The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  I’m not going to give her the benefit of an answer. I tap her forehead again, conscious that I’m in a city library, and at any point, an innocent young library volunteer might stop by and find this disturbing scene.

  “Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes,” she says. “But one other thing.”

  “Make it quick.”

  No hesitation on her part. “I want to help you.”

  Rosaria sees the surprise in the woman’s eyes and stays on message.

  “This…case, investigation, whatever it is I’m doing, it’s been nuts from the start. I shouldn’t be investigating an AWOL officer, not when you’ve been absent for just a couple of days, and my boss…he’s providing intelligence about you and your movements that someone’s feeding him. I don’t like it. I don’t like it all.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Cornwall says.

  She squirms, tries to ease the pain in her stretched arms, fails. “I want to help…I…I can’t explain it. But you’re doing something beyond regulations, beyond the law. You’re trying to save your family.”

  Cornwall checks her watch. Rosaria says, “Give me your cell phone number, some way of communicating with you, and I’ll tip you off.”

  “You intent on committing career suicide?”

  Despite having her hands cuffed and being threatened with a revolver, Rosaria almost laughs. “Career suicide? What career do you think I’m going to have when this is over, one way or the other?”

  The captain checks her watch one more time, seems to come to a decision. “Warrant Officer…that’s the best offer I’ve had in days. If it’s a true offer.” She pauses. “But in the end, I don’t know you. I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anyone.”

  She moves her hand, and Rosaria starts to cry out in fear when a wad of rolled-up tissue is shoved into her mouth.

  I move quickly away from the cuffed CID officer and shove a couple of book carts in place, to conceal her, and then I slip the revolver into my bag and retrace my steps back through the library. In intelligence work sometimes information comes in bits and pieces, dribs and drabs, and sometimes information flies out at you like water coming from a fire hose.

  I’ve just been soaked with lots of information, but I need to stick to my primary goal, my primary mission, and I don’t know how I’m going to pull it off with a CID officer bound back there who’s eventually going to get discovered.

  What to do?

  Another sweep of the library, of course, and then another, wider sweep outside, because I’ve got to get my hands on Archie right now, if not sooner. And if cops roll in as I’m leaving, and I don’t have Archie, well, I don’t what I’m going to do.

  I’m heading back to the main desk area, hoping that the polite and cheerful woman back there has some information for me, and I approach two doors, one marked MEN and the other marked WOMEN, and I feel like I’ve just lost a hundred pounds of weight on my shoulders, for Archie is placidly standing in front of the door marked MEN.

  I roughly grab his upper arm and we start heading out, and I whisper in his ear, “The next time you have to make a bathroom visit, let me know. Even if you have to tap on my shoulder and play charades. You pull something like this again, you’ll be going to Florida with two broken arms, not one.”

  He doesn’t say a word, of course, but he puts up no resistance as we head out of the library. The woman at the main desk calls out cheerfully, “Oh, you found your grandfather! Lucky you!”

  “You know it,” I say, as we quickly stroll past her and the curved desk.

  She says, “Did your friend find you? The other Army officer?”

  We’re at the doors.

  “No, I’m afraid she didn’t,” I say.

  One more foot to go and we’re free.

  The librarian tries to have the last word. “Oh, too bad. Are you sure you can’t stay here until she shows up?”

  I turn and smile. “I think the poor dear got herself lost back there.”

  CHAPTER 75

  IN A small meeting room at the Victoria Public Library, Rosaria Vasquez rubs one more time at her wrists, where her own handcuffs had dug into her flesh during the long minutes when she waited to be rescued. Truth is, though, it didn’t take that long, for while she couldn’t say anything with her mouth gagged, her legs were free, and she kicked and kicked until the book carts in front of her fell, and a library worker came over to check out just what in God’s name was making all that noise.

  Before her is Paul Santiago, a detective from the Victoria Police Department’s Assault Crimes Unit, and he’s scratching at the side of his bald head with a pen as he tries to make sense of what he has just encountered here with Rosaria and Captain Cornwall. A small notebook is open on the table in front of him.

  “I’m sorry if I sound confused,” he says, “but tell me again why you were here in Victoria.”

  She rubs at her wrists but keeps them below the table, out of view of the detective so he can’t see. “Like I said before, I was tracking Captain Amy Cornwall. I had received information that she was in this facility.”

  “Information from whom?”

  “My boss at our base in Quantico, Virginia.”

  “And you didn’t think to contact us first?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why,” she says. “The case was moving quickly. I didn’t have time to contact you, or to contact anyone else.”

  “And what kind of case is this?”

  A nightmare case that could kill me or kill my career, she thinks. “Captain Cornwall is AWOL. Absent without leave.”

  “So that’s why you came in the library by yourself. Because you were concerned that she might leave the premises and that you would lose her trail.”

  “Correct.”

  He scratches at the side of his head again. He has a thick brown mustache and brown eyes that are sharp and to the point.

  “All by yourself.”

  Rosaria says, “Repeating yourself doesn’t change the facts.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “Tell me this, Miss—”

  “Special Agent Vasquez, please.”

  He doesn’t smile or react, just says, “Tell me this, Special Agent Vasquez, it seems that your Captain Amy Cornwall is considered a suspect in a double homicide yesterday afternoon in Three Rivers. Is that true?”

  Rosaria stops rubbing her wrists. “I’m not aware of that information.”

  “Really?”

  Scritch-scritch comes the sound of the pen rubbing against his head. “Three Rivers is about ninety miles from here. Not much of a drive. And we received a BOLO this morning about Captain Cornwall. Before I spoke to you, I talked to Miss Chambers who works at the library. I showed her a photo of Captain Cornwall. Miss Chambers readily identified her.”

  “That’s…interesting.”

  “Yep.”

  He lowers his pen and says, “I also chatted up a police captain over there in Three Rivers. You can imagine they’re quite busy, investigating a double homicide. It seems your Captain Cornwall drove all the way from Virginia, to a tiny town that hardly anybody has heard of, to assault that house, kill two well-armed men, and then leave, with another person in tow. Pretty unusual, don’t you think?”

  Rosaria says, “I can’t think of anything more unusual that I’ve heard of lately.”

  Santiago picks up his pen, starts scratching the other side of his head, just above his left ear, where there’s a line of faint brown stubble, looking like a farmer’s field of corn after harvesttime. Rosaria is trying to war-game what’s going to happen here, what she’s going to tell her boss, and most of all, how to extricate herself from Victoria without being subject to more interviews, more interrogations.

  She needs to get out and get working.

  “Another unusual bit of information,” Santiago continues, “is learning that yesterday afternoon, another Army officer was found at the scene. Asking questions. Going into the
house. Looking at the crime scene.”

  He pauses with the scritch-scritch. “Her name was not available to the Three Rivers police captain, but he’s pretty sure she was an Army cop. From the Criminal Investigation Command. That’s your unit, isn’t it?”

  Damn. “Yes, it is.”

  Finally, Detective Santiago says, “Special Agent Vasquez.”

  “Still here, sir.”

  “Just so you know, I have two nephews currently deployed overseas, one in Qatar, the other in Afghanistan. My father did his thirty in the Navy. One of my uncles died in Vietnam. My family has deep love and respect for the military.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  He slowly and carefully puts his notebook and the pen that he’s been using as a scratcher back into his pocket. “Is it safe to say that you believe Captain Cornwall has left Victoria…for parts currently unknown?”

  That isn’t exactly 100 percent, but Rosaria isn’t going to correct him.

  “That’s a very insightful observation.”

  “I see.” He rubs his hands together and says, “The only crime I see here has been an assault.”

  Rosaria says, “I don’t intend to press charges.”

  Santiago shakes his head. “That’s not your choice, Special Agent Vasquez. Assault is a felony, and we don’t need your say-so to proceed toward an investigation and an eventual indictment.”

  “I see.”

  There’s a quiet moment, and Rosaria is wondering what the detective is thinking, but he doesn’t keep her in suspense long.

  “If, however, you don’t intend to stay here in my city, such that it would be a chore and challenge to contact you for further interviews and questions, then this case might just quietly die away. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I certainly do.”

  She rubs at her sore wrists one more time.

  He stands up and says, “So excuse me for being blunt, Special Agent Vasquez, but get the hell out of Victoria and never return.”

  Rosaria tries to hide her relief at Santiago’s words.

  “On it, Detective,” she says, standing up as well.

  “Fantastic,” he says. “By the way, thank you for your service.”

  CHAPTER 76

  THE DRIVE along the Gulf of Mexico slowly descends into a monotonous vision of various interstates, interspersed with long stretches of rugged driving along state roads or country lanes that parallel the famed American highway system. I switch from state roads to interstates to avoid tollbooths and their surveillance equipment, either closed-circuit cameras or suspicious troopers sitting in idling police cruisers. I’m also being tracked by the evil ones who took my family.

  My poor filthy Jeep Wrangler is now bearing license plates from Mississippi, representing the state we’re passing through. Earlier she had on plates from Louisiana, and those were dumped off a concrete bridge spanning a muddy stream in a small town once I crossed the state line.

  I’m not under any illusion that changing out the plates will save me, but I’m just hoping it will provide me some cover over the next few hours, as I head into Florida with my quiet Archie, who still hasn’t uttered a word, even after I hustled him out of that library back in Victoria.

  Part of me appreciates seeing the “real America” near the highway, the road joints, shotgun shacks, struggling farms, mobile home parks, the lights of industry and refineries out there on the horizon, but I also realize that while I’m still comfortable time-wise, I’m very uncomfortable knowledge-wise.

  We’re now on a long length of two-lane highway called Pass Road, which is flat and offers tobacco and beer stores, used car lots, Dollar Generals, and other merchant hangers-on a few miles away from the warm promises of the Gulf Coast.

  I say to Archie, “The worst part about digging into Tom’s computer files is finding out that he’s been spying on me. Me! His goddamn wife and partner.”

  We drive past a few pickup trucks heading in the other direction, each hauling a trailer carrying a fishing boat that would probably take a year’s salary of mine to purchase.

  I go on. “He got a literary agent interested in him last year. The agent was looking for a blockbuster book. Turned down about a half dozen ideas of Tom’s. Then Tom hired a hacking firm on the dark web to get access to Army intelligence unit activities, and then my name popped up, what I was doing…and somehow, that led him to two competing drug cartels in Mexico, both of them looking to significantly expand their territory.”

  I give Archie a sideways glance. “Cartel number one was offering you as an information source to Tom. Out of the goodness of their dark hearts? Hardly. They were using you as an informational tool to take down cartel number two…with Tom’s knowledge and assistance. All for a blockbuster book. But cartel number two apparently found out about it, kidnapped him and Denise, and is using me to bring you to them.”

  I drive on. At some point I’ll need to get this cursed little task force onto a highway.

  “But for God’s sake,” I say, “what is the possible connection between Central Asia and Mexico? What could they possibly have in common?”

  And he turns and gives me a look that expresses…

  Intelligence?

  Awareness?

  Knowledge?

  “Oh, damn it, it was right in front of my face, all the goddamn time!” I yell, and I pull over the Wrangler in a used car lot, and fumble through my leather bag.

  In his cubicle at Fort Belvoir, Lieutenant Preston Baker is in a good mood. A while ago he had a nice talk with his mother back home in Washington, and unlike previous calls that ended with sobs and cries of despair, this one ended with a cheerful “Good-bye, Pres, love you,” because at long last there’s progress in helping out Dad.

  The good mood lasts exactly three more seconds.

  His phone rings, he answers, “Baker,” and there’s a static-filled call coming in.

  “Hello?”

  The familiar woman’s voice comes through. “Baker? It’s Captain Cornwall.”

  Preston swivels in his chair so no one strolling by can see the shocked look on his face.

  “C-captain Cornwall?” he stammers. “Ah…how are you, ma’am? Where are you?”

  Her voice sounds strained and tired. “Lieutenant, I need for you to do something for me, straightaway.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I need you to retrieve the investigative file on that prisoner you helped me interrogate at FOB Healy. The one named Mohammed.”

  He tries a joke and fails. “They’re all called Mohammed, you know how it is.”

  She ignores the attempt at humor. “The one who claimed he was a farmer. The one who ended up dead.”

  “Ah, sure, ma’am, I remember that one,” he says, closing his eyes in frustration. Just a few seconds ago everything was falling into place—the promised large deposit into his checking account had come through, Mom had gotten a meeting set up for a long-term care facility for Dad, and now…this.

  “Good,” she says. “I need you to get the investigative file and retrieve something for me. It’s vitally important. Can you get to the file? The sooner the better, Lieutenant.”

  Preston looks at his desk. The thick file on Mohammed the farmer is sitting right there, because he knows there’s some sort of CID investigation going on with that death and wanted to be prepared when the interrogator arrived, whoever he or she might be.

  Carefully he says, “I think I can get to it in a while. What do you need?”

  He thinks he hears a tone of relief in her voice. “That’s great, Lieutenant. That’s great. Ah…when we first interrogated him, we found a business card in his belongings. There was an international phone number on the card, that’s all. The name of a company as well. Something Holdings. Begins with the letter M. Remember? The joke was that maybe it was the guy’s bail bondsman.”

  “Sure, Captain, I remember that.”

  “Good,” she says. “At the time the number was checked out and was found to b
e a fake…but I want you to recheck it, okay? Really dig into it, see what you can find.”

  He reaches over to the thick file folder, opens it up, and like some talisman or sign, right on top is the creased and dirty business card in a plastic envelope.

  “Ah, Captain?”

  “Yes?” comes the same tired voice, but now impatient.

  What to say to her?

  He knows what his instructions are with his anonymous male caller—present certain information to him in exchange for financial assistance and tell him if Cornwall contacts him. The deal has been shaky, underhanded, and he is desperately afraid to get caught. But he knows his caller is in the military, having met him one night on base in a darkened Humvee, and is convinced that his actions aren’t going to hurt the country.

  Preston is a trained intelligence officer and knows this isn’t how things are done, but the man convinced him that in certain times, regulations have to be ignored for the greater good. And although Preston has his doubts about Cornwall’s guilt in that farmer’s death, the man also showed him video evidence on an iPad that in a moment of fear months ago, Cornwall smoked an entire Afghan family with a Hellfire missile against orders.

  What now?

  This superior told him not to offer any information to Cornwall if she were to call, but Cornwall…

  Lots of memories come back from his tour at FOB Healy with the captain. Her sharing candy and snacks from her packages from home. The time he lost all his socks after washing them, and how she shared her socks with him. And twice when he and she had gone to the shelter when Taliban units had sent mortar fire into the small base, and how scared he was, oh God, and the captain had just put her arm around him and that bit of comfort had seen him through that shelling.

  “Lieutenant, what is it? I don’t have much time.”

  He takes a deep, reassuring breath.

  “Call me back in ten minutes, Captain. I’ll have what you need,” he says.

  CHAPTER 77