David Baldacci - The Last Mile

Both men were about the same age. Roy Mars was not the man’s real name, so he could have been in the military with Montgomery over in ’Nam. They had no fingerprints from Mars to search for in the military database.

Yet had they been in the military together? Maybe Mars had saved Montgomery’s life over there? That seemed plausible.

But if not in Vietnam, where?

Had Mars been a petty criminal too? If he were connected to the cartel then Montgomery might have been in South America at some point. Or in Mexico. Or in some way had been connected with the drug trade. He had told them of his pain problem and his quest to steal money and drugs in order to deal with his headaches.

Had Montgomery known Lucinda?

Was that the angle to come at this by?

Decker rubbed his eyes and then closed them.

Even for his exceptional mind this was a staggering conundrum. He could not find traction anywhere. Every time he thought he had something figured out, another question of even greater complexity took its place, like a vanquished cancer cell being replaced by an even more malignant and entrenched one.

But something in the back of Decker’s brain told him that if he could find the connection between the two men, many other questions might be answered.

He opened his eyes and looked out the window. Somewhere out there Lisa Davenport was being held against her will and perhaps tortured.

Or she might already be dead.

Decker had concluded that his first assumption had been wrong. They had not taken Davenport to later exchange for Mars.

And he wasn’t even convinced they had taken her for information purposes.

But if not either of those two reasons, why? What else was there?

What was a possible third reason?

He closed his eyes again. The answer simply wasn’t coming.

He ate dinner in his room while the others gathered together in the small restaurant off the motel lobby. An apple and a bottle of water. Only two months before he would have laughed at such a meal. It would not even have constituted a snack. Now it filled him up. He wanted nothing else.

He notched his belt a hole tighter. At this rate he would have to cut another hole in the belt or get a new one. He was losing weight rapidly. Not in a good way. His inability to solve any significant part of this case was pretty much eating him from the inside out.

He finished the water, tossed the bottle and the apple core, undressed, and got into bed. But though his eyes closed, his mind did not turn off. If anything it hit another gear and raced even faster.

Every conceivable explanation was run through his brain and came out the other end with an imagined “rejected” stamped on it. Some conclusions seemed promising right up until the moment they ran into a fact that could not be explained away and were discarded into his mental rubbish pile.

Again and again he seemed to be close, but something always came around to screw it up. It was like having one move left on a Rubik’s Cube and being unable to seal the deal. The truth was, he was no closer to working this out than he had been on the very first day.

And he had this oddly creeping feeling that he was running out of time, though he could think of no plausible reason why that would be the case.

He opened and closed his eyes, and his brain, perhaps taking a cue that it was overworked and not anywhere near success, also shut down.

Decker slept.

And he awoke for only one reason.

A knife blade was pressed against his throat.

Decker didn’t move.

The room was very dark, the moonlight that would normally be coming in through the window obscured by the cloud cover. He could hear the rain drumming on the roof.

But his focus was on the knife blade. It was pressed against his left jugular, a superhighway of circulation. If it was severed, he would bleed out in under a minute.

He could hear the other person’s breathing, slow, measured — no panic or lack of control there. That gave him some comfort. The breath was also foul: coffee, cigarettes, and garlic. The confluence of smells swept into his nostrils, nearly making him gag.

By casting his gaze downward he could just make out the very large hand holding the knife.

The voice said, “You’re fucking everything up.” It was calm, low, and still managed to be intimidating.

Decker thought about this candid opening. He wondered if the follow-up would be to slash his neck open. “Not my intent,” he said.

“Don’t play stupid with me. I know you’re a cop. I know you got brains. But you leave it be. Go home. And leave it be.”

“What about Melvin?”

Decker felt the knife blade press harder against his skin. So hard in fact that it cut into him. Something slid down his neck. A drop of blood. But only a drop. The jug was still intact.

“What about him?” asked the voice.

“He’s got nothing.”

The knife pressed still harder and Decker could feel another little prick of the blade. And another drop slid down his neck and was absorbed into his T-shirt.

“He’s got his freedom. That’s enough.”

“After twenty years?”

“He should be grateful.”

“I’m not saying he’s not,” replied Decker calmly, even as he felt the blade push deeper against his skin. His jugular was exposed, right at the surface from the pressure. The guy knew exactly what he was doing, and had probably done it before. Which did not make Decker feel any better.

“I’m just saying that he’s feeling vulnerable.”

“Tell him not to worry. I’ve got his back.”

“Because of his mother?”

The blade withdrew just a hair. “What the hell do you know about anything?” the man growled.

“I don’t know much. In fact, there’s a lot I don’t know. But I know Lucinda loved her son. And you loved her . And she made you promise, didn’t she?”

The blade pressed more firmly against his artery. “You’re making this difficult on yourself.”

“I’m just trying to help Melvin.”

“I told you I’ve got his back.”

“Against the cartel?”

The man snorted.

Decker said, “So not the cartel?”

The man fell silent.

“Why did you pick Montgomery to get Melvin out of prison? What’s the connection?”

“Not going there.”

“You don’t have Davenport, do you?” asked Decker.

The man didn’t answer right away. “Who?”

“She was with us. Someone took her.”

Decker felt the blade slowly move away from his neck. “When?” The voice was not intimidating now, just wary.

“A few days ago. She must have known them. They took her from her room and made it look like a fight. But it was all staged. She knew the person. And that narrows things down.”

“Why would they take her?”

“I don’t know. I thought for leverage against us. Maybe to ask for Melvin in exchange, but they’ve made no attempt to contact us.”

“Maybe they want information.”

“Maybe they do. And maybe they got it from her. But I think what they really wanted was Melvin.”

“Why?”

“The stuff in the safe deposit box. They think he has it.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I’m a detective. It’s what I do.”

“ Mellow knows nothing about it.”

Decker didn’t understand this name, but he didn’t think right now was a good time to get into it. “I know he doesn’t, but they don’t know that. They think he will lead them to it.”

“Shit.” This was said more to himself than to Decker. “I didn’t think... after all this time.”

“Right, I get that. But it did happen and it’s a problem,” said Decker. “You had to be aware that might happen. You sprung him and now we see the consequences. They didn’t buy Montgomery’s story. And they know you’re alive... Roy .”