David Baldacci - The Last Mile

A light rain started to fall as they walked up to the front door. It had a pyramid-shaped glass with a crack in it at about eye level.

Bogart knocked on the door.

Davenport said, “The place next door looks abandoned.”

“Half the places here look abandoned,” noted Bogart.

They heard approaching footsteps and the door was opened.

Regina Montgomery was of medium height, thin, and her hair was more white than brown. She was dressed in faded jeans, flats, and a sweater with some smears of dirt near the waist.

They identified themselves and were invited in.

The front room was small, with a few pieces of cheap and battered furniture. She led them into the kitchen, moved some boxes and stacks of paper off chairs, and motioned for them to sit down around the small table in the middle of the space. There were only four chairs, so Milligan and Davenport stood.

Regina looked nervously at each of them before settling her gaze on Bogart, who had produced his FBI shield at the front door.

“What do you want with me?” she asked bluntly.

“Just to ask some questions. We’ve spoken with your husband.”

“Just so you know, while it’s true we never got divorced, we haven’t lived together for a long time. He’s been in prison for years.”

“But legally he’s still your husband?”

“Yes.”

“When did you learn about his maybe having murdered Roy and Lucinda Mars?”

She leaned back in the chair and assumed a focused expression. “When I went to the prison to visit Chuck.”

“Do you remember the date?”

“No, not exactly. I go every week, though. Lemme think.” She picked up a pack of cigarettes off the table, lit one, blew smoke out her nostrils, and was silent for a few moments, then said, “Maybe a couple months or so. Maybe. I’m not really sure.”

“Were you surprised?” asked Bogart.

“What, that he’d killed people? Hell no. I knew he could be violent. He’d murdered other people. It’s why they’re going to execute him. He killed an Alabama state trooper. That’s gonna get you the damn death penalty every time.”

“He said he had you look up the Marses’ case online to make sure he was right?” prompted Bogart.

“Yeah, I went over to the library. I don’t have a computer. I printed out their pictures and some other information and brought it to him at the prison. He recognized them right off.”

“Did you suggest that he tell the authorities?”

She shook her head. “That was Chuck’s idea. But I thought it was the right thing to do. One way he could, you know, make up for what he’d done a little.”

Decker looked around the space, his mind taking snapshots of everything he was seeing. “After your husband is executed what are your plans?”

She snorted. “Ain’t got none. I live here and can barely make the rent. I work at the grocery store and then have a second job at the McDonald’s down the road.”

“Your son lives with you?” asked Decker.

She nodded. “Tommy. He’s a good boy. He’ll do all right.”

“His father said he was a good ballplayer.”

She nodded. “Yeah, he is.”

“He doesn’t visit his dad?”

She looked at him crossly. “No. Why should he?”

“It was good of you to stick by your husband through all this,” noted Jamison.

“We had some good times together. A few good times. And he is Tommy’s dad. And I blame the damn government. Chuck fights for his country, gets a chunk of his head torn out, and what’d they do for him? Nothing. Now that’s a damn crime, if you ask me.”

“I think you’d find a lot of people to agree with you on that,” observed Davenport.

“Anything else you can tell us?” asked Bogart.

“I don’t know nothing else.” She looked at her watch. “And I got to get to work. My shift starts in about twenty minutes.”

She walked them to the door and shut it firmly behind them.

Bogart looked at Decker. “Okay, what now?”

“Now we go see the Howling Cougars.”

The rain had started to fall more steadily as they approached the high school that Decker had located on his phone.

“What are we doing here?” asked Bogart.

“You mentioned the Howling Cougars?” said Davenport.

Decker nodded. “The pictures at Regina Montgomery’s. Her son was in his Howling Cougars football jersey.”

“Okay, so you want to talk to him, but he’s never visited his father,” pointed out Jamison.

“I don’t want to ask him about his father.”

Bogart parked in the visitors’ parking lot and they went into the office. A few minutes later they were headed to the gym with the assistant principal.

“Tommy has finished his classes for the day,” said the man as they walked down the corridor. “But the team is doing some work in the gym.”

“But isn’t football season over?” asked Bogart.

The man smiled. “This is Alabama. Football season is never really over. And we won the conference championship this season. The boys want to repeat next year. Just getting in some extra work.”

He left them in the gym after speaking to the coach, who brought Tommy Montgomery over a minute later.

He was a good-looking kid, taller than his father, with broad shoulders and thick arms and thicker legs.

He looked at them all with unfriendly eyes. “Coach said you’re here about my old man.”

“That’s right,” said Bogart.

“I got nothing to say about him, ’cause I don’t know him. He was never around. I’ll be glad when they do him. Then he’s outta my life for good.”

Decker looked over at the other players, who were going through some formation reps.

“What position do you play?” asked Decker.

Tommy looked up at him. “Why? You know anything about football?”

“A little. You’re undersized for the O or D line. Linebacker too. But you’ve got length in your arms and legs. And your calves are rocks, your thighs are ripped, and your fingers are callused. You touch the ball a lot and you run farther than the line of scrimmage. You’re either a safety or a tailback or a receiver.”

Tommy appraised him in a different light. “You did play ball. I’m a tailback.”

Jamison said proudly, “Decker here played at Ohio State. And then with the Cleveland Browns.”

Tommy’s jaw dropped. “Damn, really?”

Decker said, “What’s your best running play?”

“We call it the firecracker. Fake the A-gap blast to the fullback, pitch to me on the left edge. I cut back to the B-gap and then make a stutter to clear the line and let the tight end do a cutback scrape on the backer, then I hit the corner and I’m gone. Always good for at least ten yards until the safety makes the tackle. We run it on third and long because the box ain’t stacked and the secondary’s playing cover-two soft thinking we’re gonna pass.”

“I didn’t understand a single word of that,” said a bemused Davenport.

“If it makes you feel any better, neither did I,” commented Bogart.

Decker glanced over at the other players running a formation. “So you obviously run the tight end on that side if his job is to scrape the backer.”

“Yep,” said Tommy. “Extra blocker.”

“Right, but he’s not being properly utilized.” He looked back at Tommy. “Okay, tell your coach to scratch the stutter. The blast would’ve frozen the interior lineman anyway, so don’t waste the time. And you want to hit the B-gap at speed. You let the left tackle crash down to seal the edge, the guard comes around to do the scrape on the backer, that allows the tight end to release, and you follow his butt down the field. He engages the safety with his left shoulder if the guy comes up and tries to make a play, and forces him to the outside while you push off hard to the inside. If the corner’s in soft cover two he probably will have already committed to the outside edge because of the pitch, and you’ll have a receiver on him blocking, so you don’t have to worry much about him. If you’ve got decent wheels, you’re home free down the seam for a lot more than ten yards. Maybe end zone if you’re fast enough to beat the angle the other safety takes.”