise a plan, a strategy to get the job done. But none of those times had involved searching for an escaped prisoner who happened to be his brother. In many respects he felt paralyzed.

And then a partial answer walked right in front of him. It shouldn’t have been surprising, and it wasn’t. It was one reason he was sitting where he was. The coffee shop across the street was one frequented by personnel at the DB. He knew this from previous visits. He had met or seen many of them during his time here. They weren’t on a first-name basis, of course, but with his size Puller was hard to miss and harder still not to remember.

He waited patiently as uniform after uniform went into the shop and came out with coffee and bags of food. Uniforms he didn’t want. Too many rules and regulations weighed them down like a gangster’s concrete booties. Twenty minutes later his patience was rewarded. The woman had parked at the curb and climbed out of her car. She was in her late forties, maybe early fifties, tallish, stout, with blonde hair that was not her natural color, and wearing black slacks and a red sweater with black flats. He eyed the lanyard and ID around her neck and the USDB parking permit on the front bumper of her car. He had seen her at the prison a few times before.

A civilian, she was in admin at the prison. He couldn’t remember her name, but he figured she was a good place to start. They had talked once or twice, and he thought if he remembered her, she’d remember him.

He got out of the car and crossed the street, entering the shop at about the time she was placing her order. He got in behind her and asked for a large black coffee. When she heard his voice she turned and looked up at him.

“Puller?” she said. “Puller, right? CID?”

He looked at her with his blankest expression. “Yes ma’am, that’s right. Do we know each other?”

“I work at DB. I’m in admin.”

“Oh, that’s right. Ms.?”

“Chelsea Burke. You came by my office once with a question about your…” Her voice trailed off just as Puller knew it would.

He nodded, his blank expression turning to grim. “Right. It’s why I’m here, Ms. Burke.”

“Please, just call me Chelsea.”

“Thanks, I’m John. Look, now that we’ve run into each other, you have a minute?”

She got her coffee and paid her money and Puller did the same. She looked uncertain, but he guided her to a small table near the front of the shop overlooking the street. They sat and Puller took a sip of his coffee while she simply cradled hers and stared anxiously at him.

“It was a shock,” Puller began. “When I heard the news. Happened at night, so I doubt you were even there.”

“I wasn’t,” she conceded.

“People have already been by to see me,” Puller said. “All very hush-hush, but I’m CID. I can see through all that. You probably can too.”

“Is CID involved in this?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that directly, sorry.”

“Oh, of course not. I didn’t mean to–”

He quickly waved off her apology. “No problem, Chelsea, but I like to hit the ground running, and it might have been fortunate I bumped into you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re not military.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Uniforms tend to circle the wagons in events like these. CID’s only concern is getting to the truth.” This was perfectly true, although he had made the statement to cause her to believe that CID – in the form of his presence – was investigating the matter.

“Absolutely,” she said, wide-eyed. He was gratified to see that as she took a sip of her coffee she sat back in her chair and looked more relaxed and engaged.

“I’m sure you can understand that things look very peculiar here. Main power goes, purportedly because of the storm. And then the backup generator dies? You must see that is extremely unlikely to have happened just by accident.”

She was nodding before he finished. “That’s the scuttlebutt, John. It’s like a billion to one. Now, I’ll grant you it was one helluva storm. But the storm could not have had an impact on the generator. It runs off natural gas lines buried underground.”

He sat forward and smiled. “I like how you picked that right up.” He paused. “But you probably see that the generator would not have kicked in and then died if the power hadn’t gone off first.”

She considered this and her eyes widened in realization. “So you think the main power was tampered with too?”

“Right now, I have no firm answers. But it’s certainly possible.”

“DB is going nuts right now trying to figure out what really happened.” She suddenly looked at him nervously. “And your brother and all. I’m sure you’re as worried as anyone.”

“It’s not easy seeing a family member in prison. But my job is to investigate serious military crimes. And duty trumps family in this circumstance, obviously.”

She cradled her cup of coffee and said, “I knew about his commendation. For helping you. I saw the paperwork go through.”

“A lot of lives would have been lost without him.”

“Seems weird, doesn’t it?” began Chelsea.

“What’s that?”

“A man is convicted of treason and then helps his country and gets a commendation but is still in prison. And then he escapes from prison. Just seems off.”

“I’m sure agents have been in to interview you and the rest of the staff.”

“They haven’t gotten to us yet, but I’m sure they will. I know they were at DB all day yesterday, and I’m sure they’ll be there for a while longer.”

“I wonder if my brother had any recent visitors?” said Puller. He wasn’t looking directly at Chelsea when he threw this out, but in his peripheral vision he was observing her reaction.

“That’s not my department. The log would show that, of course. DB keeps meticulous records of who comes and goes. Well, you know that, as many times as you’ve come to see him.”