Дэвид Балдаччи - The Escape

His name was Timothy Daughtrey.

JOHN PULLER WAITED until he got up to his room before opening the attachment on the email. He sat down in the chair and read through the letter once, and then, being the good soldier he was, he read through it twice more, filling in gaps that the prior readings had left.

He set the phone down and stared over at the wall opposite. He never knew his father could be so eloquent through the written word. He could give orders like no one else, concise and incapable of misinterpretation, the Ulysses S. Grant of his generation. But to convey the feelings, the emotions that he had in the letter to the court-martial, well, it was as extraordinary as it was unexpected.

He had never seen this side of the old man. He doubted anyone had, including his brother. Chiefly his brother. Puller hadn’t gone the officer route, and his father had never forgiven him. Yet Bobby, who was an officer, had gotten the brunt of their father’s derision. Puller had been a grunt with a rifle in the trenches. He had fought for his country, been wounded for his country, and been, in his father’s eyes, a soldier’s soldier. His brother had been, in his father’s words, “a g-d flyboy playing typist,” the last word being a derogatory reference to his brother’s immense talent with technology.

But in this letter Puller Sr. had dug somewhere deep to find the words to persuade a military tribunal to give his son the possibility of life instead of a certain death. He had said things about his older son that Puller had never heard the old man say before. It was like they were two different men, in fact. But there they were, in his father’s bold handwriting. How he had been able to do this while his mind was slowly being eaten away by the disease that was diligently claiming him was beyond Puller.

He put the phone away in his pocket and packed his things in his duffel. He checked out and met Knox in the lobby. He noted that her face was red and she looked exhausted.

“What, did you go for a run while I was up in my room?”

“Why?”

“Your face is flushed and your eyes are red. And you look beat.”

“Might be coming down with something. And I’ve got pollen allergies. And I only had three hours of sleep.”

“Okay,” he said as they walked to the car.

She said hastily, “I’ll be fine. I took something. It’s why I ducked into the pharmacy.”

“Then I’ll drive and you can grab some rest.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

They loaded the car and climbed into the front seats. The clouds had thickened, blackened, and rain was starting to fall.

“Nice time to catch some shut-eye,” said Puller. “Just listen to the raindrops beating on the roof and you’ll pass right out.”

“Yeah.” She snuggled down into her seat with her jacket draped over her and said, “By the way, where are we going?”

“Back to D.C.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You want to go back to Kansas?”

“Not particularly. I think we’ve done all we can there.”

“I need to go back at some point and pick up my cat.”

She smirked at him. “It still surprises me that you have a pet, Puller. And a cat. And it was lying on the bed next to dead Daughtrey like it was no big deal.”

“AWOL is cool under pressure. And she’s low-maintenance.”

“Like her owner?”

“It’s probably why we get along so well.”

“It’s a long drive to D.C.”

“Not a problem. I’ll take the wheel the whole way. Give me a chance to think.”

“So when we get to D.C.?”

“The first priority will be checking out what happened to Niles Robinson.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She closed her eyes.

“Let me know if you need a food or bathroom break.”

“All I need is some sleep.”

Puller reached the highway, headed north, and accelerated.

“You asleep yet, Knox?”

“Not now, no.”

“Sorry.”

“Something on your mind?”

“You have any enemies?”

“Don’t we all have enemies?”

“Anyone in particular with you?”

“Not that I can think of right now.” She straightened in her seat. “And why are you asking me that?”

Puller tapped the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead. “I got a text.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

“What about me?”

“That you’re not what you appear to be. That I shouldn’t trust you.”

Knox glanced away, frowning. “Who sent the text?”

“I don’t know. I called the number but no one answered. I’ll try to trace it, but it might be a burn phone. In fact, I’d be surprised if it weren’t.”

“So that’s why you were acting that way this morning?”

“Yes.”

“So you believed the text even though you don’t even know who sent it?”

“I’m not sure what I believed.”

“That’s bullshit. You did believe it. Even after we were attacked in that alley and almost killed.”

“If I did believe it I would have done something about it. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have told you about it.”

“But you didn’t tell me right away.”

“No, I didn’t,” he conceded. “But I’m not a perfect man, either.”

She crossed her arms and sank back into her seat. “Well, I’m not a perfect woman, that’s for damn sure.”

“Anything bothering you? I’ve got time to listen.”

“Nothing on my end.”

They drove a few more miles before Knox said, “I might tell you about it sometime, Puller.”

“That’s fine.”

“And maybe the text was right, maybe I’m not who I appear to be.”

“Text or no text, I never thought you were who you appeared to be, Knox.”

She shot him a glance. “Then why–”

“Let’s just leave it at that for now.”

“I don’t get you, Puller, I really don’t. Every time I think I’ve got you figured out you throw me a curve.”

“You said I was predictable.”

“But I’m coming to learn that you’re not. At least not in all ways.”

“A good soldier never stops learning.”

She snuggled back into her seat again and shut her eyes. “Did you read the letter your father had written?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And it’s made me understand that none of us are who we appear to be. Now get some sleep. I’ll wake you when we get close.”

A few minutes later her breathing became regular and her arms slid to her sides.

The rain picked up and so did the wind. Puller had a job keeping the car straight on the highway but managed it with both of his big hands clamped around the wheel.

Once they were past the worst of it, his mind could wander from the demands of driving in a storm to the written words of a three-star fighting legend who was supposed to have lost his mind at a VA hospital.

If Puller Sr. had meant everything that he had written in that letter maybe there was hope.

For all of them.

And he wanted his brother to be able to read those words.

He wanted that very much.

It could make up for a lot. Perhaps, even in an imperfect world, it could make up for just about everything.

AS THEY APPROACHED the D.C. area a little over six hours later, Puller woke Knox by gently nudging her in the side. She came to as he would, calm, alert, and ready to go, or pull the trigger, as the case might be.

“It didn’t occur to me,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

“You can drop me at the W Hotel downtown. It’s centrally located. I’ve stayed there before.”

“Right near the White House. You going to have a powwow with the president?”

“It’s not on my schedule for today, no.”