David Baldacci - The Forgotten

“I’m thinking that the Storrows were out a lot. Sometimes walking, maybe sometimes driving.” “Driving, like five miles out and five back?” “Maybe so.”

“And they told your aunt what they saw?”

“Or thought they saw. Or suspected. She wrote the letter to my old man. But she really wanted me to come down and look into things. She would have been able to tell me more, but she never got the chance.”

Puller slipped the letter from his pocket and passed it over to Carson. She ran her gaze down it.

“Mysterious happenings in the night. People not what they seem. Something just not being right. Pretty cryptic stuff.”

“My aunt was not given to overstating things. For her those words might as well be screaming murder.”

“Well, if you’re right about her death, she was entirely justified in thinking so. But if the Storrows are dead, how do we proceed?”

“Son and daughter-in-law. They reported them missing. I’m hoping they can fill in some gaps.” He rose. “You ready?”

She smiled up at him and almost purred. “After the sack time? I’m damn well ready for pretty much anything.”

Mecho chugged water from a gallon container and stared across at the big house. Everything about it was perfectly designed, perfectly placed. The shell was of amazing beauty. What lay underneath was not so beautiful.

But then that was how the world often worked.

He wiped his mouth, put the jug back on the truck, and picked up a rake. He trudged off to a patch of lawn underneath some trees. In a side lawn a large fountain poured water into a concrete catch basin. The perimeter of this “secret garden” was lined with lush plantings, wooden benches placed in nooks and crevices with cobblestone pavers underneath.

Mecho had worked this section of the estate before. He found it peaceful, meditative. He suspected this had been Mrs. Lampert’s design. He did not think that Peter Lampert was capable of contemplating such a place of serenity.

As he rounded the corner and set to work with his rake he was surprised to see that one of the garden seats was occupied.

Chrissy Murdoch held a book in her hands, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was staring off in the direction of the water that lay close enough that they could hear the rolling breakers. She wore pale green shorts, a white blouse, and tennis shoes with ankle socks. Her hair was pulled back and fixed in a tight braid. The sun filtered across her face through the branches of nearby trees.

Mecho watched her, momentarily caught up in both her beauty and her apparent melancholy.

When she started and looked his way he returned to his work, raking flowerbeds and settling the mulch back into neat, compact mounds.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said.

“Every day in Paradise is beautiful, isn’t it?” he replied.

“Don’t we both know better than that?”

He looked up, his large fingers gripping the handle of the rake. He said nothing, prompting her to speak again.

“Have you thought about our encounter on the beach last night?”

“Have you?”

“I’ve thought of nothing but that.”

“I’ve given it little time in my mind. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

She rose, closed her book, and drifted over to him.

“So you’re simply a common laborer who maintains a rich man’s property?”

“I’m holding a rake. My shirt is slick with sweat. I ride in a truck. I live in a hole. Draw your own conclusions.”

“But you are educated.”

“Educated or not, I have to make a living. This is not my country. One has to start from the bottom. It is the way with any country.”

“Some start from the top.”

“Those with connections. Or family wealth. I have neither. Do you?”

“I have my looks. I have a certain grace. I know which fork to hold, small talk to make. I know an Italian wine from a French. A Monet from a Manet. The rest I can fudge if need be.” “Then you have your whole life figured out.” “No.”

He leaned on his rake. “This is very dangerous what we do. Talking like this. Eyes and ears everywhere.”

“But not here. Not in the secret garden. Mrs. Lampert saw to that.”

“She is an accomplished lady?”

“Probably not. But perhaps real to the touch, unlike me.”

“You’re a fraud, then?”

“Most of us are.”

“You gave me an ultimatum on the beach.” “Yes, I did.”

“I did not understand it.”

“I thought the terms crystal clear.”

“You won’t believe that I am who I say I am?

Where is your proof?”

“Right before my eyes.”

“What is your interest in Lampert?”

“He is an interesting man, on many levels.” “You let him inside your body.”

“You find that disgusting?”

“Don’t you?”

“Perhaps I do.”

“Then why allow it?”

“Life is full of trade-offs, she said.”

“What are you trading for?”

“On the beach. I thought it was clear.”

“What is your grievance?”

“What is yours?” she countered.

He stood erect, his fingers sliding up and down the rake handle.

She said, “The timing is truly remarkable. You and me.”

“Remarkable was not the word I was thinking of.”

“You were thinking the timing sucked?”

“As you said, it can only be one of us.”

“So you admit your intention?”

Now Mecho’s face darkened. He had been a fool. She had drawn him in, without seeming to do so.

He looked around. He expected to see Lampert’s security team closing in. He looked at her, trying to discern the communication wire under her blouse or her shorts.

As though reading his mind she said, “No, Mecho, it’s not that way.”

“So you say.” He turned to leave.

“Will you stand down?”

He said nothing, but he also didn’t move. “Will you stand down?” she said again.

“Will you?” he asked.

“I guess I have my answer.”

“I guess you do.”

“It’s been a long time for us, Mecho. A long time. And much pain.”

“And you think you’re alone in that?”

“No. But I have obligations. The end result will be to your liking.”

“I have obligations too.”

He walked swiftly away from her. Away from the secret garden that held no more secrets.

Everything needed to be sped up now. The schedule, so carefully crafted, was now blown to shit.

But there was something else.

Ultimatums given were usually carried out. Prices had to be paid.

His rear flank had just been exposed. He was now fighting on two sides when only one had been anticipated.

He looked back at her.

Murdoch stood there, book in hand, staring at him.

He saw many things on her features.

Sadness.

Resignation.

But most of all, resolve.

He turned back and kept walking.

He didn’t feel sadness, or resignation.

But he did feel resolve.

The war had truly now begun.

Peter Lampert put down his binoculars but continued to watch the big man stride across the lawn and put his rake back in the landscaping truck.

Lampert gauged the man’s height.

Six-six, perhaps a bit more.

Weight near three hundred pounds, perhaps, but he wasn’t bulky. He was lean but with massive shoulders and legs that revealed corded muscles through the fabric of his too-small pants.

An interesting fellow.

Lampert had seen him talking to the maid, Beatriz, on several occasions. He had seen Christine Murdoch paying him attention as well. He was not a bad-looking man.

Rugged, the ladies would undoubtedly call him.