Дэвид Балдаччи - Zero Day

“Is this the idea you had on the plane?”

“No, this is the idea I had five seconds ago.”

He eyed the thick glass ashtray that rested on one railing of the deck. It was filled with butts. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before.

“Who lives in that house?”

“Old couple by the name of Dougett. George and Rhonda, if I remember correctly. I talked to them before when we were canvassing the neighborhood.”

“Who’s the smoker?”

“He is. When I interviewed them I found out his wife won’t let him do it in the house, hence that ashtray on the deck. So what’s the big deal about the guy being a smoker? You on a one-person bandwagon to reclaim the souls of all us poor dumb cigarette addicts?”

“No. It’s that the ashtray is on a deck that overlooks the woods.” He pointed between the two spots.

Cole looked at where he was pointing. “What are you getting at?”

“How old is Dougett? The guy, I mean.”

“Late seventies. Bad shape. Overweight, pasty, got some kidney problems, or so he told me when I talked to them. He was TMI on his health issues in general. I guess it’s an old person thing. Not enough to fill up their lives otherwise.”

“So that means he’s up at night trying to pee and nothing is coming out. He gets frustrated, can’t sleep, comes out here for a smoke because it’s too hot during the day to do it.”

“Probably. But he also told me he sits in his car during the day with the engine running and the AC on so he can light up. But so what?”

“Are they home now?”

“Car’s in the driveway. They only have the one.”

“Then let’s put my idea to the test.”

Puller cleared the steps up to the Dougetts’ front door two at a time with Cole in his wake. He knocked. Four seconds later the door opened and George Dougett stood before them. He was barely five-five and his bloated figure, pale features, wobbly knees, and bent spine bespoke numerous health problems and lots of pain. He looked like he could drop dead at any moment, and probably on occasion wanted to.

“Sergeant Cole,” he said. “Back for more questions?”

He sounded almost gleeful. Puller figured the man’s life was otherwise pretty dull. Even a murder investigation was probably preferable to doing nothing except sitting in your car smoking and waiting for your life to be over.

“I’m John Puller, Army CID, Mr. Dougett. You mind if I ask you a few questions?” Puller flipped out his cred pack for the man, who seemed even more thrilled by this.

“Hell yes, you can.” His voice was sound run over gravel until it got all clogged. He gave an enormous cough that nearly lifted him off his feet.

“Damn allergies, excuse me.” He blew his nose into a fat wad of tissues held in one puffy red hand and ushered them into his house.

They followed him down a short hall to a small den paneled with sheets of plywood wood stained dark. The furnishings were forty years old and looked every bit of it. The shag carpet had permanently lost its shag and the shine on the furniture had disappeared probably twenty years ago. They settled into chairs and Dougett said, “I was in the Army. Oh, that was many moons ago, of course. Korea. Wonderful country. But very cold. I was glad to get back here.”

“I’m sure,” said Puller.

“You taking care of yourself, Mr. Dougett?” asked Cole.

He smiled resignedly. “I’m old and fat and I smoke. Other than that I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” He peered over at Puller. “Damn, you’re a fine specimen of a man, son. See you coming at me on the battlefield, I might just surrender then and there.”

“Yes, sir,” said Puller, who was thinking of how he wanted to play this out. “I noticed you smoke on the rear deck.”

“Yeah, the missus doesn’t like the smell in the house.”

“Where is your wife?” asked Cole.

“Still in bed. Arthritis gets her something fierce in the morning. Rolls out around noon, just in time for lunch. Don’t ever grow old, that’s my message to you two.”

“Well, the alternative isn’t too appealing,” said Puller. He counted back in his head. “Sunday night. Did you see anything unusual? Hear anything? Like a gunshot?”

“Hearing’s not great, son. And Sunday night I was hugging the porcelain. Something the wife made for dinner didn’t agree with me. Happens more often than not these days. I didn’t go outside. Told the lady here that when she come and asked on Monday. And the missus was asleep in bed. Guess my throwing up all night and having the runs from hell didn’t affect her peaceful rest at all.”

“Okay. How about late Monday night? Were you out on the deck?”

“Yes. I go to bed late, get up earlier and earlier. I figure I’m gonna be lying for eternity in a box soon enough, so why waste what time I got left sleeping? I like it in the early morning. Got a little cool breeze, see the dew on the trees and grass. It’s nice.”

“Do you remember seeing anything unusual Monday night?”

He stuffed the tissues in his pocket and rubbed his chin so hard it was like he was trying to polish it. He grinned and pointed first at Puller. “Saw you.” He next indicated Cole. “And I saw her. Out on patrol or something in the woods. Well, I guess that was technically Tuesday morning.”

“We were looking for somebody. I saw someone run through the woods a few minutes before that. Did you see them too?”

Dougett was already nodding. “I did. Running fast. Knew their way. There’s a path back there.”

“Mr. Dougett, why didn’t you tell me that when I was here before?” asked an exasperated Cole.

“Well, nobody asked me. And I didn’t know it was important. And it happened after you came by and asked me questions. I sure didn’t know it was connected to what happened over at the Halversons’.” His voice dropped. “Was it connected?”

Puller said, “Can you describe the person?”

“It was a man for sure. Tall, but not so tall as you, son. Big shoulders. Looked bald. Way he was moving I’d say he was young. It was dark, but there was some moonlight. Fellow had scars on his arm, or else was burned or something. It was all blackened.”

“So he had on a short-sleeved shirt?”

“Like a tank top, yes, sir.”

“Good eyes,” said Cole. “Night, at a distance, even with moonlight.”

“Lasik,” said George, pointing to his eyes. “I’m old and fat but I got me twenty-twenty at distance, and it wasn’t that far away.”

“You think he was from around here?” asked Cole.

“Can’t say. Like I said, he seemed to know his way through those woods okay. I could maybe pick him out in a lineup.”

“Tell ’em the rest, George.”

They all turned to see an old woman shoot into the room on a three-wheeled scooter designed for disabled persons. She had on a pink robe and her swollen feet were stuffed into too-small slippers. Puller noted that she wore a pearl gray wig that was cut short. She easily weighed two hundred pounds and looked as unhealthy as her husband. But despite her arthritis she steered the scooter with a practiced hand and rode it right up next to Puller.

“I’m Rhonda, his far better half,” she said by way of introduction.

Puller said, “John Puller, Army CID. What ‘rest’ are you talking about?”

George Dougett cleared his throat, looked warily at his wife and said, “Some other things I saw.”

“We saw,” corrected his wife. She looked at Puller and smiled triumphantly. “I was watching from the window.”

“Why?” asked Cole.

“Because my husband sometimes falls asleep outside while he’s smoking his cancer sticks. So I watch him to make sure he doesn’t ignite himself.”