David Baldacci - The Last Mile

Mars took the book and pointed to the three figures. “See how they’re lined up? Huey’s the QB, and the other two are the halfbacks. They’re running a version of the veer offense. Off that they can run the triple option. We used to do a variation of that at UT sometimes.”

“And that formation came into being during the 1960s, when they were in high school,” added Decker.

Bogart studied the pictures of the young men. “So, Danny Eastland and Roger McClellan? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Already Googling,” said Jamison.

She hit the keys on her phone, waited, and then studied the results. “Let me make sure this is the same Danny Eastland.” She hit a few more keys and the results came up. She read quickly.

“Damn!”

“What?” said Decker.

“Danny Eastland has done well for himself. He’s the founder and CEO of a government defense contractor. It says here they used to build weaponry, but about five years ago moved more to intelligence gathering, which turned out to be a smart move. Last year it had revenues of more than five billion dollars, most of it with the DOD. It’s based in Georgia, but there’s an office in Jackson, Mississippi, too, among many others. This article says he has a net worth of over a billion dollars and his primary home is in Atlanta.”

“How about the other Musketeer?” asked Bogart.

Jamison did a search for Roger McClellan. “Holy shit!” she said when the results came up.

The three men looked at her.

“Well?” said Bogart.

She looked up at him. “Roger McClellan is the current police chief of Cain, Mississippi.”

Decker said, “Ironic, if he was part of a terrorist act against a church in the very same town.”

Bogart said, “Okay, we need to start marching very lightly here. Folks here already know we’re making inquiries about the Hueys. And I bet Pierce from the police station has already reported our meeting to McClellan.”

“And he’s probably already contacted Huey and Eastland,” said Jamison.

“I’m sure he has,” agreed Bogart. “So we have to be very careful. The last thing we need is to get pulled off the case because the FBI director gets a call from a pissed-off Huey.”

“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Decker pointed out.

“Granted, but in D.C., Thurman Huey is an eight-hundred-pound gorilla.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jamison. “Do you think they’re the ones who kidnapped Davenport? That would make it a very recent crime.”

Bogart shook his head. “I can’t believe Thurman Huey would be involved in something like that.”

Decker said, “If Roy Mars has evidence that Huey was involved in the church bombing, and that evidence comes to light, Huey won’t just lose his career, he could very well end up in prison for the rest of his life. Given that, I think the man might be capable of anything.”

Mars said, “What sort of evidence would my dad have?”

“Whatever was in the safe deposit box,” said Decker.

In a shaky voice Mars said, “You think he was involved in the bombings?”

“I don’t know, Melvin. But somehow he ended up with something that will bury some very powerful men. No wonder he went on the run and changed his name.”

Mars tried to say something but nothing came out. He finally just shook his head.

Decker returned the book to the shelf while the others headed to the door. He had a sudden thought, opened the yearbook to a certain page, scanned down it, and then ripped the page out and put it in his pocket. He did this one more time with another page. He replaced the book on the shelf and joined the others as they headed back to the car.

They all climbed in and Bogart started it up. He said, “Okay, we have a lot of work ahead of us. But as I said before, we step lightly. I don’t want any specific details getting out to the locals.”

“Oh crap,” said Jamison, who was looking out the rear window. “I think it’s too late.”

They all turned.

A police cruiser was pulling up behind them.

Two male officers got out. They were both in their forties, a bit gray around the temples, a bit soft around the middle. They walked up, one on either side of the car.

Bogart rolled down his window. He already had his FBI ID out.

The officer leaned in. “How you folks doing?”

“Just fine, Officer,” said Bogart.

The man looked at the ID. “Right. We heard y’all were in town. It’s why we’re here. Chief McClellan wanted to know if there was anything at all that we could do to assist you in whatever you’re investigating?”

“We appreciate that very much,” said Bogart. “But right now I can’t think of anything.”

Decker was staring out the passenger window at the officer parked there staring back at him. One of the man’s hands rested on the butt of his service pistol.

Decker gave him a nod and a smile.

Neither was returned.

The officer at Bogart’s window said, “Just as a matter of professional courtesy do you think y’all could find the time to come meet with the chief? He prides himself on knowing all that goes on here, and I think you might find him an asset to help you in whatever it is that brought you to our fine town.”

Though it was spoken as a request, the tone of the words suggested that a refusal would not be very welcome.

“Certainly,” said Bogart.

They followed the patrol car back to a different station from the one where they had met Pierce, parked, and then the officers escorted them inside and down the hall. One of them rapped on a door that was fronted with a plaque reading Roger G. McClellan, Chief of Police.

“Come on in,” said a firm voice.

The officer opened the door, motioned the four in, and then shut the door behind them.

The office was large, twenty by twenty, with fine paneling and shelves holding a lifetime of awards and commendations in the law enforcement field. One wall was the photo wall of fame, showcasing McClellan in the company of various dignitaries, professional athletes, and famous singers, mostly country and western. In one area of the space were leather chairs and a comfortable couch and a coffee table with an assortment of magazines on it, predominantly cop and gun publications.

The state flag of Mississippi stood in a holder behind the enormous, intricately carved desk.

There was no sign of the Stars and Stripes.

Sitting behind the desk was a tall man who, despite his advancing years, looked fit and trim. He was wearing his dress uniform, the chest festooned with medals and ribbons. His gray mustache was trimmed and his thinning hair was slicked back. His face looked like a slab of granite that had been worked over by rushing water for a couple of centuries.

He rose and put out a hand. “Chief McClellan,” he said, shaking hands with each of them. “Please, take a seat.” He came around the desk and directed them to places among the couch and chairs before sitting down across from them.

“Y’all want something to drink? Coffee ain’t half bad, but we got some bottled water too.”

They politely declined.

McClellan sat back and looked them over. “I appreciate you coming on in. Sure you can understand that when the FBI comes calling I prick up my ears.”

“Absolutely. I take it you talked to Ms. Pierce?” said Bogart.

“Hell, I didn’t need to rely on that. Fact is, in a small town, news travels fast. Eyes and ears everywhere.” He reached over with a long arm and picked up a mug off his desk and took a sip from it.

Decker noted that the cup was imprinted with the words Virtute et armis .

McClellan saw him looking and said, “Official motto of the great state of Mississippi.”