Daylight

by David Baldacci

  Puller came out with Sands.

  “We can go back to my place,” said Pine.

  Sands said, “Where’s that—”

  He didn’t finish due to the rifle round slamming into his head. It passed through the back of his skull and plunged right into Puller. Both men dropped to the ground.

  “John!” cried out Pine.

  Sands was clearly dead.

  And it looked like John Puller might be, too.

  CHAPTER

  44

  PINE HAD NEVER LIKED HOSPITALS ever since she nearly died in one as a child back in Georgia. She had been in and out of consciousness in the ambulance that had taken her there. Bright lights, masked people, tubes and lines being inserted in her.

  Her anguished and sobbing mother.

  The race down the hallway on the gurney, the white, antiseptic room, strangers hurtling around her, machines beeping, overhead lights like a cluster of suns, so intense they hurt, so she closed her eyes and then there was a prick of something, another something covered her mouth.

  Dark.

  Then she rose again, like Jesus, or at least her tired mind had remembered this little tidbit from vacation Bible school.

  Her mother had been there. Her father. Others. A man with a white coat, a smiling nurse.

  She would live, it seemed.

  Now she sat in the visitors room at the hospital where the ambulance had taken Puller. She had ridden over with him, every memory of her own frantic ambulance ride coming back to her in waves conjured from thirty years ago.

  She held his hand, whispered encouragement into his ear, unsure if he could hear her, whether he was actually conscious. But she had felt him squeeze back, however weakly. And then he was whisked off for emergency surgery.

  When Mercy had vanished, six-year-old Pine had prayed every night for her sister’s safe return. She had prayed all the way until the eighth grade. And after that, she had prayed no more.

  Until now.

  She got down on her knees and pressed the palms of her hands together.

  God, this is a good man. A just man. Please, don’t let him die. Please. We need him. I need him. Please save him.

  She quickly rose when Blum bustled in. “How is he?”

  “Still in surgery. They said they’d come in when they were done and let me know how it went.”

  “Have you reached his family?”

  “His father has dementia. I left word for his brother at a number I scrounged up. I don’t know if it’s good.”

  “Do you know his father and brother?”

  “His father is an Army legend and John’s namesake. His brother, Robert, is a lieutenant colonel in the Air Force, a once-in-a-generation talent with computers, according to Puller. I’ve never met either of them.”

  “It must have been awful last night.”

  “It was . . . pretty awful, yes.”

  “Did you see the shooter?”

  “No. I covered Puller with my body when he went down. I knew Sands was dead. Half his brain ended up on Puller’s clothes. I fired in the direction of the shot, but they didn’t return fire. By the time the police got there, it was way too late. The shooter was gone.”

  “And did Sands tell you anything helpful before he was killed?”

  “He was going to, I think.”

  “So you were being followed last night?”

  “Yes. We ran into two thugs earlier who were going to come down heavy on Sands, probably over drugs. We chased them off. I don’t think it was them.”

  “So maybe whoever Sands was going to finger?”

  “I guess we’ll never know for sure.”

  The door opened and they both turned to see who it was. Pine was expecting the surgeon and praying it would be good news.

  But the tall man in his late thirties was wearing Air Force ABUs, that service branch’s camouflage version.

  “Are you Atlee Pine?” he asked.

  Pine rose and looked at the man. He was an inch shorter than Puller and not as muscular, but the face and the eyes didn’t lie.

  “You’re Robert Puller,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “I came as soon as I got your message.” He glanced at Blum, who nodded at him, a sympathetic expression on her features.

  “This is my assistant, Carol Blum.”

  “What’s his condition?” asked Puller.

  “He’s still in surgery. They promised to come in here after it was over.”

  “You said you were there. How bad is it?”

  “Had to have been a rifle round. Went through Jeff Sands’s skull before it hit your brother, so that was good. A lot less kinetic energy.”

  “Where did the round hit him?”

  Pine touched her upper torso on the left side. “Here. In and out, which I hope was good. But he bled a lot. I stopped it as best I could. Then the paramedics arrived and took over. He was in and out of consciousness, then they put him on a drip, and he went under. His vitals on the ride were critical, but stable.”

  Pine had to sit down because recounting all of this so clinically and impersonally had suddenly run up against the fact that the person she was discussing was a friend and that he might still die.

  Puller sat down next to her and gripped her shoulder. “He’s the toughest man I know, Agent Pine. If anyone can pull through, he will.”

  Pine leveled a far calmer gaze on him. “Please, make it Atlee.” She paused, desperately wanting to change the subject. “John mentioned you used an algorithm to turn up Gloria Miles, which led us to Jeff Sands. How did you do that, Colonel Puller?”

  “I go by Robert.” Puller sat back and brushed at his regulation short hair. “From what John explained to me, I concluded that we were operating in exalted circles. No run-of-the-mill drug dealer can get a vice chair removed from his assignment at the Pentagon on a day’s notice because the man was making inquiries. That narrowed things down quite a bit. I ran a script on possible connections between highly ranked politicos and any connection at all to criminal activity, including drug dealing, because it seemed to have a nexus to what you were looking into. I ran a series of calculations and the one name that kept popping out was Jeff Sands and his grandfather, Peter Driscoll. Next, I looked for any connection to them that John could use as an investigative point of contact. That’s how I got to the godmother, Gloria Miles.”

  “How long did all of this take you?” asked a wide-eyed Pine.

  “I did it over lunch. I’m not that fast, but the computers I use are, and the databases they have access to are truly immense.”

  “Can the FBI borrow you for like the rest of your life?” interjected Blum.

  Puller added, “But now Sands is dead. So that lead is dead, too.” “At least we know more now than we did,” said Pine. “But all I want right now is to hear that John is going to be fine.”

  At that moment the door to the visitors room opened once more. The woman was in her fifties and she wore blue scrubs and spectacles. Her hair was salt and pepper and her expression was one, it seemed to Pine, of relief.

  “Agent Pine?”

  “Yes,” she said, jumping up. Robert Puller did likewise.

  “He’s out of surgery and stable. He’s going to make it. He’s quite a strong young man.”

  “Yes he is. This is his brother, Robert Puller.”

  Puller shook hands with the surgeon. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I noticed that he had several previous wounds that had healed.”

  “He’s Army. Middle East.”

  The doctor nodded. “That explains it. Well, he just added another one to the collection.”

  “When can we see him?”

  “He’s in recovery and needs to rest. I would say later today or tomorrow even. He’s strong, but he’s been through a lot.”

  Pine said, “Will . . . will he make a full recovery?”

  “I think he’ll be fine.”

  “I mean, physically and all. Like he was before. He’s a CID agent in
the Army.”

  “Oh, I see.” She looked from Pine to Puller. “Well, I can’t make any guarantees, but I hope that he will. I can’t say one hundred percent. There was some internal damage. But from the looks of him, and from what you just told me, I wouldn’t bet against him, either.”

  She left and closed the door.

  Pine and Puller collapsed into their chairs. Pine put a supportive arm on Puller’s shoulder. “He’s going to make it, Robert, that’s what’s most important.”

  “Thank God,” Puller said quietly.

  To herself Pine added, “Yes, thank you, God. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER

  45

  A FEW HOURS LATER PINE AND BLUM left the hospital and returned to Lineberry’s condo. Robert Puller had opted to stay at the hospital. Pine texted him her address. She planned to be back at the hospital later that day. Hopefully, they could see John Puller then.

  An exhausted Pine slept until two in the afternoon, then sat in her bedroom and looked out the window. The day looked like it would be warmer than the previous ones had been, and free of rain. Her belly was empty, and she had a hunger headache, but she didn’t want to waste time eating right now. She felt terrible guilt for what had happened to Puller. She knew all about the company line—that it came with the territory—but still . . . she felt immense responsibility for the man’s nearly dying.

  And with Sands dead, they really had no leads to pursue.

  She phoned Robert Puller. He told her that his brother seemed to be doing as well as possible. She thanked him for the info and said she would come to the hospital later.

  She showered and changed into fresh clothes. When she came out, Blum had a meal on the table.

  “Carol, thank you, but you don’t have to do this. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “It gives me something to do, Agent Pine. I don’t like feeling idle and useless.”

  Pine’s phone buzzed. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was a New Jersey area code. She answered it.

  The voice said, “Agent Pine, this is Norma Bailey, I’m the principal at Jerome Blake’s school.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bailey?”

  “I wanted to let you know that I have the photos of the school employees ready for your review.”

  “Can you email them to me?”

  “Yes. I can do that right now. Have you made any progress on what happened to Jerome?”

  “A little, but things are getting very complicated very fast.”

  “I hope you find the truth. Jerome deserves that.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Pine gave her the email address. A minute later the photos were deposited in her inbox.

  She looked at Blum. “I just got the photos of the school personnel from Norma Bailey at Jerome’s school.”

  “Terrific. Now we just have to find that young man, what was his name again?”

  “Peanut. But I have a shortcut that I hope will save us some time.”

  They left New York and drove back to Trenton, arriving at Jerome Blake’s home about ninety minutes later. His mother answered their knocks.

  “Have you found out who killed my boy?” she said.

  “Not yet, but we’re still working on it,” replied Pine. “We met a friend of Jerome’s, he said his name was Peanut?”

  Blake nodded, looking thoughtful. “Jerome and Peanut were real tight when they were younger, then they went their separate ways.”

  “Do you know where we might find Peanut? And what’s his real name?”

  “Donald Washington. His grandma lives on the next block over. What does he have to do with what happened to Jerome?”

  “He told us he saw a man speaking to Jerome the day of the shooting, at school. He said Jerome looked really weird afterward. I’ve got some pictures of employees at the school to show him. To see if he recognizes the man. Can you give us Peanut’s address so I can do that?”

  “Peanut don’t live at home anymore. Just his grandma there now, and she’s doing poorly.”

  “So where might we find him?” asked Pine.

  “He hangs out over at a gym on Broad Street. Calhoun’s.”

  “Why a gym? Does he like to work out?”

  “A few guys box there. But I don’t think most folks who go there care nothing ’bout working out. It’s just a safe place to go to and hang out. You find the guy who owns it. His name’s Gerald. He’s a good man.”

  “But other business happens there?” said Pine.

  Blake held up her hands. “Not in the gym, no. Gerald don’t allow for that. But outside? I ain’t getting in the middle of that. I got my Jewel to raise. She needs her momma.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Not good. Still crying her eyes out.”

  “This must be so traumatizing for her. I . . . I know what it’s like to lose a sibling. If we can do anything, please let us know.”

  They drove off and quickly found Calhoun’s. It was an old, dilapidated building with ancient boxing posters plastered across its front, many of them ripped or faded by the sun. Some young men were hanging around outside. The area was run-down, with boarded up storefronts and a general air of decay. She parked at the curb about a block down and told Blum to wait in the car and to get in the driver’s seat, which she did.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  “Very sure, Carol. And keep the doors locked and the engine running. Anything starts looking hinky just leave.”

  “If you’re not out in twenty minutes, should I call the police?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Pine walked past the groups of young men who gave her long stares and some catcalls. But they otherwise ignored her. She went into Calhoun’s, which turned out to be built out like a warehouse. There were high, angled ceilings, industrial support columns, three boxing rings, and thousands of square feet of workout equipment that looked old and shabby. There were a few guys hoisting iron, and others expertly skipping rope and still others going after speed and heavy bags, but most were congregated around one of the boxing rings.

  Pine walked over there and joined the crowd. Several young men tried to bar her way but a broad-shouldered man, with curly gray hair and wearing an old-fashioned three-piece suit and a brilliant red tie, said, “Show some respect, let the lady through.”

  The men obeyed and Pine came to stand next to him.

  “Thanks, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Just call me Gerald. And you are?”

  “Atlee Pine.”

  “Had an aunt down in Alabama named Atlee, God rest her soul.”

  “Quite the gym.”

  “Really? Forgive me, but I thought you’d be one of them folks who like the juice bar and the Peloton and that yoga stuff.” Then he ran his eye over her, not in a sexual way, but in a way of a person experienced at gauging fitness. “But then again, looking at your shoulders, thighs, and core, I would be wrong about that, wouldn’t I?”

  “I’m a powerlifter. The gym where I work out in Arizona has no AC, just a lot of iron and a lot of sweat and no juice bar need apply.” She looked around. “And from what I can see of this place, I think I’d fit right in.”

  “Well, come back anytime to work up a sweat. Now, what can we do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a young man named Peanut.”

  “And why would you be doing that?”

  Gerald’s tone was still very polite, but his smile and gaze had hardened just a bit.

  “He told me he could help me on a case. I wanted him to look at some photos I just got.”

  “A case?”

  She showed him her FBI badge. “Jerome Blake’s death. Did you know him?”

  Gerald took a moment to look at the throng of young men around them and said, “Hey, fellas, give us space so me and this lady can have a private talk, okay?”

  The group fussed a bit over this directive, but they all moved away.

  Gerald looked back at Pine. “I
knew his brother, Willie. Would’ve made a fine light heavyweight.”

  “His mother said she got him to move.”

  “So she did. And Cee-Cee made the right call. He was heading down the wrong path.”

  “Cee-Cee told me to look you up here. That you were a good man.”

  “She’s a nice lady. Had a hard time, like a lot of folks around here.” He looked at the two men in the ring, both in their twenties, muscled, wearing head protection gear and bobbing and weaving as they danced around the ring. “Like those two right there. Maybe their mommas should get them outta here, too.”

  “So what keeps them here? You?”

  He put his hand on one of the ropes. “Lived here my whole life. Fought in the ring a lot in my day. Was pretty good. Marine Corps champion for my weight class. Served my time in Nam. Got a lungful of Agent Orange, which derailed any athletic career I might have been contemplating. I’m seventy-one years old and feel like I’m a hundred. You have days like that?”

  “I think we all do, even without breathing in Agent Orange.”

  “Anyway, I started this gym in 1977. Been running it ever since. Try to teach the young folks around here the art of pugilism. But really, I’m just trying to give them a safe space to go to. Learn some discipline. Learn about working hard, setting goals, getting together in groups without pursuing any illegal activity, if you get my point.”

  “All good things. So, Peanut?”

  “He’s usually around here this time of day. Let me go check.”

  Gerald walked off and the situation changed immediately. She could sense the heightened tension, the more focused gazes of the men who had once more clustered around her.

  The men in the ring stopped what they were doing and leaned over the ropes. One took out his mouthpiece and snarled, “What you doing here?”

  “Just asking about someone.”

  “You ain’t got the right to ask ’bout nobody,” barked the other man, spitting out his mouth guard. “You can’t come in here and ask nothing.”

  “And why is that?”

  “She’s a cop,” said one of the men in the crowd. “Saw her flash her badge.”