The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  What the hell happened in the short time since he left?

  More curses.

  The warm and tasty food in his belly has just turned into heavy, wet, cold cement.

  He has screwed up.

  The words of his jefe come back to him.

  Don’t draw attention to yourself. Keep things quiet. One of you to be awake at all times. No drinking. No drugs.

  And most of all…

  Don’t leave the house.

  Another siren cuts through him, and he sees another cruiser fishtailing around another corner, heading straight toward Linden Street.

  Like a good, law-abiding citizen, he pulls over.

  Don’t leave the house.

  All right.

  Something has happened, something bad.

  He chews on his lower lip.

  He can still make it work.

  He’ll call the jefe and tell him…something. He had to leave because…

  Because the chicken was ill.

  That’s right.

  Their guest was ill, and he had to get medicine at the local drugstore.

  While he was there, something bad happened.

  It was a stroke of fortune, to be out of the house, so he could tell the jefe what happened, be a witness.

  His boss will be angry, but will be understanding, Antonio is sure. For the jefe’s concern was that the old man be kept safe and secure until the norteamericano showed up.

  And considering the police response—Jesus, is that another siren he is hearing?—there certainly wasn’t anything polite or quiet going on down there during the past several minutes.

  He resumes driving, turns onto St. Mary’s Street, starts rehearsing what he’s about to tell the jefe.

  A pause.

  But what about Pepe?

  Pepe knew exactly where he was going.

  Not off to get medicine, but to get some hot McDonald’s food.

  He ponders some more.

  Considering what he’s seen, Pepe is wounded, dead, or alive in police custody.

  If he’s in police custody, Pepe will know the rules. Keep quiet, no phone call—which can be tapped—and wait for someone from the cartel to come retrieve him.

  If he’s wounded, then he’ll be in a local hospital. Antonio can track him down and then…take care of him.

  And if Antonio is very, very lucky, then Pepe is dead and is now explaining himself to the God he believed in.

  Antonio doesn’t believe in God but believes in his jefe, and now it’s time to make a confession of sorts.

  He picks up his phone and then freezes.

  No signal.

  CHAPTER 57

  PELAYO ABBOUD is relaxing on a couch in his expansive suite, reading the Economist, when Casper slips out of a door and gestures to him. He puts the Economist down and strolls over to his trusted deputy, and Casper whispers to him, “There’s something going on at Three Rivers. Quickly, please.”

  He steps in and Casper gently escorts him to a wide computer screen that has the feed coming in from the ex-CIA drone that now belongs to Pelayo and his organization. Once again, he is taken aback by the details he can see from the aerial platform.

  “Are we sure this cannot be seen?”

  One of the technical men who replaced the unfortunate Alejandro quietly says, “Fairly certain, jefe. It has what is known as a chameleon liquid outer shell. The drone adjusts its own color to match the sky and flying clouds. For someone on the ground, they might hear the buzzing sound, and that will be all.”

  “Your name, son?”

  “Ferdinand.”

  He gently squeezes the young man’s shoulder. “Well said, Ferdinand.” He leans over and asks Casper, “What, then, is going on?”

  Casper takes a pen and places it on the screen, lower right, where there seem to be low trees and brush. He taps the screen and says, “A few minutes ago, we saw a person crawl into this brush. It seems like the house is under surveillance.”

  “I see.”

  Pelayo looks to the house. “And the truck is still gone.”

  “Yes,” Casper says.

  “Then—”

  Pelayo stops talking as a figure emerges from the brush and walks quickly to the nearby road, and then strolls up to the front of the house.

  “Well,” Pelayo says.

  With reluctance the young man says, “Jefe?”

  “Yes? Don’t be shy.”

  “If you want, I can lower the drone’s altitude…which may make it easier for it to be seen. But there is a microphone. We might be able to hear voices.”

  “Do it,” he says.

  The young man manipulates the keyboard and the view tightens in on the house, looking down from above, and Pelayo imagines the possibilities of having several drones like this, perhaps armed with weapons. An avenging angel, overseeing his enemies.

  He likes that idea.

  Sound crackles from the speakers set next to the computer screen. He can hear a car horn, the sound of wind. The figure, wearing a baseball cap and regular clothes, comes to the front door and knocks.

  Casper says, “Could that be the Army captain?”

  “It might,” Pelayo says.

  There’s another knock on the door. And then, a third.

  “Could the house be empty?” Casper asks.

  Pelayo says, “Don’t even think of such a thing.”

  Then…voices. He can actually hear a voice and—

  The figure disappears into the house.

  Gunshots.

  Pow!

  Pow!

  Three more rapid gunshots in a row.

  Then another one.

  Pelayo leans over some more, like he’s now part of the drone, watching everything unfold beneath him.

  Two figures emerge from the rear of the house, run across the yard. Ferdinand manipulates the keyboard one more time, and they watch as the two people go into a grove of trees.

  A minute later, what looks to be a Jeep drives out and onto a road.

  The drone follows the Jeep’s progress.

  With pleasure in his voice, Casper says, “The Army captain…she drives a Jeep.”

  “So she does,” Pelayo says. “I guess that was the Army captain after all, eh?”

  He watches as the Jeep maneuvers its way through some streets and then pulls over.

  Pelayo says, “The phone, if you please.”

  Casper passes it over to him.

  He holds it.

  Waits a few minutes.

  It rings. He answers.

  “Yes?”

  The woman’s voice comes through clear and strong.

  “Got him,” she says.

  Pelayo chuckles.

  “I know.”

  He puts the phone against his chest so she can’t hear what he says to his crew, for he knows that they are still worried and disturbed by the day’s earlier events, and the fact that one chair in this room is blatantly empty.

  With a smile to his crew, Pelayo says, “You see? Sometimes it pays to be merciful.”

  CHAPTER 58

  SO THE son of a bitch knows already, which doesn’t surprise me that much. Having committed at least a half dozen serious capital crimes in kidnapping and threatening my family, there’s obviously something very big on the line for him, so it stands to reason he’d be keeping track of me.

  But he doesn’t realize the mistake he’s made in revealing this information, which now gives me some hard intelligence I didn’t have before, knowing for a fact I’m being tracked.

  That’s the thing with civilians. They watch some History Channel documentaries, read a bio of a Navy SEAL or two, along with Sun Tzu, and they think they’re a goddamn strategic genius.

  I say, “All right. I’ve got him. What now?”

  “Let’s verify you have the right person. Will you describe him?”

  I give my silent passenger one good look and say, “Gentleman in his late sixties, early seventies. Well-dressed, well-groomed. White beard and hair
. Brown eyes. Wearing a nice suit, no necktie. You want I should ask him his blood type?”

  Another chuckle. “That won’t be necessary.”

  I hear another siren coming in from another direction. This place is hot and is going to get much hotter, and I need to get moving before some smart cop starts setting up roadblocks.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “You’re to bring him to me, in good health. You’re to drive east, to a town called Beachside, Florida. It’s off Route 98, just below Miramar Beach and above another town called Seaside. If you were to drive nonstop, it should take you just about thirteen hours. But as you can tell, I’m in a giving mood. Your deadline is exactly twenty-four hours from now.”

  “Where in Beachside?”

  “There’s a small plaza in the center of town, with a little open music hall and fountain. Park there and call me, and then I’ll give you further instructions.”

  “Why is this…old man so important to you?”

  “Really, Captain Cornwall, do you expect me to answer that question?”

  “I’m a hopeful gal.”

  “So you are,” he says.

  The man next to me is staring ahead with a mournful look. What has brought him here, and why is he so needed in Florida?

  Sorry, I don’t care.

  I say, “I need to talk to Tom, right now.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s not possible.”

  A sharp shard of cold ice has just been shoved into my chest.

  “Make it possible,” I say, slowly and with emphasis.

  “I’m not in a position to do that at this time,” he says.

  “Then change your position.”

  He says, “I give you my word that they are safe. But they are also in a secure location that is sometimes difficult to access. But I promise you this. When you get to Beachside, and before the exchange, you will be able to talk to him.”

  I look to the quiet and nice-looking man sitting next to me. “Hey!” I yell in his direction, and he’s startled.

  Great.

  That means he can hear, and is going to hear what I’m saying next.

  “Okay. I don’t trust you or your worthless word, but we’ll have an understanding, okay? When I get to Beachside and phone you, I will hear from Tom directly. I will also hear from Denise, directly and separately. I will be able to ask them both questions to ensure that they are safe and are ready for me to pick them up.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I want to know that they’re in the area, all right? I don’t want them to be somewhere in Georgia or Alabama or someplace else. So you need to come up with some sort of solution that tells me they’re nearby.”

  “Or else?” he asks.

  I look to the man who’s now staring at me with his soft brown eyes.

  “Or else I take the man you desire so much, stand him next to the fountain you mentioned, and blow his goddamn head off.”

  I disconnect the call.

  The old man’s gaze doesn’t flinch.

  I start up the Jeep and say to him, “In case you didn’t notice, I shot two men dead in your house back there, all in order to get my family back. No offense, buster, but if I don’t get my family back, safe and sound, you’re not living out tomorrow.”

  Then I shift into drive and do my best to get out of town.

  CHAPTER 59

  WHEN THE Army captain hangs up her phone, Pelayo says aloud, “My, she’s a feisty one, isn’t she?”

  Some nervous laughter from his workers, and Casper steps closer to him and says, “I…I just need to ask this. And no offense.”

  Pelayo puts his arm around his deputy’s shoulders. “Casper, you have served me well, for many years. How could you say anything offensive to me? Please. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “It’s…well, I’ve always wondered. Since you learned what was going on with Tom Cornwall, and you also learned who was being kept at that house in Three Rivers, why did you send in that man’s wife? Wouldn’t it have been easier, and quicker, to use our own people?”

  He gives Casper a reassuring squeeze. “That’s good thinking, and I admire you so. But these are complicated times. Sometimes it’s best to contract out a job like this, in case it goes wrong. If we were to send our own resources…they might stand out. They might be witnessed, it being a small town and such. Besides, it’s always fun to blame the Americans, in case it did go wrong and the Army captain died, and if our subject died, well, that would be God’s will.”

  Another squeeze to Casper’s thick shoulder. “Besides, having everything in one place, within easy reach, makes cleanup so much easier. Best to have the American family and our absent friend all within easy reach.”

  Casper says, “Don’t you think the Army captain will be suspicious?”

  Pelayo says, “I’m counting on it.”

  CHAPTER 60

  ROSARIA VASQUEZ is doing her best to navigate her way in the very small town of Three Rivers, Texas. Earlier she had been sent by her boss to go to the equally small town of Kenedy, where Captain Cornwall had used a Bank of America ATM to make a cash withdrawal, but an unexpected and quick phone call from Senior Warrant Officer McCarthy changed that.

  “There’ve been shootings at a home in Three Rivers,” he said. “Next town over from Kenedy. Go check it out.”

  “Do you have information that Captain Cornwall was involved?”

  And McCarthy said, “Hell, no, but you’re going to find out. She was in Kenedy not too long ago, and now there are dead people in the small town next door. On Linden Street. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Vasquez checks her rental car’s GPS, which sometimes winks in and out, like there’s some sort of communications foul-up in this town. Even though she’s never been in Three Rivers before in her life, it feels very familiar. In her investigations over the years, visiting small towns like this to talk to soldiers either on leave or recently discharged, it was always the same. A struggling, proud small town that doesn’t have much opportunity for recent graduates, except for the military.

  The GPS sends her down North School Road, and up ahead, a police cruiser races toward her, then makes a sudden turn to the right.

  The GPS quits on her.

  No matter.

  She knows where she’s going.

  Up ahead she sees the sign for Linden, makes a left, and then pulls her rental car over. There is a mess of people and police cruisers down the street, along with a fire truck and ambulance, and she knows she has to take this one easy. For one thing, Captain Cornwall might not be connected to this in any way. And for another, locals are always suspicious, and rightfully so, about having the Feds—FBI, ICE, military police—come in and stomp over everything.

  Rosaria steps out, puts on her jacket, and slings her black leather bag over her shoulder. She starts walking down the street, retrieving her Army CID shield as she does so, walking by the fire truck and ambulance. Clustered around the plain one-story house are two black-and-white police cruisers belonging to the Three Rivers Police Department, one white cruiser belonging to the McMullen County Sheriff’s Department, and another black cruiser with a white hood from the Texas State Police.

  Officers with drawn weapons are slowly going through the yard, and one officer comes out of the house—also with weapon in hand—and yells out, “Clear, but for Christ’s sake, we got a goddamn bloodbath in there. Anybody know when the chief will get here?”

  Someone answers him, and Rosaria pushes her way through a handful of civilians, until she comes up to a heavyset Three Rivers officer, wearing a dark-blue uniform, holding his arms out.

  “Sorry,” he says. “This is an active crime scene. Nobody’s allowed through.”

  Rosaria shows her badge. “Warrant Officer Rosaria Vasquez, US Army. I’m a special agent with the Criminal Investigation Command.”

  He eyes her badge and identification, and almost looks relieved. “Sweet Jesus, what a mess we got.”

  “I
’m involved in an investigation that might have a connection to what’s happened here,” she says, still keeping her identification in hand. “May I ask who’s in charge?”

  “That’d be Sergeant Morales, over there by the door.”

  “Your name, Officer?”

  “Puntez.”

  She smiles, one Hispanic to another, helping out. “Thanks, Officer Puntez, I appreciate the cooperation.”

  Rosaria walks by him just as another officer trots up, quickly unspooling the traditional black-and-yellow crime scene tape, and as she gets closer to the house, there are a lot of loud voices, cursing, and more loud voices, until a woman’s voice cuts through and says, “That’s enough. Right now we got two victims inside, and nothing’s getting moved or touched until the chief and our own crime scene investigator show up.”

  The woman is Sergeant Morales, skinny and short but wearing her dark uniform with pride and, now, with anger. She’s glaring at the other officers—two from the county and one from the state—and then notices Rosaria.

  “And where the hell are you from?” she demands. “Border Patrol?”

  Rosaria displays her identification and badge, and Morales nods and says, “Nice. The Army. Why the hell not? Add more confusion and jurisdictional pissing to this mess. What brings you here?”

  Rosaria sees the other officers looking on with interest, and Morales sees that as well and says, “All right, I get it. C’mon, let’s duck around the corner.”

  At the corner of the house Rosaria sees two other officers slowly going across the field, and Morales says, “The chief goes out of town for a doctor’s appointment, and look at the shitstorm that just got dumped over my head. So…Vasquez, is that it?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “What’s going on with the Army?”

  Rosaria says, “If I tell you, will tell me what happened here?”

  “Christ, yes. In fact, I’d love to bundle it up in a big box and bow and pass it over to you. I can’t tell you the last time we had a homicide in Three Rivers, and I grew up here. And now we got a double homicide. Damn.”

  Rosaria puts her identification away. “I’m investigating an AWOL Army officer. She was last spotted in a town called Kenedy.”